She thought about Ylena Thirsk and the terrible things the young woman had experienced. Crys had explained to Valentyna what Ylena had been through just to get herself to Felrawthy. It had made the Queen shudder to imagine how Wyl’s sister had coped with yet more terror after what she had already suffered at Stoneheart. Ylena was younger than her and had shown such courage. She would have to find similar courage now and face her destiny. Her father had fought to keep Briavel safe. She must do the same, just in a different manner. She would buy its peace with her body. Give herself over to this hateful man and let him parade her before his minions and use her for his pleasures. But he would not have her love — ever. That belonged to one man alone, and he was now dead. So she would give herself to Celimus in the hope that some bright, sparkling, untainted good might come of it. They might produce a child. And into that child she would pour all of her love; everything she denied Celimus and had hoped to give to Romen Koreldy. She would raise a proud sovereign to take the throne of Briavel one day.
Valentyna sighed as the soft breeze tousled her already messy hair. ‘Give me a sign, Shar,’ she said to the gentle wind, hoping it would carry her plea to the god. ‘Show me that marrying Celimus is the right decision.’
She felt like weeping at her pathetic words. Instead she wiped away the single tear which had fallen, rubbed at her other eye just in case, and willed herself to be strong and live up to the woman her father believed she had become. She strode back towards the soldiers. They had already spotted her movement and busied themselves with preparing the horses ready to ride again.
Squinting into the sun, Valentyna did not see the bird at first. It was its gentle song that attracted her attention and she looked around for the music-maker. It was perched on a low branch of the great elm she was about to walk beneath. She recognised its family immediately; King Valor had been a keen bird-spotter and had gone to some pains to school his only child into recognising various species. It was a beautiful little chaffinch and its pretty music made her smile. She whistled back at it and it kept singing long after she had passed by, taken Bonny’s reins and departed the copse.
It was only as Valentyna guided her horse onto Werryl Bridge some half hour later that she realised she had been humming a tune to herself on the journey back. The birdsong had reminded her of a well-known ballad created by Briavel’s leading jongleur in honour of her nineteenth birthday: ‘Wait For Me, My Love’. Valentyna had always loved the melody and its lyrics were beautiful. She began to sing them privately in her mind and they stayed with her as she ascended into the palace proper.
Ranald, a stableboy, bowed and reached for the Queen’s reins.
‘Thank you, Ranald,’ Valentyna said and found a smile for the eager boy.
‘Your highness,’ he beamed, unable to mask his pleasure at serving the Queen so directly.
‘It was a lovely ride,’ she said to him, enjoying his enthusiasm; wishing she could be ten again, without a care in the world.
‘I’m glad, your highness. Bonny’s a beautiful girl. My favourite,’ he chirped, ignoring the scowl from the stablemaster who had come out to watch his young charge receive the horses correctly and no doubt thought him far too chatty.
‘Mine too,’ Valentyna said and winked at Ranald.
As she turned away from the boy the refrain of the ballad filled her mind again — and its resonance struck her.
Wait for me, my love
I shall return one day
Accept not another’s words
Be with me only, I pray.
Valentyna stood rigid in the courtyard as the words played over in her mind. Men walked around her and horses neighed. Dogs growled over a bone and busy servants criss-crossed the yard on various errands, calling to each other. Amongst the activity, their Queen stood still and silent, deep in her own thoughts. What had sounded so poignant and charming on her nameday now sounded like a message from the dead. A warning.
‘Romen!’ she whispered fearfully, her breath catching in her throat.
‘Your majesty, are you unwell?’ someone enquired.
‘I’m fine,’ she stammered, coming back to the present and almost running from the courtyard. She flew into the palace and up the beautiful staircase, and up the next flight and the next. Servants watched perplexed as their sovereign ignored their salutations and curtsies, fleeing past them towards her study on the topmost level, her boots clicking loudly on the flagstones. Finally she came to her father’s former chamber and slammed the door behind her.
Leaning against its solid wood panels, she held her head as her breath came in great sad wrenches. Wait for me, my love. Was this Shar’s sign? Was this a message? What had prompted the song and its lyrics to come into her head? The bird. A chaffinch! Was this a warning from Fynch? Was he asking her to wait? For whom? Romen was dead! Cold, lifeless, bloodless… gone.
She realised she was sobbing and felt ashamed of herself for losing control. What was happening to her? Storming out of meetings, crying violently, listening to birds, believing in magic. She was going mad.
But she had asked for a sign. Perhaps this was it. She could be imagining it, of course, clutching at anything to save her from the touch of Celimus, but it felt so right to believe in it.
‘But who am I waiting for?’ she said into the quiet of her room.
She was startled by a knock at the door.
‘A moment, please,’ she called, instantly embarrassed at being found in this state. Let them wait, she thought more coldly, as she splashed water over her face from a basin in a tiny closet. She dried herself with a linen cloth and smoothed back her hair as best she could.
She touched her fingers to her father’s desk and drew strength from his presence which she still felt in this room, then took a steadying breath. Her mind was racing in all directions but she had duties to perform and it would not do to become flighty and hysterical when she most needed to be steadfast. She reminded herself that Briavel still looked to her for leadership, even if it was collectively casting her to the wolves — or wolf, should she say.
Valentyna cleared her throat. ‘Come.’
One of the older pages opened the door and bowed. ‘Your majesty, forgive my disturbance.’
‘That’s all right, Justen, who has sent you?’
‘Commander Liryk, your majesty. He asked me to find you the moment you returned from your ride. He says it is urgent.’
‘Oh? A problem?’
‘A visitor, your majesty.’
Valentyna frowned. ‘Another one? Can’t Liryk handle it?’ she said irritably, even though she knew Justen could not answer. He was simply following instructions.
The page blinked, not sure what to say. She felt immediately sorry for showing her vexation.
‘Did Commander Liryk give you the name of this visitor, Justen?’ she said, more gently now.
‘Yes, your majesty. It is a woman by the name of Ylena Thirsk.’
FIVE
MAEGRYN MET THE RIDERS and was alarmed to see one man return in a worse state than when he had left.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Aremys assured the anxious stablemaster as he handed him the reins of Galapek and Rashlyn’s horse.
‘I couldn’t care less about him,’ Maegryn said, and the vehemence in his voice surprised Aremys. ‘The horses are my concern. No problems there?’
‘Galapek got himself a little rattled over something but he calmed quickly. Just skittish,’ Aremys answered, skirting the truth. The fewer lies he told the better. ‘He’s more incredible to ride than I could have imagined. Thank you, Maegryn.’
The man could not help himself: he enjoyed the praise and it showed. ‘Yes, he’s a beauty this one. A real find.’
‘Where did he come from?’ It was a casually put question.
‘The barshi gave him as a present to the King. Had the horse sent secretly in from somewhere apparently. He won’t tell anyone from where.’
‘That’s a little odd, isn’t it? You’d think
that if there were more like this one the King would be keen to know.’
Maegryn shrugged. ‘We’re not allowed to ask too much about Galapek, sir.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I’ll be off then, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed the ride.’
Aremys knew there would be little further information to be won from Maegryn today. The stablemaster had suddenly closed up.
‘Thank you. I hope you won’t mind if I look in on him again?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, sir. You’re one of the very few he permits near him. I think he’s taken a shine to you.’ He smiled.
Aremys stroked Galapek’s twitching withers as the horse was led past him. He was hoping for another sign from the animal but got nothing.
Myrt was barking orders for Rashlyn — who was lying on the ground still mumbling his strange nonsense — to be taken to his private quarters. Myrt called for a physic as well.
Then the Mountain man turned to Aremys. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The worst is still before us.’
Aremys sighed, needing no confirmation. Cailech.
They tracked the King down to his wine cellar, catacomb-like chambers dug into the ground beneath a separate stone building. Descending the flagged stairs into the musty darkness Aremys smelled earth and spice; mixed with the aroma of yeast and the oak of the barrels it was a comforting blend. It was cool down here but not cold; the temperature would remain much the same year round, he guessed, and the vaulted ceilings combined with the peace and stillness to give the cellar a chapel-like quality. It felt safe here.
‘We’re sorry to interrupt you, your majesty,’ Myrt began.
The King turned from his discussion with the cellarmaster and grinned at the newcomers. Obviously in a good mood, Aremys thought. What a pity we’re about to ruin it.
‘Farrow, you have to try this!’ Cailech called over the barrels. ‘It’s to be our best vintage yet.’ The King slapped his cellarmaster on the back in praise, then lifted the long-handled tasting cup to his lips and drained it. ‘Ah, nectar,’ he said, delighted.
‘Sire,’ Myrt bowed. When he straightened, his expression in the diffused light of the beeswax candles was sufficiently sombre to win Cailech’s attention. The King’s smile faded.
‘You look like you’ve swallowed bad meat, Myrt. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s the barshi, sire,’ he began. Cailech handed the tasting cup back to the cellarmaster who stepped aside. ‘He’s unwell,’ Myrt added.
‘Oh?’ Cailech looked towards Aremys. ‘Farrow, what’s this all about?’
Aremys was surprised to be brought into the conversation. He wanted to clear his throat but figured that might make him appear nervous so he just began talking, sticking as closely to the truth as he could. ‘We were resting, my lord, or at least the horses were after a ride around the lake.’
‘We were at the Ring, sire,’ Myrt interjected.
Cailech nodded. ‘Go on.’ Again he looked to Aremys.
‘I was drinking at the stream and Myrt and Rashlyn were leaning against the boulders. Rashlyn was eating, and was seemingly in good health. We had been discussing my headaches and he approached me at the water’s edge to hand me a small bottle of a concoction he said would ease my discomfort — when the horses distracted us.’ Aremys had decided that the plain truth, rather than a version of it, was the only course with Cailech.
‘It was Galapek, sire,’ Myrt said. ‘Something startled him: we don’t know what. We couldn’t see anything near him.’
‘And?’ Cailech said, the hard green gaze impaling Aremys where he stood.
‘Well, as I recall, I rushed over to help Myrt calm the stallion. His panic was over as quickly as it began — perhaps he was stung by a bee or something irritated him, we have no idea. When we turned back to Rashlyn he was lying on the ground, seemingly having some sort of attack.’
‘Attack?’
‘Like a fit, sire,’ Myrt qualified.
‘He lost control of his body for a few moments,’ Aremys said, ‘and then he became rigid. I checked immediately for a pulse — which was strong — but by then he was unconscious.’
The King’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking. ‘How long did this episode last?’
‘It was over almost as soon as it began,’ Myrt said. ‘We laid him on his horse and got him back here as fast as we could.’ He dared not look at Aremys as he said this. Hurrying back to the fortress had been the last thing on their minds.
‘And where is Rashlyn now?’
‘He seems to have regained his wits, sire, so I had him carried to his rooms and sent a physic along too,’ Myrt reported.
‘You have no idea what this is about?’ The King looked between the two men.
Myrt shrugged and shook his head. Aremys figured the King needed more than sheepish shrugs. ‘I thought it might have been the cheese that stuck in his throat but his passage was clear,’ he fabricated. ‘And Myrt tells me the food was fresh so we know he has not been poisoned by it. Does he suffer from fits, my lord?’ he added innocently.
‘It seems he does now,’ Cailech growled, the breezy mood blown through and replaced with what felt like a gathering storm. ‘I shall go and see him. How was Galapek, Farrow?’
The King switched subjects and disposition so adroitly, Aremys was sure he would never succeed in preparing himself for it.
‘Even more magnificent than I’d hoped, thank you, sire. A truly beautiful creature. I hope you will let me ride him again some time.’
A glance passed between the King and his warrior. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Myrt, you can accompany me to the barshi’s chambers. Farrow —’
‘Sire?’
‘I’ll see you later. You will be leaving in the early hours of tomorrow for Morgravia.’
Aremys, back in his chamber with the familiar guard outside, sighed in frustration. He was not going to attempt an escape and felt sure Cailech knew this. But it seemed the King was keen to remind him that he was a prisoner and under the control of the monarch, hence the armed guard.
‘Not for long,’ Aremys muttered under his breath as he flung his water flask into a corner. He would gladly leave for Morgravia in a few hours, and from there he would win his freedom. He liked the Mountain People. He did not even mind living here in the fortress amongst them, could almost see a pleasant life in the Razors stretching out before him, but he was beholden to no man, not even a King, and certainly not one who stopped just short of shackling him.
It irritated him that Cailech could be so friendly one moment and so domineering the next. Surely the King knew that Aremys would far rather give his help to him than Celimus? In truth, though, he could not blame Cailech entirely for remaining suspicious. One didn’t stay a King if one trusted everyone, especially strangers who appeared out of the blue with no tangible explanation for how they had arrived.
That took him back to his musings about the Thicket and his realisation that the strange clump of nature was clearly able to make a decision for itself, and had decided to expel him. But the Thicket and its magic was a phenomenon to be pondered another time. His immediate interest now was Galapek and how to help the horse.
Aremys replayed the afternoon’s events in his mind. Rashlyn’s collapse had definitely coincided with the animal’s shriek, he was sure of it, which meant something had disturbed them both. There was nothing in the vicinity to alarm them or it would have created a similar reaction in himself and Myrt. No, this was something else. More like a disturbance in the strange magic that riddled the horse. Could it be that the wild-looking healer was bound to the stallion in some way?
Aremys followed that line of thought. What if Rashlyn himself had cast some sort of spell upon the horse? That might account for a bond between them. Why though? It wasn’t as though Rashlyn had shown a particular attachment to the beast, so the link was not a personal one. And if it was his magic that permeated the stallion, why had he interfered with the animal?
Because Cailech asked him to?
But what if the idea had come from Rashlyn? ‘Because Rashlyn could perform the enchantment and Cailech allowed him to,’ Aremys said quietly into the stillness of his chamber.
The notion took a firm place among his thoughts. He nodded. Yes, that made more sense. Aremys thought back to Wyl’s account of Cailech’s horrific threat during the feast when he had presented the Morgravian prisoners as a dish to his people. Wyl had been sure Rashlyn was behind that hideous episode, but that suggested the barshi was capable of persuading the King to do things not of his own volition. How could Cailech, usually so dominant, be so weak in the company of Rashlyn?
Aremys had no answer for that. He returned to his original puzzle. Something had disturbed the magic linking the barshi and the horse. It couldn’t have been the Thicket or he too would have felt the effects, but perhaps it had resonated through the Thicket for him to feel it at all. Had Wyl done something to disturb the balance? Unlikely, or the Thicket would probably have protested more strongly.
Aremys put his head in his hands, frustrated by his swirling thoughts that took him nowhere. Think! he commanded himself. Could it be something to do with Elysius? Had Wyl made it through and met the manwitch? Was that it? ‘Possibly,’ he muttered but that did not help him to get any closer to the riddle that was Galapek.
And then he remembered the most chilling moment of the whole sorry afternoon. How could he have forgotten it? The horse had somehow communicated a name to him: Elspyth. He began to pace now. It could be a coincidence, of course, but an unlikely one. Aremys felt positive that the horse had once belonged to Lothryn, or somehow held the secret of what had happened to Lothryn. He wanted to yell out his frustrations, but that would bring the guard running. He punched the wall instead.
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