The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘What exactly do you know?’ Aremys looked like he might throttle the information from him.

  Gueryn frowned. He had no idea why the Grenadyne was so excited. ‘Rashlyn knows the truth of what’s happened to Lothryn. I overheard him jesting smugly to Myrt and Byl that Lothryn was closer than they knew. And he went on to make some joke about the meaning of the word “Galapek”.’

  Aremys looked at a loss. ‘I don’t know the word. Sounds like the old language,’ he mused.

  ‘It is. And I do understand it. Galapek means “traitor”. Cailech has named his new stallion Traitor, which is just about the worst name you could call a horse.’

  Aremys looked stunned. Then he spun on his heels and called over his shoulder, ‘Say nothing of this! I’ll be back, le Gant.’

  The huge man all but ran from the cell, slamming the door behind him. Gueryn heard the lock turn. He had nothing but his sorrowful thoughts for company now.

  ‘Well?’ Myrt asked, startled by Aremys bursting from the cell.

  ‘Let’s get out of here first,’ Aremys said, his head swirling with fantastical thoughts, every nerve tingling with terror. It could not be true, could it?

  Fortunately Haz was not in attendance at the gaol. Myrt thanked the young, completely uninterested guard, who was obviously posted in the dungeon as some sort of punishment judging by his scowl. He merely nodded when Myrt reminded the lad that Gueryn was to be walked daily.

  Outside, Myrt grabbed Aremys’s arm. ‘You got something, didn’t you?’

  ‘Do you know what the name Galapek means, Myrt?’ he said, voice hard and low. When Myrt shook his head, Aremys closed his eyes with a mix of anger and despair. What a cruel fate. ‘It’s the ancient language of the north,’ he said. ‘Cailech’s schoolchildren would probably be able to tell you. It means traitor.’

  Myrt looked perplexed. ‘All right, a curious name for a horse and even stranger connotations, but what’s that got to do with Lothryn?’

  ‘You fool. You poor sad fool,’ Aremys said, unable to help himself. ‘The horse is Lothryn,’ and his voice almost broke on those words. ‘Rashlyn has somehow worked his vile magic on Lothryn to turn him into a stallion, and now your oh-so-proud King can keep his former friend as his servant until he’s no good for anything but the knacker’s yard.’

  If horror had a face, it belonged to Myrt that moment. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. No sound at all, in fact. Aremys had once seen a man suffer what was called a heart-tremor; it had come quickly and gone as fast, leaving one side of the man’s face paralysed. That was how Myrt looked now: paralysed. His facial muscles were slack and all colour had drained from his cheeks, his eyes were like dull black buttons.

  Finally he found some lucidity. ‘Cailech broke him. We all watched it. He did it in a special corral he’d had built. It took days. Days of painful, heart-wrenching breaking of this horse’s spirit until it bowed its head before him.’

  Myrt was weeping as he spoke. Aremys could feel tears stinging his eyes too; he could not remember the last time he had cried over anything or anyone. His sister perhaps, when he had seen her tiny corpse laid out, the vicious gores of the forest boar covered by a beautiful silken dress. He tore himself away from the memory.

  ‘He said he would break him using trust,’ Myrt finished. ‘It was Lothryn all along. Lothryn who fought for days until he was too weak to resist his King any more.’

  Aremys shook his head in wonder. ‘And that’s why the horse made me feel so sick. The Thicket’s magic sensed the sheer power and evil of the sorcery that had been wielded to turn a man into a horse.’

  Myrt’s red-rimmed eyes stared at him. ‘Aremys, don’t lie to me now. You said something earlier that I scoffed at — that the horse communicated something to you. Did it really say something?’

  Aremys nodded miserably. ‘I’m sure it whispered a name. Elspyth.’

  The Mountain warrior walked away to deal with his pain alone.

  SEVEN

  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME SINCE childhood that Celimus had set foot in his father’s beloved war chamber. Magnus had always enjoyed the room, even in times of peace. Its windows faced east, towards the traditional enemy, and when Celimus had paid one of his few visits here he had believed its views went on for ever. He recalled now how his father had laughed a little indulgently when Celimus had voiced that notion. It was a rare moment of shared enjoyment for father and son. It had passed all too quickly, Celimus forgotten the moment a messenger had arrived with a missive for General Thirsk, who always seemed to be at his King’s side. Celimus was briskly told to find his tutor or similar — no one appeared to care where he went, as long as he left. He had understood with a sour realisation that he had no place amongst these men. He was nine and ready to watch and learn about kingship, but Magnus did not care enough to teach him. That much was obvious and he had never returned to the chamber until this day.

  It was here that men had smoked and argued with one another, plotted and schemed against Briavel. In this place many a war had been invented, but also peace had been designed. It was a room of ancient waxed timbers and leather smoothed from years of use, where, if you concentrated, you could still smell a hint of the sweet tobacco King Magnus had favoured. A once magnificent, now faded tapestry depicting a famous battle scene from centuries previous hung across one wall and a hand-twisted rug, threadbare in places, lay across the wooden floor, whose dusty boards had recently enjoyed a polish.

  King Celimus held no sentiment for this chamber so loved by his father. He hated it in fact, equating it with the reason he and his mother had never enjoyed the love of Magnus, who preferred the company of his flame-haired General and other warmongers who clustered around him in his prime — or so Celimus preferred to see it. But this war room of his father’s was where detailed maps of Morgravia, Briavel and other realms were stored. And he needed those maps now. He also needed to give the impression that he was preparing to declare war on his neighbour, and this was the place from which to do that.

  In not appointing a General after Wyl Thirsk’s death, Celimus had effectively claimed full leadership of the Morgravian Legion. This had shocked many of the noble families, who had assumed that Jeryb Donal, with his brood of sons, was the most likely successor. But Donal had refused when such ideas had been mooted. His focus, he had assured all, was firmly on the border between Morgravia and the Razors. There was no better defence than Felrawthy and he had no intention of moving to Pearlis. Celimus had made it equally clear that he did not require a General as such. He preferred to work through the captains with himself as head of the Legion. It was a new era for the realm in more ways than one as Morgravia sloughed off its past and looked towards a modern dynasty led by the arrogant son of its most beloved King.

  To most Morgravians’ despair, Celimus had recently given the directive to mobilise the first few divisions of the Legion. People had prayed that war between Morgravia and Briavel was for the history books now. The coming marriage had promised so much for the two realms’ prosperous future together. Still, who would argue with this King? He was a law unto himself.

  It was Celimus’s intention that his men should depart for the Briavellian border today.

  ‘That should give our Queen something to think about,’ he said to Jessom who was standing nearby, pouring his sovereign a cup of wine.

  The war room had been freshly cleaned, waxed and aired for Celimus. Someone had even placed a bowl of fruit and a vase of exquisite tannika buds in one corner. Celimus did not particularly care for either but he liked the splash of colour in this dull and dreary place. His mother, he recalled, had adored the famed buds which only flowered for a few short weeks in spring. It afforded him an ironic amusement that his mother’s influence now held sway in Magnus’s once firmly private, men-only chamber. If he had any of her perfume, he would dab it over every surface so that Adana’s scent permeated to every corner and overwhelmed any lingering essence of Magnus. He smiled grimly at the tho
ught.

  ‘What are their orders, sire?’ the Chancellor replied, handing the goblet to the King.

  ‘Merely a show of strength at this stage. They await further orders,’ Celimus said distractedly, looking towards the flushed, dusty messenger being led into the war room by one of his aides. ‘Yes?’

  The aide bowed, as did the messenger. ‘Sire,’ the aide said, ‘a courier from the north.’

  Celimus did not mask his irritation at being disturbed. ‘I take it this is urgent?’

  ‘I’m assured it is, your highness, and to be given to you directly,’ the aide qualified. He would never have dared interrupt the King and his Chancellor unless it was important, but of course he did not mention this fact. Say as little as possible seemed to be the new creed amongst the palace servants when faced with their King.

  The courier bowed again, overwhelmed to be in the presence of the King. It was clear that since arriving at the gates of Stoneheart he had not even paused for a cup of water to quench his thirst.

  Celimus leaned against the huge table where he remembered his father poring over maps and looked at the newcomer expectantly. With his arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle, his pose suggested this was all most inconvenient and he offered no words to allay the messenger’s obvious nervousness.

  The man realised his moment had come. He licked his dry lips and began his report. ‘Your highness, I was despatched from the midlands checkpoint, having taken a message from another messenger who had been sent by your Captain at our northern base between Deakyn and Felrawthy.’ He paused to take a breath, not noticing the flicker of irritation across the King’s face at the preamble.

  The Chancellor did. ‘Get to the point, man, if it’s urgent,’ Jessom warned, hoping to stop Celimus erupting. The Chancellor had sensed his King’s brittle mood that morning and experience suggested it would not do to test its flexibility right now.

  ‘I apologise, sire,’ the man stammered. ‘The message I am asked to deliver direct to you is that King Cailech of the Razors seeks a parley.’

  A stunned silence filled the war room, then evaporated as exclamations ensued from both King and Chancellor.

  ‘A parley with Cailech!’ Celimus blustered over the top of his Chancellor’s expostulations. ‘Preposterous! Whatever for?’

  The courier reddened. He had no further information other than the message he had been instructed to give. ‘My King, I am not privy to any background to this missive, other than to report that it was originally delivered to the Legion by a man called Aremys Farrow.’

  He bowed, his task concluded. Any other recipient might have considered that the man had delivered his message succinctly and ably, thanked him and sent him for refreshment. Celimus ignored him, instead glancing angrily towards the Chancellor. Before anything further could be said, Jessom dismissed both courier and aide. Whatever was to be discussed now was not for their hearing. He stilled the King’s coming explosion with a guarded look and both waited impatiently for the two men to leave.

  ‘Farrow!’ Celimus yelled. ‘Working with Cailech?’

  Jessom deliberately kept his expression clear of all emotion although he too was startled by the news. ‘We don’t have all the details yet, your highness. We cannot know what has occurred here.’

  ‘What secrets has he passed on?’ Celimus raged.

  Jessom shook his head. ‘He knows nothing, sire. Besides, he will not share details of his paid missions with Cailech. Mercenaries of his calibre never let one hand know what the other is doing.’

  ‘Precisely my point, you fool,’ Celimus said, not caring at the insult to his loyal counsel. ‘How do we know that he hasn’t been working for Cailech all along?’

  Experience had taught Jessom to ignore such offence. ‘To what end, sire? What benefit has he gained? What secrets could he have learned during his few hours at Stoneheart anyway? Both he and Leyen were watched on my instructions. Leyen went to the baths and then spent the afternoon with Lady Bench. No one else visited the Bench house during her time there. Farrow was far more conservative. He did not leave his chamber, even washing there. Until supper with you, he did not emerge, and during your meeting the only matter of note discussed was Ylena Thirsk — and presumably she means nothing to the Mountain King. Farrow returned to his room and was gone within two hours. With respect, my King, I think we are jumping to conclusions which have no foundation.’

  ‘Then what is Farrow up to?’ Celimus roared, only mildly placated. ‘What is Cailech up to?’

  ‘Well, let’s think it through,’ Jessom said in a soft voice aimed to calm his sovereign’s unnecessary rage. ‘An ambush, possibly?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Celimus countered. ‘By all accounts Cailech is not stupid. He’s not going to risk himself on the vague chance he could hurt me. No, there is another reason.’

  ‘I have to wonder what he thinks the Razor Kingdom and Morgravia have in common, sire,’ Jessom said airily, about to expound further when the King cut him off.

  ‘A mutual distrust of Briavel perhaps,’ Cailech replied, his mind now working its agile way around various scenarios. ‘Let’s presume Aremys has no loyalty to either party — that he is working purely for personal gain. Perhaps he was captured by Cailech while he was on business for us, although that is unlikely; or, as you suggest, there could be other reasons why he found himself in the company of Cailech. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we, for now?’

  ‘All right, your majesty,’ Jessom agreed, as if the more rational approach was all Celimus’s idea. ‘So?’

  ‘So, I agree to meet with Aremys Farrow on Morgravian soil. I am intrigued as to what Cailech has in mind with this parley.’

  ‘What do you propose, sire?’

  ‘I shall see him somewhere that can be properly guarded. It will take too long for him to be brought to Stoneheart.’ The King began to think aloud. ‘Perhaps halfway — Rittylworth?’

  ‘Felrawthy, my King,’ Jessom said in a tone of rich satisfaction. ‘What better spot?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Celimus agreed, warming instantly to the notion of personally taking over the rich estate. Who cares if Crys Donal is alive in Briavel, he thought. He is a traitor now. Felrawthy belonged to the Crown. ‘Make immediate arrangements. Send a message for Aremys Farrow to be brought to Tenterdyn. We shall meet him there.’

  ‘At once, your highness. And Briavel?’

  ‘Can wait for now. Let Valentyna stew. Perhaps the sight of our men will soften her resolve. She would be a fool to go into battle.’

  ‘You would still marry her, sire?’

  Celimus looked at his Chancellor as though he was conversing with a dullard. ‘I don’t want war, Jessom. I want her to capitulate, having fully grasped my strength. I don’t want her as my equal — which is tragically how she sees herself — but I do want her as my Queen. I want an heir from her. I want Briavel, man. And then I shall have the Mountain Kingdom too. I want it all!’ he bellowed, storming from the war room, his energies charged.

  Aremys found the company of the Legionnaires easy and comfortable. With the Razors behind him, he was relieved to be back in Morgravia — and suddenly the chance of finding Wyl again felt possible. He still felt touched by Myrt’s sorrow, Gueryn’s imprisonment and the shock of what had become of Lothryn, but there was nothing he could do about any of that right now. He had a job to carry out for the Mountain King and his freedom to win.

  He liked Cailech, in spite of all he had discovered. The man had a deep intelligence and quick mind, and Aremys was impressed that the King — whom he sensed was capable of arrogance and too much pride — was not too proud or arrogant to appreciate the benefit of a parley with the southern King. That Cailech despised Celimus was obvious, but he also had the capacity for pragmatism. He had admitted to Aremys that if he could stomach a meeting with Celimus and form some sort of loose bond, then the long-term benefits were immense.

  They had talked over a sumptuous supper before Aremys and his escort left. My
rt had been quiet, but then Myrt was always quiet. Only Aremys seemed overly sensitive to his silence; the King was focused on the coming meeting with his southern counterpart.

  ‘Can he be trusted?’ Cailech had mused aloud.

  ‘I doubt it. Can you?’ Aremys had posed, which had made the King bellow with amusement.

  ‘You’ll do well, Aremys. Go and set up this parley for me.’

  ‘And in return, Cailech,’ Aremys had risked, ‘what is my reward?’

  ‘I allow you to live,’ the King had answered. The gregarious mood did not fool Aremys. He knew only too well that the King still held deep suspicions about him, but no mention had been made of Rashlyn, other than to assure the two men that the barshi was well.

  Aremys had not replied to the King’s flippant comment, instead had held his ground, refusing to flinch under the King’s scrutiny.

  ‘All right, mercenary. I understand your need for an exchange of some kind,’ Cailech relented. He smiled. ‘What would please you that I could provide?’

  Aremys had decided to risk it. ‘I would have Galapek.’

  The King’s reaction was dramatic despite his efforts to shield it. The eyes narrowed and Aremys saw the man’s jaw tighten. He had hit an artery it seemed.

  ‘What is your interest in my horse?’ Cailech had said, his tone bordering on anger.

  ‘Only that I wish he were mine, sire,’ Aremys lied. ‘He is the most beautiful stallion I have ever encountered and that’s saying something coming from a Grenadyne.’

  ‘He is still new for me. I am fond of him.’

  ‘I see,’ Aremys observed, keeping his voice light so no offence could be given. It was time to pull back. ‘King Cailech, I will attempt to set up this parley for you in good faith. I need nothing from you in payment — not even your fine stallion. All I ask is that you grant my freedom once you have had the opportunity to work out a peace agreement with Celimus.’