The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Where is Alyd’s head now?’ Ylena asked. Valentyna was surprised at the forthrightness of the question and by the young woman’s control. She had expected an outburst of grief but Ylena had shed not a single tear.

  ‘Ylena, I know this is very difficult for you,’ the Queen began, trying to step gently around the tender subject of Alyd Donal’s remains. ‘I will do whatever you wish.’

  ‘Bury him here,’ Wyl said without hesitation. ‘Tenterdyn is soiled with enough blood of its own now. Let him lie alongside his mother.’

  Valentyna nodded. ‘Crys felt similarly with Aleda. He wanted her to belong here for the time being.’ They had made several revolutions of the herb garden now. ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘I must be, but I couldn’t sleep anyway,’ Wyl replied, shaking his head. ‘All of this news is shattering but there are plans to make. Tell me about Celimus, your highness.’

  Bemused by her enthusiasm to share her anxieties with this woman, who could do little to help her, Valentyna told Ylena everything she knew.

  ‘I can’t believe Krell would do such a thing,’ Wyl said, alarmed at how rapidly the situation in Briavel had deteriorated.

  ‘If you had known him, you would understand how very accurate your comment is,’ Valentyna agreed. ‘It was foolish beyond belief and so out of character for him to do something so rash. Celimus now knows everything.’

  ‘Not everything, my Queen,’ Wyl cautioned and Valentyna could hardly believe the thrill the fighting words sent through her. ‘He has no idea where I am. We must keep it that way.’

  ‘But it will soon get out. If I have spies in Morgravia, Briavel is surely riddled with his watchers.’

  ‘True. It was a mistake for me to announce my real name,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But it was the only name that was going to get me through the palace gates. I need some time to think, your highness. Perhaps I might take that rest now, if you will permit it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m glad you’re here, Ylena,’ Valentyna said, surprising herself with such naked truth. ‘You may not look like your brother but your personalities are devastatingly similar. He made me feel safe as you do, curiously enough.’

  Ylena’s face shone with Wyl’s pleasure. ‘I am your servant, your highness. As my brother once pledged his allegiance to Briavel, so I do too.’

  ‘I accept it with gratitude, Ylena, but what we two women can do against that treacherous King to the west, I have no idea. I marry him shortly, do you know that?’

  Wyl did not react as he wished to. ‘Perhaps you must, your highness, but not without a plan,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Gather all the latest information you can — everything your people can report.’

  The Queen wondered at what point in their conversation Ylena had assumed such authority, but she nodded her agreement. ‘My intention was to ask Crys Donal to leave Briavel,’ she added.

  ‘Yes, he cannot remain here. It will only inflame the situation now that Celimus knows he has survived. Besides, Crys may be far more help to our cause in Morgravia.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, your majesty. May we talk again in a few hours?’

  ‘Surely,’ the Queen said and then, unable to help herself, added, ‘It’s uncanny…’

  ‘What is, your majesty?’

  ‘Either I’m going mad or Shar himself is conspiring to confuse me.’ She gave Wyl a long, searching gaze and he watched, discomforted, as her eyes misted. ‘It sounds so foolish, but not only do you echo your brother, you remind me keenly of Romen Koreldy in the way you talk to me. He and I plotted together not so long ago on how to keep Celimus and his marriage proposal at bay. I feel as if I am reliving that moment.’ A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. ‘Oh, forgive me, Ylena. I know I’m making no sense.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Wyl said, reaching into a pocket and handing the Queen a handkerchief.

  Valentyna gave a small, harsh laugh. ‘No, you don’t understand. Our mutual friend, Elspyth, asked me just a couple of days ago to keep an open mind on people who might pass through my life.’

  ‘No, I don’t understand,’ Wyl admitted, trying to lighten the moment with a grin.

  Valentyna dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief. Something tweaked at her mind but she paid it little attention. ‘I hate feeling this weak. A mention, a reminder of Romen, anything which resonates of him, can undo me.’

  ‘Then use his memory to make you strong. If he was able to make you feel safe, call upon that feeling to give you courage rather than allow it to undo you,’ Wyl urged.

  Valentyna was glad she had not admitted anything about the chaffinch and its song. She felt sure this brave young woman, who had lost so much herself, would definitely believe that the Queen of Briavel was losing her wits under the pressure if she shared that story.

  ‘What were you going to say about people passing through your life?’ Wyl asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing really,’ the Queen sighed, handing back the beautiful square of linen. Once more she felt a tug at her thoughts but again was distracted from it, pulling at a stalk of lavender and crushing the flower between her hands.

  Wyl had to look away; it was a painful reminder of happier times, when Valentyna had crushed a head of lavender and held up her palms to Romen for him to inhale the scent. She did not offer her hands now, but then she did not know that the same person — in spirit — was standing before her.

  ‘Elspyth is determined that I should lock Romen away and open up my heart to others who might love me,’ she continued, shyly now.

  Wyl heard alarms klaxoning in his head. ‘And what else did the wise woman, Elspyth, advise, your highness?’

  Valentyna smiled at his gentle sarcasm, not knowing how terrifying this conversation was for her guest. ‘It was an odd moment — she was most intense about her words. We were in this very place actually, and she begged me that should someone ever remind me strongly of Romen to take notice of it.’

  Wyl felt his stomach twist with relief. Elspyth had obviously danced around the topic. She had learned the lesson of a loose mouth in the harshest way at Tenterdyn — and his sister had died because of it. Elspyth would not make the same mistake again, although it had not stopped her alluding to his secret.

  He needed to get away before the conversation became even more dangerous.

  ‘I am proud indeed that I remind you of someone you loved so much, your majesty,’ he said and bowed to kiss the Queen’s hand to take his leave. As he did, he inhaled the scent of lavender as he had not so long ago in the guise of Roman Koreldy and felt the rush of adoration and desire throughout his body.

  Wyl fled from the herb garden with its painfully sweet memories and was fortunate to bump into young Stewyt, the page who had looked after his needs when he was last in the palace, as Romen. He schooled his expression to show no recognition.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, touching the youngster on the shoulder.

  ‘My lady?’ the lad said, bowing.

  He had grown in the short time Wyl had been away. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Stewyt, my lady. May I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m a guest here and —’

  ‘Yes, the household staff has been informed, Lady Ylena, and I have been appointed to wait on you, if that pleases?’

  The boy had struck Wyl as sharp on their first meeting and it seemed that intuition had not been misguided. The page had been very sure of himself then and it had occurred to Wyl that Stewyt was probably a spy for Chancellor Krell.

  ‘It does please me,’ he replied now. ‘I was wondering where my chamber is?’

  ‘Let me take you there, my lady. Please follow me.’

  They engaged in small talk on the journey through the formal reception rooms of the palace, making their way up the beautiful marble staircase and then another flight — less ornate this time — towards the guest rooms. Stewyt was a competent guide, pointing out items of interest as they entered the western wing of the palace — a pl
ace Wyl had not been previously.

  ‘We have arranged a suite for you, my lady. I hope you find the accommodation comfortable. Please let me know if there’s anything I can fetch for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, impressed by the lad’s composure. He stepped past Stewyt into a freshly aired sitting room.

  ‘The door over there leads into your sleeping chamber, my lady, and that other door is a dressing room where you might take your ablutions. Shall I send up a bath?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Would you like a maid to help with your toilet?’

  ‘Er, no, thank you, Stewyt. I would prefer to be alone right now.’ Wyl knew he should order some fresh clothes but this new existence was hard enough. The riding clothes made him feel comfortable.

  Stewyt nodded. ‘As you wish, my lady,’ and he bowed formally to take his leave.

  It seemed to Wyl he would never escape the fragrance of lavender. A fresh bunch had been placed in a jar by the window and a light breeze carried the scent through the room. The stalks were mingled with mint of all things. So typically Valentyna, he sighed. She probably ordered the arrangement herself.

  He looked out from the window across Werryl Bridge. It was a magnificent sight from this high perspective. A procession of people crossed to and fro, in and out of Werryl city, and he noticed they all paid quiet homage to the newly erected statue of King Valor, who had taken his place amongst the other, more ancient royals who stood guard, made welcome and bade farewell all who travelled the bridge. The people’s love for Valor was clear in the way they paused to nod at his likeness or touch the statue’s foot. It was poignant to watch and Wyl wished a similar tradition was followed in Morgravia to honour its revered dead. Then he stifled a nervous laugh at the mental picture which sprang to mind of the folk of Pearlis spitting on the statue of Celimus.

  I must not falter now, he berated himself, fighting the urge that he was unravelling at being so close to Valentyna yet trapped as Ylena. He decided he should lie down, even if rest eluded him. Wyl was asleep in moments.

  Fynch came to him in his dreams.

  I cannot stay long. I am travelling with Knave into the Razors.

  Fynch! Is it really you?

  Wyl, sending to you is hard for me so don’t talk, just listen. I know what troubles you. Offer to go to Pearlis on Valentyna’s behalf. Buy her more time.

  Celimus will have me killed.

  But you are already dead, Wyl. Farewell. I hope we shall speak again.

  Fynch? Fynch!

  Wyl woke trembling and disturbed.

  NINE

  FYNCH SAT DOWN HARD on the small mound outside the cottage which had been built by Elysius. ‘My head throbs.’

  Knave prowled nearby. It will. Each time you use the magic, the pain will become a little worse.

  ‘I had to.’

  Knave did not comment; instead he offered some advice. Take some sharvan leaves from the pot in the cottage. Elysius used it to alleviate the pain.

  Fynch nodded and forced himself to stand up despite the lingering ache. ‘Do we leave immediately?’

  As soon as you feel strong enough.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to leave this place. I feel safe here.’

  I do understand, Fynch.

  ‘Why did he come, do you think?’

  Knave knew to whom the boy referred. To thank you.

  ‘Something odd happened.’

  Knave remained silent although the quiet was filled with unspoken questions.

  Fynch touched the dog on its large head as he moved towards the cottage. ‘Maybe I imagined it but I felt connected to the King somehow.’

  We all do.

  ‘No, it was more than that. I felt like I belonged to him,’ Fynch said softly, slightly embarrassed, ‘even though I know my creature is Roark, the unicorn.’

  The dog offered no explanation and Fynch sensed his friend was confused when he replied: It cannot be a bad thing to feel connected to the King of the Beasts.

  Fynch understood he would get no more insight from Knave. He knew the Warrior King had also sensed something between them. He had seen recognition flare in the creature’s dark eyes. But the King had gone now and there was no point in teasing at that problem.

  There was a journey to make, a man to kill and another to save.

  Wyl did not feel rested in the slightest and Fynch’s words had disturbed him so that he could not face putting his head back on the pillow. Soon enough, a gaggle of people arrived to deliver the bath, hot water, fresh clothes and a tray of welcome food and wine.

  He took his time luxuriating in the steaming water and staring at the trio of gowns Valentyna had sent for him to choose from. He hated the sight of them; despised the fact that he would have to climb into a dress and curtsey before the woman he loved. And what was more, something terrifying was occurring within Ylena’s body. At first he could not imagine what the creeping hurt was which had begun low and deep, almost at his groin. Sharp needles of pain had stabbed regularly at him since he had woken. The heat of the bath had soothed them but not taken them away, and then a fresh ache across his back had begun. When the dull throb of a headache gathered he knew he was ill, but it was only as he was considering how to explain the discomfort in order to obtain the right herbal concoction to speed its passing that he understood what this was all about. It was Ylena’s monthly bleed. A new wave of sickness passed over him. How much more humiliation could he take? Did he truly have to contend with this? Yes he did, he told himself, for no one else could save him.

  He took his mind back to easier times, when life was bright and happy for Ylena. He recalled how she would withdraw each month for one day at least and rest, but he had hardly been privy to much more information than, ‘Your sister is indisposed. She leaves a message that you should visit tomorrow when she will be feeling better.’ He smirked bitterly in the warm waters. The first day is always the worst she had told him when he had dared to ask more than was polite. So he had to deal with this pain for one day — and then what? How long would the bleed last? He knew there was something about linens and regular changing but that was a woman’s world. His world now… and he hated it. He dipped deeper into the warmth.

  Fynch’s words haunted him. His friend was right: what did it matter if Ylena died at the hands of Celimus, or anyone else? Her death would buy Valentyna time. Wyl Thirsk would go on living anyway, he thought grimly. Perhaps he could persuade Celimus to do the ugly deed and end it once and for all, and then he remembered Elysius’s warning that if he attempted to contrive his own death the repercussions would be savage. He could not risk another person he loved suffering and he felt sure the penalty would be levelled on someone else rather than himself.

  He dropped Ylena’s head to her hands in deep frustration but in truth his mind was made up. Fynch’s advice was wise. Wyl could represent Valentyna to Celimus. The King of Morgravia would hardly turn down the opportunity to welcome Ylena back to Stoneheart — and no doubt directly into her former cell in the dungeon… or worse. He cared not. The sooner he was rid of Ylena’s body, the better. He felt sick at heart that he would lose her again, but he would be glad to no longer walk in her skin.

  Wyl pondered a plan as he washed Ylena’s hair and readied her to present herself to Queen Valentyna. A small glow of luck saw a maid arrive to clear his tray. He begged a favour and it was taken care of in minutes. She brought him strips of linen, and a strange brown liquid that smelled awful and tasted worse to swallow.

  The young maid smiled at him as he thanked her. ‘The pain will go quickly, my lady. I’ll have some more linens delivered.’

  The Duke of Felrawthy crossed the room and swept Ylena Thirsk into his arms. ‘Wyl,’ he whispered into his prisoner’s ear, ‘thank Shar you’re safe.’

  Wyl felt self-conscious at the show of affection, yet knew it would appear perfectly normal to the Queen who stood regally nearby, delighting in the reunion of her Morgravian guests. She looked dazzling tonight
in a dark brown gown of the simplest design. Figure-hugging with no frills or flounces, ruches or tucks, it flattered her tall, slim frame, the deep colour accentuating the brightness of her eyes against her creamy complexion and the dark hair she had twisted up behind her head with a tortoiseshell comb.

  When he was placed back on the floor Wyl took the Duke’s hand in his own and placed both their fists against his own heart. It was the gesture of a Legionnaire, and in Morgravian society would have looked not only odd but vulgar when performed by a woman. Fortunately, Valentyna had no understanding of the gesture, although Wyl knew Crys would know instantly its intent. For Wyl, it was the only way he could show his true self and convey the depth of his feeling for what had occurred.

  ‘I’m shattered by the news of your family,’ he said softly.

  Crys momentarily lost his tight grip on the sorrow he kept locked away and Wyl saw it emerge now to march slowly, painfully, across the handsome duke’s features.

  ‘I can’t —’ Crys began haltingly.

  ‘I know,’ Wyl said, fighting down the lump that was closing his own throat. ‘I understand.’ And Crys knew that Wyl, of all people, did, for here stood someone who had lost everything but his own soul. ‘Stay strong, Crys. Their lives will not have passed in vain.’

  All Crys could do at this point was to gather up his hurts quickly and hide them again. Either that or break down completely. He nodded as he turned away.

  It was Valentyna who rescued them both. ‘Ylena, Crys, come, I’ve had a table set up by the fire. Let us break some bread together.’

  Had the Queen deliberately chosen to entertain them in the same chamber where Wyl had first met her father, with its secret doorway and the huge tapestry covering the privy? He could not guess but it felt strangely comforting to be here again — as though he had come full circle. Nothing much had changed in the room, save a few Valentyna-esque flourishes, as he liked to think of them. A jar of blooms, some fresh lavender and herbs scattered on the floor to be crushed underfoot and release their scent, a thick rug and a charcoal-sketched likeness of Valor done by his daughter which hung unobtrusively in a corner. It was not a great work of art but she had somehow — amongst her scrawl of lines — captured the spirit of the man. It was a lovely piece and no doubt drawn with raw emotion. The final brightening touch was a tiny puppy, gambolling about near the warmth of the hearth, teasing at a bone.