The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Somehow the King had been persuaded down the path of magic. Burning with a feverish anger he had listened with fascinated horror to Rashlyn’s suggestion that there was a far more subtle option than an easy death by the sword. The barshi’s repetition of the words ‘traitor’ and ‘treachery’ had fired the King’s anguish into a white heat of vengeance. He had agreed to Rashlyn’s plan, believing that by owning Loth, by breaking his spirit and forcing his subservience with Rashlyn’s dark magic, he would somehow win his respect. His former friend and comrade would suffer the humiliation of knowing that he would for ever carry the King on his back, ever subservient to Cailech, never forgetting who ruled whom.

  It was only now that Cailech could see how distorted and poisonous such a notion was. If he could reverse the magic he would do so, especially now that Aremys seemed to have such a dogged interest in the stallion. The truth was, his victory over Loth felt hollow. Painful, in fact. As with the threat to make cannibals of his own people, it had shown him to be base; led by anger rather than his clever mind. How had he permitted Rashlyn to guide his hand towards inflicting such horrors? He shook his head.

  ‘A silver for your thoughts, sire,’ Aremys said, approaching Cailech where he sat on a rock ledge with a clear view into Felrawthy. He brought with him a clay flask of wine and poured a cup for the King and one for himself. Myrt and the rest of the Mountain warriors were sharpening blades and checking the supplies of weapons, which everyone prayed would not be required.

  ‘I was just thinking of Lothryn and how much you remind me of him.’

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment, sire. I have heard people speak highly of your second, despite his final actions.’

  ‘As they should,’ Cailech said, unable to hide the sorrow that had him in its grip.

  ‘No one can tell me what happened to him, sire. I presume you executed him?’

  Aremys heard the hesitation. ‘Yes, he is dead,’ the King replied flatly.

  ‘Doesn’t stop you missing him though, I see.’

  Cailech nodded. ‘I miss him every day. We grew up together, we understood each other, we protected one another. That was what made his betrayal so shocking. We loved one another, Farrow. We were brothers in all but blood.’

  ‘With such love between you, could you not find a way to spare him?’ Aremys prompted, hoping to lead the King into revealing more about Galapek.

  ‘Only the barest thread separates the most passionate of opposites, Grenadyne.’

  ‘What do you mean, sire?’

  ‘I mean that because I loved Loth so much, it made me capable of intense hatred for what he did to our friendship.’

  ‘I understand.’ Aremys knew he would not get the admission he had hoped for.

  Instead, the silence stretched between them, before Cailech roused himself from his private thoughts and addressed the question which was no doubt troubling his men too.

  ‘Is this a wise undertaking, Farrow?’

  ‘Many would consider it foolhardy, given the Morgravian sovereign’s reputation,’ Aremys replied. ‘However, I do believe that once he meets you, you more than anyone have the ability to convince him that the alliance is preferable to these regular skirmishes which could so easily escalate to war.’

  Cailech nodded, reassured by the Grenadyne’s faith. ‘And his marriage?’

  ‘Is still planned to go ahead shortly, which is why timing is of the essence. With Briavel’s army at his beck and call, who knows what delusions might suddenly cross this fanciful King’s mind?’

  ‘I am told that the Legion has been deployed to the Briavellian border. Hardly a loving wedding gift.’

  ‘Scare tactics,’ Aremys guessed. ‘There is no benefit to Celimus starting a fresh war with Briavel when he can conquer the realm through a marriage union.’

  ‘Intimidating the bride is a grand way to start a historic treaty between the two realms,’ Cailech replied.

  ‘It seems Celimus knows no other way. From what I can gather, he has been a bully for all of his young life. Why should he change now he is King?’

  ‘Mmm — my thoughts exactly,’ Cailech mused.

  The silence that followed felt cryptic to Aremys, but he could not put his finger on why or what the King might have meant by his comment. ‘Nothing will go wrong, sire. Just don’t tarry. Say what you have to say and plan to use emissaries to do the rest. The main thing is that both Kings meet and like what they see in each other.’

  Cailech nodded. ‘When are we expected?’

  ‘Tomorrow. He is planning a feast in your honour. I suggest that only Myrt, Byl and I accompany you, sire.’

  Cailech’s green gaze narrowed. ‘A lean force.’

  ‘It shows trust.’

  ‘Even if I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The Mountain King laughed again. ‘I hope you do not find my blood on your hands, Grenadyne — or you will have hundreds of my warriors baying for yours.’

  Cailech raised his glass to Aremys, who followed suit. ‘To unions, sire.’

  ‘And friendship, Farrow. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Does that mean I am a free man now?’

  Cailech drained his cup. ‘It does, but I hope you will return to the fortress with us.’

  ‘If we are all still alive after this adventure, your highness, I would be honoured to.’

  Celimus was riding on the moors that surrounded Tenterdyn and surveying what he now considered Crown land.

  ‘It is beautiful, your majesty,’ Jessom said from his own horse, echoing the King’s thoughts.

  ‘I was thinking I would make Tenterdyn my summer palace and Argorn could become the royal winter retreat,’ Celimus replied with a smug smile, looking towards the majestic Razors which reared up as a hazy purple in the distance.

  ‘Crys Donal and Ylena Thirsk might have something to say about that, your highness,’ the Chancellor cautioned, careful to hit a tone which did not suggest either reprimand or contradiction.

  ‘Not from the grave they won’t,’ his King snapped testily.

  The notion had crept up on the Chancellor so quietly, he had not realised it existed until this moment, but now it dawned on him that he had tired of the King’s waspish manner and complete disregard for those who strived to accommodate his whims and pander to his needs. Not a single servant was seen in any higher light than a peasant begging for coin in the gutter. In the case of Jessom, this commitment to Celimus stretched to killing for no extra reward, certainly no thanks. Jessom was no fragile soul who shirked the meting out of death; no, a kingdom could not be strong, he believed, if squeamish or too compassionate. Any successful King needed people around him who were prepared to perform tasks which involved skullduggery and cunning at times. However, in the case of Celimus, the settling-in period of brutality was, Jessom considered, prolonged. In truth, the bloodshed seemed to be escalating.

  Celimus was young and brash, and his eagerness to stamp his own mark on his kingdom — and indeed beyond — was understandable. But since Jessom had first arrived in Celimus’s life he had hoped he might mould this brilliantly sharp young man into one who could be relied on to be subtle. Jessom had put all of his own life experience and extensive range of talents at the King’s disposal with the aim that Celimus might learn from him.

  Maris Jessom was the seventh son of a rich man, a moneylender who was involved in a number of ventures from bridge-building to breweries. But even with such wealth, a son so far down the family’s hierarchy was never going to favour too highly in the shareholding. His eldest three brothers were carving up the empire between them and everyone else, including his three sisters, had to find their own way. In the case of his sisters, they had used their status to marry well. But Maris, thin and hook-nosed, had long ago accepted that he would never be a handsome man and so had decided from an early age to use his only real asset — his incredible intelligence — to get on in life. If the combined wits of his siblings were distilled into one, th
ey still would not hold a candle to the speed, agility and vision of their youngest brother. Although Maris kept this weapon a secret, it was obvious to him that his father should have chosen his seventh son to run his financial empire; it seemed that he alone had inherited the shrewdness, perceptiveness and, yes, cunning, which had helped his father to become one of the wealthiest men in all of Tallinor. But Jessom senior had never taken much notice of his gangly youngest son and as soon as Maris was old enough he had been encouraged to leave the family home to seek his own fortune. His mother, who loved him well, had given him a heavy pouch of gold. ‘Use it wisely, Maris,’ she had said, her eyes beginning to tear as she hugged her youngest farewell.

  And he had, roaming the towns and villages of Tallinor from north to south and east to west as a travelling moneylender: an innovative and supremely lucrative scheme, and convenient for borrowers. Money coming to them, in other words. Perhaps people thought he would never collect on his lendings, even having watched the thin man with the dark knowing eyes enter their loan into a black leatherbound ledger. But collect he did. Borrowers learned the hard way that Maris Jessom did not extend his loans. Pay up or lose everything was his creed. He had the law on his side too, because he never called in his loans early or was so greedy as to make the terms so cumbersome that they might be considered avaricious. The young Jessom was also ruthless, a characteristic which contributed to his rapid success.

  It was not long before he had to travel with a bodyguard, and then two, for fear of being set upon by the new breed of bandits who seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to steal from the rich as they could afford to lose the money. This made Jessom’s anger, which was normally slow to stoke, boil up and he was soon travelling with a small company of his own paid mercenaries who killed bandits for a hobby and kept all the spoils.

  Jessom enjoyed two decades of this lifestyle, during which time he built a network of contacts and knowledge from all over the region, before deciding to settle down in Tal, not far from his original family home. Here he planned to establish his own permanent moneylending empire, using mercenaries to do the dirtier work of collection around the realm. By this time both of his parents had died and his poorer siblings were scattered. The remaining brothers, who had inherited their father’s business, had not fared so well in their endeavours and became aggressive towards their wealthy younger sibling.

  It was around this time that King Sorryn of Tallinor declared moneylenders — whose number seemed to have tripled in Jessom’s lifetime — to be ‘a pus-filled carbuncle on society which needed to be lanced’ and systematically set about dismantling their terrible grip on the poor. Jessom saw the crackdown coming and fled Tallinor well in advance of the Purge, as it came to be known.

  He fled to Morgravia; a wealthy man still but homeless as well as landless and without the ties of family. Disillusioned, Maris Jessom decided on a change of career. He felt too old to find the energy to establish a new empire and so he watched and waited for whatever the stars had in store for him. Garnering information, observing trends and identifying needs was Jessom’s talent. He saw an opportunity within the Morgravian royal family long before it occurred to anyone else that a King might need more than his General to be his closest counsel.

  The position of Chancellor did not even exist during Magnus’s reign, for he was a King who preferred the companionship and advice of his military strategist in all matters. But friendship did not necessarily provide good counsel to Jessom’s mind and it was obvious that the new King would need better guidance than what was on offer at the time of his father’s death. Even for a newcomer it did not take much to understand that Magnus and Celimus shared no feelings and Jessom saw that the son had learned little from the father other than how to hate. Maris Jessom fancied himself a kingmaker; he had a network of messengers, mercenaries, informers and spies who could help shape a kingdom, plus he had years of experience in finance as well as a shrewd understanding of human nature.

  He watched Celimus for long enough before he became King to know the young man was problem-riddled and it would take years of smoothing and guidance to educate him on how to run an effective realm. Jessom saw the charm too, though; he sensed that Celimus could easily turn that talent towards his kingdom and use the energy he squandered in despising people into making them loyal to him. Jessom had to admit that the proposal of marriage to Valentyna of Briavel was a masterstroke, but the killing of her father, Valor, had been plain stupidity. It was the act of an arrogant man, too inexperienced to realise that a suggestion of his power was more than enough. Jessom believed King Valor would have supported a union between Celimus and his daughter, which made his death pointless.

  The murder of Thirsk had been another senseless move, although Jessom realised that there was a history there which affected the King’s judgement and prevented him from being objective. Jessom had watched Thirsk too, long enough to realise the young General was loyal to Morgravia. All Celimus had needed to do was to lean on that loyalty — and the execution of the youngest Donal, the razing of Rittylworth, the slaughter at Tenterdyn plus various other deaths, including young helpless Jorn, need never have occurred.

  Murder was dangerous. It had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt the perpetrator and Jessom could not help but think that there were too many corpses at the King’s feet — with the Chancellor’s involvement — for either of them to escape the outcry that was surely coming. All it would take was one voice of dissent. One voice that counted — be that Ylena Thirsk or Crys Donal or even Aleda Donal wherever the hell she was. A few rumblings from Lord Bench could set off a catastrophic series of questions for the King to answer… and Jessom knew who would shoulder the blame. It would not be Celimus.

  And yet, if only he would listen to Jessom, Celimus could still be a strong, powerful King ruling prosperous realms. Not one or two, but three — the very empire the King dreamed of. All was not lost yet. Perhaps they could use Ylena Thirsk to their advantage — there was always a way — rather than just murdering her.

  He realised he was shaking his head and that Celimus, wearing a quizzical expression, had turned his horse to face his Chancellor.

  ‘Your majesty, may I speak candidly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, sire, with the alliance you may well forge with the Mountain King, and what could only be described as the fairytale union with Briavel which is about to occur, you will have achieved what most sovereigns do not dare dream of, let alone attempt.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘My point is, your majesty, that you are now in the enviable position of essentially controlling the three realms without resistance, without bloodshed, without the other two sovereigns realising how powerful you actually are.’

  ‘Why is this a good thing, Jessom?’

  ‘Your highness, there is a saying which holds good in almost every facet of life: never allow one hand to know what the other is doing.’

  ‘Don’t give me riddles, you fool. Speak plainly.’

  Jessom drew a deep breath to stop his disdain from showing. ‘Once married, Valentyna is beholden to you as wife so she will be unable to rally against you, which effectively leaves the Mountain King in the cold should he suddenly decide the alliance is not working for him. I suspect he is much too canny for that, so he will maintain the peace and enjoy the benefits of trade and free movement as well as increased prosperity. My lord, it is obvious to me that, handled with care, you will have the empire you have always dreamed of.’ The words: Is that plain enough for you, fool? leapt to mind, but he resisted speaking them aloud.

  ‘Did you think, Jessom,’ Celimus replied, ‘that I could not work this out for myself? Is it your belief that I need you to spell out every scenario for me because I am too dimwitted to see beyond what is in front of my nose?’ The tone was sarcastic and dangerous.

  ‘Not at all, sire,’ Jessom replied, equally calmly but also with courtesy. ‘I just think that killing Ylena Thirsk or
Crys Donal might be… well, shall we say “hasty” for want of a better word.’

  ‘So you would have me leave two dangerous mouths on the loose?’

  ‘All I suggest, sire, is that you wait. You will have Ylena Thirsk in captivity shortly. Don’t do anything too soon. Think on the various situations which will inevitably present themselves. I imagine that Ylena Thirsk is feeling extraordinarily isolated these days. She has no parents, she has lost her guardian and her beloved brother is dead. Her new husband and his family — her only allies — are fodder for the worms. Apart from Crys Donal she has no one to turn to. She is a beautiful, vulnerable young woman who no doubt craves the security of being pampered again within her own private chambers with servants to wait on her, fancy gowns on her body and money at her disposal — everything back as it was. Think about it, sire, you could be her saviour. You could put all this behind you and lavish your care and riches on the lonely girl — until she becomes your supporter.’

  Celimus listened this time without the smirk on his face. ‘She always was a spoilt little thing. I used to think she’d jump at shadows.’

  ‘This is what I mean, sire. She may boast the name of Thirsk but she is merely a girl. Her world has crumbled and been destroyed. What she needs now is resurrection from the rubble. If you provide that, it doesn’t matter what excuses or tall stories you weave to excuse your behaviour of the past; she will believe them all because what she wants is her life back again and a sense of safety. Marry her off well — to your gain. I would go so far as to suggest you find her a high-ranking warrior from Cailech’s brood. She will be no more trouble to you then.’

  The King’s horse was restless. ‘I will think on what you have said, Jessom,’ Celimus replied. ‘What time is the Mountain King due?’