The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Soon after learning his mother’s secret, Fynch had become troubled by thoughts that perhaps he was not sired by his father. Fynch did not resemble any of his siblings closely — they were all dark and solid like his father, whilst he was fair, golden in fact, possessing those same elfin qualities as his mother. Since learning of her ‘moments’, as he called them, he had worked hard at convincing himself that he was simply his mother all over again, yet the thought still troubled him. He had never shared this anxiety with anyone. Well, not any person. The Dragon King had seen it in him though — Fynch was sure of it. The dragon’s eyes had flared as they penetrated the boy’s soul — had the dragon seen the truth of Fynch’s secret fear?

  As he climbed further into the Razors, Fynch thought about what the King of the Creatures had asked of him. Perhaps, in his heart, he had always known that his life would be brief and so had given his energy to enjoying the moment he lived in. So be it. He was not scared of dying any more but he would make his death count. As much as the Dragon King saw destroying Rashlyn as his priority, Fynch knew that his own loyalty lay with Wyl and did not care to share this secret with anyone — not even Knave. Somehow he had to help Wyl defeat Celimus. It was why he had risked more headaches in sending Wyl to Werryl. And, against Knave’s counsel, he had sent Valentyna the chaffinch to whistle a tune he hoped would prompt her to wait for Ylena. He had even risked more pain to send dream thoughts to Wyl, urging him to face Celimus and to die again, if necessary.

  Fynch was utterly committed to the cause of ridding Morgravia of its present King and somehow protecting Valentyna and Wyl. Deep down he believed Valentyna would have to marry Celimus — there was not enough to prevent it if she was to ensure peace for her realm. He worried whether she could survive their marriage for he knew the cruelty of Celimus. But far worse was his deeply held notion that Wyl would fail in his bid to become Celimus. When he tried to interpret this chilling thought, the only explanation he could come up with for his fear was that Wyl hated Celimus so much he could never live with himself in that guise. Living as Celimus would be his last life too — Elysius had said as much. But it struck Fynch that if Wyl could not achieve the end of the Quickening by becoming Celimus, it could mean an infinite lifetime of changing bodies. Or perhaps the opposite, he reasoned. Perhaps Wyl would die in the body of some lonely guard, an arrow through his back. Fynch grasped — perhaps more than Wyl did — that in any of his guises Wyl could be killed through an accident or natural causes. The Quickening, as Fynch understood it, only worked if the killer was connected to Wyl via a weapon or touch, which was why Myrren could not use the magic to save herself. She had died at the stake; the flames had taken her life.

  Knave interrupted his thoughts. We had best keep moving. We are too exposed here.

  Fynch stood, adjusted the sack across his shoulder and, after buttoning his fleece, followed the dog.

  What were you thinking about? Knave asked.

  Fynch was surprised. The dog rarely asked questions on such a conversational level. ‘Myrren,’ he replied.

  Oh?

  ‘I asked Elysius why she could not save herself with the Quickening and he explained that Myrren knew she would not die by the hand of a person; she understood that the flames would consume her. Thus the Quickening could not save her and so she took revenge instead. If only she hadn’t,’ he finished, more bitterly than he had intended.

  It wouldn’t have changed Wyl’s fate, Knave said softly. Celimus would still have sent him on the journey of treachery into Briavel. Wyl would have died by Romen’s sword; Ylena would have wasted away in the dungeon no doubt; and Gueryn would have died in the Razors.

  Fynch nodded wearily. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  I don’t approve of what Myrren and Elysius did, Fynch, but Wyl’s life was forfeit from the moment Celimus took the throne. It might be worth you looking upon the Quickening as a gift rather than a curse.

  Fynch rubbed Knave’s great head to acknowledge the kindness in the dog’s voice. No one could approve of the Quickening but perhaps some good might yet come of it. He thought about the ekon which could so easily have killed Wyl in the Razors. If the beast had succeeded, that would have been the end for Wyl, for Elysius had told him the magic worked only between humans. They had a lot to thank Lothryn for, if he still lived. The fate of a kingdom had possibly shifted on the strength of that one man’s bravery.

  Fynch did not know he had voiced this thought aloud in his mind and thereby made it accessible to Knave. It was only when the dog responded that he realised he needed to learn how to control the magic more thoroughly.

  Fynch, do you not realise yet that the destiny of all three realms rests with you? the dog said. It is your actions — not Lothryn’s or Cailech’s, not those of Celimus or Valentyna, not even what Wyl might achieve — which will save the Land. You will decide its destiny. It is why you are called Fate.

  Tears rolled helplessly down the small boy’s face. I am the sacrifice, he thought, hauling himself up to another small ledge. So be it.

  SIXTEEN

  RASHLYN AWOKE FROM HIS stupor, angry to feel hands at his brow, wiping away the sweat of his ragings. He swung at the person tending him, hitting her in the face and drawing blood at her mouth. ‘Begone, woman!’ he roared, searching his wits to identify his location. He was in a strange chamber; it was dark outside.

  ‘Wait!’ he called to the woman who had turned her back on him.

  She looked at him then, a line of red trailing from the corner of her lip to beneath her chin. Rashlyn could see the hate in her eyes — but he was used to it.

  ‘Where am I?’ he demanded. ‘Why am I not in my own chambers?’

  ‘The King said we were to watch over you here until you fully recovered,’ she replied sullenly, touching her mouth and bringing away bloodstained fingers. ‘He said you would not like anyone in your rooms.’

  He ignored her injury. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Two days.’

  That shocked him. ‘Where is the King?’

  ‘Gone.’ She spoke the word as a threat. ‘He left with the Grenadyne the same night of your seizure.’

  She called to someone and a man entered the chamber. He took one look at the woman and glanced darkly towards Rashlyn.

  ‘I suspect I am no longer welcome,’ Rashlyn said to the man, hoping to unnerve him.

  ‘You have never been welcome, barshi,’ the Mountain man replied, not at all intimidated. ‘We permitted you in our house only because our King asked it. My wife has taken good care of you.’

  ‘And I regret my odd form of thanks, Rollo,’ Rashlyn answered, recognising the pair now. She was a midwife, a capable nurse, and the husband, Rollo, was a senior and trusted warrior of Cailech’s. It would not be wise to insult them further.

  ‘My apology, Kaylan,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet. The dizziness was still there. ‘I must have been dreaming. I am sorry for your wound.’

  ‘Leave, scum,’ Rollo growled.

  Rashlyn was not surprised. Without Cailech around, the people of the mountains did not maintain the deference they attempted towards him in the King’s presence.

  ‘Be careful, Rollo. I understand your daughter is with child. We wouldn’t want anything untoward to occur to the infant now, would we?’ Rashlyn said conversationally, as he pushed past the couple.

  The man roared, lunging towards the barshi, but his wife held him back. ‘Don’t, Rollo. Who knows what he is capable of,’ she said, terrified now, her bleeding lip forgotten, her pride tattered as her pleading eyes beseeched Rashlyn to leave their family be.

  That’s better, Rashlyn thought, smirking at the cowed Rollo, enjoying the fear in Kaylan’s tone. One day he would make them all pay for their disdain. He left the stuffy dwelling and gulped deeply the fresh air of the mountain night. He limped across to the nearby well to drink two long refreshing cups from the spring. It revived him sufficiently that he could make his way, without staggering, to his lonely c
hambers.

  Once inside, he bolted the doors, double-checking the locks. Only then did he begin to relax; only then in the safety of his isolation did he permit the fright at losing two days of his life to be released. What had happened? He was aware that his periods of darkness, when he spiralled into his other self, were extending, but had no idea they could stretch to two whole days. So far the longest he had felt himself lost to such madness was half a day at most, and that had frightened him enough. But two days! Usually during these black periods, as he called them, he functioned reasonably well but it was as though he was someone else. Rashlyn did not dislike that other self; at such times he was confident, flamboyant, certainly creative. His mind was at its sharpest and great innovations often came to him. He felt invincible in this state. No drug he knew of could induce such a constant euphoric sense of power — a herald of the power he would one day wield over Nature.

  Without knowing it, Rashlyn had come to the same conclusion as his brother. He believed that Nature was the reflection of Shar, and if he, Rashlyn, could exert control over Nature’s beasts, for example, then surely he would achieve godlike status himself? If Elysius could do it, he could also! But when he was able to think clearly, he understood that the euphoric moods were dangerous too. During these times he was unpredictable, capable of anything. He would willingly sacrifice a limb to be able to harness that state of mind whilst still holding sovereignty over himself, but the surge of power forced him to relinquish control. It was a madness, he accepted this. It had been creeping up on him for years. His brother had seen it in him first and his father not long after. Curse their souls!

  And yet this time, it did not feel quite the same. His body was still trembling from the seizure, as Kaylan had described it. Normally he would emerge out of the darkness, realise he had lost himself and discover what had occurred in his ‘absence’ — there was no better way to describe it. But this occasion was different. It sounded as though he had simply collapsed. Cailech must have seen him in this state to have ordered his care. Who else had seen him, apart from the King and the two who had cared for him? Where had he been when the seizure overcame him? What could he remember as his last conscious thought?

  Rashlyn was famished but ignored the growling plea of his belly. Using a spell to summon a flame, he lit a fire and brought some water to boil. He added verrun bark and a handful of arkad petals and tried not to think on anything but the brewing and cooling of the infusion into a hand bowl. As soon as he tasted the first bitter sip of the brew, he felt the sky of his mind brightening as if dawn was breaking through night.

  He sat himself at the window, inhaled deeply of the numbing air which helped to freshen his thoughts, and continued sipping. The tea began to work: the blurriness cleared and he was able to move backwards through the past few days.

  It came to him. He had been riding with the Grenadyne and Myrt. His suspicions about the stranger had not lessened for knowing him; Rashlyn was convinced there was a mystery attached to this fellow. If he could make physical contact with the man, he was sure he could find out more. It had unnerved Rashlyn to hear from the King that Farrow had reacted strongly when he had stroked the neck of Galapek. Clearly he had felt the magic in the stallion, which could only mean the mercenary owned power himself or had been touched by it somehow. Cailech had wanted to dismiss it but Rashlyn was not convinced such a reaction could be passed off as coincidence. And so the King had agreed to force Farrow into riding Galapek with the proviso that Rashlyn accompany him to observe him.

  The barshi recalled now how the mercenary had not reacted in the manner described by the King on his first encounter with the enchanted horse. Either the Grenadyne had wrestled his emotions back under his control, or they had been mistaken and the man’s claim of being fatigued from his adventure in the mountains was true. And yet Rashlyn was sure Farrow was hiding something. The stranger seemed too confident, too aware that this ride on Galapek was some sort of test. He had parried Rashlyn’s questions smoothly and outmanoeuvred him just when Rashlyn had got close enough to touch him. How had that happened, he wondered, and then remembered the strange dizzying sensation. He had been reaching to hand the Grenadyne a small bottle of medicine, supposedly to relieve the recurring headaches the man was experiencing, but his true intention was to touch Farrow’s hand. But something had touched him instead.

  He closed his eyes and took himself back to the shrieking of the horse which had echoed his own wish to scream at the immense pressure throughout his body. It had felt as though he was being pulled in a number of directions. There was no pain but the experience was frightening, then came intense nausea… then darkness. The woman, Kaylan, had called it a seizure so presumably he had thrashed about in his unconscious state.

  ‘It was not my madness that caused this,’ he murmured. ‘So what did?’

  ‘Magic,’ he answered himself and laughed briefly, as though in the grip of a fresh insanity. ‘Powerful magic,’ he whispered, remembering it more clearly now.

  Galapek had felt it too and had screamed. The barshi wondered if the horse was experiencing a similar weakness now also. But there was more in the wake of this strange event… there was also a sense of dread. He had no idea why but the ominous notion that something was coming towards him was strong indeed. For the first time in his life, Rashlyn felt very fearful.

  Elspyth had decided to slip away from Werryl Palace when everyone’s attention was diverted towards Brackstead and reaching Lady Donal before she died. She felt badly for leaving without a farewell to Crys, but also to the Queen. Valentyna had welcomed them warmly when they were in need; had sheltered and protected them without hesitation. Elspyth’s secret departure would surely be considered a slight and this bothered the woman of Yentro. But Elspyth wanted no fuss, no teary farewells and definitely no one trying to talk her out of it — which the Queen most certainly would attempt. It seemed right to go quietly, taking nothing, not even the horse she had ridden into Briavel.

  What she regretted most was the seemingly sly departure, which might be construed the wrong way, and not leaving a note for Wyl. She owed him that much. Why could she not have taken a few extra minutes and scribbled a second note for the Lady Ylena Thirsk? Elspyth was sure Wyl would come, and she could have given him an assurance she would not do anything rash, along with a promise of her return. But her head was filled with Lothryn and seizing her chance to leave without creating a commotion. She knew Krell and Liryk would be glad to see the back of her; their surreptitious glances and grimaces had left her in no doubt of their displeasure at her presence. She knew what it was too: they did not appreciate her speaking her mind about Celimus and why Valentyna should not marry him. There were moments Elspyth had felt either one of them would gladly silence her with something more painful than their stares.

  So, as soon as she saw the royal party depart across Werryl Bridge, she grabbed her small sack of goods and fled via a small, barely known courtyard gate which Valentyna had admitted making good use of as a child. She stepped out of the palace grounds and kept walking, through the town of Werryl rather than across its beautiful bridge. The main township was walled and Elspyth intended to make her escape by blending in easily with the traffic that drifted into and out of Werryl daily through its most northern gate. She felt confident she would find someone who would permit her to travel with them into Crowyll, and perhaps from there she could buy a nag and use four legs instead of two to get to Banktown in the far north, before turning west and crossing the border into Felrawthy. That was her plan but she was flexible. Frankly, she would take any ride she could get.

  It was the brewery driver’s child who spotted her first. The cart rolled level with Elspyth as the big old horse’s ponderous tread caught up with the slow-moving crowd passing through the gate. The guards did not seem to be paying close attention to those leaving the town so Elspyth felt confident that she was unlikely to be stopped or questioned. It wasn’t as if anyone would be looking out for her at this ea
rly stage of her journey. Nevertheless, her previous adventures had taught her to take precautions. She needed an innocent cover — just like this family here, she thought, eyeing the little girl who smiled tentatively.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the child asked in the way of all curious children, uninhibited by what might or might not be considered polite.

  Elspyth smiled brightly. ‘I’m going north,’ she replied.

  ‘And what will you do when you get there?’ the child said.

  ‘Well, I’m going home actually,’ Elspyth lied and cast a gentle rescue-me expression towards the driver who shrugged his apology for the youngster’s inquisition.

  ‘Do you have a family?’

  ‘No,’ Elspyth said, surprised at the question from a child. ‘I have no one in my life who worries about me, but north is where I come from and where I feel comfortable.’

  ‘The north of Briavel?’

  ‘The north of Morgravia,’ she said theatrically.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  Elspyth laughed. ‘A long way away. I come from a town called Yentro.’

  ‘And you have to walk all that long way?’ the little girl exclaimed, not that she knew where Yentro was.

  ‘Hush, Jen. Let the lady be,’ the man said, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he added, looking at Elspyth shyly. ‘She gets bored easily on these trips and we’ve hardly begun.’