The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Elspyth noted a hut not far away. She knew they had taken a route off the main road because Ericson had said it was a shorter route with less traffic, and she had not complained, just glad to be moving north and faster than her own feet could carry her.

  ‘How long have I been dozing?’ she said, stretching. She didn’t recall climbing into the back of the cart, or feeling tired, but clearly she must have done both for that was where she found herself now.

  ‘Oh, hours,’ Jen answered in a singsong voice. ‘The tea always makes the women drowsy.’

  Elspyth had no idea what the youngster was talking about. They had shared some tea at the roadside not far out of Werryl. She had thought it odd, because they had only just left the city, but Jen insisted she was thirsty and hungry and Ericson had said tea and a hunk of cheese would satisfy his daughter who rarely ate breakfast. Elspyth had been happy to go along with it and had enjoyed the curious-tasting brew. ‘Where are we?’ she wondered aloud, imagining they might be a couple of hours north of the city.

  ‘Just outside Sharptyn,’ Ericson replied, jumping down from the cart. Jen followed.

  Elspyth was taken aback. ‘Sharptyn! No, wait,’ she said, frowning, ‘that can’t be right.’ Her mind raced across her imaginary map of Briavel. Sharptyn was to the west, almost into Morgravia, and many hours from Werryl. She shook her head free of the befuddlement of sleep. Perhaps she was mistaken in her mapping. ‘Are you sure?’

  He grinned and there was something unpleasant in it. ‘Oh yes, very.’

  ‘But Sharptyn is far west. You said you were heading north,’ she said, a pang of fear tingling through her body.

  His nasty smile remained. ‘Did I? Well, we’re here now, Elspyth.’

  Ericson no longer looked tired or kind. He looked predatory and smug. ‘Jen?’ She looked towards the child, bewildered and frightened.

  Again the singsong voice. ‘Sorry, Elspyth. So, so sorry,’ Jen chanted, not even looking at the woman. ‘Ericson chose you. I didn’t want to. I liked you.’

  ‘Ericson!’ Elspyth shrieked as men appeared out of the hut. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘It’s not personal,’ he said, acknowledging the new arrivals with a nod. ‘Just business. Get her, lads,’ he added.

  Elspyth had no time to think; she lifted her skirt and ran. She forced her legs to move as fast as she had ever run in her life, and she screamed, unleashing every ounce of her strength and spirit. Even escaping from Cailech’s fortress had not been as terrifying as this. She had fellow escapees then. Right now she was alone and she could hear the shouts and taunts of the men chasing her. They were laughing at her. She knew deep down she probably could not escape, could not outrun them, but she had to try.

  She thought of Lothryn and how her pathetic attempt to rescue him had achieved nothing more than getting herself trapped, and probably killed. He would never know that she had tried to reach him. She screamed one last time as she sensed a man about to launch himself at her. He crashed out of the bushes, hitting her hard sideways and crushing the breath out of her. The others arrived panting, some laughing still. And then Ericson forced her to swallow more of the tea she had drunk earlier. It all made sense now: she had been drugged. Elspyth tried to spit out the liquid, shaking her head from side to side, deliberately gagging. Ericson hit her, which shocked her into opening her mouth to yell but succeeded only in giving her attacker the chance to pour the drug down her throat more effectively.

  The men let her go, no longer interested, it seemed — for the time being anyway — now that she had swallowed the drug. She just had time to count six of them, including Ericson, before the sky began to reel and the trees felt as though they might fall in on her. She sensed something reaching towards her, something powerful trying to connect with her — or so she imagined — but it was too late. Elspyth lost consciousness again. There would be no more screaming now.

  Fynch had felt Elspyth’s fear as she fled from the men, sensed it when she fell. He had never met this woman of Yentro and yet somehow her terror and helplessness assaulted him. He reached towards her and could see her now; prone, presumably unconscious, with men standing around her.

  Knave looked back to where Fynch stood rigid on the small ledge. The wind was whipping around them and Knave wondered whether he and the boy should be harnessed together somehow. Fynch was so slight, Knave feared that if a stiff, rogue gust came racing over them, Fynch could be blown off the ledge and down to his death.

  Bewildered by the boy’s closed eyes and fixed stance the dog returned to him. Fynch! What happens now? he asked. When Fynch did not respond, he nudged the boy, suddenly disturbed that he could not lock onto whatever was troubling his companion.

  Fynch staggered and finally opened his eyes. ‘It’s Wyl’s friend, Elspyth. She’s in trouble,’ he said, holding his head.

  Knave knew it hurt to use the magic. Elysius had been very careful about the power. His channelling to Myrren had near enough killed him, for she had needed his company and strength for a sustained period. But Fynch was so small and inexperienced and seemed to be opening himself fully to the magic, not because he craved the power but because he did not yet know how to shield himself from it. He had obviously latched onto this woman’s plea for help but this was not his problem. He had a task to fulfil.

  We must press on, Fynch, Knave began.

  ‘No. She’s hurt, in trouble. Elspyth is the woman who escaped with Wyl from the Razors. She helped him. I cannot forsake her,’ Fynch murmured through his pain.

  Chew some sharvan, Knave suggested, determined not to show his annoyance at this new setback.

  Fynch poked into his sack and retrieved a handful of the dried leaves which he had taken from the stock belonging to Elysius. He sat down and quietly chewed as suggested.

  How do you know this? Knave asked.

  ‘I have seen her,’ the boy answered.

  I’m not sure I understand. Is Elspyth empowered? How can she reach you otherwise?

  Fynch shook his aching head. ‘I don’t think so. Wyl did not mention her having any sentient ability. I’m not sure, to tell the truth, whether she even knew I was there.’

  What do you mean?

  ‘She did not call to me as such. It was her fear I felt and then I heard her screams. I followed her trace.’ Fynch looked at Knave with large, serious eyes that were full of pain and the dog felt grief for the small boy who had to face so much. ‘I think it’s the Thicket.’

  Sending you her message, you mean?

  Fynch nodded once, carefully. With the pain slowly clearing he did not want to reawaken it. ‘You said something earlier about Wyl being touched by the Thicket and therefore sensitive to magic even though he cannot wield it?’

  I remember.

  ‘Well, Elspyth is the niece of the Widow Ilyk — the seer whom Elysius knew and used once. Do you recall that?’

  Yes.

  ‘So perhaps Elspyth, though not empowered herself, has a vague awareness of magic’s touch. Wyl mentioned that she once dreamed of Lothryn calling to her.’

  And?

  Fynch shrugged. His head felt better, the dizziness gone and just a reminder of the pain lurking. He spat out the pulp of the sharvan. ‘I’m guessing that she cast out her fears without realising she could, and it just so happened that the Thicket was listening. The Thicket has connected us all, you might say.’

  It was plausible, Knave thought. So what are you thinking now, Faith Fynch?

  ‘I have to find out more about what’s happening to her.’

  We cannot be diverted from our journey, Knave warned gravely, hoping to impress on Fynch once again that nothing else mattered but what the Dragon King asked of them: to destroy Rashlyn and rid the world of his evil.

  ‘I know. I’m going to send a spy,’ Fynch said, and chanced a grin at his black friend.

  Then use a fast one. We must get on.

  Fynch looked out across the hazy landscape. He knew what he was searching for and sure
enough he found the kestrel, high on the wing and hovering, staring down towards the ground.

  ‘Over there!’ he said, pointing.

  I see it.

  Again Fynch closed his eyes and drew on his Elysian magic — as he liked to call it — to summon the bird of prey.

  Knave saw the bird tilt its wing and knew that was the moment Fynch had connected with it. The kestrel swooped and banked high again, turning in their direction, and then dived towards them fast and no doubt curious. When it arrived it perched itself on Fynch’s outstretched arm and even permitted the boy to stroke it in thanks for answering the summoning. Knave was impressed. He had been told that Elysius had achieved something similar once before, but not as easily; according to the creatures of the Thicket he had cajoled and beseeched them to help him. But the answer to Fynch’s call was immediate. The kestrel obviously felt compelled to respond.

  Knave would not normally be privy to what passed between the boy and the bird, but Fynch generously opened his mind so the dog could listen in on what was being communicated.

  I need you to find someone for me, Fynch asked.

  Who? the bird replied, seemingly undisturbed by the discussion. Knave wondered if the kestrel knew who Fynch was.

  It is a woman — this is what she looks like, and Knave shared the picture that Fynch gave to the kestrel.

  Where?

  Two miles east of Sharptyn. Another picture was given: this time it was an aerial map of Briavel. Knave was spellbound; was the Thicket supplying Fynch with this practical information?

  And when I find her?

  Let me know what you see. I will send help.

  With your powers can you not look for yourself? the bird asked cheekily.

  I could, my friend, but I lose strength and a portion of my life each time I draw on my powers. You can save me some of this loss if you will make that journey for me and be my eyes.

  I shall do what you ask if you will give me your name and tell me who you are.

  Gladly. My name is Fynch. I am from Morgravia and was a cleaner at the castle of Stoneheart.

  Oh, but you are much more than that, surely, the kestrel said, scorn lacing its voice at the boy’s humility. I must know the truth before I make this journey.

  All that I have said is true, Fynch replied evenly.

  But there is a secret, the bird encouraged. Its inquisitiveness was infectious and Knave felt as though he too was holding his breath. Fynch said nothing. The silence hung between the three of them, heavy with knowledge that one of them was reluctant to share.

  You must tell me, the kestrel urged. I am like you, Fynch — I need facts… and I need the truth.

  How the bird could know this was anyone’s guess, but Knave had learned long ago not to question magic for each answer merely led to a new question. So he ignored his queries and listened.

  I am Fynch, the boy replied, his voice suddenly strong, filled with a power Knave had never heard before. And I am the King of the Creatures.

  Fynch passed out at the last word, the link broken. The kestrel lifted from the boy’s arm just in time to avoid falling with him and launched itself into the air and away from the mountains. Knave was too stunned at Fynch’s words to say anything. He gazed after the bird until it was no more than a tiny speck on the horizon. Then, as it disappeared from his far-reaching sight, he roused himself from his disquiet and lay down beside Fynch to keep his friend warm until he regained consciousness.

  EIGHTEEN

  CAILECH WAS FLANKED BY only two of his own men as he slowed his horse at the gates of the Tenterdyn Estate of Felrawthy. On one side of him rode his loyal warrior, Myrt, and on the other a man he now called friend: Aremys Farrow.

  Farrow was an enigma. There were secrets buried in this man — Cailech was sure of it — and yet Aremys struck him as forthright and honest. But the way the Grenadyne had reacted to Galapek haunted the King. It was obvious that Farrow suspected something about the beast. Rashlyn’s attempt to flush out the truth had failed miserably, ending in the barshi’s collapse and neither of them closer to their goal. In fact, it had been even more bewildering to learn that Galapek had been disturbed too, and Farrow had calmly brought the barshi and horse back to the fortress. If he was working against them, surely the mercenary would have left both to perish, or stolen the horse and allowed Rashlyn to die?

  None of it made sense to Cailech and so, despite his misgivings, he had decided to trust Farrow. Cailech considered himself an accurate judge of character and his instincts about people had rarely let him down. Lothryn was his only error, but it had taken almost forty years of friendship to discover his mistake. His mouth twisted at the thought of Lothryn’s betrayal.

  ‘Sire?’ Aremys said, noting the expression on Cailech’s face.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he replied, ‘just wishing Lothryn was here.’ He expected Myrt to agree and was surprised by the grim silence at his right. He did not miss the sly glance his warrior gave the Grenadyne either. What did that look mean?

  ‘You don’t need him for this, my lord,’ Aremys assured. ‘Only you can achieve what we’re setting out to do today.’

  ‘He had a way of making me feel calm.’

  His companions remained silent. What was there to say? Aremys believed Cailech had no right to feel sorry for himself after what had been perpetrated on Lothryn, but he was not in a position to comment so he kept his own counsel and watched the guard approaching.

  ‘Are you ready, sire?’ Myrt asked.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Cailech replied and glanced towards his new friend who nodded encouragement.

  ‘Lothryn would be proud of you for this,’ Aremys said.

  ‘He would too, Farrow. This is something he would applaud.’

  ‘Then you honour him by it.’

  Cailech smiled. There was gratitude in his expression and something unreadable in his eyes — sorrow perhaps? Aremys hoped so.

  The guard arrived and the mercenary addressed him. ‘I am Aremys Farrow. You’re expecting our party, I gather?’

  The guard nodded. ‘We are. Wait here, please.’ He whistled to the gatehouse and gave a hand signal.

  ‘You might care to bow in the presence of a King,’ Aremys suggested to the guard whilst they waited for the gates to open.

  He was relieved to see the man looked abashed; had worried for a moment that due respect was not going to be accorded to Cailech and that the Mountain King, as unpredictable as he was, might react and bring the whole plan crashing down around them.

  ‘Forgive me, sire,’ the man stammered and bowed low. Cailech and his companions exchanged satisfied glances.

  An officer met them. ‘Welcome, your highness,’ he said with appropriate reverence. Then he looked towards Aremys and nodded. ‘Farrow,’ he acknowledged.

  Aremys gave his reins to the men who had arrived to take care of the horses. ‘Captain Bukanan, sir. Good to see you again. This is Myrt, Second Warrior of the Mountain People.’

  Celimus was watching as the King of the Mountains arrived at the gate, exchanged a look with Farrow and then jumped gracefully from his magnificent stallion. The Morgravian sovereign was surprised. For some reason he had a picture in his mind that the Razor King would be dark, stocky, bearded even, with hooded eyes and a secretive countenance. He had not expected this golden-haired warrior, tall, clean-shaven and artless of dress. He had expected his enemy to be bedecked in finery to proclaim his royal status, but he was wrong again. The man wore no jewellery that Celimus could see, and his clothes were simple and yet frustratingly elegant. Celimus would have liked to own the cloak which hung so magnificently across the broad shoulders and seemed to shimmer in the daylight. This King was understated in his presentation and yet he oozed confidence. It was unsettling for Celimus who had anticipated looking down upon his counterpart for many reasons, not all physical. The man had him mystified. His modest attire combined with his imposing presence suddenly made Celimus feel like the misfit — a strutting peacock
in his bright courtly clothes. He pulled angrily at the circlet around his head.

  ‘I don’t think I need this,’ he muttered to Jessom who, as ever, was nearby.

  ‘I’ll take it, sire,’ the man replied, nothing in his tone to suggest that he was inwardly smirking at how one glimpse of the Mountain King had provoked such insecurity.

  To Celimus, Cailech looked like a warrior out on a ride to survey his lands; not someone who had come to a formal parley with a neighbouring sovereign — and an enemy no less. Was it arrogant to arrive so underdressed? And yet Celimus envied the man his casual approach. His gaze narrowed as he watched Captain Bukanan share a few words with the new arrivals. He would have to be careful with the upstart from the Razors; he was altogether disconcerting.

  ‘It is time, sire,’ Jessom said.

  Celimus remained silent, distracted by his thoughts. He turned from the window and strode past the Chancellor towards the main steps of Tenterdyn, where he had intended to arrange himself so the Mountain King might come cringing towards him. But there was absolutely nothing in Cailech’s demeanour to suggest he was here cap in hand, begging for an audience. If anything, he seemed utterly assured. It was the opposite of what the Morgravian had expected, and baffling.

  Celimus forced away his puzzlement, replacing it with a beautifully contrived bright expression, as he emerged to meet his fellow sovereign.

  So far so good, Aremys thought as he looked towards the movement at the front of the large house, which not so long ago had been filled with the Donal family. Then he felt a sudden flurry of fear when he saw the King, flanked by his Chancellor and various other military people, emerge from the huge main doors.