The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  In the end, to distract himself from his downward-spiralling thoughts, he washed Ylena’s face and combed her hair. Wyl tied it back once again, not prepared to allow the soft waves of golden tresses to pool around her narrow shoulders. He also refused to change out of his riding trews. There would be no curtseying today. He did, however, dust his garments as best he could, having decided that Ylena should not die looking ragged and filthy. Wyl knew appearance and presentation were high on his sister’s list of priorities and it was the least he could do for her considering that he was contriving to bring about her death — a second time.

  He looked in the small tarnished mirror that Jessom had provided and acknowledged how the glass suited Ylena: both she and the mirror were damaged and no longer much good to anyone. Nevertheless, not even its rusted surface could hide the ethereal radiance that shone from Ylena’s visage. She was gaunt now, but somehow that only added to her ghostly beauty; it reminded Wyl of their mother, when he had seen her laid out following her death.

  The wasting fever had shrunk his mother’s willowy figure to a skeletal state, and she died gasping for one more lungful of air, but in her death repose Helyna of Ramon remained breathtakingly lovely. Ylena would be the same, Wyl promised himself, as he stared out through eyes that looked even larger than usual because she was so thin and so full of sorrow.

  Wyl threw the mirror down, shattering it across the flagstones, glad that it would never reflect that sad, haunting face again.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps. It was Harken, together with the older officer from earlier in the day.

  ‘I thought you had gone,’ Wyl said, gathering his unravelling emotions.

  ‘Our company was called back this afternoon to guard the arrival of the Mountain King.’

  ‘You have been summoned,’ the older soldier cut across them both. ‘The lad here seemed determined to see you again.’

  ‘And how kind of you to let him,’ Wyl said, bitterness lacing his tone. ‘It is a pity you don’t feel the same loyalties to General Thirsk that I would expect from a soldier of the Legion.’

  ‘He’s dead, or hadn’t you noticed?’ the man answered with a cruel grin. ‘Thirsk is no good to us now. We’re stuck with the nasty royal brat and the only way any of us will survive is to follow his orders.’

  Wyl mustered as much contempt as he could on Ylena’s face. ‘You snivelling coward! The Legion could overthrow him in a blink if it would only find its spine. What has happened to all of you?’

  The man did not bother to reply, simply held out the manacles to be put around Ylena’s wrists. Wyl obliged; there was no point in wasting energy on a man like this. He turned his attention to the dumbstruck Harken.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the young man finally stammered. ‘I just had to see you again.’

  ‘And I’m happy you did. There is nothing you can do for me, but I urge you to rally your men against the Crown.’

  He expected the old soldier to strike him for saying something so treacherous, but the man simply laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, lad. These are the ravings of a condemned woman. Follow orders — that’s the Legion’s way, isn’t it? And you have yours.’

  ‘Harken, look at me!’ Wyl commanded. ‘Do this, if nothing else. Throw your support behind Celimus’s bride. When he marries Valentyna of Briavel, she will be your Queen. Help her. Don’t let him crush her as he has all of you. Make your men pledge their allegiance — she is your only hope against his brutality.’

  Harken, stunned, could only nod. His companion gave Ylena a shove. ‘Come on, lass. Let me follow my orders. I’ve got just another winter to get through and then I’ll be out of the Legion and off mending fishing nets in the north-west. After that I don’t care what the young bloods do. Right now we have instructions to bring you to his majesty and that’s what we’re going to do.’

  Wyl rubbed at Ylena’s burdened wrists. ‘Let us go then,’ he said.

  Elspyth stood with about sixteen other women in what was akin to a cattle pen, which Ericson and his cohorts had built inside the main stone building. She had been forced to strip herself of clothes and given a grubby length of linen to cover whatever she could. One end of the cloth was stained with blood and, with her terror of dying and her crushing despair at failing Lothryn, it was all Elspyth could do not to scream at the testimony of another’s injury, perhaps her death.

  The men had been drinking for most of the afternoon. They were well and truly intoxicated now, eager for the naked women, for fighting, for killing. The volume of noise in the building rose noticeably as the audience became more excited, especially when the women were herded into their pen, clutching at the useless fabric which barely concealed their modesty.

  The smell of liquor, combined with sweat, vomit and the unmistakable scent of congealed blood, made some of the jumpier women gag. Others began to wail. They knew what was coming and that, in the next hour or so, they could be taking their last breath. Elspyth could cope with the stench but her rising fear would surely undo her. She had learned that the men had not found ‘fresh meat’ for a week or more, and one kind soul had told her she would be a definite on tonight’s menu. There were no more tears to cry and there was no one coming to save her. If she was to survive this, Shar help her, it would be because she managed to kill three of her fellow captives.

  Elspyth looked around the pen and wondered who she might be partnered with tonight. She noticed all of the women were in relatively good health; no one older than around thirty-five summers or so it would seem. She smiled grimly to herself. Of course they wouldn’t choose anyone much older — the naked bodies would not offer the same spectacle.

  ‘I’ve heard they sometimes rape the winner,’ a woman nearby murmured, no doubt awaiting her first bout, her eyes panic-stricken.

  ‘They’re not here just to look, you fool,’ her neighbour warned.

  Elspyth gritted her teeth and turned away, her glance catching that of Alda on the opposite side of the pen. The other woman looked calm yet menacing, as if violence lay just beneath that expressionless exterior. Madness and the threat of death whirled around them all, but Alda’s attention was riveted on Elspyth alone. It was unnerving. When Elspyth saw torches being lit around the central area and a man approaching to get the first fight under way, her emotions frayed. She would not show her fear to the men, but inwardly she screamed her pain towards Lothryn, knowing he too was helpless but needing to say farewell.

  She reached Fynch instead.

  The boy woke, consumed by Elspyth’s anguish. Lothryn, I love you, I’m so sorry! Shar, help me! Her scream came through a gossamer-thin link that threatened to tear away at any second. But this time Fynch was quick enough.

  We’re coming. You must hold on, and then the link was ripped away, her terrified voice a memory. But her fear was contagious and it remained like a bad smell, festering around him. Fynch shivered. The pain was back in his head; he was not sure it had ever left or whether he would ever be free of it again. He wanted to chew on more sharvan but resisted, knowing he was turning to the leaves too quickly. Knave had counselled him to fight the pain, not let it control him.

  He focused on Knave now and sent his message. Where are you?

  At the palace gates. I believe I’ve just enraged a number of Briavellians with some ferocious barking.

  Fynch smiled despite himself. Thank you for going, Knave.

  How are you?

  I’m all right. I’ve just woken. Elspyth reached me again. She sounds in desperate trouble.

  The note is intact. Here they come now. I hope they remember me.

  No one could forget you.

  We’ll speak again soon. Chew some leaves — you’ll need them after this.

  Fynch did not reply. He broke the bond and cast a silent prayer to Shar to guide the message into Valentyna’s hands. She alone had the power to act to save Elspyth.

  Knave barked again, for good measure, as the guard limped towards the gate. ‘Shar’s mercy, look at th
e size of that thing,’ he muttered to his younger companion. ‘I’ll send an arrow into its heart if it doesn’t quieten down.’

  ‘Wait! That’s that black dog of the boy’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘Which boy?’

  ‘You know — that Fynch lad. One of the Queen’s favourites.’

  ‘Shar spare us, so it is. I must be going mad not to recognise it.’ The older guard made a sound of disapproval, knowing he had been caught napping when he was supposed to be guarding the western gate.

  ‘Do we let it in?’

  ‘Search me. You take a message to the Captain.’

  ‘Looks like it’s got a note tied around its neck,’ the young soldier said, nodding towards the dog as he left.

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ his companion called after him.

  Several minutes passed, with Knave stalking the breadth of the gate impatiently and the older guard watching, a little mesmerised. Knave was convinced the man was still half asleep. He barked, just to make sure he had the fellow’s attention, and the old boy nearly leapt out of his skin.

  ‘Bastard animal,’ he murmured, then turned to see his superior approaching. ‘Captain Orlyd, sir,’ he said, giving a stiff nod.

  ‘Barnes,’ the Captain acknowledged. ‘Ah, the dog. Yes, I believe that’s the same one. Commander Liryk says it’s to be given entry.’

  ‘Righto, sir. You’re sure it’s not dangerous?’

  ‘It’s a dog, Barnes. Haven’t you seen it playing around these very grounds with the young lad, Fynch?’

  ‘Er, once or twice, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll know it’s harmless. Move, man. Let’s see what the note is about.’

  When the gate was raised, Knave padded in and obediently sat in order that Fynch’s note could be taken from his neck. Fynch had taken the precaution of scrawling a ‘V’ on the outside, as he had seen on some of Valentyna’s personal items.

  ‘This is for the Queen,’ Orlyd said as he patted Knave’s large head. ‘Good fellow. You’d better come with me.’ He shook his head as Knave stood to follow him. ‘Smart too, eh?’

  Man and dog took the quickest route towards the royal apartments, where the Captain knew Liryk had been having a meeting with the Queen and the duke from Morgravia. Several high-ranked servants queried the presence of a dog in this part of the palace but as soon as they realised it was Knave, Orlyd was permitted to pass.

  He gave a message to a man acting as the Queen’s secretary and wondered again at how sorely missed old Chancellor Krell was. If Krell had been at his desk, Orlyd would probably have been taken directly into the Queen’s chamber. The former Chancellor had an uncanny knack of knowing when something was important enough to warrant such attention. Orlyd was sure this was one of those occasions.

  Liryk emerged with a quizzical expression. ‘I trust this is urgent, Captain?’

  ‘I believe it is, sir.’ He held out the note.

  ‘Shar strike me. It’s Knave,’ Liryk said as he took the note. He bent to greet the dog and at that moment Valentyna appeared at the doorway, looking for one of her servants. She squealed with delight at seeing Fynch’s dog and their reunion was filled with licks and joyful sounds.

  ‘Is that a note?’ the Queen asked, still grinning from Knave’s particular form of salutation.

  ‘It appears so, your highness,’ Liryk replied, handing it to her.

  ‘It will be from Fynch, of course. I’ve been dying to hear news of him. I presume he is nearby if Knave is with us,’ she said, unravelling the parchment from its leafy twine. It took only seconds for her to read it. ‘Shar save us!’

  Liryk, who was in the process of dismissing his Captain, turned back in alarm. ‘Your highness?’

  ‘It’s Elspyth. She’s in trouble.’

  ‘How does the boy know?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I’m glad Crys was lingering over his farewells. He wouldn’t have gone yet, would he?’

  ‘At the stables still, I imagine. Captain Orlyd, please prevent the Duke of Felrawthy from leaving until the Queen has spoken with him.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be straight behind you,’ Valentyna called after him. She looked towards Liryk. ‘She’s in Sharptyn. You know what this is, don’t you?’

  He nodded, his expression grim. ‘It ties up with a few other disappearances we can’t explain.’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘And now we have the location of where these scoundrels are holding the women. Come, Liryk, Knave. We’ll send the guard with Crys.’

  The old man broke his usual sense of protocol by grabbing the Queen’s arm. ‘I trust the duke is not to be put in charge of my men, your highness? We have been chasing clues regarding these disappearances for many months now.’

  Valentyna realised that in her excitement she had overlooked something important. She reminded herself to learn from it. Her impulsiveness could make her careless — her father had told her this many times, even though he was usually referring to her horse-riding. ‘No, Liryk,’ she said, covering his hand with her own. ‘You are in charge.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘I will send Crys because Elspyth is his friend and she trusts him. It will give him a reason to leave us too, whereas I think he has been feeling obliged to leave because his presence might cause us trouble.’ Liryk nodded. ‘It also means I send one less man of our own.’

  ‘Thank you, your highness.’

  Valentyna had not moved yet. ‘Commander Liryk, I cannot do all that is ahead without you. I hope you understand how much I rely on your counsel and support. I don’t see myself as an island.’

  It was an odd comment and yet a timely one for the old soldier, long in need of some assurance from his sovereign. He found a smile. It felt like his first in a long time.

  ‘I am obliged, your highness,’ he answered in a thick voice. ‘I sometimes feel us old fellows are no longer much use to you.’

  She frowned. ‘You have been part of my growing up, which makes you all the more important to me now. I hope you understand I will never do anything which is not solely in the interest of Briavel.’ Valentyna knew the statement referred to virtually everything that had happened since she had taken on the monarchy — from her relationship with Koreldy to trusting the Morgravians and dismissing Krell.

  ‘I don’t doubt you, your highness. But you are under more pressure than most royals would face in their first year of rule. Let us get this girl rescued before it’s too late.’

  ‘I know you don’t like her, Liryk,’ Valentyna added, determined — whilst they were talking so candidly — to take this opportunity to discuss Elspyth. It was time to exert her authority as the ultimate decision-maker for this realm. Until now it was as if she had been serving some sort of apprenticeship, with Krell and Liryk guiding her, smiling benignly at choices they considered wise or grimacing when she followed her instincts and went against what they thought was right. Elspyth came into the latter category.

  ‘It’s not personal, your majesty,’ Liryk began. He searched her face, as if the words he looked for were written across her forehead. She stared back at him intently, giving nothing away. ‘It’s just that Chancellor Krell and I felt she was a dangerous influence here.’

  ‘A dangerous influence on me, you mean?’

  He sighed. ‘We felt she was driving you to say and think things which might put the realm at risk.’

  ‘Never, sir. Never!’

  ‘I’m sorry, your majesty.’

  ‘You’re entitled to an opinion; indeed, I would be troubled if you didn’t have one.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘But I am also entitled to like whomever I choose without sanction from the people around me.’ Valentyna saw her words bite; she had meant them to do just that, having long ago tired of Krell’s and Liryk’s exasperated glances between each other. ‘Yes, we made our friendship quickly — women often can if they take to each other immediately — but Elspyth seems to know things we don’t. This marriage with Celimus is not as cut and dried as
you think. My instincts are screaming at me that it is wrong, that it is a bad decision for Briavel, and yet I can’t convince anyone of it. The nobles want the marriage so much they can taste it! The rest of Briavel wants it so they can get on with their lives in peace. I seem to be the only one who doesn’t want it and yet the Legion are breathing down our necks on the border, seemingly preparing to invade. I have no choice in this, Commander Liryk,’ she said, deliberately lowering her voice to just above a hard whisper. ‘I have to marry Celimus because there seems to be no other option, and yet people like Crys Donal, Elspyth and Ylena Thirsk — all Morgravians — truly believe it is the worst decision I could make.’

  Liryk clearly felt it was his turn to be forthright. ‘Your majesty, with all due respect, if you don’t continue with your preparations for the wedding, we will go beyond the point where a marriage can save any of us. The King of Morgravia is threatening war. It is a war we cannot win, your highness, not even if we whipped up a frenzy of patriotism. The sheer weight of his army will crush us, your majesty, and I would have to lead our boys into that fray knowing we would all be slaughtered.’ His voice wavered as emotion swelled through his words. ‘This is not King Magnus, your majesty. This is not a man of compassion. Celimus will brutally slay every Briavellian man and his son, and his son’s son, if necessary, if we choose to go to war against him. What we are seeing now is only the threat. He is making sure we understand that the only thing to prevent this war is you, your highness. You and the gift of marriage. If you love Briavel and you love its people —’