The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Valentyna stepped back, aghast that he could think otherwise. Liryk continued, ignoring her shock. ‘If you love Briavel and its people,’ he repeated, more gently this time, ‘you will hurry up and marry the King of Morgravia.’

  He bowed, not reacting to the telltale glisten in the Queen’s eyes. ‘I shall prepare to leave for Sharptyn, your highness, and I shall bring back the woman of Yentro for you. I give you my word that I will achieve this for you or die trying.’

  Valentyna said nothing. She watched Liryk’s broad back go down the corridor and she felt hollow.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ELSPYTH WATCHED THROUGH her tears as the body of the woman who had been wailing earlier gushed its lifeblood steadily into the sawdust. Her killer, an older woman, stood bowed above, no doubt in shock and bleeding from several wounds. The victor had struck a lucky blow at the top of the wailing woman’s thigh which had hit a major artery in her groin. Death had followed not long afterwards. The men did not even give the woman the grace of a peaceful death; instead they cheered hysterically whilst the winners gleefully collected on their bets. The women in the pen watched in silent horror as another soul was collected by Shar’s Gatherers. Most did not even know her name. As Alda had cautioned Elspyth, there was no point in getting to know each other because it made the killing harder. The corpse was dragged away by the hair and would be burned later with the rest of the dead, their bodies piled up from the evening’s entertainment. The victor, still staring at nothing with glazed eyes, was led roughly out of the arena.

  ‘It’s her first kill,’ a voice said close by.

  Elspyth had no idea that Alda had sidled up beside her during the fight. ‘And the dead woman?’

  ‘She was on her third fight. If she’d won tonight, she’d be on her way to the boat. Stupid fool — she could have easily won too. Still, one less for me to kill.’

  Elspyth looked up at the taller woman. She felt sorrow that a mother had become so hardened. And yet it was because of her child that this woman planned to win at all costs. It did not matter: Elspyth already hated Alda. ‘Get away from me.’

  The Briavellian made a sound of disgust. ‘I hope you’re next!’ she said, nodding her head towards the man approaching. ‘Time you found out what it’s like out there.’

  Elspyth ignored her, her gaze fixed on the obese fellow waddling towards them with his hated parchment of names. She had given a false one but it would not change anything.

  ‘Next up, ladies, is Olivya,’ he said in a jovial voice, but they were all too fearful to pay much attention to his manner. ‘Where is Olivya?’

  No one moved. Terrified gazes met more resolute ones — those succumbing to a sense of fate.

  ‘Come on, now. Small, pretty, dark. Ah, there you are, my dear. Cast off that sheet now,’ he said to Elspyth. ‘It’s your turn.’

  Elspyth had forgotten she had called herself Olivya. Her legs felt too weak even to hold her body up, let alone carry her across the pen and into the arena. She began to weep. Elspyth did not want to have to kill someone, but that was her only choice if she was ever to escape and find Lothryn.

  ‘Come on, lass. Haven’t got all night,’ the man urged, scowling now.

  Alda pushed Elspyth forward viciously. ‘Who’s she fighting?’

  ‘Ginny. Where are you, Ginny?’

  ‘Let me fight her instead.’

  ‘You’re not down to fight tonight, Alda,’ the fat man replied. ‘We’re going to make you lose some sleep over your third.’ He smiled without kindness, sweat running down his oily face.

  ‘I’ll make it a real spectacle,’ Alda said desperately.

  Elspyth felt her breath had been trapped inside her. What was Alda thinking? She could see the blood lust in her face. She knew the Briavellian would enjoy killing her — perhaps because she was Morgravian, or perhaps because she was pretty and Alda was anything but. More likely, she reasoned through her terror, it was simply that Elspyth looked like she would be easy to beat. Perhaps Alda sensed a straightforward kill and a short cut to the boat and away from this place.

  The notion of being considered a pushover dragged Elspyth from her stupor. She sucked in air with a huge angry gasp and suddenly the noise, the smell, the woman’s blood still wet and gleaming on the floor, and now, the fat man and Alda bargaining over her death, galvanised her. Elspyth felt the fear leave her in a tingling, angry rush. It pushed upwards through her throat and exploded in a cry of fury, and something she had never felt before oozed from every fibre of her being. It was rage. It did not burn within like a fire. Instead it bubbled through her as a white-cold flame, torching her thoughts, sparking her emotions, scorching her with its devouring wrath. Fear, which had left a puddle of urine around her feet only minutes earlier when she had seen a woman die, fled.

  Elspyth was consumed with hatred and a blood lust of her own. She stepped away from her own mess, cast aside the flimsy linen and addressed the fat man in a voice that was animalistic and predatory. ‘Let me fight Alda!’

  The fat man looked at her. This was new. Normally the women fought each other under protest, all but helping each other into the ring, apologising for having to hurt one another, then weeping over each death. But these two women were eager to kill one another; with those sort of emotions, the spectacle was sure to be especially entertaining for the men.

  His thick tongue flicked out to wet his rubbery lips as he considered this option. ‘My, my,’ he said, unpleasant smells wafting towards Elspyth as he moved closer to her. ‘You must be confident.’

  ‘Just announce it,’ she answered, eager to get the fight done. If she was going to die, she’d rather do so now than spend further hours agonising over others.

  Alda clapped her hands with pleasure. The Morgravian had admitted she did not know how to fight. It was going to be easy.

  ‘All right then,’ the fat man replied. ‘Don’t say I never give you girls what you want,’ he added with an obscene chuckle. ‘Off with your linen then, Alda. Both of you oil up. I’ll make the announcement.’

  Wyl walked between the two men, his arms held in front and tied at the wrist. He did not feel scared. This was the death he wanted; he just wished he could somehow spare Ylena’s body being mistreated in the process. He spent the time during the frigidly silent walk towards the main hall contemplating what would be the kindest death for Ylena and decided a blade into her heart was preferable — just as Faryl had killed Koreldy. That way, when her body was cleaned, covered and laid out in Argorn, as he fully intended it to be, no one would see the ugly wound that had felled her. She could remain beautiful for eternity in their minds.

  But it nagged at Wyl that Celimus was unlikely to have in mind something so straightforward as a knife being plunged into her body. He would draw this out as if it were a game; in the same way that he had taunted Wyl — forcing him to witness Alyd’s death and Ylena’s suffering — he would now mock Wyl’s sister in front of his honoured guests. Except Ylena was not who he thought. This Ylena walked to her death with a light heart.

  ‘Are you all right, my lady?’ Harken whispered.

  ‘I am fine. Remember all I have told you. If you think well of the Thirsk family, then be assured they would have sworn their allegiance to Valentyna the moment she became Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel. Do the same, for all of us.’

  Wyl sensed Harken’s fear but also his pride at being singled out. ‘I will do it for you, my lady.’

  ‘Then I am glad to have met you.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ the older soldier warned. ‘We’re here now.’

  Dusk had fallen so quietly Wyl had not noticed. The north seemed to have an ability to drape itself with evening’s calm without the usual cacophony of noisy birds telling the world around them it was time to roost. But there was still sufficient light that he had no doubt of the identity of the man waiting at the grand doorway of Tenterdyn to welcome him towards death.

  ‘Good evening, Ylena,’ Jessom said, all politeness. Wyl di
d not reply, simply stared at him. ‘As you will,’ the Chancellor replied, not at all offended.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Wyl forced out of Ylena’s lips. It was meant only for the young soldier and he qualified this with a brief glance towards him. He was careful not to name Harken. Jessom was far too sharp to let the soldier leave if he thought any sort of alliance — no matter how tenuous — had been formed.

  ‘We’ll take her from here,’ Jessom said to Ylena’s escort. Two burly guards stepped out from behind the Chancellor and took position either side of Ylena. ‘Follow me.’

  Wyl was led past familiar rooms towards a part of Tenterdyn he had not seen on his former visit. He heard the murmur of voices and small explosions of laughter, which got louder as they approached a wing which he remembered had been shut off by doors. They were wide open now, the corridor lit by torches and guarded by yet more soldiers. Two kings were present; it was little wonder that the level of security was so high.

  ‘Wait here,’ Jessom commanded, touching Ylena’s arm. Wyl shook off his hand and the man’s thin smile arrived. ‘I must let the King know his lamb has arrived.’

  There was no mistaking his meaning. If Ylena’s mouth had not been so dry with tension, Wyl might have tried spitting again at the Chancellor, for the amusement of soiling his robes if nothing else.

  Jessom disappeared around a corner. The sounds of men eating and entertaining themselves filled the frigid silence between Wyl and his guards. The aroma of food wafted towards them and one man’s belly acknowledged it with a growl. Wyl turned towards the sound and met the culprit’s grumpy expression.

  ‘Do you know that I am brought here to be killed for sport in front of your King?’

  The guard shrugged, although Wyl sensed there was embarrassment hidden behind it.

  ‘We just follow orders, my lady.’ It was the man on his other side who answered.

  Wyl looked at him. ‘And as a Legionnaire you are comfortable with the notion of slaughtering an innocent woman — a noble no less — from a fine family who has given its life to the Legion? You are old enough to have known my father.’

  The man did not respond but his eyes betrayed him. There was pity in them.

  Jessom rescued him. ‘Come, Ylena Thirsk. Your King awaits you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the guard whispered but Wyl ignored him, striding towards Jessom and determined that Ylena would be seen to die with courage by these men who claimed loyalty to her line yet who had betrayed her.

  Elspyth stood at the fringe of the rough circle mapped out by string tied to small stakes in the earth. She was naked but no longer cared, ignoring the sounds of appreciation from men enjoying the sight of a lovely body. All that mattered right now was the person on the opposite side of the ring, also naked, also breathing hard, and no doubt hoping that her cold stare would be enough to intimidate her opponent into submission without a blow being struck.

  Fat Man was stirring up the excited crowd but Elspyth ignored him too. She knew where Ericson was sitting and briefly entertained the idea of flinging her knife, Koreldy-style, at his bulk. She had a vision of him flailing in shock as the blade hit him squarely in the throat. But in her heart she knew she could never throw true. The blade would probably make it only half the distance and then clatter pathetically on the ground to wild applause, leaving her ready to be slaughtered by Alda. A bell sounded and dragged her back to the insanity before her. She knew her knuckles were white as she clutched the single small blade which stood between her and death.

  She heard Fat Man remind her that this fight was to the death, then his explanation that Alda was fighting for her third win and her right to be given over to slavery. The men cheered, no doubt imagining profit from her sale as well as her win. Elspyth forced herself to withdraw completely into her mind. She recalled the long night journey to Deakyn with Wyl — he walked as Koreldy then — and how he had told her that a warrior preparing for battle must draw every ounce of his conscious self into a closed section of his mind that no one could penetrate. She had smiled a little indulgently at his description then; now she understood completely what he had meant by those words. She was not sure whether she was doing it properly but the fear, although still there, was no longer impacting on her. Fury had iced it over and a numbness had taken hold. She felt nothing but frozen wrath for the woman standing before her.

  The bell sounded again and Alda began moving, circling. This is it, Elspyth thought. Kill or be killed.

  ‘To you, Lothryn, my love,’ she murmured, remembering how he had given his own life in order to save others. She suddenly felt sure that Lothryn’s feelings at that moment of decision — the knowledge of certain death, the grief of losing his new son, and sorrow that their love had not been spoken between them — were identical to her own. It was a tearing free of all ties, a casting loose of all fears in the pursuit of one thing: kill or be killed.

  Alda lunged and Elspyth’s mind went blank.

  Wyl stepped into a large chamber that was warmed by a fire at either end. A few men milled around with goblets in their hands. He recognised none of them, which meant there was no one who might object to a Thirsk being treated in this way. His boots crunched on the floor and he realised he was walking over the remains of Aleda’s fine cranberry-coloured glassware. To him the broken glass represented the state of this once powerful and utterly loyal family of the north: shattered, forgotten.

  And then he laid eyes on the man responsible for it all. Celimus, brimming with self-importance, sat at the head of Jeryb’s oak table, goblet in hand, making some toast, his cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the general joviality. Around him was the remnants of his feasting. To his right sat Cailech; the Mountain King looked less comfortable and there was less debris about him, as though he had been more cautious in his enjoyment of the repast. Wyl knew the man well enough to recognise that the smile fixed on his face was fake. Cailech raised his glass in answer to whatever Celimus had said but did not drink; meanwhile his penetrating gaze soaked up all around him as effectively as a sponge. He was bare-armed; the muscles sculpted and tensed, as if he was ready to leap to his feet and charge, like an animal disturbed. No, Cailech was not happy here but he was pretending well enough. Next to him sat Aremys, unsmiling and rigid, no sign of wine or even food about him.

  Wyl saw how the three men showed different reactions to Ylena’s arrival. Celimus looked savagely delighted, his eyes darkening with pleasure at what he knew was coming. Cailech, however, looked taken aback. His roving gaze settled intently on Ylena and the contrived smile faded. Her beauty had taken him by surprise, Wyl realised. Poor Aremys looked like a chained dog; one that knew it was about to take a hiding. He paled, his already unhappy expression settling into a blank mask, as if he were steeling himself. He could hardly make eye contact with Wyl, such was his despair.

  The room quietened as people noticed their presence but Jessom allowed the hush to settle fully before he spoke. ‘Gentlemen, may I present Lady Ylena Thirsk, daughter of the late General Fergys Thirsk and sister to the much loved General Wyl Thirsk, may Shar bless their souls.’

  Some repeated the last few words and Wyl enjoyed seeing the Morgravian King’s mouth tighten. The smile turned acid and Wyl knew he would pay for the loyalty to his family with blood.

  ‘Ylena Thirsk, how enchanting to have you back amongst your fellow Morgravians,’ Celimus said, flashing a bright smile towards his honoured guest. ‘Come, Cailech, you must meet the woman who escaped my punishment through the aid of a mercenary by the name of Koreldy.’

  Cailech turned a cold green gaze to his fellow King. ‘Koreldy?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I will flay the skin from his bones when I find him again.’

  Celimus, fired by the excellent wine from Jeryb’s cellars and feeling very pleased with himself at being about to do away with the final member of the hated Thirsk dynasty, which had so clouded his own existence, threw back his head and laughed with delight.
‘Then I have done you a service, my friend. Koreldy is dead.’

  The Mountain King’s face was set in stone, his eyes unreadable.

  ‘Well, actually,’ Celimus continued, noticing the reaction and enjoying it, ‘I think we have my bride-to-be to thank for his death.’

  ‘How so?’ Cailech asked, unable to say much more it seemed.

  Celimus drained his goblet of wine and slammed it down. Droplets of red launched from his mouth like blood as he shook his head. It was fitting, Wyl thought, for blood would flow tonight. ‘Koreldy fled to the safety of Briavel, pretending to be a champion to my Queen.’ Celimus made a gesture of nonchalance. ‘She was unaware of his identity, of course, until I revealed it to her.’

  ‘Why don’t you admit it was the only way you could escape death from Koreldy’s sword, you snivelling coward,’ Wyl shouted.

  Exclamations rang out in the hall and Celimus’s eyes shone with hatred. He walked towards Ylena until he towered above her. ‘The Thirsk bitch lies. She wasn’t there so how could she know? Where were you, Ylena? At Rittylworth, wasn’t it? Cringing in the cellar of a monastery before you fled to Felrawthy. It is fitting that your journey ends here. No one can save you now.’ He sounded as cruel as Wyl could ever remember.

  ‘Nor do I want them to, you son of a whore. Thank goodness your father killed your mother. The only pity is that he did not do it before she birthed you —’

  He got no further with his insult. The punch to Ylena’s face was expertly levelled and the room went dark for Wyl. Everyone else stood in shocked silence. Jessom was the first to gather his wits and nodded towards one of the guards to pick up the woman sprawled across the flagstones, her head bleeding from where she had gashed it on the table.

  Cailech glanced towards Aremys and saw his stricken expression. He didn’t know what was going on here but he didn’t like it one bit. There was clearly a connection between Aremys and the woman, yet, more than that, it seemed to him that this whole charade was for his benefit. But if Celimus thought his neighbour would get pleasure from watching a noblewoman humiliated and injured in this fashion, he had entirely misjudged. Cailech was the first to admit that he was no soft-hearted monarch; he had not flinched at having the Morgravian woman staked out for roasting, or killing her later to trick Gueryn, but she was a prisoner of battle. She had been caught infiltrating the Razors and Cailech firmly believed in the old saying, ‘A tooth for a tooth’. Celimus had killed too many Mountain people for Cailech not to make an example of the captured prisoners. But this Thirsk woman struck him as a pawn in whatever game was being played out between Celimus and the Thirsk family. And Cailech wanted no part of it. He raised an eyebrow in silent question to Aremys, who glared back at him as if to say ‘Do something’.