The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Kestrel’s thin voice entered their heads. Elspyth is safe. Quite badly injured from what I can tell, but alive and talking to some of the men who arrived.

  What are they doing? Fynch asked.

  Perhaps I can show you? Kestrel wondered.

  Yes, let’s try, the boy said, a new excitement cutting through his pain.

  Knave sighed. He felt sure Fynch would die before they even left this plateau.

  Fynch concentrated. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. That’s right, Kestrel. Open your mind completely to me. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just want to see through your eyes, if I may. There was a pause and suddenly a picture appeared in Knave’s mind.

  I see it, he admitted grudgingly to Fynch.

  An awning of sorts had been set up. Torches burned brightly around it and some men held candles as others bent over a prone figure. Kestrel must have perched himself on a low branch nearby; his sight was keen and they could clearly see all that they needed to.

  ‘They seem to be sewing her,’ the boy said. ‘There’s Commander Liryk. And… oh, wait, is that Master Rilk?’

  You’re right, Knave said. It’s the tailor.

  ‘He’s mending her,’ Fynch said in wonderment. They watched Rilk snip a thread then step away and arch his back. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Fynch said absently into his companions’ minds. I’m glad we were able to help. She’s going to be all right.

  Is that enough, Fynch? Kestrel asked.

  Enough, Knave answered, determined now that his charge would rest.

  Perhaps I’ll follow the pretty lady, the bird added. I’ve got nothing better to do.

  Thank you, Kestrel, Fynch replied weakly, his head pounding.

  We’ll speak again soon, the bird said and all connections closed.

  Knave bristled. I can feel the echoes of your pain, Fynch. You’ve got to stop using magic for a while.

  ‘We can’t,’ he moaned and retched helplessly into some bushes.

  We have no choice. You must recover your strength before we proceed. We’ll make camp here. I’m going to find you some food. You may not feel like eating but your body is mortal, Fynch. It needs nourishment.

  The boy did not reply. He had collapsed into a small, curled shape like a tiny animal and he slept.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  VALENTYNA LOOKED AT HERSELF in the mirror and glumly permitted a brief, silent admission that the dress was exquisite.

  ‘Oh, my Queen, you make the most glorious bride,’ Madam Eltor said. ‘The fit is perfect.’ She looked at the breathtaking woman before her and sighed. ‘A smile would help.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Margyt.’

  ‘I have to ask you to try on the veil now, my dear,’ the woman continued.

  Its cream gauze and seed pearls completed the beautiful vision.

  ‘Thank you, it’s lovely,’ was all the Queen could force out.

  ‘You know, Valentyna, perhaps it’s not my place to speak, but we would all like to think that you enter this union with some joy.’

  The Queen and the seamstress had known each other too long for lies. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot,’ Valentyna said. ‘I do this for Briavel, Margyt, because I know it brings us peace and, I hope, new prosperity but I cannot love him. There is no joy.’

  ‘Because of another?’ the woman risked.

  Valentyna shook her head gently. ‘No. Simply because I don’t love him. We can’t help our feelings, can we?’

  ‘No, child. This is true. My husband and I could never claim to have loved one another as I know other couples do.’

  ‘But you have a good partnership,’ Valentyna said.

  ‘More than that, to be honest. We are the closest of friends. But yes, a great partnership too — as you will enjoy with King Celimus. You will make it so. You will give us heirs and make us proud.’

  A smile ghosted across Valentyna’s mouth. ‘That is my fervent wish.’

  Margyt Eltor patted her Queen’s hand. ‘Let me snip those threads now and release you.’

  ‘Are all the preparations in hand?’

  ‘Yes, your majesty,’ Madam Eltor said, back to her formal role. ‘I shall be taking two dressers and a couple of other girls for errands and any other needs we might have. The various gowns we spoke of are also ready.’

  ‘And the new riding clothes?’

  ‘Completed. You didn’t want new boots too, did you?’ the seamstress asked, frowning, her mind already racing towards how quickly the cobbler might work.

  ‘No, I like my comfy old ones,’ Valentyna replied.

  ‘As I understand it from our earlier discussion, your highness, we depart for Morgravia in ten days?’

  ‘Yes. The wedding was supposed to be at the close of spring but I see no point in holding off and will send a message today to King Celimus. It should please him. I’ll have one of my assistants confirm everything with you shortly. We’ll take it slowly with a view to four days’ journeying. I can visit some of the towns and villages along the way to pay my respects to our people.’

  ‘I imagine the party will be quite large,’ Margyt commented as she sliced through the threads that had effectively stitched the Queen into her wedding gown.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Valentyna said, not really caring. ‘Perhaps Commander Liryk will split it into smaller groups and send them by different routes.’

  ‘Yes, that would be sensible,’ the seamstress agreed. Then: ‘Are you giving the King a ring, your highness?’

  The Queen nodded. ‘Studded with jewels in the colours of Briavel.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Margyt said, as she helped her sovereign to lift the gown over her head.

  ‘Why are you alone this time?’ Valentyna’s voice was muffled from beneath the garment.

  ‘Because I don’t want my girls twittering that our Queen goes to her marriage as if to a funeral,’ Madam Eltor admonished. ‘I sensed from our last fitting that you were not getting any pleasure from the preparations. I thought privacy was best, your highness.’

  ‘Thank you again, Margyt. Your sensitivity always makes you my favourite,’ Valentyna said, finding a playful tone.

  The seamstress responded, glad of it. ‘Oh? I hear Master Rilk gets plenty of your business, your highness,’ she said archly.

  ‘He wanted the wedding gown,’ Valentyna replied, pulling on her clothes.

  ‘The cheek of the man!’

  The Queen laughed. Madam Eltor and Master Rilk had been married for as long as she could remember. And between them they crafted everything Valentyna wore.

  ‘I will take my leave, your highness. There’s still plenty for me and my girls to do.’

  ‘You’re a treasure. I promise to be smiling next time we see each other.’

  ‘Make sure of it, child. You will be preparing to take holy vows in the grand Pearlis Cathedral next time I stitch you into this gown.’

  Madam Eltor’s words remained with Valentyna long after she had departed, reminding the Queen that there was no way off the path she was now on. Her meeting with the nobles had gone badly. Having called them together to broach, once again, the subject of the marriage being a sham, Valentyna had been met with cheers and rounds of congratulations that the Legion had begun to withdraw from the border. Word had begun to filter down from the north as troops dropped away.

  She had listened to the deep voice of Lord Vaughan, quietly praising her actions in returning Ylena Thirsk to King Celimus, and when Valentyna had displayed astonishment that he could know such a thing, Lord Vaughan had simply nodded and admitted that there were spies everywhere.

  ‘Watching me, do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Observing all that happens in the capital, your majesty,’ he had corrected with his habitual sombre expression.

  The nobles were a network of their own, she realised for the first time, and there were few secrets, if any, she could protect. It was a useless exercise gathering them like this and hoping for their support. Now she knew for sure that they were counting the days to
the marriage ceremony, many intending to take their families to bear witness to the event in Pearlis. Ylena Thirsk’s arrival had made not a scrap of difference; in fact, they were delighted she had been returned to Morgravia, back into the clutches of its hateful King.

  Valentyna had not even bothered to air her carefully planned speech. Instead, she smiled as required, accepted their praise and hid her despair behind the mask she knew she would now wear permanently at either court.

  Nothing and no one was going to save her from Celimus. She wasted no further time in sitting down at her desk and crafting, with her own hand, a message to her groom to set a final date for their wedding ceremony.

  Wyl recognised Myrt and several of the Mountain warriors, all of whom treated the stranger, Ylena, courteously. He was not sure what to think of this new situation. It felt dangerous — all his senses told him so — but at the same time it was reassuring to be back with Aremys.

  Someone handed him a bowl of broth. ‘My lady.’ It was Myrt, Wyl realised, when he lifted Ylena’s chin to glance at the owner of the soft voice. ‘The King tells us you have been treated inhospitably in Morgravia.’

  ‘He speaks true,’ Wyl admitted.

  ‘I’m sorry there is still a long journey ahead but he hopes you will eat something before we leave.’

  ‘We leave tonight?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. We wish to be deep into the Razors by midnight.’

  ‘So you travel comfortably in the dark?’ Wyl wondered.

  ‘We need no light but the moon,’ Myrt said, with a polite nod, then left.

  The broth was surprisingly good. Hearty and rich with the flavour of meat. Wyl finished the bowl, glad for the warming nourishment. Aremys entered the cave holding a candle. He looked distracted and hesitant; Wyl figured it could not be easy for the mercenary to find time alone with the Mountain King’s new captive.

  ‘We’re breaking camp now, leaving immediately. How are you?’

  ‘Fed,’ Wyl said. ‘Myrt brought me food.’

  ‘Does he know you recognise him?’ Aremys asked, alarmed.

  ‘No, I’ve been careful about it.’

  ‘Good. He’s sharp.’

  ‘How much aren’t you telling me about this turn of events?’

  ‘There is more, but first let me tell you the story I’ve given to the King about you and I.’ Wyl nodded and Aremys briefed him. Someone called into the cave that the King was preparing to leave in a few minutes. Aremys asked the man if scouts had checked that Celimus had sent no tracking party. The man confirmed that they had and there were no spies trailing them.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me the rest?’ Wyl asked. ‘We don’t seem to have much time.’

  Aremys scratched his head. It was best to give it to Wyl straight, he decided. ‘Cailech’s taken a fancy to you.’

  ‘Oh, Shar save me!’ Wyl groaned. This was alarming news. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you,’ he said, and it was no question.

  ‘It gets worse,’ the big man continued.

  ‘How can it?’ Wyl asked, letting Ylena’s head drop between her knees.

  ‘During your absence from the hall, Cailech declared to Celimus that he would make you his wife.’ Wyl looked up sharply. His horror was reflected in the Grenadyne’s despondent expression. ‘It took everyone by surprise. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘I understand, Aremys,’ Wyl admitted, bile rising. ‘You were helpless back there. But we’re not helpless now,’ he declared, standing to Ylena’s full height which barely reached halfway up the mercenary’s chest.

  ‘Please, Wyl,’ Aremys said, checking they were not being listened to. ‘Go along with this for the time being.’

  ‘Go deeper into the Razors, back to that fortress?’ Wyl hissed. ‘Are you mad? I’ve escaped it once. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again.’

  There was nothing for it but to tell Wyl all that he knew. ‘I’ve found Gueryn,’ Aremys said firmly, knowing it would stop Wyl’s tirade.

  It did. Ylena grabbed his shirtfront angrily. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  Aremys nodded. ‘We spoke briefly. I said I’d come back for him. He’s in the dungeon and, considering his situation, looks quite good for it, but now that Cailech knows Romen Koreldy is dead I fear for his life. And then there’s Rashlyn, the most unpredictable factor in all of this. Apparently he’s used magic on Gueryn a few times now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Too long in the telling now. Suffice to say it’s been used for good in healing the arrow wound, but for bad too and it’s rattled your old mentor.’

  Wyl paced, pulling at his ear, thoughts racing as to what would be the best course of action. He did not want to go with Cailech — the Mountain King’s intentions for him were just too revolting to contemplate. But Gueryn’s needs called strongly. He could not desert his dearest, oldest friend, not after the sad way they had parted.

  Aremys sensed Wyl needed a final push and gave it. ‘I’ve also found Lothryn.’

  Ylena’s eyes blazed in the soft light. ‘He’s alive? I knew it!’

  ‘But not how you remember him, Wyl,’ Aremys cautioned.

  ‘How so?’ Wyl asked. His frightening dream at Felrawthy, of the man’s voice screaming at him from behind a barn door, returned to haunt him.

  Before Aremys could reply, Cailech appeared at the mouth of the cave. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it would matter if you were,’ Wyl replied, flustered by his friend’s various revelations and the discomfort of seeing his captor — his husband-to-be — smiling so disarmingly at him.

  ‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t,’ Cailech admitted, his smile broadening. ‘I hope my men have treated you deferentially, my lady?’

  ‘Thank you, sire,’ Wyl replied, remembering Ylena’s manners. He glared towards Aremys though.

  Cailech did not miss the glance between them. ‘Ah, I suppose Aremys has explained why you’re here.’

  ‘He has, King Cailech.’ Wyl was at a loss for what else to say. He understood his friend’s reasons for wanting him to return to the fortress, but this was a perilous situation for him now.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, my lady. In the south you know us as barbarians but we may surprise you.’

  ‘Romen Koreldy spoke highly of you, my lord. He told me much about the ways of the Mountain People and I have an appreciation for your sophistication,’ Wyl said, believing it best to flag now that he knew something of the culture. Any misjudgements he made in seeming too familiar with the Razor Kingdom, he might now be able to hide behind Romen’s teachings.

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘He liked you,’ Wyl offered.

  ‘I hope you will too, Ylena. Come now, we must journey.’

  There was nothing for Wyl to do but follow the King’s guiding hand. ‘You will ride with me, my lady,’ Cailech added, and it was fortunate indeed that neither the King nor Aremys saw the look of despair that swept across Ylena Thirsk’s face at this news.

  Wyl gritted his teeth and allowed strong hands to help him up onto the saddle, but much worse was the sensation of the King climbing up behind him. Cailech’s arms passed around Ylena’s tiny waist and took the reins from her.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said graciously.

  Wyl grimaced towards Aremys who looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘Comfortable, Ylena?’ the King enquired.

  ‘May I not ride a horse of my own, sire?’ he risked.

  He sensed the King’s wry grin behind him. ‘It is good for my men to see me take ownership of you, my lady. It is critical they understand how highly I regard you. Life in Morgravia is no longer possible, Ylena, you surely agree?’

  ‘I do, my lord,’ came the grudging reply.

  ‘And it seems your life is now worthless in Briavel too, where a Queen must bow to the whims of her powerful neighbour and soon-to-be husband. So the only realm where your life can be protected — and, might I add, revered, my lady �
� is the Razor Kingdom. My men are surprised by your presence, I’ll not lie,’ Cailech said, his mouth so close to Ylena’s ear, Wyl felt sickened. ‘But in seeing us together like this, they will now offer you the highest respect, my lady, as befitting a noblewoman and my future wife.’

  Gueryn was still smiling from the thrill of riding Galapek. Not even the sound of the door hammering closed on his tomb again — as he had come to think of it — or the sound of the key turning in the lock could tarnish the day’s experience.

  He, Jos and Rollo had taken the horses around the lake and beyond for several hours, returning late in the afternoon. Gueryn had felt exhilarated. It was true he had not had a chance to confirm his suspicions about Galapek, but the joy of being in the open and on a horse again was exquisite. He had wept towards the close of the ride, when they neared the stables again, embarrassing himself.

  Jos had given him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you are our prisoner, Gueryn,’ the young man had offered.

  ‘I too am sorry,’ Gueryn had replied, ‘but thank you for this wonderful escape, however brief it has been.’

  ‘What do you think of our fine stallion?’ Maegryn had asked on their return.

  ‘That I wish he was mine,’ Gueryn had answered truthfully.

  The stablemaster had laughed. ‘Everyone does. But he belongs to our King.’

  ‘Can I rub him down?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Maegryn said, but sadly for Gueryn, who had hoped to be left alone with the horse, the head of the stables had remained.

  Despite Maegryn’s presence Gueryn had managed to whisper once to the horse, begging the animal to give him a sign that he was Lothryn but nothing had occurred. And yet he could not doubt the sincerity of the stranger, Aremys. As the incredible words had tumbled from the big man’s mouth, horror lacing each one, Gueryn had nevertheless believed. His brief but terrible experiences with Rashlyn confirmed that the mercenary had hit on the truth.

  Being Morgravian, Gueryn had always been scornful of magic; frightened of it too. Along with most Morgravians, he had accepted the persecution that not so long ago had been visited on anyone perceived as a witch or warlock. But now, after hearing Aremys’s story and feeling the effects of Rashlyn’s power for himself, Gueryn was forced to accept that magic was at the heart of the mystery surrounding the horse Galapek, and indeed Wyl himself.