The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Myrren of Baelup came to mind and, inevitably, Wyl’s attempts to protect her from further suffering. The memory surfaced fresh and clear now. At the moment of the witch’s death Wyl’s eyes had changed colour, reflecting the exact strange hues of Myrren’s eyes. The very reason for her persecution was mirrored in Gueryn’s own beloved Wyl Thirsk. And he was not the only person who had seen it. The tiny gong boy, Fynch, had shared the experience. They had not both imagined the presence of some magic.

  Gueryn’s good mood evaporated as the sour thoughts overtook his mind. If he could accept that Wyl had somehow been touched by the magic of the witch, then surely it was possible that Lothryn could be so remarkably changed by sorcery, especially when wielded by one so deeply wicked and heartless as Rashlyn. But what about Wyl? How had Myrren’s magic affected him?

  He was still wrestling with the question, haunted by the memory of how Romen had tricked him into believing he was Wyl, when the key turned again in the lock. Gueryn was startled. He moved back into the shadows, away from the nub of candle and its light which was now permitted him as a small kindness.

  He instantly recognised the figure that appeared in the doorway and his stomach clenched in fear.

  ‘Le Gant,’ Rashlyn said, in his light, irritating voice. ‘You can’t hide from me in this dungeon.’

  ‘Have you come to share my ration of water, Rashlyn, or perhaps some conversation?’ Gueryn asked, forcing himself to fight back his fear.

  The small man laughed. ‘After tonight’s proceedings, I imagine conversation will be the furthest thing from your mind. Take him,’ he commanded to two men, who now pushed through the doorway. Gueryn recognised neither. His heart lurched with new terror.

  ‘There will be a reckoning with your King over this, Rashlyn,’ he warned in desperation, all bravado gone now. If he was to die at this man’s hand, who would back up Aremys’s claim?

  ‘But it was the King who gave me permission, le Gant. He agreed that I could use you for my own… um… interests, shall we say. Come now. I’m sure we’ll both find it interesting.’

  Gueryn did the only thing left to him. He struggled with the guards and bellowed his protestations as loudly as his lungs could manage, in the faint hope that someone might hear and bear testimony to his disappearance at the hands of the barshi.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FYNCH LAY STILL ENOUGH to be dead, curled on the floor of the small cave they had come to call home these past few days. Knave had worried throughout the first day at the boy’s weakness, but Fynch had grown stronger through long healing sleeps and the dog had to assume that this was the way of the magic. No doubt Elysius had done the same. He regretted they had not asked the manwitch for more information about the sickness.

  Kestrel had communicated that Elspyth was also healing through long rest periods after her surgery with Master Rilk. Knowing that Elspyth lived and would recover from her injuries had helped Fynch to let go of Wyl’s friend and become more focused on the trial ahead and his own health.

  Knave understood that the boy had no idea of what they were up against. Not even he could imagine it, to tell the truth, but he had heard the gravity in Elysius’s voice when speaking of his brother and had seen how much the manwitch had fretted at the thought of passing the magic to such a youngster and essentially presenting him to whatever Rashlyn might do to him. But all of that had paled in comparison to the arrival of the Dragon King. His presence alone had impressed upon Knave the dire task they faced. For the King of the Creatures to come to them from his abode high in the mountains of the Wild, where no man or possibly no other animal had ventured, made it clear that Fynch’s trial was more important than any of them could know.

  The dog was still to ask Fynch about his claim to be the King of the Creatures. They had shared few words since that moment when Fynch had answered Kestrel’s question so audaciously. But Knave was patient. Fynch’s survival and his health was all that mattered right now.

  The youngster stirred, his eyelids fluttering as consciousness arrived. Then his eyes opened and he regarded the dog. ‘You make me feel so safe, Knave,’ Fynch admitted.

  Knave only wished he could protect the boy from all that was coming towards them. But this was no time to scare him. They needed to be strong together. I’m never far, remember? the dog replied.

  Fynch sat up and stretched. ‘I feel better than I have in days.’

  You must eat, Knave said, unable to hide the elation in his voice.

  ‘You sound like my sister.’

  Well, perhaps it’s because we both love you.

  Fynch reached out to hug the dog. ‘I’ll eat for both of you then.’

  He was able to start a fire with the smallest trickle of magic and Knave quietly marvelled at how quickly his friend had accepted and embraced his new powers. Fynch himself did not talk about or even comment on the wondrous nature of the new skills he possessed. Knave understood that the lad treated this gift as he treated everything in his life — with serious care. The dog knew Fynch would never be playful with the magic or test its boundaries; he would no more send messages to animals unnecessarily than he would try out his own ability to fly or even become invisible… if he could. Fynch simply accepted his lot, as presumably he always had.

  The boy refused the rabbit which Knave had killed for him. ‘I can’t, it repulses me for some reason.’

  You don’t like rabbit?

  The boy frowned. ‘I don’t think I like meat any more. How strange. I’ll find some berries.’

  There were some cirron berries growing nearby and Fynch made a meal of them with a knuckle of bread.

  ‘I feel well enough to travel now,’ he said in between tiny mouthfuls.

  It is time we made a move, the dog agreed. He was about to say that they should travel as far as they could during the morning, and that Fynch should sleep in the afternoon before sending them ten leagues east or thereabouts, when Fynch cut across his thoughts.

  ‘I’m going to risk Rashlyn today.’

  This caught Knave off guard. What do you mean?

  ‘Well, I’m tired of all this patience. I’m tired of feeling sick and wearied by the magic. If it’s going to be this harmful to me, then let’s not waste more time. Let’s really use it.’

  What are you talking about, Fynch?

  ‘I’m talking about sending us all the way. I did it for you to Werryl, and I know I can do it now for the two of us. I can get us right to the door of the fortress if we feel that bold.’ Then he grinned shyly. ‘Perhaps I should send us somewhere a little safer.’

  No! Knave replied. Too risky, too dangerous for your health, too —

  ‘Hush, Knave. I know my limitations.’

  I’m not sure you do, Knave said, more testily than he had ever spoken to the boy.

  Fynch knew it was fear taking hold in the dog. ‘Trust me. I think I can blur the magic.’

  I do not understand. Exasperation gave way to weariness in the dog’s tone.

  Fynch shrugged. ‘Hard to explain, but whilst I was sleeping I think I dreamed an idea or perhaps…’ He hesitated.

  Perhaps what?

  ‘Perhaps the Dragon King spoke with me,’ he finished, embarrassed.

  Knave was surprised but he pressed on. And?

  ‘I believe I can try and muddy the magic going out, so to speak. Whether Rashlyn senses it or not, I might be able to confuse him sufficiently that he can’t lock onto us or what we are.’

  That’s a big gamble.

  ‘Yes, but time is not on our side. I’m getting bad feelings about things.’

  Things?

  The boy pulled a face. ‘Just a sense; again, hard to explain. I thought it was my fear for Elspyth but it’s more than that. It’s Wyl, it’s Valentyna. There’s something very bad happening in the Razors; something not right.’

  Unnatural, you mean?

  ‘That’s it. That’s exactly what I mean. There’s a taint of evil on the wind or in my mind. I can’t tell. But it’s
talking to me in my dreams.

  What do you see?

  ‘I can’t really see them, only sense them. Two men. Both in pain. One I believe I might know but can’t be sure… I mean, how could I?’

  And Rashlyn’s behind it?

  Fynch nodded glumly. ‘I think he’s the source of what’s bad. I could send a creature to find out more… perhaps Kestrel even. But it’s more time-wasting. We should go ourselves.’

  Perhaps that’s why the Dragon King spoke to you.

  ‘Yes, it’s what I believe. So will you trust me?’ Fynch said, picking up his small sack and pulling it around his body.

  Now?

  The boy grinned again, not so hesitantly this time. ‘I’ve already opened the bridge to the Thicket. It awaits us.’

  Knave suddenly felt the thrum of magic from the Thicket. He took a deep breath. I’m ready.

  Fynch put his arms around the dog and Knave sensed the pressure of the air thickening around them. He knew what came next and braced himself for it. The next thing they were rolling, but on this occasion Fynch had mastered his sending skills and had used a pillow of air to cushion their landing. Knave was on all fours in a blink and by the side of the little boy who was vomiting violently into the undergrowth.

  Take your time, he whispered helplessly, wondering what kind of toll the magic would take this time, so soon after Fynch’s last use of it.

  Fynch grasped for his sack and the sharvan leaves. He forced a handful into his mouth, which tasted sour from the recent meal he had lost.

  Knave could only feel guilt that he had agreed to this madness when he had just managed to get his charge to eat something. Sip lots of water, he advised. I’m going to scout around.

  Fynch said nothing, chewing intently to get the painkilling juices flowing down his aching throat. Using the magic might have been a good idea, but it was a bad one in terms of his health. He felt as though he could die.

  Knave saw that the boy’s eyes were bloodshot and, for the first time, a thin rivulet of blood ran from his nose. The dog felt uncharacteristically angry with everyone: himself, Elysius for passing on the magic, his King for entrusting this lovely child with such a huge task, even Fynch for accepting the challenge of sending them so far. He could not begin to count the cost this would take on the boy’s health. He stalked away, his mood as dark as the fur that covered his body, and blended into the cover of the foliage. When he returned, his companion lay on the ground; he looked dead. Alarmed and forgetting what he had hurried back to tell, the dog nuzzled the boy, his fear almost making him whine.

  ‘Knave?’ Fynch croaked, his complexion ghostly as he raised his head.

  I’m here, the dog replied, his relief evident. There are people coming and horses, quite a reasonable number of them, but we’re well hidden so we just need to remain still.

  ‘It’s Wyl,’ Fynch said groggily.

  The dog was confused. Wyl was in Briavel, with Valentyna. How do you know?

  ‘When I sent us, I tried something new.’ He coughed and blood splattered from his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his tone flat.

  No! I am, Knave said, his anger at last finding its way into his tone. This is not right, Fynch. You’re going to die if you don’t stop using this magic.

  Fynch looked at his friend with a sad expression. ‘I’m going to die soon anyway, Knave. Be at peace over this. I accepted my end gladly. I have met Roark and I have paid homage to the Dragon King, and I have been privileged to know you. I am prepared,’ he said gravely.

  The dog was lost for words, so Fynch continued, wiping his bloodied mouth on his sleeve. ‘I cast out as we travelled, trying to lock onto Rashlyn and using the magic of the Thicket to shield us. I found Wyl instead. I think the Thicket did this deliberately.’

  Why?

  ‘Probably because Wyl is not meant to be in the Razors. He should be in Briavel with Valentyna. It’s warning me. It knows Wyl and I are linked souls.’

  Did it tell you what to do?

  ‘No, unfortunately. That’s up to us, Knave. I think we should just follow at a distance and take stock of the situation. He’s surely not here by choice.’

  Are you up to following them?

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Fynch said.

  Knave had to look away, unable to bear the pain in the boy’s face. They’ll be a few minutes yet, he said. Just lie down until then.

  For once Fynch obeyed.

  Crys made a sound of exasperation. ‘It’s too soon.’

  ‘I don’t want to spend another second in this blood-soaked place,’ Elspyth said, grimacing as she pulled her cloak on.

  ‘Please, Elspyth. At least let me take you to Sharptyn.’

  ‘No, Crys. I want to leave the region. I nearly died here and I’m not talking about from my wounds. Before you arrived…’ Her voice quavered but she steadied it. ‘Before you brought the Briavellian Guard, which I still haven’t thanked you for.’

  He waved her embarrassment aside. ‘Master Rilk said —’

  ‘Master Rilk is a tailor!’ Elspyth cut across his words. ‘I’m grateful to him, grateful to you all, but I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Where will you go? Surely not into the Razors?’ he beseeched. His hurt expression added new injury to her aching heart.

  ‘No. I’m not fit enough for that. I shall go home first.’ She looked around her. ‘This place almost looks…’ she searched for the right word ‘…clean again.’

  Crys risked reaching forward and buttoning her cloak for her. ‘Liryk and his men have done a good job.’

  Elspyth smiled at his gesture but wished he would not show his affection for her quite so openly. ‘They have. When does the Guard move out?’

  ‘Today, I believe.’

  ‘Then my timing is perfect. And you? Where will you go?’ she asked. Where could he go that was not hostile?

  Pain fleeted across Crys’s open face but he wrestled his expression back under his control. ‘Not Briavel. I’m a hindrance there and Valentyna will be making preparations for her journey to Morgravia now.’

  ‘Poor soul. She intends to go through with it then?’

  ‘She has no choice. I don’t believe it can be avoided, Elspyth. And with Wyl taking himself off to die again at the hands of Celimus…’ He trailed off.

  ‘She could just say no,’ Elspyth blazed, then grimaced at the sour look her words won from her friend. ‘No, I know. That would mean war. Do you think the next time we meet Wyl, he’ll be the King of Morgravia?’

  Crys gave an involuntary bark of a laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, a helpless tone in his voice. ‘Wyl’s so stoic. Where did he find the courage to march into Celimus’s den, knowing he goes towards a horrible death?’

  Elspyth sighed. ‘I think we’re all capable of being heroic when it comes to those we love, Crys,’ she said sadly, and knew he understood by his equally sorrowful nod.

  ‘Well, a happy ending for Wyl and Valentyna perhaps?’ he tried brightly.

  ‘But not for us, eh?’ she responded in kind.

  ‘It could be if only you’d let it,’ he said then wished he had not. ‘I’m sorry, Elspyth.’

  She accepted his apology readily. ‘Come with me,’ she said, knowing how badly the Duke of Felrawthy needed the anchor of friendship, and she herself did not feel like hitching any more rides with strangers for a while.

  ‘Really?’ Crys said. He could hardly believe he had heard right.

  A smile lit Elspyth’s face. ‘Why not, but there are terms.’

  ‘Of course. No kissing or any attempt at seduction,’ he said, grinning. ‘No suggestion that Lothryn is a wasted cause or that you’re too small, too fragile, too womanish to save him.’

  She laughed openly now. ‘I like that you use your wit to hide your emotions, Crys,’ she said, meaning it with affection.

  ‘It’s all I have now. I feel so bruised and battered, I need to hide. Thank you for allowing me to accompany you. I won’t let you down, Elspyth.’ They both kne
w what he meant by that comment.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ she said. ‘Did Wyl have any ideas before he left?’

  ‘Well, yes, he did suggest I could stir up some trouble within the Legion.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Reinforce the name of Thirsk, remind the men that the Donals were true, insist that Celimus is a destroyer of realms.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘And a slayer of souls.’

  She touched his arm. It was all the solace she could offer right now. ‘Shall we go via Pearlis perhaps?’

  ‘Could you stand to? I mean, it’s not as direct as you probably want.’

  Elspyth paused to consider his question. ‘No, but I’m not really well enough to be any good to anyone, and a couple of extra days will not make much of a difference to my journey.’

  ‘Perfect. Can you ride?’

  ‘Let’s take Ericson’s cart. He’s not going to be needing it,’ she said, feeling ghoulish at her pragmatism. ‘You have a horse, don’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Then we’re set. Let’s go and do some damage to our King.’

  Crys felt the thrill of danger course through him. He loved this woman’s spirit. He wanted to kiss Elspyth, to tell her that his fondness for her was not diminishing and that it was unlikely he could keep all of his promises, but he would not break his word. He owed her that much.

  Rashlyn stepped back to admire the fruits of his toil. He was drenched in sweat; it beaded in his tangled beard and soaked the already soiled shirt he had worn for days. He chuckled. ‘Better, definitely better,’ he muttered, and swallowed a cup of the rejuvenating brew he had made before he began his ugly work.

  He knew from past experience that crafting this sort of magic was exhausting, but now he believed it actually drained the life from him. A measure of his essence had been used to create the spell — that was his sacrifice, the price he had to pay to get better at this manipulating magic. And better he had certainly become. The dog stood on all fours before him, trembling so badly Rashlyn was sure it would collapse soon. It snarled, despite its obvious suffering.