The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  I do. He risks much — the King got angry but it didn’t go any further.

  ‘We’ve got to see him, Knave,’ Fynch bleated, feeling helpless.

  You don’t seem so well. Knave deliberately kept his voice toneless.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Fynch replied, lying. It did not fool Knave.

  Stand up then. Let’s be on our way. The dog loped off.

  Fynch tried and failed. Tried again. Knave reappeared, looming over him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the boy whispered.

  The dog hardly heard the apology, his mind searching for the best course of action. You can’t stay here, Fynch. It’s too open. The warrior scouts could pick you up.

  ‘I can drag myself to somewhere perhaps?’ the boy offered, feeling ashamed that he had let Knave down.

  Use what strength you have and climb onto me.

  It was obvious that Fynch understood the depth of his sickness or Knave knew he would have objected. Instead the boy used his reserves of will and somehow got himself draped across the large animal’s back.

  I’m sorry, Knave.

  Don’t send! Save yourself. Now let me get you somewhere safe and dry.

  Knave moved silently and slowly, picking his way, careful not to dislodge the child lying across him. He hardly felt the weight. The boy fell asleep and the dog was relieved. At least with sleep there was no pain. A new thought came to him, so strong that he stopped walking. The Thicket! It could send them both to a safe spot, surely? It had done so before when they were travelling. He called to the magical place; disappointment knifed through him when it replied and he learned that he was no longer connected to it in the same way. He could feel its magic but only through Fynch’s link. The Thicket had turned its focus to the boy. Knave was considered part of Fynch now and no longer had the powers of the Thicket at call. He wished he could tell it that Fynch was dying, but then he grasped that the Thicket probably knew and had made its own decision.

  He pressed on towards a ridge and sent a plea to whoever might be listening that there would be some protection here from the elements, and that it would not be the final resting place of Fynch the gong boy.

  Kestrel had tried to reach Fynch but could not raise a response. He had followed the pretty woman and her companion as far as the outskirts of the big southern city known as Pearlis. It was obvious they were headed into its centre and that was where he would lose them, he figured, and wanted to let Fynch know. He sighed as he watched the two people blend into the constant flow of people either making for or leaving the main city gates; time for him to leave. Kestrel dipped his wing to the right and made a new course. It was warmer here and he would not have minded a few days of hunting with the sun warming his outstretched wings. Spring was already turning its face to welcome summer in the south, but north was where Kestrel was headed — to cooler climes and an intriguing young lad who compelled Kestrel to obey him and dared to call himself King of the Creatures.

  Elspyth had no idea that a bird of prey had just bade her a silent farewell. She was not feeling at all well and, for all her bravado, thanked Shar’s blessing that he had seen fit to send her an angel in the disguise of Crys Donal. To tell the truth, without Crys she wondered how she would even have left Briavel. Sheer will was one thing but having the physical strength to carry out one’s will was a different matter entirely. Her injuries reminded her constantly of her ordeal and the pain sapped her energy. She would never have made it into Morgravia if she had carried out her threat to head off alone. Yentro seemed wishful thinking, and the Razors and Lothryn a plain impossibility now.

  Self-pity was corrosive and pointless. She pushed away the melancholy that threatened to overwhelm her and permitted Crys to use his body to shield her against the sudden crush of people. They had travelled in the cart until they neared the city and then left it at the roadside for some fortunate finder. Crys’s horse carried them both from there, but progress was slow because of the stream of people flocking into and out of Pearlis. Still, it was not nearly as crowded as Elspyth’s last journey into the city, when she arrived with her aged aunt for the tournament. That felt like a lifetime ago and yet she would have fingers to spare if she counted back in moons. Was it really such a short period since she had first clapped eyes on Romen Koreldy in Yentro, before she had learned that he was no longer the dashing mercenary but General Wyl Thirsk of Morgravia?

  She thought about Wyl as Ylena; felt a pang of sorrow for his suffering and wondered where he was now. Was Ylena already dead and Wyl walking as someone new? Time alone would tell. Time and a password which would reassure them he still lived.

  ‘A regal for your thoughts?’ Crys murmured from behind.

  ‘That you’re clutching me too close,’ Elspyth replied.

  He squeezed her harder. ‘My only legitimate chance,’ he said.

  ‘Is it always this busy?’

  ‘Yes, so I gather. Still, it was a good idea of yours to ditch the cart and expensive clothes.’

  ‘How does it feel to be an ordinary citizen?’

  ‘Better. The Donal name is cursed for the time being.’

  ‘We’d better think of a name for you.’

  ‘I can be your brother, how’s that?’

  ‘I approve. I’ve always wanted a brother.’

  ‘And what would you call a brother if you had one and could choose?’

  ‘Jonothon.’

  ‘That’s who I am for the time being then. I’ll hop down and lead you in on the horse. Hopefully we’ll slip by unnoticed.’

  ‘There’s no register at Pearlis,’ Elspyth offered.

  ‘Nevertheless, some bright spark might recognise me. Alyd and I are… were incredibly alike in appearance.’

  ‘Good idea to tie your hair back like that then.’

  ‘Thank you, sister. Here we go. Don’t look anyone in the eye but don’t avert your gaze too obviously.’

  ‘Let’s just talk. You’re making me nervous with your instructions.’

  ‘So how old would cousin Jemma be now?’ Crys replied, without skipping a beat.

  They were passing through the main gate now and Elspyth risked a laugh towards Crys. ‘Oh, I think she’d be marriageable age. I hear she’s very pretty.’

  ‘I don’t like flaxen-haired women. I like dark-haired beauties as you well know,’ Crys continued conversationally. He nodded at a guard, who ignored him, and then he laughed. ‘I am not marrying her even if it does mean you can come and live in the city.’

  ‘We’re through,’ Elspyth said, touching his shoulder with relief.

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Now where?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Bench are old friends of our family. I think they’re the best starting point and they will be able to get some medicines for your pain. You look pale.’

  ‘Are you sure we’ll be welcome?’

  Crys grinned his reassurance. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Famous last words,’ she groaned but felt safe for his confidence. She could tell that the wound on her shoulder had reopened and was glad her cloak was dark enough not to give away their secret. ‘Let’s hurry.’

  It took longer than Crys had anticipated to wend their way into the quieter, more affluent neighbourhood where Lord and Lady Bench kept their family home. In the end, he stabled their horse and hailed a carriage to take them the final half mile or so.

  ‘This is better, Elspyth. If for any reason their house is being watched…’

  ‘Why would it be?’ she said, collapsing into the seat.

  Crys gave the driver instructions. ‘I don’t know,’ he said patiently. ‘But we should know from his track record that Celimus is too smart to allow one of the most powerful people left in this kingdom to go about his business without some form of observation.’

  Elspyth did not want to talk any more. It was all she could do just to hold herself together now. The pain had stepped up to a most determined throb, she could feel heat at the shoulder wound and her head was pounding.

 
; ‘Infection,’ Crys muttered when she told him. ‘You need a physic. The Benches will see to it.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re home.’

  Fortunately the Bench mansion was encircled by a huge privet hedge and the driver was able to take them into the sweeping driveway and unload them unseen, not that he was aware of any clandestine behaviour from the couple he was depositing. Crys paid him some extra coin nevertheless; it might buy silence for a while. Then he all but carried Elspyth to the door, which was swiftly opened by a dour-faced servant.

  ‘Is the family at home?’ Crys enquired.

  ‘That depends, sir,’ the man said, looking the shabby couple up and down. ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘If Lord Bench is in residence please inform him that…’ Crys hesitated; perhaps this fellow could not be trusted. It paid to be cautious. ‘Tell him it is an old family friend from Brightstone.’ Crys remembered that the Bench family had a seaside property in the far north-west, and also recalled a nickname his father had for his long-time friend. He had called him ‘Booty’, for apparently there was no item that Eryd Bench could not appropriate if he set his mind to it.

  ‘I will need a name, sir,’ the servant said. He had an irritating manner of condescension, closing his eyes as he contrived a fake smile.

  Crys took a breath. ‘Just say it’s Booty. Now hurry, man, this woman needs medical attention.’ Elspyth was feeling like dead weight in his arms, although she was conscious and gave him a brave grin as the manservant disappeared.

  ‘Booty?’ she asked.

  ‘It will work, I promise. The main thing is that he is home.’

  They stood awkwardly in a hush for a minute then suddenly there was a lot of noise. A plump, powdered woman came bustling through some double doors closely followed by a tall, silver-haired gentleman, presumably Eryd Bench.

  ‘Shar’s wrath,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘Is that woman sick?’

  ‘She is, my lady, and urgently requires attention.’

  Before Crys had finished speaking, the older woman, obviously Lady Bench, had turned to the manservant. ‘Arnyld, why are you still standing there? Fetch help, man, and send a runner for my physician at once! Tell Physic Dredge to waste no time.’ She turned back to Crys. ‘Put her over here, son,’ she said gently, pointing to a long low bench seat.

  ‘I’m bleeding, Lady Bench,’ Elspyth began, ‘I’ll ruin —’

  ‘Hush, child,’ Helyn admonished. ‘Do as you are told.’

  Crys obeyed. He bowed and took his chance whilst there were no servants visible, turning to Lord Bench. He was met by a grim-faced stare.

  ‘I wondered who had the audacity to use old Jeryb’s nickname for me to gain entry,’ Eryd Bench said in his melodious voice. ‘Introduce yourself truly now, before I call a Legionnaire.’

  ‘Lord and Lady Bench, my apologies for arriving in this manner, but circumstances demand it. I am Crys Donal, Duke of Felrawthy.’

  The couple standing before him were obviously too shocked to respond. They looked thunderstruck and Lady Bench reached for her husband who helped her to sit down next to Elspyth. Crys felt instantly guilty and looking at their blanched expressions he was relieved to know the physic was on his way.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  KNAVE WHINED SOFTLY, HIS great head on his paws, his body encircling the sleeping boy whose breathing sounded dangerously shallow. Something was happening to Fynch but his close companion could not reach him. All he could do was watch, wait and pray to the Dragon King that this was not Fynch’s time.

  Fynch was dreaming but it was not like any dream he had ever experienced previously. He felt himself flying, with the wind whipping through his hair and whistling past his ears. He thought he might be dreaming he was a bird. But the view around him looked too real, the wind felt too real, and so was the voice that suddenly spoke.

  Not long now.

  It was the Dragon King and Fynch realised he was riding him, feeling each powerful beat of his wings as they worked in tandem to drive the creature faster through the air.

  My King, Fynch sent, his voice unashamedly filled with awe. Where do we go?

  To a private place, my son. Somewhere safe. Where you will be free from your pain and where no one can hear us.

  Am I truly with you?

  Your body is with Knave, Fynch. Your spirit is here.

  How can I do this?

  It is my way of honouring you.

  Honouring me?

  We ask so much of you.

  Whatever you ask, sire, I give it gladly.

  Brave boy. You are more than worthy.

  Of what, my lord?

  Of Kingship, Fynch.

  Fynch did not understand.

  You will, the King said gently into his mind.

  What, sire?

  Understand. It is why I have brought you here.

  Wyl felt a sense of despair as they entered the gates of the fortress. Cailech was immediately surrounded by well-wishers welcoming back their King, and stealing interested glances towards the golden-haired beauty he had left on the horse. It was Myrt who arrived at Ylena’s side to help her dismount.

  ‘May I show you to your rooms, my lady?’ he asked, taking her hand to help her from the horse, much to Wyl’s discomfort. ‘The King has requested you attend supper with him later.’

  Wyl worked hard not to show how he felt about such an invitation. It reminded him of being trapped in Leyen and having to meet Celimus. ‘Thank you, er…?’

  ‘Myrt.’ Aremys had arrived and now offered the formal introduction. ‘He is a friend, Ylena. You can trust him.’

  Wyl nodded towards Myrt who gave one of his rare smiles. Aremys had already explained that Myrt knew about Aremys’s suspicion of Lothryn’s fate, but he could not come clean about Ylena and so the etiquette of Aremys being polite but distant to Wyl’s sister had to be observed.

  ‘I will see you later perhaps?’ Aremys said to Wyl, and then to Myrt, ‘Shall we meet at the stables?’

  The big warrior nodded. ‘Come, my lady,’ he said, and Wyl had no option but to be guided away, deeper into the fortress of the Mountain King.

  They had landed but Fynch remained curled on the Dragon King’s vast back. The creature’s darkly vibrant colours seemed to pulse bright one moment and soft the next, illuminating its scales. Fynch felt warm and safe for the first time since leaving the Wild, yet he knew he was not really here. He was back on a freezing ledge near the home of the Mountain King and he was dying, with Knave’s body curled around him.

  He twisted to lie on his back, loving the deep connection between himself and the Dragon King. The magnificent beast remained silent whilst his guest acclimatised himself to the breathtaking scene below. They were on the highest peak of the Razors, but not in the north-east where Fynch’s body lay.

  Are we in the Wild, my lord?

  Yes, Fynch.

  The boy sighed. If I died now amongst this beauty, my King, I would die happy.

  The King did not reply.

  I am dying, aren’t I, sire?

  This time the creature did answer. You have pushed yourself too hard. The magic you have called upon is so potent it is poisoning you.

  Elysius managed to live with it, Fynch said.

  This is true, son. But Elysius did not draw upon the magic of the Thicket, nor was he required to use magic for years on end. He preserved himself by prudent use.

  I am sorry I have been so careless with it.

  The Dragon King twisted his sinuous neck and his massive head came close. A monstrously large eye, which seemed to Fynch to be all-knowing, regarded the tiny figure that lay on its back. You need make no apology to me, Faith Fynch.

  It moved Fynch to hear these solemn words and tears ran down his face. I am not afraid to give my life, my lord — I hope you know this. But I am so afraid of failing you that I am impatient to reach Rashlyn.

  The Dragon King gave a murmured growl of agreement. I know, child. You will not fail us.

  But I
am not sure I can recover in time, my King. I will likely end my life where Knave and I lie.

  That is why I have brought you here, Fynch, the King said, his voice so deep the boy could feel it rumbling the length of his own body, and yet it was so gentle in its tone. I shall restore you. But, as always with magic, there is a price.

  I will pay it, Fynch said bravely. I wish only for my strength back to do your bidding.

  I accept your sacrifice, and in return you deserve an explanation. I have seen something in you, Fynch, which you must know.

  I felt it too, my lord, he admitted. I sensed you recognising a part of me I barely know myself.

  Can you not guess, child?

  Fynch considered the King’s question and closed his eyes. Yes, he could guess, but he wanted to take this moment to be sure it was something he truly wanted to know. Fynch assumed that the price he must pay for the temporary restoration of his health was death. This did not deter or frighten him. He had already accepted as much, and if it had to be sooner rather than later, then he would not fuss. Life could never be the same anyway. He made his decision.

  It is connected with my mother, I feel.

  Go on.

  Fynch felt a breeze break through the protective wings of the huge beast and brush against his cheeks. More tears were falling but he ignored them. He was not crying because he was sad or frightened; he was weeping because this was the most emotional moment of his life. The Dragon King was about to confirm a fact that was integral to Fynch’s being. The boy understood that the knowledge was something he had always known but had held buried within, never even allowing it to surface as a tease to lure him to learn more. It was a secret but, even without clues, he had sensed it. It was something far more devastating than the magic which he had recently learned he possessed and that which he had been given. This secret had far-reaching repercussions and could affect the course of a realm were it revealed. But the secret had been kept until now.

  I believe I am not of my named father’s flesh.

  A tremble passed through the Dragon King. You are correct, my son. So who fathered you?