The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Fynch did not want to speak the name. He didn’t know why he was so sure it was the truth; all he knew was that in the moment the Dragon King saw it, he had glimpsed it within himself too. It had surprised the King of the Creatures, but for some strange reason it had not surprised Fynch; it had empowered him. It was one of the reasons he could face death now with no grief other than the loss of his siblings and Wyl.

  Fynch looked out again over the majesty of the Razors, its hidden valleys emerging from beneath the snows as spring staked its claim.

  I didn’t know it would thaw this high up.

  We are in the Wild, my son. Everything is possible.

  Fynch nodded. The Dragon King was giving him plenty of opportunity to consider his decision, but now it was time. My mother was fey. At each new moon she would experience a sort of madness, or so I was told. When I was old enough to understand it, I gathered that the madness took the form of lust. He hesitated.

  Go on, Fynch.

  She would tempt other men. She had no control over it.

  And?

  I was conceived during one of those moon times.

  Yes, you were. Who is your father, Fynch?

  My father is… He almost dared not speak the name but knew he must. My father is Magnus, King of Morgravia.

  Indeed. You are part of the dragon throne line and thus a part of me.

  Was Magnus aware of who I was during our conversations at Stoneheart?

  He felt a strong connection to you, Fynch, as you did with him. But no, he never knew you were of his flesh.

  At the great creature’s final word Fynch felt a rush of warmth and love seep into his body. He did not know whether it was at the news of who his true father was or whether it was the dragon himself — but he was certain of some sort of new and intense link between it and himself. Whatever the reason, Fynch experienced a new and powerful sense of belonging to both Kings.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ELSPYTH WAS PROPPED IN a chair, determined not to miss out on the conversation with Lord and Lady Bench. Helyn’s physic had called, had commented that the wounds were neatly sutured and it was only the one at the shoulder which had begun an infection. Fortunately it had been caught in time and the physic promised to send over a course of a special brew that would clear up the problem within days. Rest and quiet were also integral to the healing. Helyn had not hesitated in confirming that Elspyth would remain with them until she was fit and well.

  ‘I cannot impose on you for so long, my lady,’ Elspyth said.

  ‘Child, you’ll be going nowhere until the fever is gone and the infection has cleared. Be assured of this,’ Helyn had cautioned and Elspyth understood there would be no arguing with this powerful woman.

  Now they sat comfortably in a drawing room hung with family portraits and softened with lush furnishings and drapings. Crys and Elspyth had related the worst part of their tale. A small porcelain brazier burned gently in the corner. Elspyth thought it similar to those the Mountain People favoured and said so.

  ‘As a matter of fact it is from Grenadyn,’ Eryd replied, ‘but I am impressed that you have seen one in the Razor Kingdom and intrigued as to how a young woman — a Morgravian — has lived to tell the tale.’

  Elspyth blushed. ‘It is a long story, sir, and after the one we’ve just told you, I can’t imagine you would want more of the same,’ she said, hoping to deflect his attention from how she had come to be so far north.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, eyeing her gravely but not pursuing it for now. After the story of the murder of the Donals, the Benches were already in a state of shock. ‘Crys, I regret having to tax you further on this subject but are you quite sure that the Crown was behind the slaughter at Tenterdyn?’

  Crys nodded. ‘My mother died in my arms and her last wish was for revenge. Her haunted eyes spoke of the horrors she had witnessed — the killing of my father and brothers and then the burning of their bodies. The massacre at Rittylworth was also definitely the work of Celimus — Ylena Thirsk confirmed it and Elspyth happened along quite soon after the raiders had left. She took the message from Brother Jakub to my father.’

  Helyn handed Crys a goblet of wine. ‘None for you, I’m afraid, Elspyth. Sorry, please go on,’ she said, with a soft smile to the young duke.

  Crys hoped the tremble in his voice would disappear with the help of the liquor. ‘As I explained, we have been at Queen Valentyna’s court. She offered her protection without question. I hadn’t expected the diversion of tracking down Elspyth,’ he said, ‘or I would have been here much earlier.’

  ‘What can we do though?’ Lord Bench wondered aloud. ‘I feel so helpless.’

  ‘Wy—’ Crys stopped himself in time. ‘Ylena suggested that I come to Pearlis and try to stir up some trouble for the King.’

  ‘Ylena Thirsk did? Where is that girl now?’ Lord Bench demanded. ‘To tell the truth, I thought she must have gone home to Argorn after Wyl’s death. Now we know about her husband’s murder, all the more reason for her to flee Stoneheart.’

  ‘No, sir. Ylena was thrown into Stoneheart’s dungeons and it was a mercenary called Romen Koreldy who rescued her.’ Crys quickly outlined how Koreldy fitted into the tale, manipulating the truth by telling them how he made a promise to the dying Wyl to find his sister. ‘Then, after escaping Rittylworth, Ylena fled to Felrawthy. She carried proof of my brother’s murder there with her — which is why Celimus sent his assassin to find her. Leyen, of course, never —’ He stopped abruptly as both his hosts flinched with obvious alarm. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Leyen?’ Lady Bench said, her expression aghast. ‘Is that the name you used?’

  Crys nodded, glancing towards Elspyth for guidance. They were getting in deeper and everything pointed towards Wyl Thirsk. How would they keep him a secret?

  ‘Can you describe this woman?’

  There was little point in lying and Crys was not one to tell untruths to such fine people as the Benches, who had been close family friends since before he was born. He gave a quick summary of Leyen’s appearance.

  ‘But that’s her!’ Helyn exclaimed, her expression all confusion. ‘I know this woman. She came to our house, for Shar’s sake. I have been protecting her from Celimus since I first met her and he began asking questions about her. She told me she was a messenger — a go-between for the King and Queen Valentyna!’ she said, exasperated.

  ‘She is an assassin, you say?’ Eryd said gravely, looking towards his wife to be calm.

  ‘Well…’ Crys hesitated. He had made a mistake. He should have said Aremys Farrow, but how was he to know that the Bench family would know Faryl or Leyen or whatever her name was!

  ‘Out with it, young man,’ Eryd urged. Duke or not, Lord Bench saw Crys as a young pup still. It was inconceivable to Lord Bench, even after days of trying to accept it, that Jeryb Donal was dead. The old rogue was stronger than several oxen; he had been destined to outlive them all. Friendship aside, it upset Eryd deeply to think that Morgravia had lost not just such a fine man but also its finest remaining strategist and soldier. Celimus would pay for that loss.

  Crys looked helplessly towards Elspyth. She knew he wanted to tell the truth, yet he would not break his promise to Wyl. Crys was trapped by duty whichever way he turned: to his parents, to the realm, to these fine people, to a friend. She had broken her promise to Wyl once before, though, and although there had been traumatic consequences, breaking that promise again was still easier for her than it would be for Crys to betray his oath to Wyl.

  ‘My lord, my lady,’ she interrupted, and both turned towards her, sensing something pivotal had just occurred. ‘I have a story to tell, which you will not want to believe; no doubt won’t be able to believe once you have heard it. But I am telling you the truth, for I have borne witness to it with my own eyes.’

  ‘As have I,’ Crys joined in, a mixture of terror and relief flooding his body as he saw that Elspyth had made the decision for him. He hated breaking oath with Wyl but he h
ated lying to Lord Eryd Bench even more, particularly as the old man reminded him so much of his own father. And the truth was, they needed allies. Someone had to help share the burden of Wyl’s woes. It had sounded fair enough at Tenterdyn to keep this terrible secret, but someone in power had to know of Myrren’s gift. Others must be convinced and rally to Wyl’s cause. All of this churned in Crys Donal’s mind as he justified to himself what he and Elspyth were about to do.

  Eryd glanced between them. ‘This sounds dire,’ he said. He had thought he had heard their worst but it seemed far more terrible information was yet to be revealed.

  ‘Why do I suddenly feel I don’t want to hear what you’re about to tell us?’ Helyn Bench added, surprising herself that in this instance she could resist a tantalising tale.

  ‘You might regret our sharing of this with you, Lord and Lady Bench. But once told, you must promise us you will aid us and act on it.’

  ‘My dear,’ Helyn said, truly wishing now she had joined her daughter, Georgyana, for a day of shopping, ‘you make it all sound so sinister. What is this about?’

  ‘It is the story of Wyl Thirsk, and I shall tell you everything I know, even though he will never forgive me for sharing it.’

  Elspyth began.

  As Elspyth was explaining the truth behind Wyl Thirsk’s death to a stunned couple in Pearlis, in the Razors Wyl was explaining to the women attending Ylena that he preferred not to wear either of the two dresses that had been brought to his chamber.

  Cailech had organised for Ylena to be accommodated in a suite of rooms. Once again, Wyl was arrested by the simple beauty of the Mountain People’s creativity. A fresco of vines and their fruit trailed the circumference of each room’s ceiling and the whitewashed walls were hung with paintings on wood of the stark Razor landscape. A thick rug on the floor and an equally colourful bedspread added yet more brightness to the natural light flooding in through the huge windows favoured by the King throughout the fortress; he liked to bring the mountainscape he loved inside.

  Last time Wyl was in this stronghold, in winter, as Koreldy, braziers had warmed each room. Only the endless hallways and cavernous spaces connecting the chambers were left unheated, and those were freezing he recalled. But it was well into spring now and the hardy Mountain People had done away with the heating.

  Ylena’s body trembled from the cold as he tried again to politely decline the garments. ‘Thank you, but I prefer not to,’ he said.

  ‘Both gowns are woven from the coat of polders, my lady,’ the woman assured. Her tone suggested this was equivalent to being spun from gold.

  Wyl was none the wiser for the explanation but was courteous enough to touch the dress and smile. ‘It is very beautiful,’ he agreed.

  ‘Please, my lady, we will get into trouble if you do not wear one of these dresses.’

  ‘Oh, surely not.’

  They nodded. ‘Our King told us to dress your hair as well. He has had fresh thawdrops brought up from the valley.’

  Wyl looked towards where the women glanced. He had not noticed the vase holding the tiny white flowers Cailech had spoken of and promised to pick for Ylena. He felt more trapped than ever. It struck him that this situation had a horrid sense of inevitability. He wished he could reach Aremys. Perhaps he should just make a run for it and hope someone would bring him down and, if he was lucky, kill him. It would likely be a man and then at least he could inhabit the body of a male again, but if he was felled by an arrow or a knife thrown at him, then he may not live to see Valentyna again or avenge Ylena or any of the other people he loved who had been murdered.

  Valentyna. His heart ached as he remembered the disturbed and disgusted expression she wore the last time they were together. If only he could be a man again he would somehow make it up to her… even if only to apologise on Ylena’s behalf for her stupidity.

  The women were staring at him and the silence had stretched embarrassingly long.

  For you then, Valentyna, so I can see you just once more, he decided and nodded to the waiting women. ‘Which one suits me best do you think?’

  The two women beamed. One reached out and touched Ylena’s hair. ‘You are so beautiful, you would do either of them justice.’ Then she took Ylena’s hand. ‘We have longed for the day when our King would take a woman for his own,’ she said shyly.

  Wyl was touched in spite of the horror he felt. ‘Do you not mind that I am Morgravian?’

  She shrugged and looked towards her companion who made a similar gesture. ‘That you have captured his heart is enough. You will be his Queen… our Queen. That lifts our spirits. And, my lady, rumours abound that our two kingdoms have signed a peace treaty. This makes your marriage to our King even more special. How could we not accept the woman our King loves?’

  ‘Loves?’ Wyl repeated, aghast. ‘He doesn’t even know me.’

  ‘The King is a great judge of character,’ one said, stubbornly. ‘He has chosen you, my lady. We do not question his choice, and in truth there is no one suitable within our own kingdom. Whoever he chose to marry, it would have caused jealousy between the factions. You have no allegiance to any Mountain family. This way he offends no one and at the same time bonds our realms closer.’

  ‘He’s told you we are to be married?’ Wyl asked, further alarmed.

  They nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ the other woman said. ‘The news is spreading like fire around the fortress.’

  ‘And has he said when?’ Wyl held his breath.

  They hesitated, sensing her trepidation. ‘The day after tomorrow, my lady,’ the older one said finally. ‘A gown is being stitched from pure white polder — our most rare colour. Animals are being slaughtered today for the feast and people are already gathering to catch a glimpse of you.’

  They saw the noblewoman’s hands fly to her face and press against each cheek in horror. Her look of desperation frightened them.

  ‘He will be gentle with you, my lady,’ the older one assured, imagining the angelic beauty was fearing for her wedding night.

  ‘Oh, stop, please,’ Wyl said, determined now to find a way to flee or bring about his own death. Then he remembered the warning from Elysius and realised that this was why, despite all of his taunts, neither Celimus nor Cailech had killed Ylena. It was not possible for him to invite his own death, and clearly Myrren’s gift had been resisting it or protecting him. But randomness was still possible, as young Fynch had assured. That was what he needed now to save him. A random act — be it madness, violence or anger. Whatever occurred, he had to be rid of Ylena’s guise within the next few hours.

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ Myrt hissed in a whisper.

  Aremys nodded, trying to look nonchalant as he lifted the latch on the side door leading into Galapek’s stable. He forced himself not to glance over his shoulder which would immediately look suspicious. ‘Where’s Maegryn?’

  ‘He’s always around somewhere. You’d better have a story at the ready if we’re caught.’

  ‘Perhaps you should wait outside,’ Aremys suggested. ‘I can’t risk you getting into trouble with Cailech. Once committed there’s no going back,’ he warned.

  Myrt shook his head. ‘I have to see the horse and its reaction for myself.’

  The set of his friend’s mouth assured Aremys there would be no further discussion. He nodded and stepped into the darkness. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the minimal light that filtered through the stable’s timber boards. A snort told him Galapek was in the shadows to his right. He immediately began a stream of soft words to the creature.

  Myrt closed the door and remained silent behind Aremys. He realised he was holding his breath, in dread of confirmation that his friend was truly trapped inside this beautiful beast. He watched Aremys raise his hand and place it on the animal’s majestic face and, as man and beast touched, he felt a surge of emotion. Was this really Lothryn?

  ‘Lothryn,’ Aremys murmured, ‘if you’re there, give us a sign. I’ve brought Myrt.’ He nodded at Myrt
to step forward. ‘Say something,’ he whispered.

  Myrt moved from behind the Grenadyne and cleared his throat. ‘If that’s you, my friend, prove it.’

  ‘I can feel the magic shivering through his body,’ Aremys said. ‘He’s fighting it, that’s why his flesh is trembling.’ He turned back to Galapek. ‘Come on, Lothryn, do it for Elspyth. She’s alive. She’s coming for you. And Wyl’s here too!’ he added, hoping it might help. The horse reared up onto its hind legs and squealed. Aremys fell to the floor, pain filling his head as a voice, equally pain-filled, growled into his mind, Turn me loose!

  ‘It’s him!’ Myrt whispered as he tried to calm the horse, which was kicking and pounding at the wall. ‘Quick! He could hurt you.’

  ‘He won’t hurt me,’ the Grenadyne said, disgusted with himself for falling. His head throbbed but his satisfaction was intense, as was his awe for this sickening magic. ‘It is him, Myrt. He spoke to me. He wants to be turned loose.’

  The warrior turned an anxious gaze towards him. ‘What do we do?’

  Aremys frowned, as much with frustration as helplessness. ‘Well, we can’t just let him go. We have to think this through. There’s Gueryn to consider too.’

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t lose any sleep over a Morgravian soldier,’ Myrt said. ‘I care only about Lothryn.’

  ‘Understood. Listen —’ He got no further. A shaft of sunlight made them both swing around towards the side door where Maegryn had just entered.

  ‘Myrt? What are you doing here? And that’s the Grenadyne with you, isn’t it?’ the stablemaster said.

  Myrt was not so adept at lying as Aremys and his hesitation, as well as the guilty glance towards his companion, was telling. ‘I… that is, we…’

  ‘We got back today,’ Aremys continued for his faltering friend. ‘I was hoping we could go for a ride.’

  Maegryn looked quizzically at them. ‘But you’ve been riding for days.’

  ‘This is true,’ Aremys said, mentally kicking himself and giving an embarrassed grin. ‘A lot has happened these past few days, Maegryn. I felt like being as alone as I am permitted to be. Can’t think of a better place than in Galapek’s saddle.’