The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  He noticed the boy smile before he seemingly dissolved back through the wall. Borc watched it too, open-mouthed and filled with disbelief. It was his slowness to recover which gave the grey dog a chance to leap and bring the man down.

  Myrt watched in horror as the dog, its limbs still trembling, struck for Borc’s throat. Myrt reached for his dagger but so did Borc. The younger man was strong and despite his fear he struck at the dog with the blade, wounding it many times in its side. The creature refused to let go. It had him by the throat at last and it was experiencing the blood madness that comes over both man or beast when defending its life or those it loves.

  Myrt raised himself painfully, still suffering the effects of the magic, and all but fell onto Borc and the dog. It was growling fiercely now, its huge jaws locked around the man’s neck, tearing at his throat. Borc made one final valiant effort and managed to gouge at the animal’s eye and sink his blade once more, this time into its chest. The dog screamed and rolled away but Myrt was not going to let Gueryn’s quarry live. He would mete out death on behalf of the dog who had saved his own life. Raising his dagger he struck deep into Borc’s lacerated throat and hit the artery he was looking for. The younger man stared with dismay at the plume of blood that erupted and grabbed at his neck in a sad attempt to retain the precious liquid. He even managed to drag himself to his knees before Haldor claimed him and Borc of the Mountain People fell heavily across the prone dog, dead.

  THIRTY-ONE

  CRYS DONAL RODE ERYD BENCH’S chestnut mare through the Pearlis town gates and nodded to the watchmen.

  ‘Shar guide you,’ they called to the lone rider, who raised his hand in friendly salute but said nothing in return.

  Not long afterwards a black carriage, like any other public carriage that plied its trade on the streets of Pearlis, also left the gates.

  ‘How long, Gordy?’ one of the watchmen cried as the driver paid his toll, recognising him from the pool of men who entered and exited the city many times a day with paying passengers. The man shrugged and the gatekeepers caught sight of two women in the carriage whom they recognised as Lady Bench and her daughter. ‘Evening, Lady Bench,’ one said, showing the right courtesies.

  Helyn Bench smiled back, the men never knowing how much courage that gesture took. The younger woman did not look at them at all. ‘Onwards, driver,’ Lady Bench called.

  It was at least another fifteen minutes before a petite figure, cloaked in blue, walked a horse out of the city gates to whistles of approval from the men. It was not dark yet so they could see her pretty features set in a pale face. Fortunately for Elspyth they could not see the dark bloodstain on her cloak or the fierce effort it required for her to first mount and then urge the horse to carry her gently beyond the reach of King Celimus. She forced a smile and said, ‘See you soon, lads,’ as if she was only going to be away for a few hours, then she too disappeared down the road. She knew she had two bends to make before the third one would claim her fully from the watchtower’s view. It felt like a lifetime and she wondered if the men were scratching their heads and asking each other why the horse was being walked so slowly down the road.

  Finally she caught sight of Crys Donal. He rushed towards her and, as much as she wanted to be composed and not show how sick she was, Elspyth all but fell from the horse as she leaned towards him. As they had before, the strong arms of the Duke of Felrawthy cushioned her and she was carried gently to a patch of soft grass. She would be lying to herself if she did not admit it felt good to be in his embrace again, even though right now his eyes held anything but mischief in them.

  ‘Elspyth,’ Georgyana said, ‘I’m sorry you had to do that but —’

  ‘Hush, Georgyana,’ she replied. ‘There was no other way. It would have looked too odd for you to ride out after your mother’s carriage, especially alone.’

  ‘We can only hope those guards make no connections. Two of us were strangers and easily forgotten,’ Crys reassured. Elspyth noticed how his gaze softened when it fell upon the Benchs’ golden-haired daughter. She felt another pang and a reminder that Crys did not belong to her and that she had pushed his gentle and usually amusing advances away too often. She was spoken for… but was it by a dead man, she wondered sadly.

  Crys glanced towards Lady Bench, who sat on a milestone staring straight before her at nothing in particular, clearly dwelling on thoughts of her beloved Eryd. He walked over and put his arms around her. She was a friend of his mother’s, around her age. He tried to imagine how Aleda must have felt watching Jeryb Donal die. Crys was sure Eryd was dead by now too, and knew the effect on Lady Bench would be no less painful for not witnessing it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Helyn,’ he said softly.

  ‘Are you sure it’s useless, Crys? I mean —’

  He cut off her teary words which were too painful to listen to again. ‘We cannot risk Georgyana, Lady Bench. You must see to her safety first. I promise you I will return to Pearlis, but first I insist on ensuring you three ladies are out of danger.’ He hugged her again, suspecting that her inclination was to send Georgyana on with him and take her chances back in Pearlis. ‘Please, Lady Bench, Celimus showed no mercy to my parents, or my brothers, the youngest of whom had barely reached your daughter’s tender years. He will have no qualms about killing you, Lord Bench, Georgyana and anyone else who looks like getting in his way.’

  ‘In the way of what?’ she said.

  ‘Of whatever it is that he wants,’ Crys said, keeping his voice calm and not withdrawing his embrace. ‘He is mad, Lady Bench. He dreams of empire. The wedding is a sham. He will destroy Valentyna and Briavel one way or another — it just appears more respectable if he can do it diplomatically. Listen to me,’ he said, taking the liberty of turning her face towards his earnest one. ‘If he is prepared to murder my father, who was the most loyal of Morgravians, then he will respect none of his senior counsellors’ lives. Please trust me.’

  ‘So you think Eryd is already dead,’ she said, her voice flat.

  There was no point in giving empty placations after making them flee for their lives. ‘I do.’

  She did not break down into sobs as he had expected; she did not even shed another tear; instead she echoed the words of his mother. ‘Avenge him,’ she said, ‘for all our sakes.’

  ‘Celimus has many deaths to answer for, my lady. I intend making him accountable for each of them, rest assured.’

  She squeezed his arm, unable to speak for her tumbling emotions.

  ‘Come, we will ride in pairs now,’ he continued. ‘Elspyth won’t be able to make it far so we will split company once I am sure we are in a safe place.’

  Elspyth, breathing hard and helped by Georgyana, arrived at his side. Crys reached for her hand. ‘Can you go a bit further?’

  ‘Yes, let’s go,’ she said, unfairly enjoying his touch in front of Georgyana.

  ‘You and Lady Bench ride together, Elspyth. Georgyana can come with me,’ Crys said, instantly putting to rest any delusion that he was not utterly infatuated with the young noblewoman. It was fitting that he align himself with his own kind and they would make the most handsome of couples, Elspyth thought. She scowled privately, but convinced herself that her acid mood was from the throb at her shoulder.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Georgyana asked, unaware of the sour emotions of the pretty woman by her side.

  ‘They will expect us to go north,’ Crys said, ‘as we all have homes and links there.’

  ‘So we go south?’ Georgyana finished for him and he smiled indulgently.

  ‘Yes, my lady. South to Argorn.’

  Jessom stared at the sputtering candle. Its erratic flame held his attention in an otherwise darkened room. His thoughts were distracted, roaming. A light perfume wafted up from the soap leaf he had used to wash his hands after touching Eryd Bench’s body. He had killed twice himself, and had many deaths carried out at his order, but none had ever felt like this one. Lord Bench’s death had been as unpleasant as
it was unnecessary. Unpleasant because Jessom had been forced to administer the poison personally and very much against his own will, and unnecessary because it had achieved nothing but another dirty secret to keep hidden.

  He linked his newly washed fingers as he contemplated the afternoon’s proceedings. To the King, the report of another corpse, no matter how high-ranking, was akin to hearing that a kitten had died from the kitchen cat’s latest litter. He just kills on a whim, Jessom thought bitterly. Bench and his fellow lord could have been so easily diverted, sent on some special mission even, but left alive to remain important in the fabric of Morgravia.

  ‘Shar knows, that fabric is wearing very thin,’ he muttered now.

  If Lord Bench was questioning the King and his motives then this was surely the end of the road, for Eryd Bench would never have considered making his concerns public without many weeks of soul-searching. If Lord Bench, the most loyal of the senior courtiers, was wavering, then most of the others would have had their say on the King’s actions long ago.

  ‘And civil unrest is the next stage.’ Jessom finished the thought aloud.

  It would only take someone like Crys Donal, now the Duke of Felrawthy, to stir up sufficient emotion and the civil unrest could turn into an uprising. Jessom was not so naive as to believe that the famous Legion would not follow its instincts, which would be screaming in favour of Lord Donal after what had happened in the north. The Legion had suffered several blows recently — enough to provoke the men into turning against the King they hated.

  Jessom listed them in his mind: Alyd Donal, Wyl Thirsk, Ylena Thirsk, most of the Donal family, Rittylworth’s holy community. Even the death of King Valor of Briavel was beginning to be viewed suspiciously, particularly given that Wyl Thirsk was in Werryl on the King’s business when he lost his life alongside Valor. Jessom had heard mutterings that the two deaths were not as cut and dried as they were said to be. Then there was Jorn, a popular lad around Stoneheart — his torture and death had hit hard and for what result? The Legion had not recovered from the deaths of its own men either — all in the pursuit of missing taxes. Too many had been impaled and left to die long, horrible deaths. Celimus was too cruel; too quick to punish without consideration of the repercussions. As for all the mercenaries who had lost their lives — well, few cared, but Jessom hated killing for no good reason. Almost all could have been spared — they were on the Crown’s side anyway.

  He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. And now Lord Bench was dead and Hartley was languishing in the dungeon. Jessom had finally rebelled against Celimus and refused to kill pointlessly again. He would find a way to spare Hartley yet.

  Chancellor Jessom lit a fresh candle and extinguished the sputtering one with a pinch, hardly feeling its warmth on his fingertips. He was too deep in thought about his own future. He assessed his options. They were few and mostly unpalatable. He could remain with Celimus and stay loyal to his belief that the King of Morgravia was too strong to be challenged. He could raise the Legion himself by telling its officers the truth, but then what? They could unseat Celimus but there was no heir, which potentially meant some distant relative from Parrgamyn perhaps laying claim to the throne. Jessom’s experience of the Parrgamyse told him that was not a wise path. Alternatively, he could argue that a new dynasty be created from within — someone like the new Duke of Felrawthy perhaps — but Jessom, kingmaker or not, could not be sure of bringing about such a change in culture. He could leave. Disappear this night and begin a new life elsewhere. But where? And if Celimus survived as King then he would have Jessom hunted down. The Chancellor could not bear to dwell on what the King would do with him when caught… and he was sure he would be caught, even if it took Celimus years.

  That left one last option. And as he reflected on its merits, he realised it was, without question, not only the best of the alternatives but perhaps his most inspired idea ever. If it worked, he would never have to worry again. If he failed, it meant an horrific death. So he must take precautions.

  He would need the help of an expert in fashioning a failsafe capsule of the juice of the Deathbloom, a plant so rare most people had never heard of it. But Jessom had and he was taking no chances with Celimus. If he was caught in this last and desperate measure, then he would not hesitate to bite down on the capsule which would deliver death so swiftly that no one would even realise what had occurred. By then, his body would be stiff in the rigor the plant’s poison so effectively provoked.

  He smiled thinly. ‘Not that I intend ever taking that capsule,’ he whispered.

  Wyl stared at Aremys through Ylena’s glazed vision. He must have passed out momentarily, he realised; he had slumped to one side and must appear dead. It looked as though the fight had gone out of the Grenadyne. The King was pacing before him, poking his finger into his chest, sneering at him with cutting words. The two guards either side of Aremys looked uncomfortable. Wyl fought the pain back as Gueryn had taught him and righted Ylena’s frame against the hearth. No one saw his movement; everyone was intent on Cailech.

  He had to move, broken leg and dislocated shoulder aside, not to mention sundry other fractures. Go down fighting — was that not the Legion’s way? Wyl rallied his spirit and called upon anything left within him of his and Ylena’s predecessors to find the strength to move towards Aremys.

  ‘So you don’t deny Maegryn’s death?’ Cailech demanded of the mercenary, his anger back under icy control.

  ‘No, sire. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Mistake!’

  Aremys blinked. There was no way out of this; no possible explanation — except the truth, of course — for the death of the stablemaster. He no longer cared about Cailech and the peace treaty or about the Mountain People. In truth, if he boiled it down, he cared about the man trapped in the broken woman’s body in the corner, he cared about a man driven mad with pain and anguish by being transformed into a horse, and he cared about bringing about the death of a southern King.

  Nothing much else mattered — not even his own life, it seemed, because it had not occurred to him to count it in his list. He stole a glance at Ylena and realised she had moved. Not dead then; brave Wyl was crawling towards him in a broken body. What could they achieve against two huge warriors and an enraged King now reaching for his blade?

  ‘Lost for words, Farrow? Perhaps this will loosen your tongue,’ Cailech said, swiping his knife across the Grenadyne’s face.

  Aremys saw the red splashes spatter across Rollo’s face. The man blinked but said nothing. To his own credit, Aremys hardly flinched. Perhaps it had been too fast. How he found the wit he would never know, but he enjoyed it. ‘Haldor be praised that your blade is kept so keen, Cailech. I didn’t feel a thing.’

  The King’s gaze narrowed as he watched the bright blood drench the face of the man he had called friend; the man he had thought might fill the yearning gap of friendship caused by the loss of Lothryn. But this man was now facing death because of Lothryn.

  ‘Why, Aremys? You could have had it all with me,’ Cailech said, a touch of sadness creeping into his tone.

  ‘Because you are a puppet King,’ Aremys replied, defiance rising in him as he accepted death. He could see the pulse at Cailech’s temple beginning to throb.

  ‘Explain yourself, Farrow.’

  He shrugged, revelling in his nonchalance. It was amazing to let go of fear; he suddenly felt empowered. This was how Wyl must have felt when he was baiting Celimus into killing Ylena at Tenterdyn — except Wyl had not expected to die, he thought, and a rueful grin crept across his bloodied face.

  ‘Answer me!’ the King roared, raising the blade.

  ‘I’m not afraid to die, Cailech, so threatening me will not help you learn what you need to. But I shall tell you anyway. You are a puppet to Rashlyn. Ask your men. Ask Rollo here what he thinks of your mad barshi and the way he controls you. Ask poor Myrt, who would crawl over the very icecaps for you but hates you now for what you have done at the barshi’s
whim. If only you had bothered to ask Maegryn, he would have told you the same. You are controlled by the mad sorcerer who uses magic on you, my King, and makes decisions for you.’

  Aremys felt the change of atmosphere in the room immediately. The grip of his captors lessened and he saw Cailech’s face move through a series of expressions from disbelief to rage.

  ‘You lie!’

  ‘No, Cailech. Look at your men. Ask them. You turned Lothryn into a beast. Galapek is an abomination — your abomination — but it was not your idea, was it, sire? It was Rashlyn’s. And now the Morgravian prisoner has disappeared. Where is Gueryn le Gant, your majesty? Magically twisted into another abomination, that’s where. Can your people trust you with this sort of misery and sorcery hanging over them?’

  When Rollo spoke, it broke the spell. ‘My King, is this true? Have you used magic on Lothryn?’

  Cailech’s hesitation was damaging.

  ‘And now he’s going to have Myrt killed, Rollo, because he knows the truth too.’

  Rollo dropped his hands from Aremys and his second followed suit. ‘I cannot permit this, sire,’ he said, shaking his head, disbelief raging in his eyes. ‘I hate the barshi. But I loved Lothryn like a brother, and Myrt is our leader even though you are our King. You would kill the two I trust most? Rashlyn is evil, sire.’

  Cailech’s eyes darkened in the granite face. He was the only man in the room with a weapon. ‘Do you challenge me, Rollo?’

  The warrior backed away. ‘I don’t know the truth, sire. I don’t understand any of it. If Myrt killed Maegryn then I wish to hear why. I want his side of the story, not the words of Borc who would sell his own grandmother to get into your good books.’

  ‘I order you to take this man to the dungeons,’ Cailech said. His words were slowly spoken and chillingly intense as he willed the man before him to obey.

  Rollo shook his head equally slowly, hardly believing he was defying his own sovereign. ‘Not until you bring Rashlyn here… and Myrt.’