The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘What?’ the Grenadyne asked, sensing Wyl knew more.

  Wyl raised King Cailech’s head and looked his friend directly in the eye. ‘When I become the sovereign of Morgravia.’

  ‘Celimus?’ It came out as a choked exclamation.

  Wyl nodded. He was deadly serious now and Aremys was shocked to the core. ‘Is that what this is all about? Myrren’s gift is to make sure that you become him?’

  Cailech’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘It’s about revenge. Myrren suffered at Celimus’s hands, so she and her father worked out a way to make him suffer in return.’

  ‘But why involve you? You did nothing but offer her pity.’

  ‘I am nothing but a pawn in this complex game,’ Wyl said softly. ‘She has used me to avenge her torture which Celimus so enjoyed.’

  Wyl could see the big man’s horror at this news written all over his face. He recalled his own despair at the discovery of the truth of Myrren’s gift. Now Aremys was reflecting a similar anguish. Perhaps it was even worse for the mercenary, Wyl thought, having always believed that watching those you love suffer was more intolerable than living through the suffering yourself.

  ‘Wyl,’ Aremys began, recovering himself. ‘This is worse than I could ever have imagined, I’ll agree, but can you not think of it in the more positive light,’ he ventured carefully, ‘that you will be King of Morgravia and your Queen will be Valentyna? Can the notion that you will be together soften the damage which has been done? You cannot bring back those you have lost but perhaps you can make their lives count by making Morgravia great again under a good King. Sire heirs with Valentyna and establish a new dynasty. Imagine it — Morgravia ruled by you, not Celimus. One more death, my friend, that’s all it will take.’ There was a new brightness in the Grenadyne’s voice, as if suddenly he felt everything could be righted.

  Wyl looked down at his new large hands with their prominent knuckles and long, blunt fingers. He had thought of the same scenario which Aremys was now so taken with many times since learning of his destiny. And every time he tried to convince himself that this terrible episode of his life could end happily, he hit a wall. The wall was called Celimus. ‘Aremys,’ he said softly into the chill spring night. ‘I don’t want to be him.’

  Aremys had not considered this. ‘You have no choice apparently.’

  ‘I will not live as Celimus,’ Wyl said, slowly, defiantly. ‘I would sooner die.’

  ‘But you will have everything —’

  Wyl cut him off. ‘I will have nothing but hate and despair. You don’t understand — when I become someone new, much of who they are remains with me. I have their memories, their dreams. I have their ways and mannerisms. I have their darkness, Aremys. I will not live as the person I hate most in this world and who in turn has hated the Thirsks for two decades.’

  ‘So what are you going to do — die again?’ Aremys’s tone was heavy with sarcasm as he hoped to jolt his friend from this current attitude. Wyl remained silent and continued staring at Cailech’s hands.

  The Grenadyne shook his head slowly with disbelief. ‘Tell me you’re not planning to die once you’re him, Wyl?’ Aremys urged, a fresh wave of fear washing across him. He realised that once Wyl became Celimus, he would no longer have Myrren’s protection. He would be as vulnerable to death as anyone.

  Wyl spoke in a grave tone: ‘When it happens — and it will, for my destiny is to become the sovereign of Morgravia — you will end my life once and for all.’

  Aremys was rocked by Wyl’s words. ‘I won’t,’ he shouted. ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘You will! You will do it because I demand it. I will be King of Morgravia, don’t forget, and I will command you.’

  ‘Or what? Kill me?’ Aremys yelled.

  Wyl ignored him, kept speaking: ‘We shall set it up as an accident. It doesn’t have to be by your hand as such, if that revolts you too much. We can manipulate it through others, but you will help me to achieve my death. An arrow, clean and swift to the heart. I would prefer it to be you, Aremys, I know you shoot accurately. This is about friendship, love, loyalty.’

  ‘No, Wyl. What about Valentyna?’

  ‘I can’t think about what might happen after my death. That will be beyond my control. But Valentyna will be released from her sentence of being married to Celimus, free to return to Briavel and begin her life afresh.’

  ‘But it’s not him. It’s you.’

  ‘Valentyna will not know that. She will look at me with disgust: she will detest my touch and speak my name with loathing. No, Aremys,’ Wyl said sadly, ‘I would rather be dead, truly. Elysius said I cannot contrive for others to kill me but I am counting on the fact that once I have become Celimus, as Elysius and Myrren intended, the gift will have run its course and will no longer be able to hurt me or those I care about.’

  Aremys shook his head; it was too painful. They had battled against so much and come through it, but for what? Only for Wyl to die, and for good this time. ‘Don’t make this decision yet,’ he beseeched. ‘Fynch warned of the randomness — let’s wait and see how it all turns out.’

  Wyl recalled Fynch begging him to tell Valentyna the truth, and was reminded once again that the boy had never led him astray. Fynch had always been true. He would make his own decision on whether or not to share the truth with Valentyna when he met her again, although, if he was honest with himself, he knew he could never live sheathed within Celimus. Even if it did not revolt her — and it should, looking daily at the man who had organised the deaths of her father and Romen as well as countless others — it would certainly revolt him. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘We will not discuss it again until I become Celimus, after which I will give you one night’s grace, which I shall spend with Valentyna, and the next day I will expect you to take my life. Agreed?’

  Aremys was cornered. There was no way out of this bargain. ‘Agreed,’ he said, deeply unhappy.

  ‘Good,’ Wyl replied, feeling suddenly brighter for airing the decision he had been brooding on for so long. Now it was time to ask for the Thicket’s help.

  ‘Come, we’ll try from there,’ he said, pointing to a small outcrop of rocks.

  ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Aremys asked, leading his horse in the direction of the rocks.

  ‘Not really, but the journey will take too long by conventional means. I have to try.’

  Aremys sighed audibly. ‘So what do we do? Turn the horses loose or remain on them?’

  Cailech shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I haven’t even brought anything for her,’ he said, his mind elsewhere.

  Aremys lifted his eyes to the heavens and asked Shar to help them. ‘Come on, Wyl, what do we do?’

  Wyl collected his thoughts. ‘Knave,’ he said, ‘please would you call on the Thicket? I need it to send us to Werryl Palace, like it did for me before.’

  Knave could not explain to his friend that he no longer enjoyed the same contact with the Thicket.

  There was nothing for it now, he realised: he would have to contact Fynch… if he was still alive. He growled at the King, knowing Wyl would understand.

  Knave let his mind flood with the trace that was Fynch and cast out to him, begging him to be alive, to answer him… not because he needed his help but because he wanted to hear his sweet voice again.

  Knave. It sounded more of a groan.

  Always here, the dog answered, keeping his voice steady even though he was frightened by the pain communicated in that single syllable of Fynch’s response.

  Is Wyl safe?

  Yes. Knave knew not to waste time on small talk. Fynch was fighting for his life. We need to use the Thicket to travel quickly to Briavel. I’m sorry to —

  Wait. There was a silence and then Fynch was back; his voice sounded even more fractured and filled with pain than just moments earlier. I’ve set up a bridge. Use it, but hurry — I can’t hold it together for long.

  Fynch, what’s happening?

  Hurry, Knave. Please.

&
nbsp; Knave closed his eyes in grief. It sounded as though Fynch was near to death. He linked to the Thicket, feeling guilty at drawing on Fynch’s waning reserves. He could not understand it. Fynch was strong in his power. Surely he could easily overcome Rashlyn?

  It was Rasmus who answered the unspoken question. Fynch is following his destiny, Knave. You must do what he has commanded. The Thicket will allow this request.

  There are horses too, Knave replied, disguising his rising fear for Fynch.

  The owl made a sound of disgust in his mind. Wyl Thirsk never makes it easy, the bird said testily. We’ll have to be careful how they land. Tell the two men to sit on horseback. Then we only have to control three ‘parcels’.

  Just two. I plan to return to Fynch.

  No. You have been commanded and you must do as he wishes. Now make ready.

  Knave cut the link angrily. He was unused to feeling such emotion, but then he had never loved anyone before. He felt a keen loyalty to Wyl and would give his life for him if asked, but with Fynch it ran much deeper. It was love. Not something you turned your back on.

  Thank you, Fynch, he sent, filled with sorrow.

  He could barely hear the reply but he felt it. I love you, Knave, farewell.

  If a dog could cry, Knave would have done so at that moment, when he felt the loss of Fynch as the boy cut their link. Knave whined softly, then he turned to Wyl and gave a low growl.

  Aremys shook his head. ‘Do you understand him?’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Sort of. I’ve been around him long enough to grasp what kind of message is being communicated.’

  ‘And that one meant?’

  ‘We wait.’ He turned to Knave. ‘I know you’re hurting, boy, but I need you to come with us.’

  Wyl’s comment was timely. Knave realised, much as he hated to admit it, that he was not of much use to Fynch right now, whereas Wyl needed him for this trip to Briavel. He would go.

  The men began to dismount but Knave barked.

  Aremys frowned. ‘What now?’

  ‘Wants us to remain on horseback, I think,’ Wyl said. ‘Is that right, Knave?’

  The dog gave a familiar growl and Wyl nodded to his friend. ‘Yes. I guess we’re taking the horses.’

  ‘This will take some explaining at the other end,’ Aremys said as the air around them began to thicken.

  ‘Here we go,’ Wyl cautioned. ‘It’s not pleasant, I warn you.’

  ‘I think I remember it now,’ was all Aremys had time to say before he felt a huge pressure on his body and all went dark.

  The blinding golden light which had initially shimmered around the dragon had gradually dimmed to a soft glow and taken on a dirty bronze colour. The dragon’s wings hung limply and each breath was laboured but still it stood upright and continued to absorb the magic slamming into its body.

  ‘Die, beast,’ the barshi screamed, clearly confused as to why the creature would not retaliate. ‘You came here to destroy me,’ he yelled. ‘Yet you can’t even shield against my magic.’

  He blasted the dragon again with a powerful spell and saw the beautiful beast stagger for the first time, its head drooping.

  Fynch! Lothryn screamed.

  He can’t hear you, Kestrel warned. He won’t listen anyway. He is dying, wants to die… has to die, I think.

  We must do something, Lothryn sent back to the bird. He marvelled at how much stronger he was feeling. His own light — if he could call it that — was burning bright.

  We are. We bear witness to his sacrifice.

  We let him die? We could all rush at Rashlyn together and destroy him. He can’t kill all of us at once, surely? Lothryn tried.

  Kestrel tutted. He is already being destroyed.

  What do you mean?

  With every spell the sorcerer weakens. He cannot feel it yet but we can see it. His magic is a filthy brown, tainted and ugly, not bright and golden like that of the Dragon King. The man has been careless — he has used most of it up.

  And?

  Fynch will absorb the evil magic, the pain until there is no more left in the sorcerer. And by doing so, he sacrifices himself.

  A collective groan echoed around the forest and up to the mountain ridges as the animals saw the dragon slump to one side, its golden light no more than a slight wash of colour around it now.

  Rashlyn was laughing maniacally. ‘It is you who dies, you fool. Am I so strong? Can you not fight me? I am the King of the Creatures, not you. I will rule them all. I can change them and bend them to my will.’ He shook his bony fist towards the animals who watched. ‘You will all hail me as your King. Look at the dragon now. He dies. I have vanquished him and I shall take all of his power and wield it as I will.’

  It was true. The King of the Creatures had rolled onto his side and was breathing so shallowly now that death was surely imminent.

  If Lothryn had not been mesmerised and moved by the boy’s courage, he would have closed Galapek’s eyes to avoid seeing the dragon die. But he could not do that. Instead he focused on Rashlyn and, because he was helplessly linked to him through the evil man’s filthy magic, he could feel the barshi summoning everything he had within. Curiously, Lothryn himself felt stronger than ever. He was truly himself again inside this horse; no longer a shrunken spirit barely clinging to existence. The pain had diminished; his flesh no longer twitched and trembled. The enchantment was waning as Rashlyn gathered all of his power to hurl at the dying dragon.

  ‘Finish it!’ the animals heard their King whisper. Fynch’s words were met by a hysterical cackle from Rashlyn.

  The barshi unleashed a primeval howl and launched every ounce of magic he possessed towards the dragon. The animals who had gathered to pay homage bore witness as Fynch, King of the Creatures, rolled back onto his clawed feet again in a last defiant show of strength and will. He too loosed a roar — a death roar — which every creature felt rattle through its chest, and he accepted the powerful killing spell, magically dragging it towards him… except when he had absorbed the spell he did not stop. He went on, sucking hard at the barshi whose twisted face of triumph turned to surprise. He was no longer giving his magic, it was being stolen from him, pulled in a great and dirty arc into his opponent.

  I take it all from you, Rashlyn, were the dragon’s final words.

  Lothryn and Kestrel watched in awed silence as Fynch, howling with anger, dragged the very essence of the barshi’s being into himself and consumed it in golden fire. The brilliant light pulsed brightly around the dragon before extinguishing itself.

  The King of the Creatures fell and appeared to be consumed by himself, reducing in size and stature until, where the mighty dragon had stood so proudly just hours earlier, the tiny shape of a boy lay curled tightly into himself on the forest floor.

  Each creature present cried out in sympathy and then, as if on a given signal, all but the ekons began to move towards the child, who looked as though he was sleeping. One by one they nuzzled or sniffed the tiny body, each whining softly in thanks for the sacrifice that had been given to preserve their lives and their ways.

  In Briavel, Knave threw back his head and howled; a sound to chill the souls who stood nearby. He did it again and again and Wyl knew the black dog was grieving for Fynch.

  He lowered King Cailech’s head in grief. ‘Fynch is dead,’ he said to Aremys, and the mercenary knew better than to offer hollow words of comfort.

  A man staggered between the trees, his body burned and shrivelled, his hair flaming. His tangled beard was a blackened mass and patches of charred flesh ate at his face. His eyes were unseeing, scorched black, and he moaned, arms outstretched as he blindly felt his way. He was a mere husk of who he had once been. He began to scream and his empty cries echoed off the mountain peaks and returned to taunt him.

  ‘Yes, scream, you evil bastard,’ a voice said.

  Lothryn looked around, wondering which of the animals had spoken aloud, but it was no animal who mocked Rashlyn. Beside the stallion stood a man; a tall, ha
ndsome older man with silver grey shot through his hair and the same silver glint in his short beard.

  ‘Who speaks?’ shrieked Rashlyn, swinging around in the direction of the voice.

  ‘It is Gueryn le Gant.’

  ‘The dog?’ Rashlyn whispered, awed.

  ‘The man,’ Gueryn said, and it sounded like a threat. ‘You have no more magic, Rashlyn. You cannot bind me and so I am freed.’ He looked at the horse, sorrow knifing through him. ‘I see his magic was not used in such sophistication on you, my friend. You remain entrapped.’

  Having felt his spirit soar with untold joy at seeing Gueryn whole, Lothryn experienced the sickening fall of disappointment at realising that he, of course, remained as Galapek. He turned his great head towards the man but could no longer communicate with him by sending thoughts.

  Gueryn lifted his finger to his lips to calm Lothryn. ‘We will find a way,’ he whispered to the horse, knowing the man inside could hear.

  ‘How did this happen?’ yelled Rashlyn, his voice trembling. ‘You were stabbed, dead.’

  ‘The other dog, Knave, healed me. He licked each of my wounds and sealed them with his own magic. He sensed I would be returned if you lost your power.’

  ‘Lost my power,’ the barshi echoed, as if he had not registered the change.

  Gueryn advanced on the wild man. He could smell the charred flesh and took great pleasure in noticing injuries which would normally turn his gut. ‘Try your magic now,’ Gueryn taunted. ‘If you can.’

  Rashlyn screamed his despair as he discovered his loss.

  Gueryn laughed. ‘Fynch may not have had the desire to kill, but I do, Rashlyn,’ Gueryn said. ‘I do.’ He closed on the staggering man who was now walking in circles, arms outstretched. But then he looked up and had a far better idea. Most of the animals had scattered since the demise of their King, but one type of creature, the most intimidating, remained. They were gradually closing in on the three that remained in the clearing, but Gueryn could see their attention was focused on the charred man rather than himself and Galapek.