The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

‘Ah, a better idea,’ he said gleefully. ‘A fitting one, Rashlyn.’

  Spinning towards his voice, Rashlyn began to weep. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know what ekons look like?’

  The barshi fell to his knees and began to plead for mercy. Gueryn laughed, amazed at the man’s audacity. ‘Go to your god, Rashlyn, and I hope he burns you in eternal fire.’

  Gueryn bent down to the boy, not wasting time to check for a pulse or even whether he breathed. He lifted the tiny mass of limbs and cradled the child in his arms. Fynch’s head rolled against the soldier’s chest. Gueryn called to Galapek and rapidly hefted himself onto the stallion’s broad back, Fynch all but weightless in his arms, and bade the horse to get them out of there.

  Galapek’s powerful frame carried them swiftly from the grisly scene that unfolded in the clearing as two massive ekons descended on a screaming man who understood all too well, blind or not, that death had finally arrived. Only one creature remained to witness the barshi’s bloody end — a kestrel perched high in a tree’s branches.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  AREMYS FELT THAT COMING TO Werryl was a stupid idea. It was clear from what Wyl had said that Knave would prefer to be back in the Razors, and even Wyl’s good sense must surely be screaming at him to get as far away from Briavel as possible. And yet here they were, taking deep breaths to recover from travel by magic and preparing to waltz up to the Queen of Briavel and present King Cailech to her, sworn enemy of the southern realms and newly agreed partner-in-crime with the treacherous Morgravian monarch.

  ‘Do you think the Queen will start screaming like a banshee or do you imagine she’ll keep her composure and offer the Mountain King high tea?’ Aremys said sarcastically. ‘That is, if we make it past the hail of arrows.’

  ‘We’ll send Knave,’ Wyl said, smoothing back Cailech’s long golden hair. ‘How do I look?’

  Aremys laughed, harsh and brief. ‘Like the fucking King of the Razors.’

  ‘I meant,’ Wyl replied calmly, ‘am I untidy?’

  Aremys shook his head. ‘What does it matter? Let’s go, Wyl, and get this done with.’

  ‘Trust me, my friend. She will see us.’

  ‘And kill us,’ the mercenary growled.

  ‘Not with Knave leading us, she won’t. She trusts the dog more than me.’

  ‘Who is “me”, Wyl?’ Aremys asked angrily.

  ‘Romen,’ Wyl corrected. ‘You’re welcome to remain here,’ he offered, tiring of the Grenadyne’s bitterness even though he understood.

  ‘No, it’s always fun watching you die,’ Aremys cut back swiftly. He regretted it instantly as he watched pain sweep across Cailech’s face, the eyes darkening with barely contained sorrow. ‘Forgive me, Wyl,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ his friend said softly. ‘I just have to see her once more, Aremys, before I become Celimus and am forced to see her through his cruel eyes.’

  ‘How will it happen do you think? The Queen will turn you over to him… again?’

  ‘Probably,’ Wyl said, resigned to his fate. ‘Come, I hope she has not already left for Pearlis.’

  Valentyna was taking a late supper with Liryk. Conversation was hard won from her this night, just a day before their departure to Pearlis. She was trying, of that the commander was certain, but gradually her gaze had clouded and now she had withdrawn into her private, no doubt grim imaginings of life as Celimus’s Queen.

  Liryk wished he could spare her the sorrow she was feeling, but he thought of her father and imagined how proud Valor would be of his only child and the brilliant gift she was giving Briavel. The gift of peace.

  He watched her pushing food around her plate, her fork never once lifting any of it towards her mouth and the only sound in the room its clink against the porcelain. He watched sadly as she lifted her beautiful face to look at him, aware of his gaze.

  ‘Forgive me, Liryk.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive, your highness.’

  Valentyna smiled wanly. ‘My thoughts are elsewhere this eve — a bride’s prerogative, I think.’ She tried to widen the smile but failed. Tears welled instead. Liryk rushed to share with her his thought about her gift of peace to the realm. ‘Thank you, that’s really very lovely. I shall think on it as I make my wedding vows.’

  ‘But still you keep hoping something might save you from the marriage?’ he ventured.

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing can save me from this, Liryk.’

  They both started at the sound of a knock at the door.

  ‘Let me, your majesty,’ Liryk offered and rose to answer the messenger. He returned tight-lipped and frowning.

  ‘Important?’ she asked, presuming it was for him. ‘Don’t fret, you’re excused from my dazzling repartee this evening.’ He gazed at her, wishing he did not have to tell her anything, wishing they could leave for Pearlis tonight. ‘What is it? Not bad news, please… unless,’ she laughed harshly, ‘it’s to tell me that Celimus had died in an accident.’ She instantly apologised with her eyes, her demeanour suddenly contrite.

  ‘Far more intriguing, your highness. Knave is on the bridge.’

  She stood. ‘Knave’s back! Is Fynch with him?’

  ‘No, your majesty.’ Liryk’s hesitant tone snapped her to attention.

  ‘He’s not alone though, is he?’

  ‘He brings with him two men. One is Aremys Farrow.’

  Valentyna’s mouth dropped open. ‘The man Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy spoke of — the one brokering the peace treaty with the Mountain King?’

  Liryk nodded.

  ‘And who accompanies him?’ Valentyna asked, then frowned at Liryk’s silence. ‘Come on, Commander, the suspense is irritating.’

  Liryk wiped away the perspiration which had coated his forehead since the wide-eyed messenger had brought the news. ‘King Cailech of the Mountains, your majesty.’

  The silence that met his words felt as heavy as the dread in his own heart. He watched his Queen’s hand fly to her throat but, to her credit, she gave away nothing more than the initial shock. She visibly gathered her composure and turned towards the double windows, unlatched and threw them open, then stepped out onto the balcony.

  He joined her in looking down upon the famous Werryl Bridge where three figures stood, surrounded by soldiers. One was familiar; as if on cue, the dog raised his great dark head now and looked directly at Valentyna. Liryk considered it uncanny but Valentyna read it differently. She felt that penetrating gaze cross the substantial distance between them and pierce her heart. She had to stop herself clutching her breast, where an old ache, barely buried, resurfaced to taunt and frighten her.

  ‘He has brought him back to me,’ she whispered to herself as a notion, more insane than the thoughts of the lunatics they sent for safekeeping to the Isle of Maguria, hit her.

  ‘Beg your pardon, your majesty?’ Liryk said.

  Valentyna closed her eyes momentarily then calmly replied, ‘Bring them to my study.’

  ‘Your majesty, I don’t —’

  ‘Now, Liryk, please. Search them and remove their weapons. I’m sure you will organise an armed guard too?’

  ‘Yes, your highness.’

  She disappeared from the balcony, leaving Liryk to look down upon the strange trio once more.

  ‘Now what have you sent us, Shar, to disrupt her peace?’ he muttered.

  Valentyna splashed icy water on her face and took several deep, steadying breaths as she held the drying linen to her cheeks. She groaned. What was happening to her? Where had that strange and maddening notion come from?

  She raced through the various questions alarming her. How could Knave know the Mountain King? Why bring him here? How could they have come so far without encountering the Briavellian Guard? It was impossible, she realised. Unless they materialised out of thin air, she thought sarcastically. Two riders and a huge dog would not escape notice.

  Knave’s return inevitably reminded her of Fynch and she reca
lled his last conversation with her, when he had implied that the man she loved was not decaying in a tomb within the palace crypt. If I suggested this was simply a dead body and not really the Romen Koreldy you loved, what would you say? he had asked, shocking her. And she had replied that it would be cruel to say such a thing. Still he had tried, dear Fynch, to make her understand something which she could not believe, and yet now felt so deep in her heart. Although Romen’s corpse lies here before us, the man you knew — the man you loved, your highness — is not dead.

  And looking down at the trio on Werryl Bridge, she had felt as much, even though neither of the two men looked remotely like Romen. But if Fynch was right, and Romen was not dead, then what could possibly provide an explanation for such madness?

  ‘How in Shar’s name… unless…’ She hesitated to even say the word, but it hovered nevertheless on the tip of her tongue. Magic.

  ‘Magic,’ she said aloud, recalling Elspyth’s warning about being open to different ways of understanding. She had spoken of reincarnation and told her that love might return in the shape of another. Elspyth had been trying to convey a message; Valentyna had heard it in the urgency of her tone, her desperation to imply something important whilst not actually saying it. Elspyth had said that love might present itself as a woman even and Valentyna had laughed. Yet Ylena Thirsk had tried to give her love. Valentyna had rejected it, disgusted and upset that a woman would make such an approach to her. But that was no ordinary woman, was it, she thought to herself now, throwing down the linen and staring at her reflection in the mirror. If you were truthful to yourself, you would admit there was an attraction there. You could not explain it if you were asked to, but if your life depended on it you might whisper that Ylena behaved with you as a man would… as a particular man would.

  She watched helpless tears roll down her face as she permitted the truth of her thoughts to be unleashed for the first time. Ylena Thirsk walked and talked like a woman but acted like a man. Like Koreldy, damn it! She even had the same curious habit of pulling at her ear and pacing when in deep thought.

  Say it! she urged herself.

  ‘Like Romen,’ she whispered to the mirror. ‘She kissed me like Romen did.’

  But there was more — Fynch had connected Romen with Wyl Thirsk too. The boy had told her a long time ago that he believed Romen embodied General Wyl Thirsk, the red-headed, shy and courageous emissary from Morgravia who had saved her life and given his own in an attempt to save her father. Both her father and Wyl had died but somehow Romen had survived. Koreldy was a mercenary in the pay of King Celimus who had ordered the slaughter, so why did Romen then search out Ylena Thirsk, who was nothing to him? Thoughts clamoured and clashed in her head until she could no longer bear it.

  She heard a gentle tap at the door and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She looked tousled and unsure of herself but had no time to care about inconsequentials when the worst and most terrifying notion of all was threatening to overwhelm her.

  Fynch had told her that Knave responded to no one but those whom Wyl Thirsk loved. Wyl hardly cared for Romen Koreldy or King Cailech or indeed Aremys Farrow, another stranger. And yet the dog had effectively brought all three of these men to her. Why… if they weren’t connected to Wyl?

  Valentyna dug deep and found enough strength to call out, ‘Enter.’ Even so, she was not ready emotionally for the two strapping men who stepped into the room behind Commander Liryk, both towering over him. Knave pushed around their legs and bounded towards her.

  Tears came to her eyes at the sight of King Cailech, and the unshakeable, inexplicable feeling that she was once again in the presence of Romen Koreldy. She pretended they were for the dog and bent to pat his head and then hugged him fiercely, whispering, ‘Thank you’, although she was not sure why.

  The rattle of her guard’s weapons as the door closed behind her visitors reminded her who she was and where she was. Valentyna straightened, ignoring her wet cheeks, and raised her eyes to meet the warm, dark eyes of Aremys Farrow and the cool yet somehow burning gaze of the Mountain King who was staring at her hungrily.

  ‘Gentlemen, forgive me. As you can see, I am overwhelmed to see my friend Knave again,’ she said, amazed that her voice sounded so steady.

  ‘Your majesty,’ King Cailech said, bowing low, ‘the apology is all ours for disturbing you at this hour.’

  Valentyna felt a thrill tingle through her body at the warmth in his tone. His voice was as deep as she had expected, yet also layered with humour and something else… affection, she thought fancifully. She curtsied, paying due respect to a King. ‘I’m not sure how we should greet you, your highness. This is altogether unusual, as I’m sure you can imagine,’ and she saw those light green eyes sparkle with amusement at her understatement. ‘You must be Aremys Farrow,’ she continued, turning to the bear of a man who stood awkwardly beside the King. She stepped forward and extended her hand. ‘I have heard about you from Lady Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy.’

  Aremys took her hand and kissed it. ‘Your highness,’ he said, wanting to say a dozen other things but resisting the urge.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘are you hungry?’ Both men shook their heads. ‘A drink then, of my father’s finest wine. I cannot imagine the tale I am about to hear about how two men of the Razors — one a King, no less — covered hundreds of leagues of my realm without a single guard spotting them.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Farrow muttered.

  ‘Valentyna.’

  Something in the way Cailech said her name made her heart leap in her breast.

  ‘Yes, Cailech?’ she responded, and they both smiled at the sudden lack of formality.

  ‘May we speak as sovereigns… in private?’

  She noted how Aremys Farrow glared towards the King. It was an odd reaction, unless theirs was a friendship that extended beyond that of monarch and bodyguard.

  ‘Of course,’ she offered, glancing towards Liryk who looked astounded at the suggestion.

  ‘Your highness,’ he began, determined that she not be left alone with this man.

  Valentyna held a hand in the air to stop her commander, knowing precisely his concerns but somehow not at all daunted by the supposed enemy in their camp. ‘Can we trust you, King Cailech?’ she said.

  ‘Far more than you can your husband-to-be, Queen Valentyna,’ he responded, and Valentyna saw Liryk close his eyes with despair at the King’s inflammatory words.

  Aremys was fuming as Commander Liryk escorted him from the room. If he had had a knife in his hand he felt sure he would have happily plunged it into Cailech’s chest himself, out of sheer frustration. Nevertheless, he could not blame his friend. Ever since a treacherous King had sent him on a mission of death, Wyl had known nothing but violence and despair, frustration and sorrow — save a few days in Briavel, as Romen, when he wooed a Queen.

  And here he is doing it again, he thought, not realising he had voiced that thought.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Liryk said. He looked as angry as Aremys felt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Commander, it’s been a long journey,’ the mercenary said. He noticed the man’s eyes widen in further wrath.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to talk to you about that, Master Farrow.’

  Aremys sighed. He did not want to discuss it, had no idea how to explain their mysterious arrival. ‘Actually, first I need to relieve my bowels,’ he said, knowing this remark would throw off even the most persistent pursuer. ‘Also, I am famished and I need to bathe and rest. Then I shall attempt to answer all of your questions, I promise. But please remember, I am only a bodyguard to my King. A foot soldier if you will. It would be best if you saved your wrath for him.’

  And with that, Aremys Farrow took himself off in the direction Commander Liryk, filled with surprise at the rebuttal, pointed. Aremys just hoped Wyl had some plan to get them out of here as easily.

  Valentyna, self-conscious and uncharacteristically blushing, showed the tall Mountain King towards the com
fy sofas in her study. The room had once been her father’s but was now very clearly her own. Wyl noticed the Valentyna-esque touches around the room: a painting of horses being led out of a stable, flowers in vases on various surfaces and the unmistakable fragrance of lavender being crushed underfoot.

  ‘Are you cold, sire?’ she asked, then her face fell as he smirked. ‘Ah yes, how silly of me, I hear your people don’t feel the cold.’

  He shook his head gently. ‘I’m sorry. By all means, let us sit by your fire.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m afraid I do hate to be cold,’ she admitted, ‘although I must give it away soon. Each eve is milder than the next these days.’

  ‘Which means summer is beckoning,’ he reminded, and she did not miss what was left unspoken.

  ‘Is that why you are here?’

  ‘Yes. This is a most pleasant room.’

  ‘Thank you. Is Farrow your friend?’

  He grinned at the odd question. ‘As a matter of fact he is.’

  ‘Which would explain his fury at being asked to leave?’

  He nodded. ‘No doubt, although he has no right to feel that way.’

  ‘Indeed, sire. I hear that you don’t treat your friends all that well,’ she baited, handing him a cup of wine.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you refer to, Valentyna.’ He feigned confusion.

  ‘I refer to Lothryn, your second in command, your closest friend. The man you murdered.’

  ‘He is not dead,’ Wyl answered simply, glad for the banter as he began to wonder why in Shar’s name he had come here. How would he explain any of this to her? What could he possibly say — other than that he worshipped her — which would make her listen to him and not order the courier to be sent to Morgravia this night?

  ‘Not dead?’ she spluttered. ‘But Elspyth told me —’

  ‘Elspyth is wrong, your highness. I have left Lothryn alive in the Razors.’

  Valentyna knew that there was no love lost between Cailech and Elspyth and that, given the chance, he would have her killed. But every fibre of her being screamed at her that this man was an impostor, in the same curious way Ylena Thirsk had seemed to embody someone else, and she decided to test him. ‘Elspyth may never live to hear that good news, my lord.’