The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Jessom smiled thinly. He was curious to hear the bargain this imprisoned, doomed King could offer. The Chancellor stepped closer but drew his blade to show the man of the mountains that he was not naive. He would shake hands but he would be cautious too.

  ‘No need for that, Jessom. I have no intention of anything but sealing our bargain.’

  Palm met palm and Cailech’s fingers closed around Jessom’s hand. The King was smiling and there was something unnerving in that predatory expression. The Chancellor baulked, tried to release himself from Cailech’s grip, but it was too late. A shimmering blue light flowed around their hands. A seal.

  FORTY

  VALENTYNA STOOD FORLORNLY in a grand chamber at Stoneheart, her own heart feeling as cold as the dark stone surrounding her. Madam Eltor had permitted only her most senior and trusted assistant to help her dress the Queen. Valentyna sensed rather than saw the surreptitious glances between the two older women as they took in her grief-stricken expression.

  ‘Come now, my Queen,’ her seamstress tried once more. ‘Please don’t stain your face with tears.’

  ‘There are no more tears left within me,’ Valentyna replied.

  ‘This is your wedding day, your highness. The happiest day ever for the people of Briavel and Morgravia,’ the assistant risked.

  ‘Not for me though,’ she replied, not caring that it provoked a raising of the assistant’s eyebrow and a stern gaze from her superior.

  The women had worked fast and fluidly. Valentyna was already stitched into her gown, although Madam Eltor had tut-tutted, warning. ‘You’ve lost weight, my girl. This was perfect last week.’

  Valentyna just shook her head. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘That will be all, Maud,’ Madam Eltor said, dismissing her assistant. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you that what is discussed in our presence always remains private.’

  Maud curtsied and left hurriedly, the news no doubt already spilling out of her that the Queen went to her wedding as full of grief as when she had attended her father’s funeral. ‘Valentyna!’ the seamstress snapped. ‘Stop this!’

  ‘I don’t love him,’ she said, balling her fists and closing her eyes, trying to get a grip on her spiralling emotions.

  ‘We don’t care!’ Madam Eltor replied, deciding that harshness was the only solution now. ‘He brings our peace. I regret that you are the currency we buy it with, your highness, but it is too late now.’

  Valentyna was stung. ‘Yes. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.’

  The seamstress wished she could take back the brutal words, but Valentyna’s whole attitude to this marriage was wrong. There was no way out so she needed to straighten her shoulders, lift her head high and act like the Queen she was.

  ‘Be stout of heart, Valentyna. You are Briavel’s jewel. The brightest jewel now in Morgravia’s crown — do not forget this. Imagine how proud you would make your father today.’

  ‘Yes, by marrying the man who murdered him,’ Valentyna muttered.

  Her companion gave a gasp of shock and Valentyna realised that hurting Madam Eltor achieved nothing. The truth of Valor’s demise did not change the fact of his death or her decision to marry Celimus. She hated the way she veered between courage and weakness: one moment she felt sure she could make the marriage work, would bear his children, would make Briavel safe and prosperous. The next, she plunged into gloom, remembering a passionate hour or so in the arms of King Cailech. How could she wipe that from her thoughts? How could she lie with Celimus this evening and not feel anything but revulsion?

  Because you must, she told herself in a small, urgent voice. Because Briavel’s future rests upon it.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she reassured her seamstress. ‘My nerves are jangling. I’ll be fine once we leave for the cathedral, I promise. Put the veil on.’

  Madam Eltor did not believe her but she obediently followed her Queen’s instructions. She draped the exquisite veil over Valentyna’s head and face, primped it a little, then stepped back to admire her work. ‘You are breathtaking, your majesty. The Morgravians will fall in love with you instantly.’

  Valentyna found a small smile for her lifetime friend. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  Celimus had ordered a glistening white carriage to convey his bride to the cathedral. It sported the new device linking Morgravia and Briavel: the intertwined initials of the King and Queen painted in their national colours. Four stunning white horses, imported from Grenadyne, pulled the carriage. Accompanying the Queen were members of the Briavellian Guard, beautifully outfitted in emerald and violet. A proud Commander Liryk waited, as did all the crowd, for their first glimpse of the Queen.

  As if Shar himself had ordained it, the sun appeared from behind a cloud and bathed the main square of Stoneheart in a dazzling golden light. People screamed their delight as the Queen appeared on the steps of Stoneheart’s main entrance in that same moment.

  Trumpets sounded above the din and, without a male family member to do the honours, it was left to Commander Liryk to walk stiff and proud up those stairs to escort her. He bowed low before her, as did all gathered.

  Valentyna was moved. A lump formed in her throat and she recalled the similar tumultuous welcome she had been given on her arrival into Pearlis. It had been a deafening, exhausting couple of hours making their way through the cheering city. Everyone had seemed to be holding squares of linen in the colours crimson, black, emerald and violet. They were waving them hysterically now, creating a sea of moving colour that mingled the two realms more effectively than any other device could.

  She curtsied low and long to the people. The gracious acknowledgement drove them into even wilder applause. Liryk smiled into her eyes hidden behind the veil. ‘You are already their Queen,’ he said, his breath catching.

  Valentyna thought she might cry again. ‘I hope my father is watching,’ she managed to say.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘He will be cheering alongside your beautiful mother, both of them so proud.’

  ‘Thank you, Liryk, for all you have done for me. I’m sorry I have been difficult in recent times.’

  ‘Your highness,’ he said with genuine reverence, ‘I am your servant.’

  Valentyna was warmed by the sentiment of her commander and the pride his words evoked within her. She could do this. She would win their hearts and become Morgravia’s Queen and somehow… somehow, she would work out how to exist alongside Celimus without fracturing the peace their two realms considered so very precious.

  ‘Come, Liryk. Lead me to my husband.’

  Wyl could hear delirious cheering as he was led out of the dungeons into a courtyard he had never seen before. The people of Morgravia were clearly delighted at the prospect of a new Queen.

  ‘Has the Queen left the palace?’ he asked one of the senior soldiers, a man he recognised.

  ‘I think so,’ the man answered, embarrassed by his task. This was a King, after all, and they had been led to believe a peace agreement had been made with the Mountain Dwellers.

  ‘And where do you take me now?’

  The man hesitated and checked the manacles were secure on their prisoner. ‘We have orders to move you, King Cailech.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question, soldier,’ Wyl insisted. ‘I asked where.’

  To his credit, the soldier looked directly into the hard eyes of the Mountain King. ‘To the block, sire.’

  Wyl sighed. ‘I see.’ Celimus was wasting no time in executing his northern rival. He wondered if the cruel sovereign would force Valentyna to witness the death. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew in his heart that Celimus would revel in the notion of making her watch. And she would have no choice. Executions were something royalty had to face whether they had a stomach for it or not. Perhaps days ago the victim might not have mattered to Valentyna. But now she would not be watching a stranger die; she would be watching the head of the man she loved be severed and lifted in triumph above his sl
umped corpse. He hated to think about how this would hurt her very soul, and did not want to ponder how she would respond to his transference into Celimus. He did not have to dwell on that, however, for he had no intention of remaining so. No matter how much anyone argued that it was Wyl Thirsk inside, he could not, would not, live as King Celimus.

  Wyl heard the crowd cheer again and wondered how the Queen of Briavel must look today. Serene, he decided; she would rise above her sorrow and do her realm justice. Her gown would be simple with little if any adornment, as was her way. He imagined she would wear her raven hair loose, and smiled sadly to think how the bridal veil would be a welcome sheath between her and the reality of her situation, a barrier between herself and Celimus. But not for long. Once their vows were exchanged, the King would claim a kiss to seal the holy pact made before Shar. Celimus would then raise that veil and tear away Valentyna’s last protection. She would feel suddenly naked but she would find a smile to cover her despair and, in spite of her sadness, be the most beautiful bride for Celimus.

  Wyl could not help but recall how he had fallen in love with Valentyna at first sight. Dusty and dressed in riding breeches, she had smudges on her cheeks and her hair was falling about her face; she had reeked of horse and leather. Yet it had been his pleasure to kiss her hand and his heart’s desire to ask for it in marriage himself, rather than petition her father on behalf of another. A smile had broken across her face like new sunlight; he had bathed in its warmth and his heart became instantly hers.

  But that was over now. The struggle to save her from Celimus was done with. Above the roar of the crowd he could hear the cathedral bells pealing, heralding the impending marriage. Soon she would be the Morgravian Queen, married to his enemy, and he himself would be past caring about.

  Wyl felt sickened. He stumbled slightly and the soldier walking by his side instinctively threw out a steadying hand. ‘I’m not used to being in chains,’ Wyl lamented. The man nodded, clearly awkward about his role.

  And so I move between Kings today, Wyl thought; it was his greatest sorrow in this sad life of his. He had let his father down. He had not lived out the great Thirsk tradition and fought to the death on a battlefield; instead he succumbed to death enmeshed in a battle of magic he could not win. He was nothing more than an unwilling puppet, chosen because of his connection to Celimus.

  ‘Wait.’ Wyl stopped as a new notion occurred to him. ‘The King will be present, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Relief flooded him. ‘Good. I want him to share my death,’ he said, and surprised the Legionnaires around him by smiling fiercely.

  Wyl realised he had been brought to the rarely used courtyard through which he had escaped with Ylena a lifetime ago — or so it seemed. It was sparsely guarded but he was not going anywhere anyway. This was it. He wanted Myrren’s gift to be done with him. It struck him as odd that Celimus had not organised to display the Mountain King to the people of Pearlis and proclaim his treachery. But perhaps the notion of a public execution hard on the heels of the first royal wedding in decades was too vulgar even for Celimus’s sick mind.

  Aremys arrived only hours before the wedding procession, exhausted and dirty but relieved that he had made it into Pearlis in time. To those at the front of the sea of people, it was despicable that this huge bear of a man, who had got to the cathedral long after they had, used his strength to bullock his way to the front. One man risked hurling his displeasure at the bear who simply turned and scowled at him through dark, hooded eyes. ‘Shut up!’ was his reply and all within earshot did just that.

  Valentyna caught her breath at the first sight of the famed Cathedral of Pearlis. Its grandeur had a powerful impact. Bells were pealing and heralds trumpeted her arrival into its grounds. She tried to imagine what Celimus was feeling inside the cathedral. Satisfaction, she decided. He had won. It seemed he always did where she was concerned.

  Meanwhile, inside the hushed cathedral, King Celimus took the nod from Jessom that the Queen’s carriage was pulling into the compound. He stood and conferred with the man, who looked more thin and vulture-like than he had ever seen him. Celimus had heard the whispered jokes about his Chancellor’s likeness to a carrion bird. It was actually a very good description, particularly today, he thought, wondering what was passing through Jessom’s sharp and slippery mind. He did not trust him as much as he once had. There was defiance lurking behind that well-guarded facade. The King was not fooled: Jessom would switch allegiance in a blink if he thought the cards were going to fall the wrong way. And Celimus had begun to believe that his Chancellor might be considering his future quite carefully.

  Jessom’s fierce disagreement with the King’s latest idea regarding King Cailech’s execution had further fuelled Celimus’s mistrust. Where did the Chancellor’s interest lie that he would advise so strongly against taking the Mountain King’s life?

  ‘Is everything ready?’ he whispered now.

  ‘Her majesty arrives, sire, yes,’ Jessom confirmed.

  ‘Not her, you fool. Cailech!’

  Jessom nodded in that slow, reptilian manner of his. ‘As you ordered, sire.’

  ‘Good. Now get out of my way, you’re blocking the view of my latest conquest. This is a good day, Jessom. A very good day. Two monarchs brought to their knees before me.’

  He laughed quietly, straightening the front of his black jacket. He knew he was resplendent in a dashing outfit of crimson and noir with flashes of gold and a cape of the blackest yarn lined with the fiery red of Morgravia. He was looking forward to claiming Valentyna’s maidenhood tonight and did not plan on being gentle about it either. A husband must impress on his wife that he was in charge. He would dominate her with his strength and his prowess as a lover.

  Aremys watched with a heavy heart as Queen Valentyna alighted from the carriage, aided by Commander Liryk. He had mixed feelings for the Briavellian who had helped him escape whilst at the same time aiding in the capture and imprisonment of King Cailech.

  The Grenadyne presumed Wyl was already cooling his heels in Stoneheart’s dungeons. During the frenzied dash from Werryl to Pearlis, he had been comforted by a sort of peace he found in his fatalistic capacity to accept events and worry only about aspects he could personally influence. His focus had been on getting to the capital and finding a way to help Wyl rather than dwelling on what had already occurred.

  The promise he had made to Wyl burned brightly in his mind now. Would he be able to do it? Could he murder his closest friend in the land? He had watched this man’s strange journey through three lives and had come to love him in the same way that King Cailech had once described his feelings for Lothryn: brotherhood, friendship, loyalty. Aremys felt all of this for Wyl, coupled with an intense sorrow for his suffering, but he was not sure whether he could find the courage to kill the man he loved as his brother, even out of kindness.

  Aremys had worked hard to understand the depth of Wyl’s pain and how he could never live as Celimus. But he could not grasp how anyone could choose death over life. If only Wyl could see how good his new life could be as King of Morgravia, living alongside the very woman he had loved for so long. Surely that was worth wearing the skin of the enemy?

  Not for Wyl, it seemed. He was true to himself and he demanded death.

  Aremys pulled himself out of his dark thoughts and watched Valentyna approach. She looked more beautiful than he could ever have imagined, gliding alongside Commander Liryk, smiling softly to the crowd and carrying herself proud and erect. As she passed, and the cheering around him increased to its highest volume, he roared her name, not really expecting her to hear. Amazingly, she did, swinging around towards his voice.

  When she saw him she faltered. ‘Aremys,’ she mouthed as she passed and he lifted a hand in greeting. They were both thinking the same thing: Wyl. When she cast a last glance over her shoulder, looking at him through her veil, he nodded his encouragement as if to say: You can do this. Be strong.

  And then she
was gone in a fanfare of trumpets, through the massive double doors of the cathedral, which swallowed her into its dark depths and an uncertain future.

  Crys Donal had seen the bride too, but had not been able to make eye contact with her — not that she would have recognised him easily if he had. His yellow hair was now a deep brown and he sported a beard and moustache, also darkened. Gone were the fine clothes, replaced with the uniform of a Legionnaire. He blended into the crowd perfectly and, as neither King Celimus nor those he kept close knew Crys Donal by sight, he felt relatively secure.

  He used his height and newly assumed status to shoulder his way through the crowd towards the cathedral. As a Legionnaire it was acceptable for him to be seen crossing the unmarked line that separated onlookers from the participants, particularly when an officer hailed him.

  ‘Soldier, are you on duty?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Crys answered crisply. ‘Just part of the cheering crowd.’

  ‘Well, you’re back on as of now. Get down to the cathedral’s entrance and move that mob back. The happy couple won’t be able to get out of the church if we don’t create space for the carriage to come through.’

  ‘Understood, sir. Right away.’

  ‘Good lad,’ the officer said and moved on.

  Crys was able to jog down the street in front of yet another sparkling new carriage designed for this special day. Black with crimson flourishes, it bore the King’s personal device and its gold dragons glinted in the sunlight whilst bunting in emerald and violet flickered in the spring breeze.

  Other soldiers had been sent in as well so Crys simply joined them in pushing back the happy mob.

  ‘If you tread on my foot again, I’ll rip that beard off your chin, sonny,’ one big fellow said.

  ‘Hello, Aremys,’ Crys murmured and won the shocked gasp he had expected. ‘It’s Crys, or perhaps I should say carving knife? I’m not sure any more.’