The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Aremys grinned in spite of his bleak mood. ‘What are you blathering about, Donal?’ he said quietly. ‘Good to see you.’

  Crys looked around to see that no one was watching them. Not only could no one hear, but no one cared. The mood was festive and fun-filled. All the people wanted was their new Queen and they chanted her name ceaselessly.

  ‘The King won’t care for that much,’ Aremys commented.

  ‘He’ll have to get used to it. It’s her they’ve turned out in their thousands to see.’

  ‘Crys, I heard about your family. Shar, I’m so sorry, lad. I wish —’

  ‘I know,’ Crys said softly. ‘Everyone does.’

  Aremys nodded. ‘Where’s Elspyth?’ he asked to change the subject, then wished he had not when he saw how the youngster’s face darkened.

  ‘Come with me,’ Crys said. ‘They’ll be an age yet and we need to talk.’

  He dragged Aremys out of the crowd and away from the main entry of the cathedral. They found a slightly quieter spot around the back. Crys told him everything but saved the worst until last. ‘A new infection has her in its grip. She seemed all right for a while and I assumed she would recover after the physic in Pearlis pronounced her wounds in good shape, but the trip to Argorn was so hard for her. By the time we got there, she was feverish again and high-coloured.’

  ‘Why did you leave her?’

  ‘Knave arrived — you know, that strange dog of Wyl’s?’ Aremys nodded. ‘Out of the blue, just walks into Argorn Manor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Elspyth rallied slightly at seeing him; she obviously understood better than I that he had come for us. Don’t ask me how he knew where we were.’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Aremys said. ‘It goes hand in hand with the Quickening and magic.’ He grimaced at the news of pretty Elspyth’s sickness. ‘Is she under good care?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. She had to stay in Argorn, of course, no chance of more travel. Another physic has seen her, but you know, Aremys, it’s a bit like she’s given up on herself, as though she doesn’t want to fight any more. It was so nasty what she went through.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘I just think she’s accepting death.’

  ‘Go back there then. Make her fight!’

  Crys shook his head. ‘No, I’m no good for her. It’s tricky — there are two other women there. Lady Bench and her daughter, Georgyana. The daughter is… well, she’s lovely, and…’

  ‘And what?’ Aremys quizzed.

  ‘Shar, you can be as dense as you look sometimes, Farrow. I like her and she likes me. I think that makes it worse for Elspyth because she’s so in love with Lothryn, as you know, and it must hurt her to see us falling for one another.’

  ‘It can’t kill her, surely?’ the big man growled.

  ‘No, but that infection might, especially when she denies herself food, fights the medication, can’t sleep — won’t even try. She talks about leaving to find Lothryn, weeps that he’s in pain, that he’s been changed somehow.’ Crys ran his hands through his dark hair. ‘But she was lucid when Knave arrived. She seemed to know that he wanted us to go with him. I’m ashamed to say we had to tie her to the bed to stop her from trying to accompany us.’

  ‘She’s no good to anyone here,’ Aremys said gravely.

  ‘I’m not sure any of us are any good here. She wept when I left, said we’d never see each other again. It’s left me hollow, I can tell you.’

  ‘You’re sure the women are safe there?’

  ‘No one knows they’re there, and Argorn has sealed its collective mouth you could say, having heard our story. What about your story — what’s happened since we parted? Where is Wyl? More to the point, who is Wyl?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you he is currently King Cailech?’

  It was Crys’s turn for disbelief. Aremys told him the whole story.

  ‘So he’s here right now? That’s why Knave came for us.’

  ‘In the dungeon. I have no idea what’s planned for him, though.’

  The Duke of Felrawthy turned ashen. ‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘Hurry, we must get to the dungeon. But first we need to disguise you as a Legionnaire.’

  FORTY-ONE

  THE NEWLYWEDS EMERGED onto Stoneheart’s largest balcony, known as the wedding balcony because so many Morgravian Kings had stepped out there with their new Queens to present them to the people.

  Valentyna’s heart was pounding yet she felt numb. It was done. The ceremony within the cathedral had dragged but she had spoken clearly when asked to take her vows, had even found a smile for the despised man beside her as she uttered the words which bound her to him for life.

  Their exit fom the cathedral into the sunshine had provoked a rapturous noise she had not imagined was possible. As the royal couple walked to their new carriage, its dominant colours not lost on Valentyna, she had been showered with rose petals from blooms especially cultivated beneath glass. Their pastel colours joined the fresh whites of spring flowers. Underfoot, just before her, she had noticed a spray of lavender land; it was so out of keeping with the roses and so dear to her heart that Valentyna had turned towards the man who threw it. The Legionnaire had grinned, and she had suddenly recognised the Duke of Felrawthy despite his disguise.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, but much as she wanted to bend and pick up the purple heads of her favourite flower, she had not wished to draw the King’s attention to it. He was far too sharp not to wonder who had thought to throw lavender to the new Queen. She had stepped on it instead, crushing the heads and releasing their fragrance to enjoy briefly before Celimus had helped her into the carriage.

  The noise had been deafening as they had made their slow way back towards the castle. Valentyna had searched for Aremys or Crys but had not seen either again. Inside the carriage the time seemed right, so she had reached inside the small cream velvet pouch she carried.

  ‘This, my lord, is for you,’ she had said in the sweetest voice she could muster, knowing she had to preserve this fragile bond they had formed.

  Celimus had looked puzzled as he took the small, exquisitely lacquered box. She knew he was captivated by the way his mouth opened as he saw the gift inside.

  ‘It is a lovely ring, Valentyna,’ he had whispered and kissed her, much to the people’s joy. ‘Will you put it on me?’

  She did so. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘I will wear it always. I have something for you too,’ he replied. ‘It’s being readied for you now.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A special surprise,’ he had promised and turned away to wave to the crowd.

  And now she found herself waving from the wedding balcony to the sea of people below who had crowded into the main square before the castle.

  ‘They are so proud of you, my lord,’ she leaned close to say above the din. She hated her obsequiousness.

  ‘And they love you. I knew they would. You are very good for me,’ he replied. She knew he did not mean it as a romantic compliment. Celimus meant it literally: Valentyna made him look better; she was good for his image.

  There was truly no hope for them, she thought. She envisaged herself struggling for a lifetime to be a sugary-sweet doormat just to keep the peace between them. She could not do it. Just maintaining the delicate truce, forged by her careful words on their journey into Morgravia, was destroying her soul. She hated him. And tonight she was expected to respond passionately between the sheets with him. As she gazed across the ocean of smiling faces, Valentyna felt she would rather die than have Celimus touch her intimately.

  It seemed he had the same scene on his mind. ‘Tonight,’ he began, ‘when all the formalities are done with and we are finally in bed, I mean to teach you something.’

  Valentyna tried but failed to sound seductive or indeed even interested. ‘That sounds rather intriguing, my lord. What can you mean?’

  ‘I mean to teach you that I am not someone to be trifled with.’

  Valentyna felt her
body chill. He meant to hurt her. ‘I don’t understand, my lord.’ She tried for levity in her voice.

  ‘I will teach you how the King of Morgravia expects his Queen to behave.’

  ‘Have I disappointed you during the marriage proceedings?’ she asked, all other sounds now fading to the background as she focused on his voice alone.

  ‘You lied to me, barefaced and at a particularly poignant moment. I am hurt by this.’

  She could not imagine Celimus being emotionally hurt by anything, least of all words. ‘You will have to explain this to me, Celimus,’ Valentyna said, more firmly now, her mind racing as to which particular lie he might be referring to.

  ‘Cailech denied your story to me in person last night. Of course I had hoped it was true, hoped I was the one who had jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

  Something in Valentyna died. She felt as though the tiny candle which had burned inside her, had supported her through the wedding, had been snuffed out. Her love for Wyl Thirsk and the secret they shared was that tiny flame but he had blown it out by refusing her gift of life. ‘I…’ She struggled to form a response.

  ‘Now,’ Celimus began brightly, waving to the people and encouraging her to do the same, ‘I forgive you this misdemeanour. You have behaved perfectly since our arrival at Pearlis. I believe that you did not invite Cailech to Werryl, nor did you know of his arrival there or his intention to stir up war using Briavel as an ally. My belief is that you lied to save further bloodshed; you hoped to preserve the peace between the three realms. And I am delighted by the wedding gift you have given me. So I forgive you. But you will learn an important lesson tonight.’

  Valentyna began to say something but he hushed her with his hateful hand against her mouth, which he replaced quickly with his own lips, much to the crowd’s delight and her disgust.

  ‘Hush, my love, take your medicine and be pleased it’s not harsher. I appreciate that you are a virgin, though I cannot promise to be as gentle as I might have been a few days ago. So wave farewell to your people now and let me cheer you with my own special wedding gift as promised.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘Hush. I shall wait whilst you change. I want you to wear crimson, the colour of Morgravia.’

  Aremys followed Crys blindly as they made their way to the Legionnaires’ barracks. Stoneheart was like a town in itself — a maze of streets and openings, corridors and courtyards. When they finally reached their destination, the barracks were virtually deserted. Everyone was either on duty at the wedding or joining in the celebrations. Crys was able to sneak into the provisions office and take the biggest-sized uniform he could find.

  ‘I have no idea if this will fit,’ he said, returning to the small outbuilding where he had left Aremys, ‘but it’s genuine Legionnaire so it should do the trick and get you past security. Everyone’s so preoccupied anyway — they’ll see the crimson and black and no questions will be asked. Let’s face it, it’s likely none of the guards on duty around Cailech are going to be proper Legionnaires anyway — they’re probably all mercenary impostors.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Aremys grumbled. ‘I’m sensing we have to get into the dungeon, right?’ Crys nodded grimly. ‘Don’t you think it will be heavily guarded, no strangers permitted?’

  ‘We’re not strangers. We’re guards.’

  Aremys did not have the heart to argue. ‘Lead on,’ he said.

  At the dungeon Crys discovered that the royal prisoner had been moved.

  ‘We’ve been sent along to make up extra numbers. King’s orders, apparently,’ Crys said to the officer there, trying his best to sound as uninterested as possible. ‘Who is the prisoner, anyway?’

  The man ignored him. ‘Who sent you?’

  Fortunately Crys knew the senior officers and captains of the Legion. ‘Captain Berryn.’ He was one of the more aggressive captains and Crys was sure the name would have the right effect.

  The man’s tone changed in an instant. ‘All right, how many of you?’

  ‘There’s two of us but I don’t know how many others he is sending. We were told to report to you here,’ he lied, almost feeling sorry for the confused officer before him.

  ‘Why can’t they send a runner and inform us of what they want? I’ll tell you, it was different in the days when the Thirsks ran this outfit.’

  Crys shrugged, pretending he was too young to know.

  ‘Get your companion and follow me. I’m on my way there now. And listen, sonny, this is no sideshow, all right? Today we execute a King and you will behave with due respect. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Crys said, straightening himself, glad to know the act had worked. ‘I’ll fetch Farrow, sir.’

  Crys and Aremys remained silent as they walked a few steps behind the officer. The man was so preoccupied with what was ahead that he ignored them totally anyway.

  They arrived at the courtyard, at almost the same time as the King and new Queen entered, but both had eyes only for the prisoner.

  ‘Cover up, you know the drill,’ the officer said, handing them black hoods from a small sack he carried. He left immediately to confer with one of the captains on the other side of the courtyard.

  Crys explained the hood to Aremys in a low whisper. ‘An old custom dating back to the first persecution of witches and sorcerers. It was held that empowered people had to see a person to cast a spell against them. So the mask was introduced to ensure that anyone present at an execution was impervious to their magic. The tradition died out over the centuries but soldiers are still required to cover their faces at executions.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Aremys. ‘At least we won’t risk being recognised by the King or Jessom.’ Nonetheless, he wished there was some way he could let Wyl know they were near.

  Valentyna stood in the crimson gown which Celimus had ordered made for her and then demanded she wear. She did not notice the trio of Legionnaires arrive in the courtyard. Anger, fear and the hideous injustice of the position she found herself in quickly gave way to a desolation of emotion when her gaze followed the path to where the King’s finger pointed. Chained to a post like an animal, but still looking proud, was King Cailech: tall and golden, fury burning in his eyes and a defiant set to his jaw. Now she felt weak — overcome by a combination of terror and an overwhelming rush of love.

  Wyl’s light green gaze left her and fell on Celimus. A smirk crossed Cailech’s face and he raised a fist and turned the clenched fingers towards his Morgravian counterpart. A northerner would know that this was the sign that the tribes of the Razors gave to indicate a declaration of war.

  Crys looked helplessly at his companion for enlightenment.

  ‘He’s baiting the King,’ Aremys muttered.

  ‘Why? Surely there’s enough bad feeling?’ Crys whispered.

  ‘Wyl is trying to ensure that the King will personally kill him, although I’m not sure the Quickening obeys such laws.’

  Dawning spread on the duke’s face beneath his hood. ‘He will be our King, then?’

  Aremys nodded as they watched Wyl being unchained from the post. But not for long, he thought in private anguish.

  Valentyna felt as though she could no longer breathe. Tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘I didn’t know you cared for him that much, my love,’ Celimus cooed.

  ‘Why must he die?’

  ‘Because he can’t be trusted. He will always be a danger to us.’

  ‘But killing him will merely enrage the Mountain People and encourage them to wage their own war against both our realms.’

  ‘You have no realm now, beloved.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Briavel is now part of Morgravia.’

  ‘That is not my understanding, Celimus.’

  He tutted in a condescending way. ‘Valentyna, please grow up. I now rule both our realms — that’s my job. Your job is to swiftly become pregnant with my sons and be a smiling, loving wife to me. You will no longer worry about realms, politi
cs, war, strategy — I shall take care of all that. I am not the slightest bit intimidated by either Briavel or the Razor Kingdom.’

  Valentyna could not stand to be beside him for another moment. With a final glance towards Cailech’s granite expression, she feigned weariness and asked to be excused.

  ‘Soon enough,’ Celimus said. ‘But first let me deliver my gift to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, fresh anxiety washing over her.

  ‘You must bear witness, my love. I am executing King Cailech in your honour. He will never trouble you again.’

  ‘I refuse —’

  ‘You refuse me nothing, wife! Remember, you belong to Morgravia now, and its King.’

  FORTY-TWO

  WYL WAS LED UP ONTO A HASTILY built wooden stage. Despite that touch of theatre, it was a lonely setting for a King’s end. The only witnesses were the two royals, a few guards, the Chancellor and, of course, the masked executioner, who had just arrived.

  Wyl was not afraid. The truth was, he could not wait to die again, and feel the Quickening release him from Myrren’s gift and her curse over his life. He would not have to live long as Celimus. Just long enough to be with Valentyna again, to hold her once more.

  And if it all went sadly awry, he would still live — this time as a burly man of enormous strength and stature. Wyl had taken the precaution of discovering the executioner’s name: Art Featherstone. He wondered briefly how in the guise of the executioner, he would ever contrive to get close enough to Celimus for Myrren’s gift to come into play again, but gave up the line of thought. Whoever could have thought Wyl would become Romen, or that Faryl would claim Romen’s life, or that Ylena — he faltered on hearing her name in his thoughts — would kill Faryl and become her brother’s host? And now here he was, the King of the Razors, about to become the King of Morgravia … or the burly executioner.

  But he had laid the seed. Surely Celimus would find the temptation irresistible to personally separate King Cailech’s head from his body? It would be another triumph for the Crown.