The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  A huge Legionnaire came up with a cup of water. ‘Orders,’ the man said to the executioner, who nodded, uncaring.

  Wyl’s spirits lifted at the sound of the man’s voice. ‘Aremys,’ he whispered as the Grenadyne gave him the cup.

  ‘I beg you, don’t make me keep the promise,’ Aremys muttered beneath his breath.

  ‘You will keep it if you care anything for me,’ Wyl said.

  Aremys stared into the green eyes and then nodded sadly. ‘As One,’ he said and left.

  A single trumpet sounded and Wyl noticed for the first time that Valentyna was dressed in a crimson gown. The colour of Morgravia. The colour of blood. She was solemn-faced and looked intensely frightened. He wished he could spare her this; had hoped against hope that Celimus would come without her.

  Valentyna would not look at anyone — not even at Wyl. He could not blame her. It must have felt like a shocking betrayal to hear that he had denied her fabricated story as to why the Mountain King was in Briavel. He understood, but it did not make it any easier to see her ignoring him. Was it just two days ago they had been making love at Werryl? He would cling to that. As the executioner’s sword fell he would remember what it felt like to lie naked with Valentyna and love her as she loved him.

  Celimus guided his wife to a pair of throne-like seats hurriedly erected in the courtyard. He kissed her hand, winning a sickly grimace from the Queen. Her expression did not seem to matter to Celimus who was now announcing why the King of the Mountains was to die.

  Wyl looked towards Jessom as the King spoke and remembered the strange blue light entwining their hands in the dungeon, binding them to each other. He wondered if Fynch was right: whether the Chancellor might somehow provide that random element that could outwit Myrren’s gift. Death was moments away — it was pointless wondering any more. Wyl turned his attention back to Celimus’s speech and heard that he was to be sacrificed as a wedding gift to Valentyna. At this he withdrew into himself to wait for his death.

  Valentyna had withdrawn too. There surely was nothing to live for any more. Soon she would have to witness the man she loved die, his head savagely removed from his neck with, hopefully, one swing of a cruel sword. It was too much for her heart to bear.

  And after all of that, all that was left to her was Celimus — a despicable man who had made his intentions very clear. Her notion that she might be able to dupe him into believing she was true had been naive. Celimus was too sharp to fall for that, but he would still expect her to treat him as she had promised, even if she was pretending every minute of every day.

  And he would continue to hurt her — first taking Wyl from her, then Briavel, no doubt ultimately taking away every son she bore. Her life would be utterly controlled by the mad King. Bile rose to her throat as she imagined what he was going to do to her this night. Rape, she was sure, would be the very least of it.

  Celimus had finished explaining his reasons for executing the treacherous Mountain King and the sudden silence dragged her out of her thoughts. She looked at Cailech whose shirt was being cut away to reveal his broad torso, sculpted with muscle. She remembered that body well, riding above her in an urgent rhythm, each thrust taking her to a higher level of pleasure. She wanted Cailech to be her lover, to be the man who would stand proudly beside her, as she had wanted Romen. And both the men she loved were really Wyl Thirsk. It was Wyl who loved her so deeply, so truly. But it seemed she could have none of them.

  Chancellor Jessom, looking appropriately sombre in black robes, gravely pronounced the Crown’s sentence on the accused. ‘Have you anything to say, Cailech, King of the Mountains?’ he asked finally.

  Wyl spoke clearly. ‘Legionnaires, remember who you are. Remember your oath to protect and serve Morgravians above all others. Above all others,’ he stressed, ‘even above your King —’

  ‘Enough!’ roared Celimus, enraged.

  At the King’s signal the beefy executioner backhanded the prisoner who stumbled but did not fall despite his ankles being manacled.

  Wyl knew the guards were probably not Legionnaires — Celimus would not risk them witnessing such an unlawful execution. Nevertheless, he hoped the insult had been sufficient to provoke Celimus into swinging the death sword himself.

  ‘Get on with it!’ the King ordered the executioner. ‘My wife and I wish to continue our wedding festivities.’

  ‘I challenge you, King Celimus, to mete out the punishment personally,’ Wyl roared. ‘You accuse me of treachery, so deal with me yourself — or are you too squeamish to risk my blood on your fine garments?’

  His challenge was greeted with stunned silence. Finally, Celimus said, ‘I have never been scared to spill your blood, Cailech.’

  ‘Then prove it!’ Wyl shouted.

  Valentyna could not bear it. Wyl had already severed the lifeline she had thrown to him and now he wanted to make sure that Celimus chopped his head off. What was wrong with him? Why bait Celimus? Surely he would prefer the accurate swing of an executioner over the perhaps deliberately clumsy hacking by a man he had publicly scorned? Wyl had gone mad. He was not only making it worse for her but so much worse for himself. He would die painfully and then Celimus would —

  Valentyna caught her breath audibly as the realisation hit hard. And then Celimus would become Wyl!

  Oh Shar! He was doing it deliberately so that Celimus would die and Wyl would take over his body and become the King, and her husband. Wyl would live on because of Myrren’s gift! Now her breath came hard and fast and her pulse began to race. Death would have been so welcome just moments ago and now she wanted to live! And she wanted Wyl to live too.

  Valentyna stood. ‘Do it for me, Celimus!’ she cried, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.

  The King swung around in surprise. ‘You want me to kill him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she demanded. ‘He has driven a wedge between us with his underhand dealings. I hate him. I hate his treachery. Kill him, Celimus. Do it with your own hand so that we are truly free of his curse on our lives. That would be my ultimate wedding gift, sire,’ she said, and curtsied low ensuring her husband saw the swell of her breasts.

  Celimus grinned ferociously. He looked like a wolf closing on its prey as he peeled off his cloak, the crimson lining reminding everyone of the blood he would shortly spill.

  Valentyna could hardly believe it. Her spirits were soaring with the hammering of her heart. She would have Wyl. She would have Romen. She would have Cailech. He would be Celimus, but the real Celimus would be dead. Thank you, Myrren, she whispered to a dead witch. Thank you, Shar, she cast to her god.

  ‘Come, stand closer, my love,’ Celimus called to her. ‘You must share in this, my wedding gift to you.’

  Cailech was forced to his knees to meet his death. Valentyna, no longer afraid, glided confidently towards the husband she despised, her eyes locked on the man who would soon be her one love. She leaned forwards and kissed Celimus, making it as tender as she could without gagging. She wanted him to know how much this meant to her.

  Wyl was thrown back to Fynch’s vision: how could they have guessed Cailech was the prisoner? He felt sickened by the sight and closed his eyes. He knew Valentyna had guessed what was going to happen; had seen it reflected in the blaze of her eyes and the hungry expression she suddenly wore. But he did not believe she could live alongside him once he was in the body of the Morgravian King. Celimus had damaged them both so much. Hurry, Shar damn you, he thought, opening his eyes and silently urging the King to execute him. He lowered his head to the block and bared his thick neck.

  But Celimus hesitated. He too had noted the change in his wife’s demeanour. The kiss was a surprise, especially after his threat on the balcony barely an hour ago. He thought about her behaviour since: one moment despairing, the next filled with a fervour he did not know she possessed. She looked rejuvenated, excited… she looked hungry. What could possibly have had that effect? Surely not the mention of blood. Even the little he knew of her would confirm she
was far from bloodthirsty — this was the woman who was marrying a man she did not love simply to prevent bloodshed. No, it was not that, yet her whole manner had changed at the suggestion that he kill Cailech himself, galvanising her into this lustful creature. Her eyes blazed with a passion he had not seen since that night in Briavel when they had danced together. And even then he had felt sure the fervour was not for him.

  Celimus’s sharp mind worked across every possible scenario but came up wanting. He could find no logical explanation for this odd change of heart. Valentyna had lied to save this man’s life, had wept at the thought of him dying just moments earlier; yet now she was begging for his execution at the King’s own hand. His instincts screamed that there was duplicity here although he could not pinpoint it. And so Celimus made a decision. He would get to the truth. He would test her.

  ‘No!’ he roared. ‘The King of Morgravia will not tarnish his wedding day with blood on his hands.’

  ‘But, my lord,’ Valentyna cried, ‘this is for me. I want his head.’

  ‘And you shall have it, I promise.’ Celimus turned back to the executioner. ‘Do your job: behead the treacherous sovereign on behalf of Morgravia and Briavel,’ he ordered.

  Celimus took Valentyna’s hand and led her back to their thrones. She felt breathless with panic. The King had thwarted them. If Myrren’s gift continued, then Wyl would become the bald-headed executioner and she might wait years before he found his way back to Stoneheart to challenge Celimus again. What a terrible irony, she thought despairingly. Only weeks ago she had scorned Fynch for believing in magic, and now here she was pinning everything on the hope that if only Celimus would kill his enemy then Wyl would live again. If that hope failed, Valentyna knew in her heart that she would not lie with Celimus tonight… or any night. She would take her own life if need be.

  She shook her mind clear as the executioner lined up for his single killing blow. The least she could do for Wyl was bear witness to his brave death. She watched the big man raise his sword slowly, carefully, smoothly. It reached the apex of his swing and was just a second from falling with its severing blow when she heard herself yell, ‘Wait!’ The man teetered and then stopped, looking angrily towards King Celimus for guidance.

  ‘What is it, Valentyna?’ Celimus asked smoothly. Perhaps now the truth of her strange behaviour would reveal itself.

  ‘Let me do it, sire,’ she begged, for his hearing only. It was the only way out for her.

  For the first time since knowing him, Valentyna saw hesitancy and alarm in his face. ‘You would kill this man?’

  ‘For you, Celimus. It is the only way I can resolve the difficulties between us.’

  ‘Through his death?’ he queried, wondering if she had gone mad.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He will release us. You will know I am true to you if I do this.’

  Celimus shook his head, baffled. Valentyna had obviously had a trying few days, granted, but this behaviour was unhinged. Nevertheless, the shock of her suggestion titillated his sadistic streak. He rather liked the idea of her executing Cailech. Such an act would haunt her for ever, but that offered further opportunity for exploitation: she would be even more easily controlled when the demons paid regular visits to remind her of this ugly spectacle. It would also, of course, show her to be a strong person, either terrifying or inspiring the few onlookers — either way suited him. She was offering herself up to him in the most intriguing fashion.

  He studied her and she stared back at him hungrily. There was no doubting that she meant this.

  ‘It is not a pleasant thing you request, Valentyna. You will have to live with this memory all of your life.’

  ‘You have no idea how important that notion is to me, sire.’

  He shook his head as if washing his hands of her. ‘As you wish.’

  He turned to the executioner. ‘Bind the prisoner’s mouth,’ he ordered, knowing Cailech was likely to make a loud fuss when he learned of this new and exciting turn of events. The idea of his Queen killing a man made Celimus feel like rutting. His mind slithered towards the bedchamber this evening. An heir would be made tonight, he was sure of it. He would have his first son before next spring.

  Wyl looked around, confused. He had no idea what was going on between the whispering royal couple or why his mouth had suddenly been bound. He had fully expected to be the executioner by now, trudging home with his day’s pay to a wife and brood of children. But here he was, still alive, still praying for deliverance.

  He watched Celimus stand once again, hoping against hope that the King had had a change of heart and would deliver the killing blow. But it was Valentyna who walked towards him. Valentyna who had chosen to kill him.

  ‘No!’ he shouted from beneath the bindings but it came out as a strangled cry. His eyes were wide with horror at her decision.

  Valentyna glided towards him in her blood-red gown and Wyl was suddenly reminded of his dream at Tenterdyn. This was it. No dream, but a premonition. She bent towards him, tears streaming down her face. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered and he roared his anguish, not caring that it appeared he was about to die cringing like a coward.

  The executioner pushed Cailech’s head down onto the block again. ‘Don’t make it harder for her,’ he growled. ‘She’ll never survive it if she misses.’

  Wyl knew the man spoke the truth and he stopped struggling. He did not want to become Valentyna. He did not want her to sacrifice herself for him. He could hear her shallow, terrified breathing behind him. The courtyard was so silent he was sure he could hear her heartbeat too. It was too much for his own bleeding heart. Wyl closed his eyes and begged for a miracle that might thwart Myrren and her cursed gift.

  Fynch! he called in his mind.

  Valentyna lifted the sword. She took a moment to pray for her own soul then screamed her despair as she poured all her sorrow, her pain, her anguish into the downward sweep that severed King Cailech’s head from his body.

  She sank slowly to her knees in his blood, her heart aching, tears streaming, and waited for the change to come over her body. She had no idea what to expect or how the magic worked. All she knew was that she would accept him gladly. This would be the ultimate sacrifice, the final demonstration of her love.

  Behind her, Celimus’s dark olive eyes sparked with the fire of lust for this woman and the joy of knowing his final enemy was slain. He would be Emperor now and perhaps Valentyna had shown herself worthy of the title of Empress.

  Nearby, Chancellor Jessom’s body sagged and he hung his head as he struggled slightly to breathe. He would need to gather his composure quickly.

  The King of the Razors’s body was slumped forward over the block. The executioner bent to pick up the head which had rolled to his feet. For the umpteenth time he wondered whether the brain remained alive just long enough to know its head had been removed from its body. At the King’s nod, Art Featherstone placed the head of the Mountain sovereign in a leather sack. He would take care of the body once the royal party had departed.

  Valentyna felt nothing. Not even a single tear. There was only numbness. Was she now Wyl? Had her soul left her body? It was too confusing amongst the pain of the day. Her hands were slick with his blood, that was all she could focus on through her wet eyes.

  ‘Come, Valentyna,’ said the voice she hated more than any in the world and then she felt the King of Morgravia’s touch. She turned away from the headless body to look upon Celimus and knew in that instant that something had gone terribly wrong. It had all been a lie. The Quickening was not real. Cailech was dead and the story about Wyl Thirsk had been some sort of cruel ruse. She was alive and her husband awaited her.

  ‘Jessom,’ the King said.

  The Chancellor looked up and cleared his throat. ‘Sire?’

  ‘Help Queen Valentyna to her chambers. I will see you both there shortly.’

  ‘Yes, your majesty,’ the Chancellor said and offered his arm to the Queen. Her pale skin was spattered with the b
lood of a King. ‘You, guard,’ he called to Aremys and beckoned. Aremys moved silently towards the Chancellor; he could not risk being recognised. ‘You look a burly enough fellow. Help the executioner to remove the body immediately and lock it away. Bring the key to me. No one is to be permitted entry. Is that clear?’ Aremys nodded.

  Then Jessom looked directly at Crys. ‘And you, take an inventory of all present, including guards and the herald. I want the names brought to me immediately in the Queen’s chambers. Is that understood?’

  Crys looked puzzled beneath his hood, but nodded, avoiding speech for the same reason as Aremys had.

  Jessom felt as stunned as the Queen at how events had turned out. Still gathering his own wits, he hurried her from the scene of death and, using back corridors which only he seemed to know about, he led the silent, shivering bride to her suite of rooms.

  FORTY-THREE

  CHANCELLOR JESSOM WAS SURPRISINGLY tender with her but Valentyna was too lost in her own darkness to notice. He wet a linen and wiped her face and hands clean of the blood, and tried gently to get her to talk. There were important things she must understand before the King arrived. ‘What can I do to help you, my Queen?’ he whispered, wondering how to revive her from this stricken state before he began to explain his new situation.

  Valentyna was in utter turmoil. What had gone wrong? She was still herself… and Wyl — he was gone. Cailech was dead. She had killed him but Wyl had not possessed her as she had believed he would. She groaned involuntarily. It was a sound of such anguish that she saw fear pass across the hook-nosed Chancellor’s face. Why was he showing her such concern when she hated him too? Everyone had lied to her. Fynch had almost duped her into believing in magic, along with Elspyth, but it was Cailech who had won her full trust. He had made her truly believe the strange tale of Wyl Thirsk… but why?

  ‘Your majesty?’ Jessom whispered, trying to bring her back to the present.