Revenge

by Fiona McIntosh

  Tor kissed the side of the sharp beak; behind him he heard the others make noises of revulsion. We shall never be apart again, old friend.

  Cloot grunted in his head. Don’t make wild promises, Torkyn Gynt. He ruffled his feathers and stared balefully as the Queen approached.

  I love you, Cloot, Tor said, then closed the link and smiled serenely at her majesty.

  Sylven’s hand was on her hip. ‘Well, well, well. I suppose I have to give you this prized falcon then?’

  ‘He is mine, your majesty, and you did promise.’

  ‘Yes, I did, Tor. He is yours.’

  ‘What about him,’ he said, motioning towards Hume.

  ‘He does as he’s told,’ she replied.

  She dismissed the men, who left looking disgruntled. Hume looked murderous.

  Tor surprised her by dropping to one knee, his head bowed. ‘Thank you, Queen Sylven, for your generosity. You will never know how much Cloot means to me or how precious it is to have him back.’

  There was such tenderness in his words, so much vulnerability, that she wanted to reach out and touch his thick dark hair. Here was the little boy in front of her now; a few moments ago he had been all swaggering arrogance, now he showed such humility. She loved these different aspects of him and she wanted to hug herself that she had this man with her in her bed. Yet, at the same time, she felt very alone. She sensed that the euphoria of having found her soulmate would be short-lived.

  Instead of saying all that was running through her mind, she touched his shoulder. ‘Come, Tor. Let us celebrate with that picnic you promised me.’

  He looked up at her and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of those bright blue eyes; a colour she swore she had never seen on a person before and never would again. Torkyn Gynt was as beautiful as the gods they painted in the murals on the walls of her palaces. Yet he was real. Her very own god. She let him take her arm and lead her back towards their chosen picnic spot.

  Cloot, we shall meet later. I have to spend some time with her majesty now. I shall speak with you tonight. Head for safety and freedom high in those trees for now.

  Cloot took off towards the trees. There was much to say but it could wait just a little while longer. Tor was obviously in a prickly situation.

  Sylven felt compelled to ask the question that was brewing in her mind. ‘Does this mean you will leave me now?’

  Tor was startled by the direct question; it stopped him in his tracks. He looked searchingly at her. ‘I must.’

  ‘You have your falcon again. Why can’t we enjoy more time together?’ The Queen hated to hear the plea in her voice.

  ‘Because I have found what I came here for. And now I must return.’

  ‘To her?’ she snapped, despising the jealousy which grabbed at her throat. She was Queen; she could command him to stay. She could have him thrown back in chains and kept her prisoner if she so desired. What was wrong with her? She sounded like a child of twelve summers.

  ‘Alyssa?’ he asked and then shook his head. He spoke gently, ‘No, Sylven, not to Alyssa. I am not permitted to be with her. You know this.’

  He could scarcely believe it but the Queen was crying. Her party were waiting for them at the picnic spot but this needed delicate handling. He guided her behind a convenient tree and took her into his arms and hugged her. For all her poise and strength, all her power as the ruler of a mighty realm, she was weeping for the love of a man—the one thing she had assured him she did not need. She had a harem full of men, all awaiting her pleasure. She could use them as she wished and cast them aside, as he fully expected she did.

  ‘Sylven, hush, please. This is not right. You know I must go. I have explained—’

  ‘You have explained nothing!’ she snarled at him, pulling herself roughly from his embrace. ‘You talk about your destiny but it means nothing to me. I don’t understand any of it because you have not told me anything. You walk into my life, bed me, take my heart and then you think you can just walk away.’

  Tor looked at her with incomprehension. He repeated in his mind what she had just said and couldn’t help but echo the words, ‘Take my heart?’; he spoke softly but she heard. She pushed him and turned away, still weeping.

  Tor’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘What can I tell you that will make it easier?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what, your majesty?’

  ‘Why can you not love me? Be with me?’ She was trembling with anger now.

  Tor gave her the full respect she deserved, by speaking only the truth. ‘Because I do not love you, Sylven. I love another. I cannot give my heart to any other woman as long as she is alive.’

  ‘Then I shall have her killed,’ the Queen said, petulance spilling into her passion for him.

  ‘You will not win my love that way. You will never win it. Alyssa and I are destined for one another. I will never marry another woman. She will never marry another man or call him hers.’

  When he needed to convince himself that his path would never cross hers again, he had tried to believe that Alyssa might build a new life without him. And yet now, with the thought of the children coming back and Cloot safe, he knew deep down that he wished she might never have another man in her life. Tor wanted her to suffer the pain he suffered every day in being apart from her. Because it was only through the pain that he could keep her love alive in his mind. And, in turn, her pain would keep him real, even though she thought him dead.

  ‘Really?’ the Queen said. ‘She shall never take another? Perhaps you should read this, Tor.’ She pulled out a parchment scroll from her deep pocket. ‘I received it only this morning. It has come by way of the city palace with the carts which came in last night. It was written several weeks ago, I fear. The deed is done.’

  She held it out to him, full of defiance. Was there also satisfaction in her expression?

  He took the parchment. The situation felt suddenly dangerous and he wished he had just led her straight to the picnic and lied to her. Lied that he would stay, lied that he loved her and then he and Cloot could have escaped.

  ‘Read it,’ she commanded.

  He did.

  His royal highness King Lorys of Tallinor announces his marriage to Alyssandra Qyn of Mallee Marsh, to take place at the Royal Chapel of Tal in a private ceremony. The King hopes her royal highness the Queen of Cipres will join with the people of Tallinor in…

  Tor could not read any further. The scroll was dated before the last moon. Alyssa was married to the man who had ordered his execution. She was Queen of Tallinor.

  Tor felt as though he could no longer breathe. He crushed the parchment between his fingers and then he was on his knees, his emotions writhing agonisingly through his body. He began to moan.

  It was a sound which tore at Sylven. Despite her anger and her terror of losing him, she kneeled beside him and held him as he whispered Alyssa’s name repeatedly.

  Cloot arrived overhead. The link broke open in Tor’s head and he heard his Paladin. It was a voice of command now; no longer gentle. Tor!

  She’s gone, Cloot. Alyssa is gone, he moaned.

  Gone? Dead, you mean?

  She might as well be. She is married to the King.

  There was silence for a moment and then Cloot was back in his head, strong and convincing. Get up! Do you forget who you are? Do you forget you are the One? This very Land depends upon you; thousands of innocents don’t yet know it but they depend on you for their lives. Stand up!

  Tor reluctantly pulled himself to his feet and took several deep breaths.

  Sylven stood as well, still holding his arm, wishing she could take back all she had said and done. The pain on his face, in his trembling body, was too much for her to bear. She loved this man. He was the father of the child now growing inside her; a sister for Sarel, a second Princess for Cipres. Sylven wanted Tor as her Regent. What a dashing and brilliant royal couple they would make, if only he could be encouraged to forget this wench in Tallinor. She correcte
d herself—this Queen in Tallinor.

  Sylven had taken the wrong approach and her anger had led her down a dangerous path. She must repair the damage now, bring him back to her side and gently show him that this Alyssandra Qyn was now in his past.

  And Tor…Cloot said firmly.

  Tor stood straighter. Yes?

  Don’t forget that Alyssa is still your wife. Nothing has changed that.

  It was as though a shaft of sunlight had just broken through the overcast day and shone directly into his heart. Cloot was right. Alyssa was his wife and that still stood. I won’t forget it.

  Good, the bird said and flapped his wings. Now take part in that picnic and go through the motions of the day. We must escape tonight. I sense our time is almost here. Be strong now. Cloot flew off.

  Tor turned to face Sylven. He could read a hundred apologies in her face but, before they could spill out, he put his hand to her mouth.

  ‘No, wait! It is good that I am given this news. Thank you, Sylven. And now, I believe we have a picnic to enjoy.’

  There he was, in control again, she thought. The man was an enigma. One minute on his knees in shock and then, as though some magical guardian had made him see reason, composed and strong again. Sylven shook her head. They would not speak further on this subject.

  ‘My Queen?’ Tor said and gallantly offered her his arm, gritting his teeth to stem the flood of emotion he was experiencing.

  She linked her arm through his and together they strolled to where Hela and the rest of the servants had set up the glorious feast prepared by Ryk. Sarel was waiting to join them.

  They refused tables and chairs, preferring to lounge on cushions and a rug. The Queen dismissed most of the staff, leaving just a handful.

  Tor, feeling more in control now, pushed Alyssa to that safe place in his heart, as he had done these past years, to be retrieved at another time when he was strong enough to confront her. He had the Queen laughing and even blushing within minutes of taking their first goblet of fine, chilled Ciprean wine. It was a pleasant scene and Sylven could almost forget the ugliness which had taken place just moments ago.

  Tor kept the conversation on safe ground. ‘Why was your man Hume so grumpy when we arrived?’

  The Queen wrapped a sliver of paper-thin meat around a fig and chewed. ‘He was, wasn’t he? Hardly the mood with which to greet one’s Queen. He had hired a new man to start this morning and was cross that he had not turned up for the great “showing” of this priceless new falcon we had to give away to a foreigner.’

  Tor lifted his glass and grinned. A woman, veiled like her Queen and dressed in the full black of her retinue, came forward to top up his goblet. He thanked her and was momentarily arrested by her small, intense eyes, which were staring hard at him. They looked so menacing, he almost missed what the Queen was saying.

  ‘…yes, well, you can’t trust a Kloek, you know,’ Sylven finished, also holding out her goblet to the servant.

  Tor’s attention was caught. ‘A Kloek? Surely you don’t get Kloeks this far north?’

  The serving woman moved back to stand quietly at a polite distance from the sovereign and her guest.

  Sylven sipped. ‘Oh, we get all sorts passing through Cipres. But you’re right, Kloeks are rare,’ she agreed. ‘Apparently he’s a hunting bird specialist and most lately from Tallinor. He only arrived last night and was very keen to see this great falcon—which we now know is yours,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘So Hume was understandably angry that the man did not turn up at the showing this morning.’

  ‘A Kloek with an interest in my falcon?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he didn’t know it was yours, Tor. Do you know any Kloeks?’

  Tor began to chew on a slice of delicious cold game pie. ‘As a matter of fact I do. His name is Saxon Fox. You would fall instantly in love with him, your majesty. He is as tall as you, with wild golden hair and the face of a warrior. He is as broad as an ox with a heart as big. He was once a famous trapeze artist.’

  Sylven made a sound of appreciation. ‘Move over, Physic Gynt,’ she said, her eyes dazzling him from behind the veil. They shared more laughter and Sylven began to relax. Perhaps she could win his love after all.

  Behind his veil, Goth’s face was a mask of hatred. He wished he could just pick up one of the sharp knives the stupid boy chef had sent along and plunge it straight into Gynt’s chest.

  He knew he had to calm himself. There he was; the enemy. Drinking and cackling with the Queen of Cipres and her acting like a bitch dog on heat. Well, there will be no sport in the bedroom tonight, dear Queen, Goth thought, and fingered the vial of poison deep in his pocket. Your lover will be stone cold dead by then.

  His tiny, sharp eyes watched Gynt drink again and again from his goblet; he must choose exactly the right time to serve the poisoned wine. He needed both of them in a merry enough mood that the goblets could be passed almost unnoticed into their hands.

  Slipping away from the other servants, Goth moved behind one of the carts which had carried all the provisions for today’s decadence. He pulled a flask of a special sweet wine from the supplies. It was made only in this region, produced from a small grape which grew in tiny amounts each season. Exorbitantly expensive, it was considered by Cipreans to be the nectar of the gods. The Queen and her guest would not be able to resist it. He also pulled out two narrow goblets. These were exquisitely made from delicate glass, stamped with her majesty’s personal crest. It was fitting that Gynt should die with his lips touching her crest as he sipped the poison.

  Goth took the tiny curved vial from his pocket and broke the seal. He looked around furtively, but no one was watching…or so he thought.

  Saxon was hidden behind a second cartload of provisions.

  He blew out his cheeks. It was obvious the man was up to no good. He had to act. He could see the Queen and her guest reclining on some cushions not far away. They were laughing. The man looked familiar, but he had his back to Saxon and the Kloek’s view was partially obscured by trees and the cart Goth was hiding behind. Saxon had heard of Queen Sylven’s voracious appetite for men; he guessed this must be her current lover.

  He watched as the impostor carefully placed the goblets of freshly poured wine onto a tray. Saxon moved closer. Now he could not see the guest at all, just the Queen. Goth tipped several drops of the poison into one of the glasses and Saxon made careful note of which one. He was preparing to rush the stranger in the veils to prevent him carrying out his evil task, but to his surprise the impostor moved back to the royal party, probably to ask the Queen’s permission to serve this new wine. This was his chance. He ran towards the tray.

  Goth hated leaving the poisoned goblet unattended, but there was a strict protocol for serving wine which he had watched over and again at the Ciprean palace. He must not endanger his plan with haste.

  He motioned to the head maid that he wished to approach the Queen. She nodded.

  Goth bent low to address Sylven and spoke in a disguised voice. ‘Your majesty, I have some of your favourite Tolique to serve with the sweet course…if you please?’

  ‘Yes, bring it…er…?’

  ‘Sacha,’ Goth replied, unable to help looking towards Tor.

  He realised Tor was watching him closely. Had he been recognised, Goth wondered? No, he decided, casting another furtive glance at Gynt. He cursed his foe silently before turning back to her majesty.

  ‘Sacha, where is Elma, my usual bearer?’

  ‘Your majesty, Elma has trained me to your precise needs. She is presently hunting down some special Mytal for you for tonight. She knows it is your favourite,’ Goth said sweetly.

  The Queen hardly paid any attention to Goth’s explanation but Tor did.

  ‘You know, there’s something odd about that woman,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know her, she must be new,’ Sylven said distractedly. She was plaiting Sarel’s hair. ‘My people are always training youngsters into specialist roles.’

&nb
sp; ‘That one is hardly young, your majesty.’

  ‘Hmm, true. But she seems to know everything that matters,’ Sylven said, tying two plaits together.

  ‘But who checks up on these people, Sylven?’

  One of the plaits came undone, annoying the Queen, as did Tor’s persistence. ‘Oh, Tor, someone would have. Don’t be so suspicious. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Her eyes—there’s malice in them.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Sylven dismissed the thought. ‘Ah, here comes my Tolique. Now, Tor, prepare yourself for an extraordinary treat.’

  Saxon had managed to switch the wine goblets, which meant the Queen was unlikely to die. But it still left the stranger at risk. He was about to throw himself into the peaceful scene and warn the two lovers of the danger, when a strong arm clamped around his chest and a large hand covered his mouth.

  ‘You bastard!’

  Saxon recognised the voice of one of the handlers from the royal aviaries.

  ‘You’re no falconer. I had my suspicions this morning and now here you are spying on our Queen!’

  The man had a companion, who now came in front of Saxon and began to rough him up, punching him in the belly. As Saxon doubled over, winded from the punches, he caught a glimpse of the veiled servant handing the goblet containing the poison to the Queen.

  No! That was wrong! Saxon had carefully switched the glasses. Why would the impostor have intended the poisoned goblet for the Queen’s guest?

  Saxon’s panic lent him extra strength. With a mighty grunt he shook off both his captors and lurched out from the cover of the cart, yelling like a mad man. He watched in horror as the Queen, still smiling at her companion, clinked glasses and then took one long gulp.

  It was only then his noise grabbed their attention and they turned towards him in confusion: the Queen, the impostor and…Suddenly Saxon felt as though his heart had stopped its beating. The man turning towards him was Torkyn Gynt. Hale, smiling brilliantly at some jest and bursting with life. Time seemed to stand still for Saxon as everything ordered about his world fell apart.