He stared back at Wyl, forcing him to give way. Onlookers were clapping and whistling their appreciation of the demonstration. Wyl regained his composure and pulled Gueryn to his feet. He glanced towards the smirking Prince, anticipating some snide comment to humiliate him in front of his peers.
The Prince was predictable in this. ‘Can you do that with a real sword, Wyl?’ Celimus enquired, innocently.
It was Gueryn, smacking the dust from his clothes, who replied. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to take him on with a blade,’ he said, hoping to deflect attention. He laughed and clapped Wyl on the back.
‘No? But I shall,’ Celimus interjected, his smile broad and anything but genuine. The Prince’s voice was sly now. ‘What do you say, Wyl?’
Gueryn held his breath. This was the most direct provocation that Wyl had encountered from the Prince, who had spent much of the time since their arrival simply baiting the youngster.
Wyl regarded the heir to the throne coolly. Gueryn’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing hard. They did not permit the lads to drill against each other with anything but wooden or blunted swords and this rule was especially rigid where Celimus was concerned.
Wyl looked away, hating to back down from that clear, defiant gaze. ‘I’m not allowed to fight you, your highness.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ the Prince said, as though suddenly reminded of the palace rules. ‘You’d better remember it too, General.’ Celimus laced the final word with as much sarcasm as he could.
Wyl had never felt such a well of hate rise within himself. Until recently he had lived life with carefree joy, had hardly known dislike for anyone. He had been surrounded by people who loved him. Now his every waking moment seemed filled with torment. Celimus baited him at every opportunity and if he was not using his cruel mouth against Wyl, then he was laying traps for him with a few of his henchmen. A day hardly passed in which the Prince did not succeed in bringing gloom to settle on Wyl’s shoulders. If there were not dead rats in his bed, then there were cockroaches in his drinking water, or mud in his boots. His food was tampered with and his training kit hidden. Childish and pointless it all was and yet it wore Wyl down, nibbling at his resolve to follow in his father’s footsteps.
It was then a page arrived. ‘Wyl Thirsk?’
‘Over here,’ Gueryn replied, nodding towards his despondent charge and grateful for the interruption.
The messenger addressed Wyl. ‘You’re wanted in the King’s chambers, General,’ he said, politely. ‘Immediately, sir.’
Wyl looked up at the still-grinning Prince and bowed. ‘With your permission, your highness, I’ll take my leave,’ he said, carefully observing the correct protocol.
Celimus nodded, his silky lashes blinking once over olive eyes that missed nothing. Everything about Celimus was beautiful. Even at fifteen, when most of the boys were still struggling to fit into their awkward bodies, his looked as though sculpted from pure, smooth marble. Muscled and polished, there was not a blemish on it.
In looks, Celimus represented to Wyl everything he personally was not and that realisation was painful for a boy born to lead men. Celimus was tall with wide, squared shoulders. His hands were large but deft and he carried himself with grace; even his swordplay was elegant and clearly highly skilled. His features were independently arresting but together they formed a face which was destined to turn heads. Manhood was still to settle on him but, looking at the youth, it was obvious an especially striking man was in the making here. His voice had already deepened to a timbre Wyl could only dream about, whilst Wyl’s own still squeaked and cracked in places — usually at inopportune moments.
He’s perfect, Wyl thought glumly to himself, cursing his own shorter stature, red hair and no doubt blushing face of pale, freckled skin filled with unremarkable features. He tried to mask his despair as the Prince nudged his friends and excused himself, still smirking. The men standing nearby gave polite bows but exchanged looks of distaste. Celimus may be a glorious-looking individual whom the young women of the court were already swooning over but he was unpopular amongst the larger palace community. In this he was his mother all over again. Whilst the King was revered, the heir had no loyalties he might count on from any but the sycophants who hung around him.
‘May Shar help us all when that one takes the throne,’ someone said, and many gave wary nods of agreement.
Wyl strode away, a sense of foreboding now mingling with his hate: King Magnus had summoned him, no doubt to ask questions about his loyalty. It was hardly news that he and Celimus did not get on.
‘Come on, Wyl, make haste,’ Gueryn urged.
They did so, following the page as he weaved a practised route through the halls of the palace, taking shortcuts via various walled courtyards and sunlit atriums. On the way they stole a chance to wash their faces and rinse their hands in a bucket of water raised from a convenient well, whilst the page hopped from foot to foot in urgent need to deliver his ‘goods’ to the King’s secretary.
Neither Gueryn nor Wyl had realised how beautiful the palace of Stoneheart was. To them it was an impregnable fortress with solid, grey walls, dusty yards, stables and a mess hall which was always noisy. Dogs, horses, soldiers and servants scurried about in a small world of their own within the castle walls. This more serene aspect of Stoneheart was as unexpected as it was attractive. They felt like intruders on a new world.
The dark stone looked suddenly handsome in the many light-filled, elegant spaces especially created within the internal structure of the castle. For the first time, Wyl began to appreciate that the castle was not simply a fortification of stone but a palace in its own right, possessing a distinctive style of which simplicity was the key. Walls were not busily cluttered; instead, one eye-catching tapestry might be the only decoration in a vast chamber. Furniture was practical, always simple, favouring the heavier, dark Lomash wood so abundant in Morgravia. Adana had had no influence here, Wyl mused; there was no hint anywhere that a Queen of such exotic heritage had lived any of her short life in this place. He wondered if Celimus’s more extravagant taste would leave its garish mark on Stoneheart when he took the throne.
Wyl considered his own home in Argorn, which was a mix of his parents’ tastes. Solid Lomash furniture, favoured by his father, seemed to sit comfortably alongside his mother’s more whimsical pieces, including her gold-framed mirror and screens, and the wealth of soft cushions and drapes. His mother loved colour and he imagined she might have rather liked Stoneheart because of the richness of colours that punctuated the decoration of its chambers.
Hurrying through the corridors and up stairs, trying to keep up with the page, Wyl caught glimpses of carvings of the great beasts. It was believed that every Morgravian was chosen from birth by one of the beasts, and the choice became known when a person made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at Pearlis. There, the magical creatures were gloriously presented, each holding up one of the pillars of the great nave. Whenever Wyl visited the cathedral, he looked for the famed winged lion — his creature. Now, in the palace, he spotted the taloned bear, the magnificent eagle, the serpent, cunningly twisting out of the stone, and the beautiful jewelled peacock. Finally, as they drew nearer to the King’s chambers, he saw the mighty warrior dragon, talisman to all the monarchs of Morgravia. Wyl looked at it in wonderment, then thought about his father’s creature, the phoenix. There was a symmetry there which pleased him: both Magnus and Fergys were creatures of fire; no wonder they had loved each other so loyally.
‘Wait here please,’ the page said finally, at the top of a second flight of stairs.
‘Where are we?’ Gueryn wondered aloud.
‘Outside the King’s private study, sir. Please be seated.’ The boy gestured towards an open corridor with a stone bench fashioned on both sides out of the walls. The area was flooded with sunlight and by the soft, unmistakable fragrance of winterblossom. It was seductive. They strolled over to the balcony and stared into a small but exquisite orchard. Its bea
uty and perfume kept them silent in their own thoughts.
Soon enough an older man arrived quietly behind them. ‘It’s difficult to drag oneself away, isn’t it?’ the man said, his voice low and friendly. Gueryn assumed he must be the King’s secretary. When they turned, he added, ‘You must be Wyl Thirsk.’
Wyl nodded.
‘We all loved and greatly respected your fine father, son. He is deeply missed in our community.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Wyl stammered, unsure of what else to say, wishing people would allow him to heal that wound and not keep reminding him months after the hated event. This man meant no harm, though. It was their first meeting and only right that he would make mention of his prestigious lineage.
The soldier beside him cleared his throat. ‘Er, I am his guardian —’
‘Ah, yes, Gueryn le Gant, isn’t it?’ the man said. His manner was brisk yet kind. ‘Welcome to you both. Can I offer you something cool to drink? I gather we interrupted your training.’ The smile was genial.
‘Thank you, we’ll be fine,’ Gueryn answered politely.
‘I am the King’s secretary, Orto,’ their host said. ‘The King has requested a private discussion with the young man so I will ask you to remain here, Gueryn. Please sit, we shall call Wyl soon.’ He smiled again and departed.
Within a few minutes Orto returned. ‘Wyl, come with me now. You may leave your weapon and belt out here with Gueryn.’
Wyl did as he was asked and, with a glance over his shoulder towards his friend, followed the servant.
Massive oaken doors, carved with Morgravia’s crest, were opened before them. Wyl looked up at the keystone of the archway they passed through: carved into it was another fire-breathing warrior dragon, signalling that he was entering the private domain of a King … his King. The large chamber he entered had windows running the length of it and a stone fireplace at either end, again featuring the royal talisman.
Wyl had lost his bearings in the journey through the palace; he wondered what those windows looked out onto. But the sound of voices called him back from his distraction and he heard the scratching of ink on parchment.
‘Last one I hope?’ a gruff voice said.
‘It is, sire,’ another man’s voice answered and then the owner of that voice shuffled past them carrying rolls of documents.
‘Ah, Orto, you have the boy? Bring him in, bring him in.’
Wyl emerged fully into the study and came face to face with the man he had met only briefly once; the man his father had died protecting. Magnus had headed north to Felrawthy almost immediately after Wyl’s arrival and this was their first occasion to meet again. He noticed that the King was tall but stooped and he appeared much older, even since their first very hurried talk. Magnus, he noticed now, looked very little like Celimus, although the strapping physique was there. A gentle push from Orto, on his way out of the room, reminded Wyl that he was in the presence of his sovereign. He bowed low.
‘You look like your father, boy.’
It had been meant as a compliment but Wyl’s plain looks made him feel that almost any reference to them was a barb.
‘He always told me I look more like my grandfather, sire,’ he replied politely.
Magnus grinned then. ‘That’s probably true, son. But you remind me of how he was when we were both mere scamps together in this same castle.’
Wyl could tell the King meant it sincerely. He knew how fond the friends had been of each other and imagined that Magnus losing Fergys Thirsk would be like him losing Gueryn. More than just painful.
‘I miss him, sire,’ he admitted.
The King gazed down at him with soft eyes. ‘Me too, Wyl. So keenly that I still find myself talking to him now and then.’
Wyl regarded the King and saw no guile. He appeared nothing like his son in temperament either then, thought Wyl.
‘So, Wyl,’ the King said, sitting down and gesturing for Wyl to be seated too. ‘Tell me, how are we treating you in Pearlis? I imagine you must regret not being in that glorious world of Argorn. I know your father constantly did.’
‘Yes, sire, but … I am settling in.’
Magnus scrutinised the lad before him, sensing he was cautious like his father — and probably just as unforgiving if he was wronged, judging by that proud jut of his chin.
‘I have seen your sister about the place. What a sunny, pretty young thing she is. I trust she is happy?’
Wyl shrugged gently. ‘I think Ylena would be happy anywhere, your majesty, providing she has her dolls and fine dresses.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you for all that you’ve given her, sire. She is pretty, that’s true. She’s the lucky one in looks who took after my mother.’
He was startled by the King’s sudden laugh. ‘Don’t put yourself down, Wyl.’
‘No, sire. I’ll leave that to others.’
‘Ah.’
Orto re-entered the King’s study and brought with him a small tray with two cups of blood red wine.
‘Don’t tell old Gueryn, eh? He’ll think I’m corrupting you.’ The King winked.
Wyl could not help but like the man who sat before him. He wanted to be wary of him. He was the father of Celimus after all, but still it was hard not to enjoy his company.
‘Now here’s to you, young Wyl,’ the King said, lifting his glass.
‘And to your continuing good health, sire.’ The underlying message was not lost on Magnus.
‘Has it been hard settling in?’
‘Oh the usual stuff, sire.’
Wyl felt Magnus fix him with his direct gaze. ‘Tell me about Celimus,’ the King said.
‘What can I tell you, your majesty, that you don’t already know?’
The King paused and Wyl thought it was a telling hesitation. ‘Tell me any good points you’ve noticed about him.’
Now Wyl felt really cornered. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ Magnus said gently. ‘I grasp more than people credit me, Wyl. Celimus has many imperfections within himself. On the outside, however, he is a truly remarkable individual. I freely admit, without any shame, that I think he will turn into one of the finest-looking men Morgravia has ever bred. Shar rest his mother’s soul,’ Magnus added, more out of habit. ‘I don’t know whether it’s because he lost his mother early, or because he has no siblings … or simply that I am a woeful father. Whatever the reasons, Celimus is not so remarkable on the inside. In fact I know him to have a darkness within which troubles me.’
Wyl nodded, fearful of what to say to a King making such a frank admission about his own son.
Magnus held him with a light blue gaze. ‘I’ve heard the two of you are enemies. Is this true?’
Wyl felt tongue-tied. He had no desire to lie to Magnus who was being so candid with him and he tried to be diplomatic in his response.
‘That’s a strong word, sire. I am Morgravian. I am prepared to die for my kingdom and for its ruler. I am no enemy to the King,’ he assured, horrified to think the King might think otherwise.
Instead Magnus grinned. ‘So like your old man. But perhaps you are prepared to die for this King, son. How about King Celimus?’
Wyl understood. ‘You obviously wish me to do something for you, sire,’ he said, pleased with his forthrightness in the presence of this powerful man.
The King sighed. ‘Yes, Wyl, I do. And it’s not going to be easy. I trusted your father all of my life, I trust his son now. Moments before your father died we joined our bleeding palms to make an oath. Your father’s deathbed wish was that I bring you back to Pearlis and make a General of you. You are a Thirsk and it is your birthright to head the Legion. But part of our oath was that we make our two sons blood brothers.’
Wyl had known nothing of this blood oath. He felt the slow crawl of a chill through him as Magnus continued.
‘I gave my word to your father — my closest friend, my blood brother — that his son would become my son.’ He paused again. Wyl said nothing, his silent thoughts r
acing ahead to guess what the King might ask of him. ‘Do I have your loyalty, my boy?’
Startled, Wyl quickly moved to kneel before the King. He placed his hand on his heart. ‘Yes, sire. You will never have to question it.’
The King nodded. ‘Good. I am elevating you to your father’s revered title of King’s Champion. It comes into effect today but I do not grant this position lightly. You despise my son.’ He held up his hand then to hush Wyl’s ready objection. ‘I know this — and he has given you little reason to think in any way highly of him, so I do not hold this against you. However, from now and especially from when he takes the throne you will protect him with your life, as your father protected me with his.
‘As of this moment you will shadow the Prince in all that he does. I don’t doubt for a second that many of his activities are distasteful, as I know my son has a penchant for cruel habits. Together we will try to change this. Make a friend of him, Wyl. Influence him. Everything which made your father the fine man he was is embodied in his only son — I know this to be true. Your reputation precedes you, boy. You have the qualities that make a special man, a leader of men, and I want you to do everything you can to imbue Celimus with those qualities.’
The boy tried to object.
‘No buts, Wyl. This is my command. You are already General to the Legion and Champion to the King, and one day you will be called to act for Celimus — at his command. In the intervening years, you will befriend the Prince and somehow, child, I pray your humility, your sense of right and wrong, your courage and your leadership will rub off and help him as he matures. I know I ask a lot of you, Wyl, but this is your duty now … your duty to me.’
The Quickening Page 3