The King’s eyes blazed as he reached forward and grabbed Wyl’s wrist. ‘Swear it to me, Wyl. Make this pact with your sovereign.’
Wyl felt his world suddenly spin as he put his other hand over his heart and gave the solemn oath to be ‘blood’ to Celimus.
Magnus suddenly dropped Wyl’s wrist and reached for his dagger. Wyl saw the blade glint as Magnus drew the sharp edge across his own palm; bright blood sprang instantly to the surface. Without hesitation, Wyl offered his own hand and the King repeated the process. The knife bit cruelly and swiftly through his young hand until it too yielded up its precious liquid. Wyl did not wince at the pain, but he suspected the King had deliberately cut deep enough to leave a scar — one that would always remind him of this oath.
‘You will protect the life of Celimus with yours, preferring to die by his hand than save your own life.’
They clasped fists, blood to blood.
‘I pledge it,’ Wyl affirmed.
‘You and he are to be as one body, one life.’
Wyl swallowed silently. ‘As though my blood runs in his veins. I swear it, sire.’
TWO
IN THE END IT was her eyes which gave them their excuse to hunt down Myrren.
Her eyes were bewitching indeed — one a piercing grey, the other an arresting green with flecks of warm brown. Lovely enough in isolation but so ill-matched as a pair they were alarming to behold. Little wonder then that as soon as those eyes had settled from their newborn blue to their strange final colouring, her parents had fled from the city of Pearlis to the sleepy hamlet of Baelup in the west, where they raised their only daughter in relative obscurity.
Both knew this facial oddity would symbolise much to the Stalkers, hungry for prey. Thankfully the family’s sudden departure was soon yesterday’s gossip and quickly forgotten. Meanwhile, the folk of Baelup were known to be of liberal mind. The father, a wealthy physician, was a great boon for a community lacking in any medicinal talent, whilst the mother, a scholar, was a special bonus for the youngsters of Baelup.
Not prone to the old supersitious fears of their city cousins, the folk of Baelup welcomed the gentle child, Myrren, with her strange eyes and shy smile.
So when the Witch Stalkers finally came some nineteen years later it was such a shock that the physician’s weak heart had given out. He had died at their feet upon answering their terrifying banging at the door. The mother was helpless; all she could do was rail at them, cursing them for having ever been born. She had finally slid to the floor in despair as she had watched Myrren, now a beautiful young woman, being dragged into the street.
The Stalkers had gone through their usual pointless list of contrived accusations — everything from disease in the south to an irritating bunion on the King’s foot was now firmly linked to Myrren’s devil craft.
And this was merely the beginning, Myrren knew. She wondered why they had come for her; how could they have even known of her after all the care family and friends had taken? And then she had recalled the noble. Yes, it made sense. He had made unwelcome advances towards her during a brief stay in Baelup’s only inn where she helped out in the kitchen.
As fate would have it, she had crossed the busy hallway at the same time he had. The noble’s mind was too clouded from his liquor to baulk at her odd eyes at the time but he was not so much in his cups that he could forget her public rebuke or the harshness of her words. She had regretted them the instant they had cut loose from her mouth.
Myrren realised he must have returned to the capital and, still stinging from her refusal to spend time between the sheets with him, had whispered of the strange-eyed woman living in one of the outlying hamlets. She remembered him well — middle-aged, hugely wealthy and influential. He had the ear of the King, she presumed, and pressure had obviously been brought to bear.
It had been a long time since anyone had been accused of witchcraft and captured for trial. They must be desperate for a burning, she decided, bravely ignoring the men as they deliberately tore her garments to bare her flesh in places. She could hear her mother still crying inside the house; could see her beloved father slumped in their doorway with the new puppy her mother had recently given her whimpering over his body.
There would be no escaping the Witch Stalkers. Her life would end … if not this night, then soon. Myrren steadied herself as they bound her with a long rope to one of the horses. She expected she would be forced to walk in its dust all the way back to Pearlis and knew her captors would just as happily drag her if she fell. But not too far perhaps, she reckoned, for that would spoil the fun for later.
Myrren was tired of hiding anyway. She stood to her full height which was not inconsiderable, flicked back her chestnut hair and made her resolve. She cast a final thought towards Knave, her pup, promising she would find a way to send someone to care for him, for surely her mother would die of a broken heart in the coming day.
As they led her away, she knew she would not capitulate to the Confessor’s desires.
She would die with courage.
Pearlis loved a witch-burning. Nothing could bring the city folk out faster from their homes than the clamour of the cathedral bells that signified a witch had been discovered and sentenced to die for her sins. And it had been more than a decade since the capital had heard that doleful clang which, according to tradition, was a sound the brides of the devil could not abide. It began with a particular single bell pealing six times every six minutes for six days to announce the discovery of a witch. Six was the devil’s number. Once the trial began, the rhythm would change to a single sombre peal every six minutes for its duration.
In truth, very few continued to believe in sorcery under Magnus’s rule. However, the older gentry of Morgravia, particularly those whose parents had been seduced by the Zerques, and who themselves had fallen under Queen Adana’s spell, remained suspicious of any who might show a leaning towards the fey. The now fading tradition of wariness had been grounded in the practice of Morgravian Kings to keep a hag within the castle. An old crone, usually harmless enough, she brewed healing teas for the royals and was called upon at births, marriages and deaths. She also performed readings and sightings for the King, in order to make prophecies.
The first indication that the ‘hag’ influence was waning occurred about one hundred and fifty years before Magnus came to the throne. According to the history books, his forefather King Bordyn kept a hag who favoured the drawing of blood for her prophesying. After the loss of two heirs and a wife in a series of accidental deaths, Bordyn objected not only to his hag’s unsavoury practices but to her prophecies of doom and gloom for Morgravia. When tragedy struck again, twice in the same year, with the death of wife number two and her unborn babe after she toppled down the castle stairs, and the routing of his Legion by the Briavellian Guard, Bordyn declared his hag an instrument of darkness. Branded a witch, she was tortured and burned in order to cleanse Morgravia of her stain. It was the first time in the history of Morgravia that a person had been tried and punished for having magical influence. Uncannily, after the hag’s death, life for Bordyn took a turn for the better. The King lived to a ripe age and, taking a third wife, sired a son who outlived him and inherited the throne.
During this period of prosperity, the belief began to grow that hags — or witches, as they were now called — were a blight on society. Many innocent people, who had openly practised the healing arts and even sold spell confections for everything from wards against a poor harvest to helping a woman keep her man happy, were hunted down. Around this time, a theologist called Dramdon Zerque emerged, preaching a new order that claimed Shar himself denounced sorcery because it challenged belief in the god’s omnipotent powers. Zerque was a gifted orator with a brilliant mind — skills which worked especially effectively on the gentry, who embraced the radical new religion, along with its message to annihilate all who showed even the slightest talent for those arts considered magical.
It was Zerque who coined the term �
�witch-smeller’, when he proclaimed that ‘anyone who even smelled of magical taint should be brought in and given the opportunity to confess their sins’. Using Shar as his battering ram, he challenged Morgravians — and later Briavellians — to take up the fight against witches and warlocks. His influence spread, reaching beyond Morgravia and Briavel across the oceans to as far west as Parrgamyn, where the new order was embraced with a special vigour. It was this more fervent form of the religion that Queen Adana and her contingent brought back to Morgravia all those years later, turning Pearlis into a Zerque stronghold.
Interestingly, in these more modern times it was the rural areas that dismissed the Zerques as religious zealots, claiming they threatened Shar’s gentle teachings far more than any hedgewitch might. Country folk simply ignored the Order’s claims and those areas became a tentative sanctuary for those with magical tendencies.
Now, with an enlightened King — who had little tolerance for the gossip that the witch-hunting Zerques might be finding a foothold in the realm again — the opportunities to persecute any so-called practitioners were few and far between. As soon as Queen Adana had died, her death taking with it the last key supporter of the Zerque Order, Magnus had grabbed his chance to stamp out the practice of persecution. It was his cold and cruel wife who had encouraged more of the Zerques into Morgravia; she who had encouraged they make the pilgrimage to this ‘peasant’ realm across the ocean from her own country a long way to the northwest where life for the lower caste was intolerably cheap. Her father had been determined to do trade with the southern realms of the eastern peninsula and considered a marriage necessary to build those important bridges where his merchants could move freely amongst these ‘barbarian’ lands.
Magnus had been seduced by the audacious glamour of the bride on offer. One look at the twenty-one-year-old Adana had seen desire take precedence over prudence and his acceptance was immediate. It was barely a matter of days following the lavish royal wedding some months later that Magnus had first grasped the enormity of his poor decision. His friend and counsel, Fergys Thirsk, had argued passionately against the union in those intervening months. He had suggested that the gap in cultural differences was yawning, not to mention the stunning age difference of almost three decades, and could not envisage how Magnus and Adana would overcome such obstacles.
‘I want her!’ Magnus had resisted, recalling the dark beauty who had already been offered.
‘She is rather young, sire. Your fourth decade is well behind you.’
‘And you can talk, Thirsk, courting Helyna of Ramon … barely into womanhood,’ the King had countered, wanting to hurt back, for the truth of his friend’s barb had hit home.
He remembered the words of ever-wise Fergys Thirsk as if they had been spoken yesterday. And Magnus had never stopped wishing that he had listened to his friend’s well-intentioned wisdom instead of following what he soon realised was nothing more than lust.
The promised dowry came but Morgravia was already a rich realm. What he had not bargained on were the zealots who followed Adana and, using her influence, weaseled their way into the fabric of Morgravian life promoting fear and loathing. In truth the Zerques were already well established in Morgravia but Adana’s eager priests brought a new verve to their fanaticism.
The royals’ dislike for each other extended to the marriage bed. Adana despised Magnus so much as touching her. On their wedding night the King despaired that nothing in his wife burned for him except contempt — and the power he could provide.
He gave her none as a result. She gave him only her derision.
‘Your hateful grasping hands and loathsome wrinkled skin could never entice me, old man,’ she had hurled at him on the very night of her marriage vows.
Twice in their time together he had forced himself upon her and deeply regretted his desperation on both occasions. It remained a wonder to the couple that Celimus was ever born a few years later. His son was conceived in anger and horror when Magnus impregnated Adana on that second and most brutal of rapes. He never touched his wife sexually again; hardly touched her at all, save to take her arm as required on formal occasions.
No one offered more silent thanks to Shar than King Magnus at the untimely, though suspicious death of the Queen. Whilst the rest of Morgravia publicly displayed its shock, Magnus found himself going through the motions of grief whilst inwardly rejoicing. It was a release he shared only with Fergys Thirsk, and his friend never once reminded the King of his early advice.
As soon as Adana’s body was cold in its tomb, Magnus had begun systematically breaking down the Zerque structure and in his reign could claim that he had single-handedly achieved the destruction of an Order which had been centuries in the making. But he had made concessions — as one must during campaigns of change — to give those gentry who clung to the old ways time to adjust to a new regime.
Magnus had agreed that only in the event that there be damning evidence brought to bear against a man or woman, would he permit the traditional trial of that individual. In the years since Adana’s death only two witches had been brought to trial — only one of those had burned. He permitted a judge and jury to be embodied in one man — a fellow called Lymbert — and gave him the authority to roam the realm with his three Witch Stalkers, more as an appeasement for the destruction which the Crown had visited on the entire Zerque Order, than for witch persecution.
‘It will keep the traditionalists quiet, Fergys,’ he had explained to his friend who, though proud of the King’s determination to destroy the Zerques, did not appreciate the new twist on the old theme. ‘We let those who remain true to the old fanaticism believe we still pursue the devil’s doings. In the meantime we dismantle the structure which has, for too many decades, brought fear and loathing into Morgravia.’
‘And then?’ his friend had asked.
‘And then we wait for a new generation to finish what we have begun,’ the King had replied with certainty. ‘A generation that has not known the terror of the Zerque Witch Stalkers and will therefore hold no faith in them.’
Fergys had agreed that a handful of deaths — if any at all — were preferable to the early years of persecution of suspected witches, usually innocents with the unfortunate afflictions of cleft palates or club feet. The introduction of a single Confessor and the binding of the law which gave the sovereign final say over any cases was a worthy compromise during the Years of Abolition, as Magnus termed it. Fergys was not fully convinced that granting concessions to those still suspicious of herbwomen or people of irregular features might not encourage the fanatics to take their fervour underground, but he conceded the sense of giving the King ultimate say over who might be brought to trial. He had to trust that Magnus would frustrate the progression of cases to such an extent that the practice of witch-hunting would simply peter out.
Confessor Lymbert, in the meantime, had walked a careful path, never overstepping his authority, and as a result his role quietly continued long after the abolition of the Zerques had been achieved. Magnus regretted this and had made a promise to himself that he would abolish the office of Confessor. The war with Briavel had distracted him, and then his General’s untimely death had so profoundly affected the King’s health that he had paid little attention to domestic affairs for some time. Lymbert had survived and, sadly, his Witch Stalkers had found Myrren.
King Magnus hated the sound of those doleful bells and he knew as the clangour began that morning that the few remaining Witch Stalkers would be understandably desperate for a trial and a kill. They had found her then. He had hoped the girl Myrren and her family had taken the sensible precaution of fleeing their village but then he knew Lord Rokan to be far too wily to allow such a thing to happen.
Magnus had pieced it together in his mind, even though Rokan had only told half the story. It was obvious to the King that Rokan had made unwelcome advances to this youngster, Myrren, and when spurned had decided to get his own back. He had a long history of indiscretions ou
tside of his marriage and this had been just another attempt to get a young woman into his bed. It was a tragedy, Magnus felt, that Rokan had stumbled across this particular girl’s village.
The problem for Magnus was that the noble’s accusation carried weight in the eyes of the Stalkers and those who still harboured deep-rooted suspicion of any man, woman or child who might show some physical difference. The Zerques had preached for a century or more that a person born with a caul, more or less than ten fingers or toes or — Shar forbid — ill-matched eyes must be a member of the devil’s clan.
Magnus might have officially dismantled the power of the Zerque Order, but he could not control the minds and hearts of his people. He knew that some in his realm still used the odd warding against sorcery, or wore specific colours on certain days, and whilst these seemed little more than harmless superstitions he also knew how easily they could develop into full-blown fear, a baying for blood. He hoped that any genuine sentient — if there was such a person — would have the wisdom to keep his or her practices secret.
No such chance for young Myrren — witch or not, her case was now very much public. Magnus did not personally believe the girl was guilty of the charges, but only privately scorned those who did. No matter his own personal opinion, the law — his law — provided for Myrren’s trial. And Morgravian justice was not renowned for its mercy where a guilty verdict of devil craft was handed down. Worse, he knew what lewd enjoyment some would derive from seeing her tortured and debased — not least of all, Lord Rokan — and there was nothing he could do to stop it now.
Rokan’s evidence was crushing and the law was sadly on his side. When Lord Rokan had called for a private audience with the King and had seemed utterly determined to have this woman brought to trial, Magnus had felt his hands were tied. Odd-coloured eyes of all things were the single most damning characteristic a person living in Morgravia could possess. The girl was well and truly doomed by the peculiarity of her features. He felt sorry for her, but the time to save her had past. At the point when Magnus could have intervened, he had instead been distracted by anger towards his son. Celimus’s irresponsible behaviour was drawing far too much attention and the boy was still only sixteen. Shar help them when he was of an age where his father’s height and wrath could no longer cow him. But mostly he had been feeling an uncontrollable rage at the fact that he was getting old. The physics had given him the dark news only that morning that his days were numbered. Magnus was fearful it would not be sufficient time to mould Celimus into a responsible heir to the throne, to create a true King from the ruin of his marriage.
The Quickening Page 4