His anger was fully stoked by the time Lord Rokan strode in and began throwing his weight around. Celimus had not excused himself either, which would have been the polite move under the circumstances. Instead he had hung on Rokan’s every word, his sly smile creeping wider across his face. He even had the audacity to join the conversation and this was the taper which lit the dry straw on his father’s smouldering mood.
‘Go ahead, Father,’ he had said, just short of a sneer. ‘A witch trial would take the heat from those in Pearlis I have apparently offended. Deflect attention from the Crown’s wayward heir and give them something to really talk about.’ The mocking smile had returned, challenging the King.
Magnus could tell his son had no ability to emotionally touch on the repercussions of his own actions. He was a young man without love and all his parents had given him, it seemed, was the capacity to be cruel and self-centred. The King of Morgravia realised in a moment of clarity that he had no one to blame for Celimus’s ways but himself and Adana. If he had been a better father, a more affectionate and loving one — even just a father who had been more present through the child’s early years — it might have made a difference.
Instead what stood before him was a clever, avaricious individual who was, to all intents, heartless. A frightening combination for the person who would sit on Morgravia’s throne. That day’s indiscretion had simply been the latest in a long line of acts which made his father despair of him, hate him even.
Rokan had continued to bluster and Celimus had egged his father on. In a fit of pique, Magnus agreed, if just to get both detestable men out of his chamber. Had he any inkling that he would reign, without succumbing to his illness, for another six years, he might never have let it happen. The Crown had ultimate authority. He could have saved Myrren if despair had not ruled his heart that day.
He could not know the repercussions of that angry retort by which he gave permission for Myrren of Baelup to be brought in and put to trial.
THREE
CELIMUS WAS IRRITATED. HE enjoyed belittling Wyl but still this person he hated almost as much as his own father was not giving him the sort of smug satisfaction he wanted. He would be King one day and he wanted to see this one in particular cringing early to him. He was Fergys Thirsk’s son after all and Celimus had despised Fergys since he was old enough to measure the bond between his father and his General. Perhaps without the red-headed soldier in the King’s life, his father might have paid more attention to the son, once so desperate for his praise.
Now all Celimus had to offer his King was contempt.
The rift had come when his mother died twelve years previous. Whispers around the court had hinted that perhaps her death was not quite the accident it had seemed at first. Try though his carers might, they could not protect the sharp, highly intelligent four-year-old from absorbing the enormity of what was being gossiped. If he craved his father’s praise, he worshipped his mother ten times as much. Although he had sensed her cool detachment from Morgravian society and its people — especially his father — Celimus also grasped that this aloofness did not extend to him. Celimus she loved with an intensity. He was every bit her child. Whilst his father was golden in looks, their son had her dark, exotic glamour to his features. Olive skin and black lustrous hair meant Celimus was Adana all over again. She granted him his height was no doubt inherited from the King but that was all. Men should be tall, she argued. For sovereigns she felt it was a prerequisite. She had no doubt that Celimus would be an imposing man in years to come — he was already an arresting child to look at. And with it came a bright and agile mind which she adored. Adana made good use of those early years, manipulating her son’s thoughts, trying to poison him against his father — the peasant, she called him — but not to much avail. It remained a failure of hers. The young Celimus craved the attention of Magnus but she was relieved to note the King neither had time nor inclination to level much interest towards the boy. She hated the red-headed General even more and used his presence as a weapon to turn Celimus against the King.
‘He loves that Thirsk fellow more than us, child. See how they bend their heads together. Plotting. Always conniving.’
Celimus had not understood the grown-up words then but he had grasped her meaning. She accused Thirsk of constantly filling his own coffers at the King’s expense; she laughed hard at the shy and reticent creature Thirsk had finally married. ‘Peasant for peasant!’ she had spat at Celimus one day. Although he had thought Helyna Thirsk quite pretty, he was only a few years old, and so believed his mother must surely be right. And when she had finally seen the Thirsks’ first child, Adana had attacked the infant’s red hair, claiming it was the sign of a warlock. Magnus had overheard her snide comment and his reaction was the closest Celimus believed his father had come to striking his mother. His parents had hardly spoken after that. They had never behaved as a family might — eating together or playing together. Magnus was absent as a father, preferring his war rooms, his soldiers, the hunt and other manly pursuits.
It was after that incident between his parents that Celimus first began to feel the notion of rejection of his father. Watching the tall man’s anger stoke so fast had frightened him. His mother had fallen to the floor as if struck, though he knew his father had pulled the blow just in time. She had shrieked and writhed on the flagstones of that courtyard before rising to cast a final cold slur at the man she despised.
Celimus remembered it well.
‘I would rather die than have you touch me again, you pig!’
And the chilling, prophetic reply. ‘Perhaps that can be arranged,’ his father had said, just as coldly, adding that she should be gone from his presence.
Celimus had not been the only one in earshot of the harsh exchange and so when the hunting accident occurred not long after, it was a small leap for many who had heard the gossip. Anyone who knew Magnus would refute the claim fiercely. Anyone who knew him well enough would know the man was more than capable of such a thing. Whether he killed his wife or whether it was an accident remained a tantalising mystery to the people of Morgravia. It was a matter never discussed, even between Magnus and Fergys Thirsk, and over the years it had become a buried issue, as cold as the tomb which enclosed the subject of that gossip.
Celimus never forgot it, however. He had heard his father openly threaten Adana. And from the day of her death he had privately sworn to make his father pay. As a child there was little more he could do than remove all affections. Drawing on memories of his mother, he became cold and distant towards Magnus who, by the same token, had begun an all out effort to bring his son closer. But it was too late.
Too late for the father to give love. Too late for the child to want it. In a youngster’s warped way Celimus had linked the always present Fergys Thirsk with wanting Adana dead too and maturing had not eased the young Prince’s attitude towards his father’s closest friend. When the news of Thirsk’s passing had begun to filter through Stoneheart, Celimus had rejoiced at the old General’s death. He had hoped it would drive a stake of pain so hard into his father’s heart that he might die of the agony and loneliness. But now he was having to deal with the hated seed of Thirsk’s loins. And the son appeared to have the same qualities which the father had showed before him.
Celimus had deliberately never given the lad a chance. From the moment of Wyl’s arrival at Stoneheart Celimus had set about a campaign of destruction — he would break Wyl’s spirit and send him running home to Argorn. But so far the lad’s keen desire to follow in his father’s footsteps was giving him sufficient grit to withstand Celimus’s underhanded tactics. He did not care for Wyl’s defiant gaze either, that remained even when he was seemingly paying homage.
The Prince had heard the change in the bells a day or so ago. He knew the witch trial was in progress now and it had given him an idea for how he might bring the sensitive Thirsk boy down. Discreet enquiries had told him this afternoon was the right time to strike.
‘I don
’t care where you have to go, but you find him!’ Celimus bellowed at the scared young page. ‘Don’t come back here without Thirsk,’ he yelled towards the retreating figure.
Wyl was not so far away on this particular afternoon but had made himself scarce with Alyd Donal. Fortune had smiled upon him a few months after the meeting with the King. A new boy, the same age as Wyl, had been brought into the group. He too came from a close family and because they were both feeling a similar emotional dislocation the boys became inseparable.
In his wisdom Gueryn had done everything within his power to encourage the friendship and had gone so far as to include Alyd in his personal training with Wyl who, much to his lament, now spent long periods out of the yards and in tutoring with Celimus.
Wyl had kept his promise to the King and gone to extraordinary lengths to make himself as available as he could to Celimus. Deep down, though, Gueryn could sense that nothing had changed in how they felt about each other. His quiet sessions with Alyd, who was as open a personality as Wyl was closed, revealed how strong Wyl’s disgust for the wayward Prince was. But as Alyd had explained, his friend had forged the ability within himself to simply accept his lot. He would not join in with any of the mischief which the swaggering Celimus promoted and yet, like a shadow, was never very far away.
Wyl watched and Wyl protected where he could, often warning Celimus of impending discovery of his latest scheme or diverting attention to prevent him from being found out. He could see that Celimus, unaware of his father’s pact with Wyl, could not help but be amused by his new-found devotion, although Wyl could never fully suppress his smouldering contempt.
Ugly to his beautiful eyes, Celimus took immense pleasure in reminding Wyl of his plainness. To his credit, Wyl accepted the taunts with grace; he knew the Prince was, for once, not lying in this regard. Nevertheless the words stung. It was Alyd who always helped him retrieve his sense of humour and whenever the pair found time alone together explosions of laughter could be heard.
Gueryn firmly believed Shar had sent a golden-haired angel to them in the shape of Alyd, for laughter had been rare in Wyl before his arrival, and now six months on, the boy lit up whenever Alyd was near. Alyd’s sharp wit and easy style were foils for Wyl’s remote, yet very direct manner, and where Wyl was brutally honest, Alyd had the gift of gilding the lily, always prone to exaggeration which is what made him funny for Wyl. Alyd’s storytelling powers had become legend, even in his short time at Stoneheart; a minor event, such as Lord Berry’s wig slipping when the old fellow napped during a council, took on gigantic, hysterical proportions when retold through the imagination of Alyd Donal.
Wyl loved Alyd for his friendship, his ability to make him laugh out loud and for his interest in Ylena. It never bothered Alyd on the rare occasions she tagged along with them and he appeared to take as much delight in entertaining her as Ylena did in accompanying them. And whilst she was blossoming into the same golden beauty her mother had once possessed, the boys had put on some height and bulk. Gueryn had seen to it that if Wyl was not going to be especially tall, then a strong physical presence would impress his men in years to come. He devised for Wyl and Alyd a special training routine which worked on their boyish muscles and the results were impressive already.
‘You’ll be my second, I promise,’ Wyl said solemnly to Alyd as they chewed on apples near the lake that flanked Stoneheart. It was a free afternoon; the day was cold but the sun shone and both boys had nothing better to do than lie on their backs, hidden from the castle’s world and stare up at the sky, making plans as they dreamed of soldiering together in the Legion.
‘How do you know they’ll allow it?’ Alyd replied.
Wyl snorted. ‘Who is they? I will be they,’ he said in a rare show of arrogance. ‘I am General of the Morgravian Legion.’
‘Title only,’ Alyd corrected.
Wyl ignored him. ‘And in a few years, I will lead our army. My father had total control of the men. And I will have only those I trust as my captains and lieutenants.’
‘But what if —’ Alyd broke off as a dishevelled and weary-looking page suddenly crested the hillock they lay against.
‘Oh what now?’ Wyl muttered. ‘Ho, Jon!’
The relief was evident on the youngster’s face. ‘You’ve got to come, Master Thirsk — he commands you.’
Wyl grimaced, resigned. He stood. ‘The Prince?’
Jon nodded, still breathing hard from his exertions. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. He’s in a hot temper, too.’
‘Lovely — just how we like him,’ Alyd said, grinning and standing as well. ‘How did you find us anyway, young Jon?’
The boy’s eyes flicked nervously at Wyl. ‘Your sister, Master Thirsk. I’m sorry but I had to find you.’
‘That’s all right, think no more on it.’
‘We’ll just run her through with our swords later,’ Alyd reassured him.
Jon looked aghast.
‘He’s being witty, Jon. As if he would harm the girl he loves.’
It was Alyd’s turn to look shocked. He threw his apple core at his friend, then in a blink he knocked Wyl backwards and they were both rolling down the hill with the poor page running after them.
‘How dare you!’ Alyd accused, not sure whether to laugh or punch his friend.
‘It’s obvious to a blind man, you fool.’
‘She’s not even eleven, curse you!’
‘Yes and when you’re twenty, she’ll be sixteen summers and equally eligible. Don’t deny it, Alyd Donal. You’re starry-eyed over my baby sister. But I actually approve … lucky for you.’
‘I refuse to prolong this ridiculous conversation any further,’ Alyd said but Wyl could see a treacherous red flush at his neck — a sure sign that Alyd’s protestations were empty.
He grinned. And then noticed the trembling Jon. ‘Shar forgive us! Sorry, Jon. I’m coming. Lead the way. See you, Alyd — don’t get into any trouble whilst I’m away.’
‘Watch your back, Wyl. He’s never up to any good.’
At sixteen the Prince’s stature had undergone a major transformation and it felt to Wyl as though Celimus towered above him, making his own recent spurt of growth irrelevant. The Prince had broadened as well. He was indeed breathtaking in looks, but spoiled by the scowl.
‘Don’t keep me waiting like that again, Thirsk.’
‘My apologies, your highness,’ Wyl said, adopting his usual politeness. ‘How can I assist?’ he added, moving the conversation quickly forward. He knew from experience that if he did not it would follow the traditional path of insult.
‘You’re well fortunate that I am in a good mood today.’
‘I am glad of it, highness. How can I make it brighter?’ he said, almost smirking at his own sycophantic manner. Alyd had taught him how to say something in a sugary way whilst meaning something quite different. Wyl had learned that this tactic worked well on Celimus who was too vain and preoccupied to notice. Alyd would be proud of him.
‘Back to your duties,’ Celimus said to the page and Jon trotted off, happy to be away from the growls of the Prince. Celimus returned his olive gaze to the lad his father had implored him to get closer to. He sneered. He hated Wyl Thirsk and wished the old man would hurry up and die so he could claim the throne. His first task would be to end the Thirsk notoriety once and for all.
For now, though, he must be seen to be going along with his father’s request and in truth, Wyl was certainly helpful on occasion. Well, today he intended to expand the lad’s education — surely the King could not object to such a kindness?
He smiled viciously and Wyl wondered what wickedness lay behind it.
‘Come along, then,’ Celimus said chirpily. ‘I have a special treat for you.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise, Wyl.’
Myrren’s bruises and cuts had begun healing. She now sat shivering in the dungeons of Stoneheart where they had brought her days ago. The hunger pangs
of near starvation had recently settled into a numbness. She had refused the deliberately salty food they had thrown into the cell, knowing full well no water would be offered later when her parched throat would scream for it. And after a few days of such treatment the raging thirst would be enough to send one mad, as it had some poor soul a few cells down. She was the only Stalkers’ prey in the dungeon and thus inwardly accepted that she would offer the best sport.
They were preparing her for the ‘trial’ which would extract her eventual confession under torture. Myrren could hear the mournful ringing of the bells and was half tempted to fall to the damp flagstones and writhe about as witches were apparently meant to. That would soon bring them running, excited that she had been found out. It would save a lot of pain, she realised grimly. She could just confess and be done. They would kill her anyway so why suffer more than was necessary?
A small voice inside begged her to make it easy for herself. Death was coming whichever way she looked at it and it could either be a merciful end by fire after possibly days of agony or she imagined it could be swift and relatively painless; a brief confession and a blade into the throat. Myrren thought of the flames. They frightened her more than the notion of torture, which seemed harder to imagine. But she had no trouble picturing herself bound and screaming as the fire melted and consumed her flesh.
The Quickening Page 5