It would not be long now before they could test this theory. Magnus sensed his own time coming to an end and quietly welcomed it. He was tired. And lonely too. His wife long gone — Shar rot her — his great companion dead and his only son not much more than a stranger. Yes, it was drawing close to the time to hand over Morgravia to the new breed and give Celimus his time. Perhaps it would be the making of him. Who could know? King and General would need to work together, though, as they always had in the past.
Morgravia and Briavel could rarely rest beyond a decade without waging war on each other. He nodded to himself. Old Valor would be feeling creaky on his horse too. Perhaps they should just leave it to their children now, although Briavel had only a queen-in-waiting to govern it and a faint-hearted, fragile one at that, Magnus reckoned. He had seen the Princess only once, at a royal marriage many years ago in faraway Tallinor when King Gyl had wed a civilian of no noble line, the honey-haired beauty, Lauryn Gynt. All neighbouring realms felt obligated to attend.
Magnus hated travelling out of Morgravia, but Fergys had counselled him gently, reminding him that Gyl’s father, old King Lorys, had been an ally to Morgravia many moons ago and a once powerful sovereign of a vast realm. To snub his line, by not attending the royal wedding, would be unwise. Magnus had sensibly relented and with Fergys at his side had made the interminably long journey.
He had decided to take Celimus, which came as a surprise to the child’s minders. But Magnus, again at the urging of Fergys, wanted to spend time getting to know his son better. Without a mother to love him, the boy needed the strength and affection of his father to reassure and guide him. Fergys argued with Magnus that the visit provided an ideal opportunity to forge closer lines with his son. Embarrassingly, the boy showed an early aggression towards Briavel as Magnus had paid his respects to its monarch. The two Kings had stiffly bowed to each other but their curt salutations had been interrupted as Valor’s infant daughter had suddenly become near hysterical.
Granted, Celimus had looked decidedly guilty and the doll was in several pieces on the flagstones of the reception hall but the racket which had ensued far outweighed the supposed deed. It was only a doll, for Shar’s sake, and her terrible howling had clearly embarrassed her father. Magnus recalled how the plump, dark-haired child had been run out of the hall by her maidservant, not to be seen again. He shook his head ruefully. She was no match for Celimus then and he knew she would be no match for the vain, often cruel man he had become. He wondered what would become of Morgravia and Briavel under their respective guidance.
But in truth, what worried him most was the threat from the north. Fergys had begged with dying words for Magnus to pay keen attention to the Mountain King. The Legion knew for a fact — had reported it on countless occasions — that Cailech’s people slipped across the border. They were clever, rarely lingering, doing lightning fast trips into and out of the realm for trade. He remembered his General’s warning: ‘It might be trade now. One day Magnus, he’ll bring an army. He’s testing us. We must never allow him to feel comfortable.’
Magnus wondered whether Cailech and his people had made the same sorts of ‘trips’ into Briavel. No doubt. He mused that the best response would be for the two heirs to the southern thrones to marry. Bind the realms, blend the armies. Scare off Cailech.
He laughed to himself at the fanciful thought of Morgravia and Briavel being on friendly terms. It was then the King realised he had been in his thoughts too long and it was only politeness which kept the two young men before him alert.
‘My apologies,’ he said softly.
‘No need, sire,’ Wyl replied, relaxing into the cushions at his back. ‘Your garden is so tranquil, I too feel myself drifting.’ He smiled.
Magnus returned it, glad in his heart to see Wyl Thirsk at such ease. There was a time when he had worried for the boy. All that business with the witch from several years ago was a distant memory now, but he still regretted the death of that girl. He had hated witnessing the sight of her battered naked body tied to the witch post. Bah! Sorcery, he thought to himself, a lot of stuff and nonsense. He was glad he had finally rid Morgravia of the office of Confessor. He had personally dismissed Lymbert the day after Myrren’s burning, and with the Confessor’s demise the only remaining channel for the Zerques’ religious zeal had closed. It was six years since the last witch-burning and, in another few, most of the older folk — the believers — would be dead and with them their fanatical pursuits. The battle would be fully won and the Zerque Order would no longer hold any influence in Morgravia. The prospect was a relief, for Magnus no longer had the strength to fight that battle in the little time left to him. He was sorry that a young woman had to die to remind him of his promise to rid the realm of the Zerques, and that others — including his General — had also suffered.
Gueryn had still been in shock when he met with Magnus and had described the strangeness that had overcome Wyl during the witch’s execution. He had also mentioned the lad’s eyes changing colour. Magnus stole a glance at them now, relieved to see how ordinary they looked, a similar murky blue which Fergys had possessed. The King had not believed Gueryn then and still maintained it was an aberration. When Wyl had regained consciousness properly and with the King’s own physics in full attendance, the lad had appeared perfectly normal. Self-conscious but no worse for the curious event.
Those same unremarkable eyes now regarded him with a faint trace of amusement sparkling in them. ‘A mynk for your thoughts, sire.’
The King was pulled from his ponderings. ‘Ah, Alyd. How remiss of me. You see what age does to you, lad? So waste no time, marry this bright young sister of Wyl Thirsk’s and my blessing upon you both. May love and laughter follow you in your lives,’ Magnus said, adding, ‘…and in your bed chamber.’
Both soldiers enjoyed the King’s words and Alyd grinned at the King’s final comment.
‘Are we looking forward to seeing the pretty Ylena as a Newleaf bride?’
Alyd cleared his throat and a blush stole across his open, handsome face, which like Wyl’s had taken on a more angular look. His golden bright hair would probably still flop in his face if not for the short manner in which he styled it now. It suited him, together with the short beard and clipped moustache he now favoured. Many a lass at Stoneheart would feel her heart break at the marriage announcement, the King realised.
‘Your majesty, I can’t wait a moment longer. As soon as the royal tournament is done, we wish to make our union formal.’
‘That soon?’ Magnus replied, clearly surprised.
‘I’ve tried, sire, to talk them out of it but there’s no stopping this pair, I’m afraid,’ Wyl admitted. ‘Ylena’s determined to wed Alyd within the month.’
‘Then so be it. Fare well at the tourney.’ The King stood, towering over Wyl despite his stoop. He clapped a hand on Alyd’s shoulder. ‘And, Alyd, watch that handsome face of yours if you’re to stand in front of an altar a few days later.’
‘Thank you, your majesty, nothing will happen to me, sire. Ylena and I will grow old and fat together.’
Their laughter was disturbed by the arrival of Celimus.
‘Ah, Father. I was sure I would find you here.’
Wyl and Alyd made stiff but courteous bows before the Prince.
‘Forgive me, am I interrupting a private gathering?’ he asked, the dazzling smile masking his contempt.
‘No, son. Alyd here has just won my permission to wed his lovely Ylena. We were discussing the timing of the ceremony.’
‘Congratulations, Alyd,’ Celimus said, his smile not faltering. ‘I had always hoped to taste those rosy lips of Ylena Thirsk myself.’
Alyd felt Wyl’s stance stiffen yet more beside him. He always grabbed hungrily at the baits thrown him by the Prince. When would he learn to ignore him?
He replied in his usual deprecating manner. ‘Well, there’s such a long list of eligible beauties awaiting your attention, my Prince, I can’t imagine crossing Ylena
off would matter to you much.’
‘No. You’re right, it’s not such a loss really, is it?’ the Prince said, enjoying watching Wyl bristle. ‘And you, General. What say you to this union? It must make you happy to see your sister off your hands and tumbling into the bed of a very rich duke’s son.’
‘Indeed, my Prince,’ was all Wyl could think to say which sounded remotely polite.
‘And when does this happy union take place?’ Celimus persisted, pouring himself a cup of the wine.
Alyd answered, more than used to the chill which settled around this pair whenever they were near each other. ‘Soon after the royal tournament. Your father has given his blessing. Your invitation will arrive shortly, my Prince.’ He gave the heir his very best smile.
Wyl sighed within. Even Alyd’s disarming looks were nothing compared to those of Celimus. The Prince of Morgravia had grown into a glorious-looking man, easily overshadowing the handsome youth he had been a few years previous. Taller now than his father, broad and slim-hipped, he could still the tongues of a room full of chatting people simply by his arrival, such was his impact.
‘Then I shall have to dream up an appropriate wedding gift for the sister of our esteemed General here,’ Celimus replied after draining his cup.
Magnus decided to bring the barbed conversation to a close. ‘Son, you came here to talk with me? Let me just bid farewell to my guests and we can sit together awhile.’
‘No need, sire,’ Celimus replied. ‘It involves these two fine soldiers — in fact their good opinions would be valuable.’
‘Oh?’ said the King, wondering what mischief might be afoot now.
‘Yes, it’s about the tournament, Father. I wish to make arrangements for us to use real weapons.’
The King shook his head and made to move away. ‘You know my feelings on this, Celimus. I will not risk the heir.’
‘My lord.’ For one rare moment, Celimus lost his smirk and the tone which usually accompanied it. There was a plea in his voice now. ‘It is because I’m to be King of Morgravia one day that I beg this of you. We are not boys practising in the bailey any more, Father. We are trained soldiers. Thirsk here could cut down any man I know blindfolded … except me, of course.’ His regular demeanour made its return. ‘This is no longer a time for play swords, Father. Let us fight like men because we are men. You may need us on that battlefield sooner than you think and then we’ll have to die like men at the end of an ugly blade.’
Wyl leapt onto the Prince’s words. It would be one of the rare times in his role as General that he would agree with Celimus. ‘Your majesty, my Prince is right. This is an exhibition but let’s give everyone a genuine insight into hand-to-hand fighting.’
Magnus was cornered. In truth he did not know why he had fought so hard against the use of real swords; a small voice told him that it was because he had been afraid that Celimus and Wyl — even as youths — might have well fought to an ugly end. But here they stood, strong and bold; men bristling with barely repressed energy and passion.
He was making a fool of Celimus to make him fight with wooden weapons.
He nodded, resigned to their plea, and the three in front of him could hardly contain their pleasure at his concession.
The annual royal tourney was a major festival for Morgravia and the folk travelled from far and wide to partake of the festivities. Around the tournament fields grew a veritable village of travelling sideshows and marketers of exotic wares. A seemingly endless queue of gypsy wagons, tinkers’ carts and country people queued patiently at the city gates to gain entrance into Pearlis. Troupes of tumblers, singers, musicians and even a small circus formed part of this line too.
The population on the outskirts of the northern end of the city where they held the tournament had doubled, then quadrupled over as many days. Excitement was building and the local inns were enjoying their traditional high season.
Magnus, having learned from past experience, was keen to ensure the city dwellers did not take advantage of the poorer visitors enjoying a day’s holiday from their back-breaking toil on the land. He sent out edicts that special fees were to be offered on accommodation, stables, eating houses and watering holes. Through Wyl he set up a special crew of soldiers to make random checks on the various taverns that their ale was not too watered and that their food remained honest. Wyl chose Alyd to supervise this crew, knowing his friendly and open manner would ease the pain for disgruntled tavern proprietors out to double their fees.
Helmets and breastplates, the only armour Morgravian soldiers wore, were polished until they sparkled. Horses were groomed until their coats shone and weapons were oiled and sharpened so that sparks would ignite when they struck each other. The thrill of using real weapons had touched off a fire of excitement. Training in the lead up to the day had never had a more fierce intensity.
Wyl had to constantly remind his men on the use of these weapons.
‘Exhibition only. Don’t forget it. There will be ladies of the court present and a wealth of guests from all over the realm. We do not want the women passing out at the sight of flesh being opened by over-zealous combatants.’
He had more advice on the other skills that would be on display.
‘Yes, you heard me right,’ he said above the indignant mutterings. ‘Wrestlers, oil up out front this year — I’m assured the women like to watch, and apparently so does Captain Donal,’ he added, winning a roar of delight from his men who clapped a furious yet helplessly amused Alyd on the back.
Wyl dismissed the men and caught up with Alyd. ‘I’d like to take you up on that sparring idea but I’m afraid I’m being reserved for a special piece,’ he admitted grimly.
‘Oh?’ Alyd enquired, his mind racing as to what this might be. ‘Let me guess. The Prince?’
‘Correct.’
‘My guess then is that he plans to hurt you and what better opportunity than in the name of entertainment at our most public festival.’
‘He has to be able to get through my guard first.’
‘I’ve watched him too, Wyl. He’s good.’
Wyl shrugged. ‘But perhaps not good enough. We’ll see in a few days.’
Alyd laughed. ‘And then we’ll celebrate at the Alley,’ he said, a wicked glint in his eye.
But Wyl did not grin. ‘I need to share something. Celimus is planning more than just a humiliation for me. He aims to hurt me in more ways than physically. He wants to fight for the Virgin Kiss.’
‘So?’ Alyd looked perplexed. ‘I think I would too.’
‘Mmm. But which virgin is he most likely to choose, do you think?’
Understanding struck Alyd like lightning. ‘Ylena,’ he said flatly and stopped walking.
‘Correct again.’
‘I won’t permit it,’ Alyd said, shaking his head wildly. ‘I will not allow that man’s lips to touch those of my betrothed.’
Wyl looked pained. He cast a glance around to see no one could overhear them. ‘It’s worse. He’s re-introducing the ancient form of this rite. It’s called Virgin Blood. It’s far more sinister than the Kiss, Alyd.’ Wyl had only just been informed about this dark turn of events himself and he was now on his way to the King to seek an audience. ‘He means to bed Ylena before you.’
‘Then he’ll have to kill me first,’ Alyd replied, his voice cold and hard.
‘No, he’ll have to kill me,’ Wyl answered.
When Wyl arrived to petition the King, Orto informed him that the sovereign was ailing — it seemed Magnus was far more fragile than Wyl had been previously led to understand. He was permitted to see his King, but only briefly, a hollow-eyed physic cautioned before leaving them alone.
‘Hello, dear Wyl. I knew I would see you here before long,’ the old man said.
Wyl was too diverted by the sickly appearance of his sovereign to hear the underlying message in those words.
‘Sire, what ails you?’ he asked, taken aback.
Magnus was propped up on a mound of cu
shions and, although his manservant had seen to it that he was perfectly groomed, nothing could disguise his newly sunken, pale visage.
‘Can you not guess?’
Wyl was unprepared for this. Suddenly all notion of aggressive petitioning fled. It was clear this old man would not make it to the royal tournament and even less likely to Ylena’s wedding.
Magnus allowed his guest’s silence for a few difficult moments and then said what needed to be shared. ‘I am dying, Wyl.’ The King held his hand up as his young visitor made to protest. ‘Please … sit with me a while. I have some things to say to you.’ Magnus motioned for Wyl to take the seat next to his bed. Wyl obeyed, his mind running the King’s words over in his head. Dying.
‘Ask me an intelligent question … the sort your father would want to know.’
Wyl did not feel like playing games but knew he must go along with his King’s request. He took a moment to consider before he spoke.
‘I believe my father would want to know how long you might reckon we have.’
Magnus clapped his hands once. ‘Good, Wyl. Excellent. That is precisely what Fergys would ask. No shallow sympathies, no dwelling on what cannot be changed. He would set aside any personal emotion and get on with the business at hand which is what must be set in place before I depart.’
Wyl nodded. ‘Which in your estimation might be when, sire?’
‘Ah, well, my physic tells me with luck I may see the next full moon.’
Wyl felt as though a knife were turning in his gut, and sensed the person holding that knife was Celimus. It was too soon for the old man to die.
‘Does your son know?’
‘Another good question. No. I have not seen Celimus since that time in the garden with you and Alyd and yet I have seen plenty of you since then. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’ the old man asked genially enough. It belied how he truly felt.
Wyl did not know how to respond. He blinked. ‘I cannot imagine our lives without you ruling, sire.’
The Quickening Page 9