The King’s voice became earnest and his sunken eyes seemed to spark. ‘You must! You alone must have a vision for the protection of Morgravia because Celimus, though skilled enough in the tools and strategy of war, will not. His mind, sadly, is filled with debauchery just now.’
‘My King, with deepest respect, I fear you may underestimate the Prince. He is ambitious.’
Magnus agreed. ‘I sense that is not a compliment to him, although you dissemble cleverly, General.’ Wyl sensibly said nothing. ‘If he is ambitious, then he hides it well from me. However, I think you are right, Wyl. I too believe Celimus is not as shallow in his thoughts as he would have us all think.’
‘No, sire. He has a razor-sharp mind and if I might talk freely?’ Magnus nodded. ‘Then I would suggest upon your death he will rule with a fierce hand.’
‘This much is true. He may be subtle but he lacks the finesse and indeed the largesse I would have hoped he may have acquired by now. He is, however, true to Morgravia, I believe, and in this I commend him. He will not permit it to lag behind its neighbours … and neither must you, Wyl Thirsk. Briavel may make a move towards war again in the next few years, when it feels strong again.’
‘It is the Mountain Dwellers who concern me more, sire.’
‘Just like your father.’ The old man sighed.
‘He was right, your majesty.’
‘Yes he was. You must continue to strengthen our northern forces. Cailech grows more bold.’
‘The retaliative skirmishes occur more often, sire. In days gone the Mountain Dwellers would normally flee if they encountered any of our patrols.’
Magnus sighed. ‘And now they stand and fight. Bold indeed. Your father warned as much with his last breath. You must pay attention to the north, son. It may be that Cailech takes on Briavel first, but it’s Morgravia that presents the greater challenge, with a King to topple. If he can take Morgravia, then Briavel — when Valentyna ascends the throne — will be an easy victory.’
Wyl frowned in thought, recalling the most recent reports. ‘I don’t like us taking the Mountain People’s lives. I feel it only inflames a potentially lethal situation and have given an edict that they are to be spared on all counts. Taken prisoner if necessary.’
‘Thank you, Fergys,’ the King said, finding an ironic grin. ‘Oh but you do remind me so hauntingly of him, Wyl. That’s exactly the sort of thing he might say.’
Wyl shrugged. ‘I don’t want us at war on two fronts. Cailech right now is controllable if we don’t incite problems. Perhaps, if we can calm the escalation, we might even be able to hold talks with him.’
Magnus flicked a glance at his General. ‘A parley with the King of the Mountains. I wish I could be there for that,’ he mused.
Wyl could hardly believe they were having this conversation. He felt as though he was sitting on the King’s deathbed already. He switched topic. ‘How do you feel, sire. Is there pain?’
‘Of no consequence. It is manageable with the poppy seed liquor.’
Wyl suspected Magnus of withholding the truth but he allowed it to pass. ‘Your majesty … Ylena’s wedding. Would you care to hand on the duty of giving her away? Perhaps to your next of kin?’
Magnus’s eyes became wide with mirth. ‘Celimus?’
Wyl swallowed hard. It was pride alone which prevented him from betraying how he really felt about such a situation.
‘You are priceless, my boy.’ The King enjoyed a feeble burst of laughter. Wyl already missed the bellow which Magnus was known for. ‘You would do that … allow Celimus, the person I suspect you dislike more than any other, to have that honour?’
Wyl did not hesitate. ‘I would, sire … if it be your wish.’
Magnus fixed him with a more sombre stare now. All mirth was gone. ‘Why couldn’t you have been my son, Wyl?’ He clasped Wyl’s hand. ‘You are the one who should rule Morgravia.’ The King’s eyes had gone misty.
Wyl cleared his throat. ‘It cannot be, your majesty,’ he all but whispered. ‘You must not speak of this again.’
‘Yes, but I think it all the time. You are fit to rule. The man who would be King seems to have no compassion in him. I fear for our people. I fear for you.’
‘Fret not about me, sire. I have his measure and he has my loyalty.’
‘Does he, Wyl? Does he have your loyalty?’
Wyl wondered why the King would ask this of him a second time. He paused and searched himself. He came out of his thoughts, wanting. ‘Sire, may I say this? If Celimus rules poorly he cannot expect my respect but I will pledge you this from the bottom of my heart: Morgravia has my loyalty. I will protect her to my dying breath.’
The King closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he nodded, squeezing Wyl’s hand in his own large fist. ‘It is enough for me, Wyl Thirsk.’ He smiled. ‘As for Ylena, I would ask that Gueryn step in for me. He is as good as family to you, and your father would be pleased with such a choice.’
Wyl visibly relaxed. ‘Thank you, sire. I know that Gueryn would consider this an honour.’
‘Keep him close to you, Wyl. He can watch your back like no other. And now to the real business at hand,’ Magnus said, looking drained of all energy.
‘Sire?’
‘Why you came to see me today. I imagine this is to do with the tournament.’
‘You know then?’
‘About Celimus ensuring you and he are the main exhibition piece for swords? Yes. I believe, though, that you wish to talk to me about the Virgin Kiss and your suspicions that it is Ylena he will choose.’
This was a surprise. Wyl had underestimated his King and was reminded once again of what a wily pair Magnus and his father must have made in their prime. ‘Yes, your majesty. Except it has taken a darker turn. Celimus has announced he is upping the stakes.’
‘Oh?’
‘His plan is to claim Virgin Blood,’ Wyl said, standing suddenly, his distress showing. ‘It is my suspicion that Celimus wants to bed Ylena before Alyd, ensuring my hate hardens. I can’t deny it, sire.’
Magnus said nothing, although a deep frown creased his brow. Wyl, unable to be still, paced.
Finally Magnus spoke. ‘This is very serious.’
Wyl spun around. ‘Can you not overturn it, my King?’ he implored.
‘You know I cannot. It would gravely undermine Celimus and reinforce his fear that I love and favour you.’
‘He fears this?’ Wyl spluttered.
‘How could he not? He and I share nothing but our bloodline,’ Magnus said firmly. ‘You are the son I should have begotten.’
Wyl could see the King was tiring. He needed an answer and pushed a little harder. ‘He means to win, sire.’
‘I realise this. In fact I think you’ll find that Celimus will never play his hand unless he is confident of winning.’
‘So you cannot overturn this decree?’
‘And I will not. Celimus is beginning to flex his muscles as the heir. You will have to play to his rules soon enough. This is your first test,’ Magnus said with regret.
‘What can I do? I cannot permit this.’
‘Then don’t play into his hands. Can you best him on the field?’
‘Yes,’ Wyl replied confidently.
‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’
‘And still I do, sire.’
‘Well, then you have to be even more cunning than he is. Use that wise head on your shoulders. There is a solution to every problem, my boy — those are your father’s words, by the way — and by Shar we always found those solutions in the nick of time. How long have you got?’
‘Two more days after this, sire.’
‘One more day than you need, then,’ the old man said, his eyes glittering now. Wyl could not tell whether it was from the fever or because the King already had the answer. ‘And when is the wedding again, my boy?’ he asked, his voice croaking.
‘Month’s end, sire.’
‘Ah yes, you did say. Perhaps you should
go about those arrangements then,’ he said, again as though passing on some sort of underlying thought. ‘I am feeling rather fatigued. We shall speak again soon.’
And to all intents and purposes it appeared as Magnus closed his eyes that he was already drifting into a drugged slumber.
As if he could see through walls, the physic knocked and made his entrance. ‘With respect, sir, I would ask that the King be left to sleep now.’
‘Of course,’ Wyl said, pondering the cryptic nature of his sovereign’s words.
SIX
WYL SAT IN A tiny, elevated courtyard, known as the Orangery, which cunningly trapped the sun, encouraging its fruit trees to grow luxuriantly behind Stoneheart’s impenetrable walls. The fragrance of the blossoms was heady and Wyl loved the tranquillity of this place, as did Ylena whose suite of rooms overlooked it. He could never accuse Magnus of not following through on his promise to their father. Ylena lived in quiet splendour with maidservants to tend her needs, amongst a glorious series of chambers and this courtyard which Magnus had designed and built for the little girl who came to him all those years ago.
The daughter I never had, he had once whispered to her and she loved him for it. Had loved him ever since. Ylena had never forgotten her father’s love but it had been taken from her so early that she had found it relatively simple to transfer it to his highly influential friend of a similar age who showered her with gifts and beautiful gowns and just about anything a noble’s daughter could wish for.
Wyl awaited his sister, his mind clouded in thought. A black dog sat patiently beside him, its mournful eyes staring up at Wyl, occasionally nudging his hand to remind him of its presence. Wyl stroked the large head absently and Knave complained softly at being so ignored by his master. He dropped his beloved ball, fashioned by Ylena from old linens, stockings and wool, in the vain hope that Wyl might kick it and begin one of their games.
The dog’s ears pricked at the sound of a footfall.
‘What’s up, Knave?’ asked Ylena as she appeared fresh and primped from her rooms, her spicy fragrance mingling with the courtyard’s perfume. ‘Hello, Wyl,’ she said, tweaking her brother’s ear and planting a kiss on his coarse, red head.
He pulled her close, loving the joy she found in simple pleasures and hating himself for bringing news to ruin her perfect day.
‘You even smell like our mother,’ he commented, kissing her on the cheek.
Ylena sighed. ‘I wish I could remember her as you do. I’m wearing her scent.’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Father gave it to me so many moons ago. He said I was to wear it on my wedding night. I’ve saved it for all this time and yet felt reckless today and dabbed a little on. Do you think he’ll like it?’ she asked shyly.
‘Who?’
‘Prince Celimus of course!’ she said, pulling an exasperated expression which changed immediately to one of concern at the way Wyl started at that name. ‘Alyd, you fool — my husband to be. Who else could I mean?’ she laughed.
Wyl felt relieved that the subject had been raised inadvertently. He opened his mouth to say what he had rehearsed in his mind but Ylena interrupted him, reaching over to talk to Knave.
‘You daft dog, you still have that silly red ball.’
‘And woe betide anyone who touches it,’ Wyl said affectionately.
‘Other than you, of course,’ she replied. ‘What is it between you and this dog, Wyl? He strikes the very fear of the devil into almost everyone at Stoneheart and yet he’s like a puppy around you.’
‘And you.’
‘Yes, but it’s passing strange, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. He lost Myrren when he was a baby and then I came along out of the blue.’ Wyl wanted to add that it was probably similar to how Ylena transferred her love from Fergys to Magnus. Instead he shrugged and scratched the dog’s ears. ‘I was the next best thing he had.’
‘Whatever made you follow her instructions?’ Ylena suddenly wondered.
‘I’m not sure, in truth. I felt somehow compelled and perhaps a little obliged after all her suffering. She said he was a gift and I was to use him wisely.’
‘Do you understand what she meant?’
Wyl shook his head.
‘What happened to her family anyway?’
‘I heard the father died on the morning the Witch Stalkers came for her. The mother was addled when we met. She listened to my tale and handed me the dog without another word. I don’t know what became of her but the house had been all packed up when I visited and I presumed her mother was leaving town. She was probably glad to be rid of the burden of the pup.’
‘Very strange,’ Ylena admitted. ‘I’m just glad Knave sees me as friend and not foe.’ Then she lowered her voice before adding: ‘He hates Celimus most of all, of course, but then I think he gets that from you.’
‘Hush,’ Wyl admonished.
‘No one’s around.’
‘Even Stoneheart’s thick walls have ears.’
‘Well, it’s true. I think Knave hates anyone you don’t like. Think about it, he barely tolerates others who mean little to you but is loyal to those you love. How’s that for a fine philosophy?’ she said, kicking the red ball, much to the dog’s surprised delight.
Their conversation was interrupted by one of Ylena’s maids announcing the arrival of Alyd. His expression was bleak as he kissed Ylena’s hand.
‘Whatever is wrong with you, Alyd Donal? One would think the King had denied permission to our marriage.’
‘Have you told her?’ Alyd asked Wyl, who shook his head.
‘Told me what?’ Ylena’s eyes moved between two grim expressions.
‘Ylena …’ Wyl began.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘This sounds bad.’ She called to her maid and asked for a spiced cordial to be brought immediately. The maid returned quickly, and Ylena drank her small helping down in one gulp.
‘Right. I’m presuming this is connected with our wedding. Tell me,’ she commanded, her throat burning from the liquor.
Wyl started again. He told her what he knew and of his suspicions. She felt for Alyd’s steadying hand as Wyl bowed his head and finished with: ‘All that’s standing between you and the bed of Celimus is my sword.’
‘But I’ve never done him a wrong,’ she said, her voice shaking.
‘You’ve never done anyone a wrong, my beloved,’ Alyd comforted. ‘This is not about you. This is about hurting Wyl … and your family name.’
‘Are we sure of this?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But I know how his mind works. He knows how best to damage me.’
Ylena shook her head. ‘Why does he hate you so much, Wyl?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, not wanting to repeat what he had learned from the King.
‘I do,’ Alyd admitted. ‘I believe it’s because the King is so fond of you.’ And when Wyl shook his head in denial, he added: ‘It’s true. Everyone’s seen it. Celimus has no time for the King and yet he sees you in his father’s company and enjoying it. Don’t forget either, he had to grow up around the inseparable friendship of your father and his. By all accounts Magnus spent little enough time with his son. I’ve heard whispers that he blames his father for his mother’s ugly death — has never forgiven him.’
Wyl nodded. ‘I’ve heard similar comments.’
Alyd was not finished. ‘Perhaps Celimus blames Fergys Thirsk for being in the way. And lo and behold when the General dies, he is replaced by a boy similar to his own age who seems to win the fond attention of his own father.’ Alyd blew out his cheeks briefly. ‘Seeing it from his side, you can almost understand why he might be twisted about you.’
Wyl shrugged. He did not want to admit that Alyd’s argument was, in all probability, very sound. ‘And so, Ylena, by stealing what’s so precious from you he humiliates the sister I adore, creating despair for my best friend and a chance to fire my anger sufficiently for an all out confrontation.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, I won’t co-operate. I’d sooner die.’
Alyd nodded. ‘And although I’m no match for him, I swear I would gladly die trying to stop him laying a finger on you. Wyl, I’ve been thinking about how we can get Ylena away from here. My intention is to —’
Wyl shook his head. ‘Alyd, stop! I’ve told you, there is no escape. Celimus is not one for being thwarted. It would be a cruel blow to his ego not to attain something he has set his heart on — and taking Ylena in the way he imagines is a masterstroke guaranteed to hurt both you and me. No, he would hunt you down as easy as blinking. And he is in no hurry. You would be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your lives. The fear of being caught at every turn will destroy any chance of true happiness.’
‘Then what? What can we do?’ Ylena’s voice was shaking.
‘We have to be smarter than he is, more cunning.’ Wyl stood and walked to one of the orange trees, inhaling its freshness and stealing a few moments to convince himself his plan could be done.
He turned back to them. ‘I have a plan. It was a comment from the King which seeded it in my mind, and we have only what’s left of today and tomorrow to make it work.’
They listened.
SEVEN
THE DAY OF THE tournament dawned sharp and bright over Stoneheart. Rain clouds of the previous day had blown through, leaving clear skies and a cool morning. It had drizzled the evening before so the ground was soft yet not slippery enough underfoot to be troublesome, making it perfect for charging animals and wrestling men. The horses were gleaming and colourful bunting was flapping in the light morning breeze around the tournament field.
The carpenters had finished erecting the seating arena and, although damp, the small tents which encircled the field had held firm overnight. Each would become the base for a noble family and it was from here their sons would wage mock war on each other. Another larger and less flamboyant tent would house the jugglers, tumblers, dancers and other entertainers, including a famous fire-eater and contortionist who was in attendance by express request of his royal highness, Prince Celimus.
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