Liryk looked stunned whilst he digested this revelation. Then he began to bluster. ‘He’d be a damn fool to think Valentyna might be coerced —’
Krell raised a finger. It was enough to stop the commander’s indignant response. ‘Yes, I know. But he doesn’t know her character,’ he said, gently this time.
Liryk nodded. ‘How can you be certain of all this?’ he asked, impressed by the Chancellor’s confidence. And watched that confidence evaporate as his companion gave a wry smile.
‘I can’t. It’s possible is all I’m saying …a theory of mine.’
Liryk dismissed Krell’s uncertainty. To him, it was not just possible but very plausible. He thought more clearly now. ‘And this mercenary, Koreldy, do you think he also was a victim of the double cross?’
‘Possibly,’ the Chancellor replied. ‘But it’s all just theory at the moment, Liryk. However, if our assumptions are correct, it would mean that Celimus worked awfully fast to put this audacious plan into action after his father’s death.’ He paused a moment and frowned. ‘Or, possibly, before Magnus died. Whichever way, I have to presume that Valor’s death was his intention all along.’
The soldier stood. ‘Plausible. And so?’
Krell shook his head. ‘Not much else. It’s all rather baffling. Thirsk and Koreldy kill the mercenaries, but let’s say the King is wounded and unable to go with them, or perhaps he died of his injuries before they could save him. The pair have no choice but to escape with Valentyna.’
Liryk rubbed his face distractedly as he paced the room. ‘But how …where?’
‘A good question amongst too many that we still have to answer.’ Krell sighed. ‘There is only one certainty here: Valentyna must be found — that is our priority. And when we find her we will convince her of the sense of a union with King Celimus.’
‘What?’ Liryk swung around on Krell. They were of an age and had both served Valor faithfully over many years. Neither felt the other had rank. ‘You mean, allow Celimus to get away with this?’ The soldier’s voice was hard, barely more than a whisper.
‘There is more to this than we know,’ Krell appealed. ‘What we can safely assume, however, is that should Briavel start a war with Morgravia right now we are lost. Our Queen is young and incapable of waging a long conflict with our neighbour. Who knows if she is even aware that her father has died, Shar rest his soul, and that she now rules in his stead. She is in no position to withstand Celimus and, frankly, neither is Briavel. The marriage will save our people. We walk a tightrope of diplomacy now.’
The old soldier nodded thoughtfully as the implication of Krell’s words sank in. ‘You play a frightening game, Chancellor. According to this theory of yours, Celimus wanted Valor dead so he couldn’t stand in his way. That’s what you’re saying isn’t it? He’s a murderer.’
Krell held the old soldier’s gaze steadily. His voice was even when he spoke. ‘Perhaps. But I also believe Valor would have sanctioned a marriage anyway.’ Finally he showed more emotion. ‘Damn this Celimus!’ he cursed. ‘We must find Valentyna before he does.’
They did not have long to wait, for at that moment a small boy was escorted through the study doors.
With the corpse slung again over the second horse and a quick glance towards the sweet-natured mule, Wyl ignored his hunger and set off towards Pearlis. They had met several curious onlookers along the way over the past two days and now as they drew into its outlying villages he gave none sufficient eye contact to invite questions on the shrouded body. It was nearing evening when he finally drew near to the magnificent stone arch which welcomed visitors to Stoneheart.
The guards eyed him suspiciously and he could hardly blame them, considering his odd company: a mule and what was obviously a corpse. Wyl felt a pang of sorrow upon recognising a couple of his own men as they held up their hands to stop his progress.
‘Ho, there. You, man, what is this?’
Wyl had to remind himself of who he was. ‘A dead body. I think you’ll recognise him if you take a look.’ He pulled back some of the shroud from the head.
The men stepped closer and Wyl read the dismay on their faces as they noted the flame-coloured hair first.
‘It can’t be,’ one spluttered. ‘No!’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Wyl said in Romen’s wry manner. But he was glad of their pain. It reassured him that his men knew nothing and were not in on Celimus’s elaborate intrigue.
Suddenly their swords were drawn and pointed at this throat.
‘Who are you?’ one of the guards demanded. Wyl saw dampness in the man’s eyes.
This is it, he told himself. Remember who you are. In that moment of hesitation, he realised he had held himself too tightly within this stranger’s body. He knew he must loosen himself and embrace it; must own it if he was ever going to avenge his own murder. Wyl opened himself up to what was left of Romen and felt all that was Wyl Thirsk flow into the lithe and graceful stature which Romen had once possessed. Now the voice, the easy style and even his mannerisms came effortlessly to Wyl.
‘I am Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn. You can see which son of Morgravia I am returning home. I think you’ll find King Celimus is expecting me,’ he said confidently.
An urgent runner was sent with a message. More soldiers had gathered, most in silent shock, just to lay their hands on the beloved General. Wyl was touched by their grief.
‘What happened?’ one asked, not at all shamed by his wet cheeks.
Wyl was ready for this question and intended to make it difficult for Celimus to squirm out of endorsing the explanation. ‘The palace at Briavel was attacked by mercenaries posing as soldiers from the Morgravian Legion.’
New shock claimed each face around him.
‘But what was he doing in Briavel!’ more than one cried.
Wyl shrugged. ‘I gather he was on business there for your King and became helplessly embroiled in the problem.’
The soldiers muttered amongst themselves, realising now where their commander had been.
‘He gave no word — he just left. It’s had the whole company baffled,’ someone said.
Wyl nodded. ‘Probably on a secret mission then, for Morgravia.’
‘How do you know they were mercenaries?’ one wily campaigner asked him.
‘There was no mistaking them,’ he said and then embellished with: ‘I was there on private business myself but when the attack occurred I found myself fighting on this man’s side. What is his name again?’
They answered as one grief-stricken chorus.
And then for good measure and a chance to escape further scrutiny he grimaced, adding, ‘I was wounded and am in need of some aid.’
Hands rushed to help.
‘My mule — well, she is not truly mine — is exhausted. The beast has run all day to keep up with the horses.’
‘We’ll take care of her, sir, don’t you worry, now,’ a kindly voice offered.
A messenger appeared. ‘Sir, the King will see you immediately.’
‘Could someone put his body on my shoulder please?’ Wyl asked. He had, in truth, not realised his own wound had re-opened until he had drawn attention to it.
‘We’ll bring him,’ a guard said, a tremor in his voice.
‘No. I’ve carried him since Briavel. I’ll deliver him to his King as I promised him just before he died,’ Wyl lied, hating himself for it.
A look of reverence crossed their faces now. The man who seemed most senior nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said and once again hands clamoured to assist.
Wyl settled the body and followed the messenger, as did several of the guards.
‘Was Captain Donal with him, may I ask, sir?’ one said.
‘A fair-haired fellow, always smiling?’
‘That’s him,’ the man said eagerly.
‘Dead,’ Wyl replied. ‘I’m sorry, I just could not bring the both of them back,’ he added, truly despising himself.
More pain and sorrow, but he needed to craft this tale p
erfectly. He must trap Celimus into supporting the story, and he also did not want the Legion rising up yet or doing anything rash.
Wyl could not speak any further as he laboured up the narrow stone staircase which led him to that favourite open walkway where the familiar scent of winterblossom drifted up from the garden below. It reminded him once again of his first meeting with King Magnus. He fought the memory away and waited whilst the same courtier who had sneered at him not so long ago, did the same again, this time eyeing his load with disgust.
‘Follow me,’ the man said coolly.
And Wyl did, taking a deep breath and bracing himself for Celimus. He wondered in one isolated moment of fear whether the King would see through his façade, see that this was not the hired killer but his hated enemy in a clever glamour. The notion passed as quickly as it arrived. He was Romen Koreldy and he would wield his disguise to brilliant effect. The nonchalant style of Romen was part of him now as he entered the chamber. Passing through the heavy-curtained arch he emerged fully into the familiar room and his silvery-grey eyes met the hard, disbelieving stare of King Celimus.
‘Leave us,’ the King ordered his aide. ‘I could not believe the messenger when he told me you were here,’ he said to Wyl.
No, I bet you couldn’t, Wyl thought, watching the aide bow and leave, his face pinched at being dismissed so plainly. Wyl could not enjoy it, returning his gaze to Celimus almost immediately. When he heard the door shut behind him he eased the corpse from his shoulders and dropped it to the floor.
‘I bring you the body of Wyl Thirsk, sire, as ordered.’
He waited.
Celimus did not flinch, did not look down, but held the stare. Wyl imagined the dozen or so scenarios which were flashing through the King’s mind now as he tried to work out how his carefully laid plan had gone so terribly wrong, how it came to be that Romen stood before him and not Arkol.
‘The other men you took.’ It was a statement but the question was clearly there.
‘Dead, sire, all of them,’ Wyl reported.
At this the King’s eyebrow raised slightly. He had not expected such news.
‘Including their treacherous leader, Arkol,’ Wyl reinforced, hoping the King would bite.
He did. ‘Ah, yes, what of him?’ Celimus enquired innocently but still the penetrating gaze held Wyl firmly.
‘Died screaming, your majesty, as I ran him through. It was either that or be killed myself. It was their plan, you see — or so I think I’ve worked out — that they would deliver Thirsk’s body and share the purse themselves. I cannot think of any other reason for their betrayal.’
He could see the King relax just slightly after Wyl had deliberately given Celimus the room he needed to manoeuvre himself away from all links to Arkol’s band.
‘Really?’ Celimus said. ‘Treacherous indeed, Romen. I’m glad you were able to save yourself.’
‘But not the King of Briavel, sire. Arkol murdered him.’
There was only a moment’s hesitation. ‘I had hoped as much.’ Celimus could not keep the excitement from his voice.
Wyl ignored the admission, responding flatly. ‘I saw him die.’
Celimus became suddenly conciliatory and Wyl could sense the way the King’s agile mind moved around his problem. In the end Celimus decided to use half truth. ‘I mean it sincerely, Romen, when I admit my discomfort at not sharing that intention with you. I sensed you would not be a party to it if I did.’
‘And you would be right, your majesty. I do not kill sovereigns for any amount of money. Will you be attending the state funeral?’
‘I doubt they’ll hold a public ceremony, thank Shar! The Briavellian commander, if he is wise, will not want to see the people excited to war just now, would he?’ Celimus said, clearly delighted. ‘After all, the rabble would immediately point the finger at Morgravia and start baying for blood. But the Guard is in no position to fight. Not with the Queen so young, so vulnerable. Poor child. How lonely she must be. Ripe for the plucking.’
Wyl hated his King with such fury, it took all of his control, every ounce of determination he could muster not to strike the man standing before him … kill him, bare-handed, in fact, despite the guards who could be summoned with a single call.
‘But you do not hold it against me, surely?’ Celimus queried, sensing the sudden tension.
It was an odd question. Wyl narrowed Romen’s eyes and forced the body he inhabited to relax. ‘It is your decision, sire. I do not interfere in politics or affairs of state. Arkol succeeded with your task and I’m presuming you had good reason for giving the instruction. I did not kill Arkol for that action,’ Wyl lied. ‘I despatched him for turning on me. I imagine he may have even killed more of his own men to keep a bigger share of your money.’
‘But I was paying them gold to do our bidding,’ Celimus said, all innocence and offended pride. ‘They have betrayed us both.’
Wyl appreciated how cleverly Celimus used the word ‘us’, artfully depicting them as partners.
‘Yes, sire, but men like these can rarely be trusted. I told you that when you hired them,’ Wyl said, amazed at where that piece of information had bubbled up from.
‘That you did. Hopefully I can trust you.’
‘I am a man of my word. I promised you the corpse of Wyl Thirsk.’
‘And you have delivered!’ Celimus said magnanimously, his pleasure barely concealed. ‘I am indebted to you, Romen Koreldy,’ he added, bending down now to roll over Wyl’s body and reassure himself how very dead it was. He lifted the head by its orange hair and then banged it down carelessly.
Wyl blinked back the fury. ‘What now, sire?’
‘For him? A state funeral, I suppose. Morgravia will honour her proud General and its Legion will grieve deeply. I will declare a day of public mourning in his honour. We will exalt one of our favourite sons and bury him with pride and pomp alongside his father. The people will weep and their King will shed his own special tears,’ Celimus said before sneering, ‘of joy.’
Wyl could only nod.
‘Come, Romen, sit and join me in a cup and help me celebrate what is surely one of the happiest days of my life.’
Wyl had no choice but to accept the goblet of sweet wine which the King deigned to pour from a chalice with his own hand.
‘Tell me everything,’ Celimus said, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation.
And Wyl did, carefully reconstructing the story and sticking as much to the truth as he could, leaving out Fynch’s involvement.
‘So Thirsk was supping alone with Valor?’
‘No. I learned afterwards that the daughter joined them — arrived through some sort of concealed entrance or other.’
‘Ah, I assume, though, you discovered the outcome of Thirsk’s conversation with the King?’
Wyl smiled inwardly. Celimus was falling into the trap of presuming Valentyna was a simpering Princess without a notion or opinion of her own. If only he knew.
‘I did, sire,’ he admitted, leaning back in his chair as Romen would. ‘He assured me he had won the King’s agreement. Then he tried to bargain with me for his life.’
Celimus threw back his head and showed his perfect teeth in a full-throated laugh. ‘But you killed him all the same. I like you, Koreldy. You are my man.’
‘Didn’t think twice about it,’ Wyl answered, and joined the King in his mirth, wondering what it would feel like to slash the betrayer’s throat.
‘Tell me how I can repay you for this stupendously good deed?’
Wyl’s expression turned into one of Romen’s favourites, a cynical raising of an eyebrow. ‘Apart from the promised purse you mean, sire?’ he asked dryly.
‘Of course. I am feeling generous and you are responsible for this lighthearted mood. On top of the gold, ask a boon of me and let me grant it,’ Celimus offered, sweeping his hand expansively as though nothing could be too large a favour.
‘There is something, majesty,’ Wyl said.
; ‘Name it!’ the King said, walking around his desk to retrieve two leather sacks, one larger than the other. He returned and banged them down on the table. They had the unmistakably heavy sound of gold. ‘They’re both for you. I am giving you all the money, including what was intended for Arkol and his men.’
‘That wasn’t the boon, sire,’ Wyl said carefully.
‘I realise. Tell me,’ Celimus commanded.
‘The sister,’ he replied.
The King looked momentarily confused and then understanding dawned. ‘Of Thirsk!’
Wyl nodded. ‘I want her.’
‘Shar’s Balls. What will you do with her, man?’
He said nothing but allowed one of Romen’s sardonic smiles to drift across his face.
Celimus began to laugh and then to clap slowly, his delight evident. ‘This is priceless. Oh it is too much fun to know Thirsk’s executioner will now bed his much beloved sister. It’s an even more perfect sentence than I could have imposed myself,’ the King admitted. ‘Take her, Romen, with my blessings. And when you’ve finished with her, you’re welcome to kill her. You’ll rid me of a problem — I’ll inform the gaoler immediately.’
‘Good,’ Wyl said, only barely holding on to his emotions now. He gripped the goblet and deliberately forced himself to raise it. ‘To secrets, sire.’
‘I’ll drink to that. You’ll be my best kept one,’ and he swallowed the contents of his own goblet in one draught. ‘I see you are hurt,’ he said.
Wyl shook his head to show it was nothing serious but took his chance to escape. ‘A legacy from Thirsk, sire, but I will take my leave if you’ll grant it and have it seen to.’
‘Of course. But tell me before you go of the Princess.’
This was a critical part of his plan now. In order to protect Valentyna, Wyl knew he must make her irresistible to Celimus. Much as it galled him, he must encourage the King’s amorous attentions and thus keep him from waging any strikes on Briavel.
He deliberately rearranged Romen’s permanently amused expression into one of seriousness. ‘She is breathtakingly beautiful, your majesty. A more exquisite woman I have never laid eyes upon nor will I.’ It was all truth.
The Quickening Page 22