The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

Lothryn nodded. ‘It will be done, my lord.’

  Lothryn watched from the shadows as Romen Koreldy entered the Scarlet Feather and, according to the innkeeper, was fortunate to buy the last room in the house. It was expensive but Wyl was looking forward to some comfort and a chance to recuperate after days in the saddle. He desperately needed to give his ribs a chance to heal further. He was still sporting a bruised eye which drew another comment from the nosy man behind the counter.

  ‘A lady didn’t take too kindly to catching me kissing her best friend,’ Wyl remarked easily and winked, not aware that he had been trailed since entering Yentro.

  The man laughed. ‘She’s got a good punching arm then, sir. I’d avoid that one again.’

  ‘I don’t believe she’d have me again,’ Wyl said archly, adding, ‘though it would be worth another shiner.’ This time they both enjoyed the jest. ‘I could use a smooth. Are there some chambers nearby?’

  ‘Yes, sir. When you’ve settled in your room I’ll give directions. It’s attached to the bath-house.’

  Wyl nodded. He took the stairs slowly, having already been warned there were four flights to his room. These were mercifully short but he still collapsed on his bed, glad of his small sack of luggage. He undid his scabbard, took off his shirt and undid the hidden belt and knives. Such relief. He leaned back and immediately began to doze. Rousing himself, he realised he had actually fallen asleep, which would not do. He needed to establish quickly whether the Widow Ilyk was in Yentro. Time worked against him. He had to get back to Briavel to meet with the Queen, then keep his promise to his sister and convey Alyd’s remains from Rittylworth to Felrawthy. He hoped to escort Ylena back to the safety of Argorn and her own people as well. And still the question of treachery niggled. Would he try and overthrow the Crown? He had to stop thinking about all that was still ahead or he would be overwhelmed. He recalled Gueryn’s advice to deal with one issue at a time. His mentor had trained him to clear his mind and concentrate on the most important demand. Prioritise! He could hear Gueryn’s voice now. The priority was to find the widow. Everything else came after that.

  Yawning and stretching carefully, he hid his weapons in the bed linen and, after dressing, locked the door and headed downstairs where the innkeeper was giving instructions to a brace of serving girls and boys.

  He noticed Wyl watching. ‘Very busy, today, sir.’

  ‘Is there something going on?’

  ‘It’s our annual trading fair. I thought you might be here for it. No one actually passes through Yentro without a reason.’ Wyl heard the curiosity in the man’s voice.

  ‘Ah well, perhaps you can help me. I’m actually in Yentro to pass on a message to the Widow Ilyk. Would you know of her — she’s rather old and is a local?’

  ‘I can’t say I do but then I’m fairly new here myself, sir. Bought the Feather only a few moons ago.’

  Wyl gave a casual wave of his hand as though it was of no importance. ‘I can make enquiries, thank you. Now those directions?’

  The innkeeper busied himself with a detailed account of how to find the bath-house and Wyl was glad to escape the man’s watchful gaze. The directions were accurate and, looking forward to the intense pleasure which only an expert smoothing could bring, Wyl was once again oblivious to the dark-haired stranger who followed at a safe distance.

  He was soon luxuriating in fragranced, steaming water. He paid for a private room, preferring not to share his bruises with the rest of the men enjoying their dip. After soaping his hair, he rang a bell and a young woman came in and poured fresh warm water over his head. The rinse was scented with gardenia which sharply brought back a distant memory for Wyl, although the nature of it was blurred. He searched his own thoughts and understood the recall was not his.

  Someone in Romen’s life had obviously used the scent.

  He stored that thought away, realising that the woman who waited on him stood patiently holding drying linens. Wyl forced himself not to be self-conscious of his nakedness. Romen would stand and probably even stretch for her, he thought, and found the courage to be still as she rubbed the fabric around his body.

  ‘I cannot help but notice that you are hurt, sir?’ she enquired, large eyes darting towards the worst bruises.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, elaborating no further. ‘I shall have to ask you to be extremely gentle with the smoothing around my ribs.’

  She nodded seriously before gesturing towards the table where she invited him to stretch out. He did so with difficulty. Lighting several scented candles, she burned oil above them and when heated she poured some into her palms and with great care smoothed the warmed oil over his body. Wyl felt his body relax under her touch. Working silently, she avoided his mid section and concentrated instead on his sore buttocks, legs and shoulders. Her fingers were strong and skilled.

  Wyl finally broke from his relaxed stupor and spoke to her. ‘I’m trying to find someone called the Widow Ilyk … would you know of her?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The response was too quick, he thought. ‘That’s a pity. I have a message from the south for her. I promised a lady by the name of Thirsk that I would deliver it.’ Wyl figured that if she did know the old girl then the name Thirsk would be memorable and the seer might give her consent to see him.

  There was a pause as though she was considering. ‘I’m sorry I cannot help you, sir.’

  He left it alone, now sure that the Widow Ilyk was known to people in Yentro. He hoped his instincts were right about the girl, and soon found out they were. He took his time finishing up. After the smoothing he took a plunge in a tepid, salted pool attached to his private room. It roused him from the drowsy state he had fallen into. He dressed and left the building, already noticing that the young woman who had done his smoothing was following him. She waited until they had rounded a corner before stopping him.

  ‘I do know the Widow Ilyk’s niece, sir,’ she called to him.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I sent a message. Widow Ilyk will see you today.’

  He hid his elation. ‘Thank you,’ he said, giving her a silver duke, grateful for her involvement. She had clearly not held that much money before for her eyes shone. ‘How will I find her?’ he asked.

  ‘My friend … her niece, Elspyth, will meet you at this corner shortly. I have described you to her.’

  Romen’s heartbreaking smile broke like sunlight. ‘I hope you told her how handsome I am?’

  She laughed despite her serious nature. ‘I did. Farewell, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, adding, ‘you have excellent hands.’

  The smoother hurried away but he caught the flush at her cheeks.

  Lothryn was close enough to catch the blush of the woman. He also saw the flash of silver. She was the smoother. He knew this already. No smoother was paid so highly for her services, not unless she belonged to a brothel which offered some very special additional comforts. The Mountain man watched as she fingered the coin. A lot of money for a girl like this. His eyes narrowed in concentration.

  ‘What information have you just paid for, Koreldy?’ he whispered, noticing that after the girl hurried off, his quarry was in no rush himself to leave the breezy, cold corner where he now stood. ‘And so we wait,’ Lothryn murmured.

  He turned to where his companions sat discreetly mulling over their ale. Lothryn gave a sign which they understood to mean that they would be waiting now. He nodded, turned away from Lothryn.

  The three men of the mountains who now stalked Romen Koreldy blended into their surrounds. They would not normally. If dressed in their preferred garb, they would be conspicuous, but Cailech’s men had taken the precaution of equipping themselves with appropriate clothes which did not attract that sort of attention. Lothryn did not fool himself into believing the northern Morgravians did not recognise him or his compatriots for who they were but the simple disguise just made it easier for them to be accepted as traders — albeit illegal ones — from the mountains rather than
barbarian warriors.

  This had been a successful trading week, he reflected. The King would be pleased and in his usual way he would plough the gold from the sale of the prized horses bred in the Razors back into seed especially and goods for the Mountain People. Paper and stylos were high on the King’s shopping list this time — he was determined the children would write with the correct equipment from now on. His plans for the future were lofty indeed, but why not? Lothryn argued to himself. Cailech had a vision for their harsh Mountain Kingdom, and if anyone could realise it, this man could.

  Lothryn had grown up loving Cailech and, although he rarely dwelled on it, he knew he could flatter himself in saying that the feeling was mutual. They had played side by side since they were old enough to walk and had been inseparable since. And now Cailech ruled. A self-proclaimed, magnificent King; Lothryn his unfailingly loyal second. Lothryn smiled. Life was good — almost perfect in fact, if not for the increasing upheavals with the new King of Morgravia.

  Celimus had already made what was surely a challenge to war by sending a team of spies into the Mountain King’s territory. And Lothryn was quietly worried that Cailech’s well-known temper might lead them into deeper waters. He was already talking up the notion that his people deserved the plentiful southern lands for themselves, to grow their crops and raise their children. It was an audacious dream and one that Lothryn did not agree with. He had suggested time and again that their people should keep to the safety and obscurity of the Razors. Their arable land was small but rich; their animals fat and healthy; the people themselves happy. But he knew Cailech wanted more. Cailech always wanted more — even as a youngster he had dreamed big. And now he wanted to teach the new sovereign of Morgravia a lesson in kingship. Lothryn shook his head. In truth, if they were going to attempt to take the south then Lothryn believed they should attack weaker Briavel first, thus effectively encircling Morgravia.

  He shook his head clear of thoughts of war. All he wanted right now was to be gone from Morgravia, to head back into the mountains to where his child was preparing to be born.

  He watched Koreldy pace in the cold and smiled at his discomfort. The man had obviously softened in his time south. A young woman was approaching him. Lothryn had not seen her before in Yentro but that was not necessarily surprising. She’s lovely, he thought, small but a lovely handful. And he grinned to himself.

  ‘Here we go,’ he muttered to himself, as the young woman paused to speak with Romen. Lothryn looked behind, caught the gaze of his companions and nodded. It was time to follow their prey.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ELSPYTH CAME UP BEHIND the man who had been described to her. She had been watching him for a brief while, wondering what his true interest was with her ageing aunt. His story was a ruse, she was sure of it, but her gifted aunt had recognised the name Thirsk, had been startled to hear it in fact, but had immediately given her agreement to meet with him. Why she herself felt so wary she could not say.

  Her aunt had only just made the long trek home; she was weak and fragile and Elspyth was tired. Tired of the fairgrounds and weary of life on the road. She loved the rugged north and Yentro seemed to have swelled to twice the size even in the time they had been away. She was not sure the south knew how this place was flourishing and Elspyth wanted to be here to enjoy it. She liked their cottage at the foothills and for the most part did not mind the lonely life, although she dreamed of one day having a family.

  Why do I think this stranger will bring us trouble? she thought as she approached him. ‘Koreldy?’ she said.

  He turned, looking down at her from his height. Her friend told no lie with her description either. Elspyth could sense this was a man who enjoyed the company of women.

  ‘You are the niece?’ he said, affably.

  She nodded.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said and bowed.

  Elspyth was not going to let him work his charms on her. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Is it far?’ he called to her back, for she had already turned and left.

  ‘Why? Are you lame?’ She did not mean to be rude but his easy smile clashed with her mood.

  He did not take offence — laughed in fact. ‘No. No, I’m not but I am hurt.’

  She turned, her expression a question.

  ‘I took a beating from some bandits. It’s my ribs,’ he said in explanation.

  ‘Our cottage is in the foothills.’

  It gave Wyl no more information than before. He protested no further. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  They walked heading north out of Yentro and then veered east. Wyl regretted not wearing his knives at least, having had no idea he would be leaving the main town. The woman called Elspyth strode ahead but he had gradually made up the ground with Romen’s long stride, admiring her shapely backside and the way it swayed as she walked. He finally drew level with her.

  ‘Another mile,’ she warned.

  ‘When did you get home?’ he asked, mainly to make conversation but realised it was an error.

  She glared at him. ‘How did you know we’ve been away?’

  Yes, how could Romen know this? Fool! ‘Er … I saw your aunt at the Morgravian tournament.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She met with a friend of mine,’ he added, hoping that was enough information.

  ‘My aunt took unwell on the night of the tourney. We started the long journey home the next day.’

  ‘Well, it is wonderful countryside,’ Wyl said, trying to turn the conversation away from that particular day. ‘I can understand why you would want to be home here.’

  ‘Can you?’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t care much for cities myself.’ It felt like this was his first truth in days.

  Elspyth went quiet after this and Wyl soon began to labour. The pain was back.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, returning to where he had stopped at the roadside to tip something from a bottle into his mouth.

  ‘Something to ease the pain.’ He grimaced as the vile-tasting stuff slid down his throat.

  Her brow creased at his expression. ‘That bad?’ He nodded. ‘May I?’ she said holding her hand out.

  Wyl gave her the tiny bottle and she smelled its contents. ‘Powerful stuff. I have something else, less harsh on your belly, which you may care to try.’

  He nodded his thanks as his eyes picked out the thatched roof of a cottage, partly hidden behind a mound and some trees. It seemed Shar was smiling on him. They were here. Elspyth led him out of the sharp sunlight, which seemed peculiar to the north, Wyl decided, and into the darkness of the small cottage.

  ‘I’ll not be long,’ she said, gesturing towards a scrubbed table and chairs. The young woman disappeared into the back of the cottage and reappeared a few moments later.

  ‘My aunt will see you now.’

  Wyl had not realised he was holding his breath with tension. He followed Elspyth into the back chamber which was darker still, and the familiar odour of burning sticks took him back to the seer’s tent at the fairground.

  ‘Welcome,’ the old woman’s voice croaked.

  Wyl bowed to the Widow Ilyk out of courtesy even though she was blind. Somehow he felt she would sense his good manners anyway.

  ‘Elspyth, my dear. Would you fetch us some wine?’

  Her niece glanced towards Wyl as she departed. He suspected her glare was to warn him not to tire the old girl. Be quick, in other words. Meanwhile the wine was obviously her aunt’s manner of requesting privacy.

  ‘It is good of you to see me, Widow,’ Wyl said.

  The old woman swayed slightly as her whitish eyes stared over his shoulder. ‘Your name is unknown to me, Romen Koreldy, but I am familiar with Wyl Thirsk. That one had an aura about him.’

  Wyl felt a chill settle across him. She was definitely no trickster.

  ‘No aura about me?’

  ‘Not that I can detect,’ she said and a small smile snatched at her mouth. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
/>   ‘Grenadyn, madam,’ he replied. ‘Originally,’ he added for truth.

  ‘Yes, I hear its soft lilt in your voice. A nice voice, belonging to a handsome man, I’m told,’ she said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled.

  ‘That depends only on the opinion of the beholder, madam,’ Wyl replied.

  ‘You’ve obviously come a long way to find me. How can I help?’

  ‘Take my hands,’ Wyl suggested.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you do?’

  ‘Sometimes. Other times I just listen.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Oh, the voices around you, the aura surrounding your person. I might add you are closed to me.’

  ‘Please, take my hands,’ he asked.

  ‘If it pleases you,’ she agreed, reaching forward. ‘I imagine —’ At his touch she instantly swallowed what she was about to say. Instead what came out was a terrified gasp.

  ‘Widow?’

  Now she trembled. He could feel her fright beneath his fingers, could see her garments shaking against her frail body. Her lips began to move but no sound came out.

  ‘Widow!’ Wyl repeated, worried.

  ‘It is you.’ She spoke hardly above a whisper. ‘It has happened, Wyl Thirsk.’

  Relief flooded through him. ‘You remember.’ There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

  ‘I can never forget you. When?’

  Wyl told her what had occurred.

  ‘A curse or a gift, Wyl Thirsk?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure. It saved my life but it took another.’

  ‘He would have taken yours in any event.’

  ‘This is true. He was, I suspect, a good man.’

  ‘You will make him better,’ she comforted, sensing his sorrow. ‘You’ve tracked me down because you have questions.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will answer as best I can, though I warn, I know little.’

  He nodded. ‘Are you a witch?’

  She chuckled at this. ‘No, son. I have no magics. Only the Sight.’

  ‘But you deliberately masquerade as a trickster.’