But magic must have existed in the world at some time, Fynch reasoned, for superstitious people still walked around puddles in case their soul was reflected there. Or, said a special warding if they found their butter had soured, their milk had curdled or salt had been spilled. His favourite superstition was the wearing of something violet the day before the night of a full moon.
Fynch’s mother had been especially ‘connected’ — as she had claimed — to the spiritual world and she had recognised something in her eldest son — she never told him what — which made him vulnerable to unearthly matters.
‘They can talk to you,’ she would caution.
Many people had called his mother lary, which Fynch came to realise was a kind alternative for being called mad. He knew she was not. It was simply her ‘connection’ which made her appear odd. She had heard voices, experienced visions but had never spoken of them to anyone, including his father, and only by chance once confided in Fynch, her favourite. Oh yes, he was one of the few Morgravians who firmly believed in the presence of magic.
Valentyna, perhaps not as cynical as most, had agreed to go along with his notion that Wyl was present amongst them and that his connection to Romen Koreldy was far less obvious than the Grenadyne was leading them to believe. Fynch could not be sure whether she was simply humouring a child but he chose to believe she honoured his reasoning, even if she did not believe. Their discussion of Wyl’s link with Romen had been left behind on the Bridge that first morning of his return to Briavel and not referred to again.
Knave, however, was considered in a different light.
‘He’s definitely touched,’ she had admitted recently, though she would never use the term sorcery or enchantment.
The word ‘touched’ summed it up perfectly for the Queen; its very ordinary terminology helped her to cope with what she was acknowledging and she felt it unnecessary to explain herself further.
‘He belonged to a witch,’ Fynch had replied, leaving it at that.
‘There are occasions,’ she confided on one of their many long walks together, ‘when Knave makes me feel transparent to him. Does that sound stupid?’
He had shaken his head. Fynch had known precisely what she meant.
To Fynch it was enough. Valentyna, in her own rigid way, was acknowledging the possibility of magic — for witchcraft was the only way he could describe Knave’s ongoing strangeness. The animal’s behaviour had become less predictable over the past weeks. The dog had disappeared soon after their arrival back in Werryl. He had gone missing the next morning, in fact, having spent the night with Valentyna, or so she claimed when she woke Fynch, anxious at the loss of the dog. Fynch had been inconsolable for the next few days. And then on the fourth day, Knave had reappeared at the palace.
After the initial flurry of excitement and tears of relief, Fynch had scolded the huge dog. He had waited until they were alone.
‘Where have you been?’ he had exclaimed, holding the dog’s huge face in his small hands.
Knave had looked at him strangely. There was something in the dog’s stare which had frightened him and then he had felt suddenly dizzy. He shuddered even now remembering it … seeing the blood as Romen had hacked off someone’s head. The mercenary too was hurt. Then he saw Knave dragging Romen, unconscious, lifeless — he knew not where. The vision had faded and he was staring once more into the eyes of the dog.
‘You’ve been with Romen! He’s injured. Where is he?’
A voice, distant and soft, had then echoed across his thoughts. ‘Safe for now,’ it said and then it was gone. He shook his head. He had imagined the voice, surely? Fynch believed he had even made it up just to reassure himself after the unsettling vision.
Knave had given one of his loud barks. He did that to get Fynch’s attention. It was as though he was dragging Fynch back to the present. After that the dog had fallen back into its familiar pattern of traipsing around with him. There were moments during this time when Fynch could believe he was just being fanciful at believing Knave was anything but a lively, buffoonish dog.
Valentyna liked to keep Fynch close. She often used him as a runner for her personal errands and this day was no different, beginning with running some important messages for the Queen. She, however, had felt restless and unable to concentrate on her regal duties and she had suggested a canter through the beautiful woodlands of Werryl.
‘I’m determined that you learn to handle a full-sized horse,’ she had said early in their relationship and she had taken it upon herself to teach him. And so rides together occurred relatively often — the Queen needed little encouragement to leap onto the back of a horse. These days they were always trailed, of course, by half a dozen other riders but their escort was discreet and there were moments when Valentyna felt the thrill of freedom from duty.
Her relationship with Fynch had strengthened to the extent that she felt he was the brother she had never had; had always wanted. Young as he was, Fynch’s serious nature and quick mind melded neatly with her intelligence and she loved him around her, using him to sound ideas off and work through problems to find solutions. They were rarely matters of state — she had many councillors to advise her on such things. No, Fynch was a soulmate for her. He was her closest friend, her most loyal subject.
Together they shared discussions on life, love, hopes for Briavel, horse-breeding, gardens, and especially how next they could tease her rather stiff and starchy head of house. On this particular day, they hardly noticed the escort insisted upon by Commander Liryk. The woodland around Werryl was breathtaking at this time of year; it was her favourite place to ride, although she could not break into the empowering gallop she preferred. Instead they rode more sedately, Valentyna correcting Fynch’s seat and his grip on the reins from time to time, both enjoying the freedom and peace.
Later, leaning against their horses whilst their animals drank thirstily from the woodland’s fast-moving stream, Fynch began telling her a funny story about his former days as a gong boy at Stoneheart. She was laughing hard and reached across to touch his arm in an affectionate way when she felt his body suddenly go rigid.
Her smile froze. ‘Fynch?’
He was silent. She noticed his hand was clutching Knave — this was not unusual, for the pair of them were rarely separated — but her attention was caught by how Knave was looking back at her. There it was again, that disturbing gaze of the dog’s which seemed to see right through her. They were connected — her touching Fynch and he gripping Knave with the dog’s eyes locked on her. She tore her own stare away from the compelling hold of Knave’s and saw that Fynch’s mouth was slack, his eyes had a faraway look in them but she could still feel the tension in the muscles in his arm. He was trembling slightly.
She took him by the shoulders this time. ‘Fynch!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Valentyna. Please, Fynch, talk to me.’
His small body slumped against hers and, if she had not caught him, he would have fallen. She picked him up — he was so light it was no effort — and walked towards the soft grasses in the shade of one of her favourite oaks.
‘Rawl,’ she called to one of the men. ‘Water, please.’
The man immediately broke from the pack of soldiers nearby. He appeared by her side with a flask and she wet her handkerchief and dabbed it over Fynch’s face. Rawl was dismissed the moment Fynch opened his eyes. Knave, as usual, was sitting close — next to the boy’s head, in fact — and she stole a glance towards the dog as Fynch struggled to sit up. Fynch immediately put his head in his hands as though it hurt.
‘What was that all about?’ she finally asked. ‘You scared me.’
‘It happened again,’ he muttered, barely above a whisper.
‘Again?’ This has happened before? ‘Look at me,’ she said and he did. ‘What occurred just now?’
Fynch shook his head. ‘I can’t explain it.’
‘Don’t try to explain, just tell me.’
‘I had a vision.’
She had no
t expected this. ‘And what did you see?’
He looked at the Queen and detected no amusement or disbelief. There was concern but also interest in hearing what he had to say. He decided to tell her everything. ‘I saw you.’
‘Me?’
He nodded. ‘You were with Celimus.’
Her lips pursed. ‘What were we doing?’
‘Watching an execution.’ Fynch noticed how she struggled to respond. He pressed on. ‘He kissed you after it was done.’
It was too much for her. Valentyna was glad she had dismissed the guard.
‘Fynch, what is this about?’
‘I told you, I can’t explain it.’
‘And this has happened before, you say?’
‘Yes. The last time I saw Romen and yet somehow he was Wyl Thirsk.’
The Queen sat back and crossed her arms around her knees which she hugged close — this was disturbing. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
‘I thought I had imagined it … dreamed it.’
‘Fynch, you are the most sane person I know. You would not be duped by a dream.’
‘It was frightening.’
‘Tell me about that other dream,’ she said, suddenly feeling very much the adult comforting a child.
‘I saw Romen. He was injured but he was cutting off someone’s head. I think there might have even been another dead person in it but I can’t be sure.’
It sounded to her as though he had simply experienced a nightmare. She remained patient. ‘Your dreams are brutal. Executions and private beheadings.’ She shook her head gently. ‘And what else?’
Fynch looked distraught now, almost angry with himself. ‘I was looking at Romen but my impression was that he was Wyl.’
She was careful not to sound condescending. ‘You know that makes no sense.’
‘Of course. But it doesn’t change what I saw or how I felt about it, your majesty.’
‘Well, you’ve mentioned before that you believe Wyl is somehow strongly connected to Romen. Do you think you could have just wanted to see that?’ She hated the placatory tone creeping into her voice.
‘Yes, your majesty, I have told myself it was pure fancy.’ There was no sarcasm in his voice, only honesty.
She looked towards Knave who was gazing at her intently and she hastily looked back at Fynch. ‘But you don’t believe it is pure fancy, do you?’
He shook his head miserably. ‘It was as if they’re both together.’
‘Is there more … you seem to be hesitant,’ she encouraged.
‘I heard a voice. It was so soft, again I thought I had made it up. It answered my question to Knave.’
The Queen took a deep breath. ‘Go back to the beginning, Fynch.’
It was his turn to sigh. ‘I was cross with Knave for leaving as he did and you know how you talk to your horses?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I talk to him like that. I asked him where he had been.’
‘And?’
‘The vision happened. I was shocked and must have said something along the lines of so you were with Romen and he’s hurt. I think I must have asked Knave where Romen was.’
‘And a voice answered you — is that it?’
He nodded. ‘It said, “Safe for now.”’ Then he grimaced. ‘I know what you’re going to say next.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’re going to ask me if it was Knave who answered and then dismiss me as lary, like my mother.’
She looked at her hands. ‘I didn’t know your mother, Fynch. I know you rather well and would never consider you as anything but intelligent and sane.’
He said nothing but she sensed he was pleased by her confirmation that he was not going mad.
Valentyna could not help herself. ‘Well?’
The vaguest of smiles played around his mouth. ‘No. Knave did not speak to me.’
‘So someone else — who?’
He shrugged. ‘It was a man, that’s all I can tell.’
Valentyna had no idea what next to say — this talk of magic always unnerved her — so she retreated to safer ground by returning to his more recent vision. ‘And now in this second vision you say you saw me with Celimus?’
Fynch nodded. He chose not to speak, pulling at the grasses around his feet.
‘Anything else other than a kiss, Fynch?’ she said, holding out the flask so he could drink.
He took it but did not put it to his mouth. ‘I don’t know the man he’s having executed, of course, but it’s being done with a sword.’
‘A noble then?’
‘I suppose. The prisoner’s looking at you, though.’
‘I know him!’
‘I don’t know.’
Intrigued despite herself, the Queen held her hand out for the flask of water and took a sip. ‘Describe him for me.’
‘I’m not sure I can —’
‘Oh, come on, Fynch. You have the most scintillating powers of observation. Think hard!’
He closed his eyes and screwed up his face … his sweet, honest face she adored.
‘Large man. Sun-weathered face. Rugged features.’
‘Hair?’ she prompted.
He shook his head, eyes still closed as he strained to concentrate. ‘I can’t tell the colour. It’s tied back and dark with his sweat.’
‘And they’re about to execute him?’
‘Yes, that’s all I saw. I did not see him being executed.’ Fynch opened his eyes. There was nothing more he could share.
‘Well now, that certainly has me baffled.’
‘Best not to dwell on it, your majesty,’ Fynch suggested. ‘You’ve enough on your plate.’
She grimaced. ‘It’s bad enough that Celimus is coming here … will be here any day — and I have no doubt what’s on his mind for our royal discussion.’
‘You can’t marry him, your majesty.’
‘I know this, Fynch, believe me,’ she lied to herself as much as him. Marriage would be her only solution for guaranteed peace. She felt the rise of expectancy amongst her people. They all wanted the marriage to take place … they wanted the young men of Briavel to survive, grow old. ‘I don’t want to marry him!’
‘And yet I think you may,’ he said, even more miserable now.
She looked at Fynch, her frustration weighing heavily on her at the strength of his conviction. She saw what a small and frightened little boy he was and yet he found courage, he was always so strong for her. His eyes finally met hers.
‘I’m sorry, your majesty.’
Knave shifted closer to Fynch and the animal’s move was not lost on Valentyna. The dog at times made her feel so safe and yet on occasions, like now, she could easily feel so threatened by him. In just that slight movement the dog was communicating something to her or to Fynch — she could not be sure but she believed it was directed at her. Trust the boy, the dog seemed to say. Trust the vision. She knew she needed to behave rationally and not dismiss Fynch’s words as lunatic ravings. Fynch had not let her down previously and above everything else she loved him, trusted him.
‘I must somehow achieve peace for our realm without giving offence to Morgravia. I cannot even begin to deal with the prospect of war — we are ill equipped. Marriage is the most diplomatic path to take.’ She sounded sad. ‘Perhaps I could learn to love him.’
‘No, majesty, you would never be able to do that. You could not love the Celimus I know.’
‘Maybe I could change him?’ The words sounded hollow.
‘And the oxen may well skip over the lavender bushes, your majesty,’ he said and was rewarded with a smile. He had not meant it to sound funny but was pleased he had eased the tension.
‘How do you feel now?’ she asked.
‘My head hurts but I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget my visions,’ he added. ‘You have enough to think about in trying to make the King of Morgravia feel welcome, even though his advances may not be.’
As she nodded her agreement a messenger from the palace made himself known.
>
‘What is it?’
‘Your majesty,’ the lad bowed. ‘Riders. Commander Liryk and party are two miles from the palace. He has sent word ahead that a man called Romen Koreldy is with the party and that you are expecting him.’
Fynch’s spirits lifted instantly at the news.
‘Thank you, Ivor.’ She smiled at the young lad. He had become one of the best messengers in the palace — always brief and accurate. She remembered when he had been born and nearly died of a fever which was sweeping through Briavel at the time. Both his parents had succumbed to the sickness and the King had ensured the baby was taken into the care of the palace.
Thinking of her father now made her feel bereft all over again. She had survived that initial sense of panic at realising that he had gone and was now dealing with the loss in her own way. She knew she was coping and she also knew she would be a good ruler for her realm … she had learned well but oh how she craved his guidance right now, especially after what Fynch had just told her of his vision.
There was no doubt Fynch was honest — he could not be otherwise — which made his telling of what he had seen all the more unfathomable, as well as frightening. Celimus kissing me! The man who had contrived the death of her beloved father. And deep down, tucked away tightly in her heart, Valentyna knew the reality was most likely that she would have to marry this man she did not know, would not love. Hated! How could she marry Celimus after all that she knew of him through Wyl and Fynch? She would give anything for her father’s strength beside her now and, much as she hated to admit it, she was gladdened by the news that Romen Koreldy had returned.
The words of his letter burned brightly in her mind.
I will come soon — I am yours to command, my Queen. My loyalty to you will never waver. In the meantime I give you a special gift. I give you the dog, Knave, who will be true to you. Trust him alone and his faithful companion, Fynch. They will protect you.
Be brave, beautiful Valentyna.
She did trust Fynch and, as much as Knave scared her at times, she knew the dog would never harm her. Koreldy believed they would protect her and now he was coming to Briavel to offer his service. It made her heart feel lighter.
The Quickening Page 44