The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Fynch refused the offer of a horse but pressed a surprised Liryk to tell him all he knew.

  Liryk, surprised at the boy’s queries, gave him all the information he had on the assassination, even down to an accurate description of the woman.

  ‘Where do you go, son?’ he asked, his curiosity piqued by the boy’s questions and distant manner.

  ‘To find Hildyth,’ Fynch replied.

  THREE

  CELIMUS MUNCHED ON AN almond cake baked fresh that morning. It mattered not to him that his pastry cook would have had to leave his bed many hours prior to dawn to craft this specialty. It not only meant a great deal of tedious preparation in skinning and crushing the nuts; the dough also required proving prior to its energetic kneading and shaping into the complex designs. The fiddly cakes were normally reserved for celebrations, but Celimus had a particular liking for them and, on a whim just before midnight, had ordered some to be served with his breakfast. No one dared put forward an objection. Celimus was King. Whatever he wanted he would have.

  Celimus glanced at the second cake he held, relishing the anticipation of its chewy texture and delicate flavour, before looking back at the strange gift which had arrived this morning by courier. The King picked it up again from the linen it had been wrapped in; he had not been able to take his eyes from it since its arrival. He twirled it between his fingers — it gave him immense satisfaction to hold it at last. He wished he could preserve it somehow and thus retain the grim pleasure of glancing at it from time to time, knowing that once again he had triumphed.

  He considered Koreldy. He had rather liked the mercenary’s sardonic manner and had appreciated his carrying out of Wyl’s murder, but Koreldy’s execution had become necessary after Celimus realised he could not rely on the man’s loyalty.

  His strange behaviour in the cathedral during Thirsk’s funeral was odd to say the least, and once Koreldy had fled Stoneheart with Thirsk’s sister, Celimus understood he could not trust this man to keep their dark secret. There was too much at stake — not just the annexing of Briavel to Morgravia but his own crown. If the Legion ever suspected that he had anything to do with Thirsk’s death then his sovereignty would be vulnerable in the extreme. The Legion was too powerful; even without Thirsk at its head it could take over the realm.

  No, he thought, flicking crumbs absently from his chin, ridding himself of Koreldy was regrettable but wise, especially as the man hailed from Grenadyn. Who knew what links he might have with the Mountain King. Risking the passage of Morgravian secrets into the hands of Cailech would be tempting fate indeed.

  ‘Best without him,’ he murmured, replacing Koreldy’s severed ring finger into the box it had arrived in.

  Celimus was looking forward to showing his new prize to Jessom, his Chancellor. It was unusual to have circumvented the man’s thorough inspection of all deliveries into the palace, and had occurred purely by chance. He had been talking with his personal horse handler when the messenger had arrived, entering the main bailey at full gallop.

  ‘Find out what’s so urgent,’ the King had ordered at a passing page, interrupting the intense discussion with the horse handler about a new stallion shortly due to arrive in the royal stable.

  The startled boy, unused to contact with the King, had looked terrified, unsure whether to bow or run the errand immediately. He had attempted both, clumsily. When he returned, he stammered that it was a package … a delivery for his majesty.

  Celimus had strolled towards his guards. ‘You have a delivery for me?’

  ‘Yes, your highness,’ the most senior of the men had replied, nodding his head repeatedly to show the required subservience demanded by his King.

  ‘Well, give it to me. I can’t stand around here all day.’

  ‘Er, sire… Chancellor Jessom has ordered that all —’

  Celimus’s anger had always been swift to rise, and he was bored — a deadly combination. Impatient for his new horse and impatient with the tedious days of routine which had followed his return from Briavel, his ire had sparked. The package was a small diversion but a diversion nonetheless.

  ‘I don’t give a flying fig what the Chancellor has ordered. Give it to me now or, Shar help me, you’ll be cleaning the latrines for the rest of your career… after I’ve had your feet cut off!’

  The man visibly swallowed, unprepared for such an assault. He would be in serious trouble with Jessom but that paled in comparison to his King’s wrath. He motioned to the gatekeeper to pass over the parcel, then bowed low and handed it to Celimus, face burning from the embarrassment of being shamed in front of the other soldiers.

  He had tried to salvage some small pride. ‘Apologies, my King. I am following orders.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Celimus had replied drily, his anger quietened. ‘It looks like something of no matter anyway. I’ve been expecting some new jesses for my hawk. It’s most likely those,’ he had lied, wondering if the contents could possibly be what he dreamed of holding in his hands.

  ‘Yes, sire,’ the man had said. He had bowed once again for good measure, and sighed with relief as he watched the King stride away to pick up the conversation with his horse handler as though no interruption had occurred.

  Celimus smiled now to himself as he chewed another mouthful of his favourite cake. There was no warmth in the expression though, only malice. ‘Farewell, Koreldy,’ he whispered, wondering whether the finger had been cut off before his enemy died. He certainly hoped so. Romen would have known it to be an assassination — and on whose orders.

  There was a knock at his chamber door. It would be Jessom. He covered Romen’s finger with the linen and closed the lid of the box. ‘Come,’ he called.

  Jessom entered, his hands full of parchments. ‘Good morning, sire. I need you to sign some papers, if you please.’

  He noticed the King was suppressing some mirth. He had already heard about the parcel’s delivery, but had not yet connected the two.

  ‘I’m rid of him, Jessom.’

  ‘Rid of whom, sire?’ the man asked absently, setting down the papers and shuffling them into a neat pile before the King.

  ‘Koreldy, of course. Care to take a look?’ Celimus pushed the small box towards him.

  Jessom felt a thrill of elation. She had done it! He forced his expression to remain unchanged, however, except for a contrived confusion passing across it for the King’s benefit.

  ‘Whatever is this, my King?’ he said, staring at but not yet picking up the proffered parcel.

  ‘Open it.’

  He did as asked, lifting back the linen and pausing theatrically, knowing the delay would drive Celimus to distraction.

  ‘Well?’ the King said irritably. ‘Your man triumphed.’

  Jessom carefully shut the lid on the bloodied finger. ‘As I see.’

  ‘Do you not share my glee?’ Celimus was indignant now.

  ‘Of course, your highness. I am delighted we achieved your desire. It is always my aim to please you, sire.’

  Celimus ignored the maddening obsequiousness. ‘And your man?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Jessom deliberately busied himself with the papers. He did not want to answer any questions about the woman he knew as Leyen, and she would certainly not appreciate him divulging any information about her. ‘These are quite urgent, my lord.’

  Celimus pushed them away. Some fluttered to the floor. ‘Jessom, you appear rather vague about this person.’

  ‘Do I, sire? It is not my intent.’

  ‘Then tell me his name.’

  ‘My King, we have discussed this previously. I do not wish to involve you in any matters which may incriminate you. By knowing the name of the killer, you become part of the intrigue.’

  ‘But I am the intrigue, Jessom.’ The olive-green gaze narrowed.

  Jessom knew he must never play Celimus for a fool. The King was pretentious, often petulant, and had many qualities which a less perceptive person might consider rendered him a dolt. They would be mistaken. Jessom kn
ew that Celimus possessed the sharpest of minds, the cruellest of tongues, and felt absolutely no remorse for any suffering. The King missed very little. He would have to tread carefully now.

  ‘Bring him here to Stoneheart,’ Celimus demanded, reaching for his third cake.

  Jessom’s throat constricted. This was everything he did not want. ‘I am not sure I can do that, sire.’

  ‘Why not?’ Celimus casually brushed cake crumbs from his shirt. He slumped further in his chair, lifting one leg to rest on a nearby stool. ‘Tell me why this is impossible.’

  Jessom knew not to trust the relaxed stance. ‘This assassin is not easily contacted, I must admit.’

  ‘Then find him. I wish to meet with him.’

  ‘May I ask why, my King?’

  ‘Because, Jessom, someone who has done my bidding where others have failed rises in my esteem. This man is useful to me. I wish to speak with him, perhaps even discuss further… tasks.’ He chose his words with care. ‘Have you paid in full?’

  ‘The last instalment is due on proof of death, sire,’ Jessom answered unhappily.

  ‘And now you have it. Your man will have to collect that payment and, when he does, you will bring him before me. Do you understand?’

  ‘I shall try, sire.’

  ‘No, Jessom. You will not try. You will do.’ The voice was no longer casual. There was clear menace in those softly spoken final three words.

  The Chancellor nodded. Keen to change the subject he said lightly, ‘So you are free of the Thirsk influence, my King. This must make you happy.’

  ‘Not yet free.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jessom bent to pick up the spilled papers.

  ‘There is still the matter of the sister. Once she is dealt with, I shall have rid myself entirely of all connections to the Thirsk family. So this is what I propose: I want you to find out everything you can about the disappearance of the lovely Ylena. Where did Koreldy take her? He pulled the wool over my eyes on that occasion. I really believed he was going to use her and cast her aside. It suited my needs, I suppose, and I allowed myself to be duped. I shall find her though.’

  Jessom was not surprised at how quickly the King’s temper changed. Suddenly he was charged with energy, all previous threats pushed aside. He fought the temptation to shake his head at the unpredictable nature of the monarch. It made him a very dangerous individual. ‘How much do we know of Koreldy’s movements?’ Jessom said.

  ‘Nothing, in truth. He and Ylena slipped out of Stoneheart on the evening of Thirsk’s funeral feast. No one saw them leave, although I’m told one of my guards spoke to Koreldy earlier in the day in a little-used courtyard.’

  ‘It had a gate, I presume?’

  The King nodded. ‘The same gate where, apparently, Thirsk’s dog caused a commotion that night.’

  ‘Ah, that was the diversion then, not that I understand how one gets a dog to co-operate,’ the Chancellor said, picking up the King’s line of thought. He was pleased to see Celimus nod. ‘Where does the closest road lead, your highness?’

  The sovereign frowned. ‘That would be towards Farnswyth, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s a start. I shall make enquiries. By the way, did you make provision for any staff for Koreldy during his brief stay?’

  ‘A page, I think. I know not which one. Why?’

  ‘Thank you, sire. You never know what a servant might overhear. I will look into it.’

  ‘Good. Now about my lost taxes and revenue — any progress?’

  ‘I have men infiltrating the entire Legion, sire.’

  ‘You remain convinced it is someone from within our own ranks?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Celimus became quiet for a few moments. Jessom knew something bad was coming. Tax collectors from all over the realm were being ambushed far too regularly for it to be random bandit raids. It had to be someone from the inside leaking information.

  ‘In that case,’ the King said finally, ‘from today and for every day that we fail to identify the culprit, two men from the Legion will be impaled. Take strong, healthy men — I don’t care how they are selected. Fear will spread like plague. They’ll yield the perpetrator very quickly.’ He took another cake.

  His servant bowed and moved towards the door. The King stopped him. ‘And Jessom…’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘When you find Ylena Thirsk…’

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  ‘…I want her killed.’

  ‘Consider it done, my lord.’

  Jessom left the King’s chambers troubled. He had not successfully deflected Celimus from his desire to meet the assassin, Leyen. It was going to be hard work to persuade her to come to Stoneheart, but he had no choice now but to try. She had to be tracked down. As for Thirsk’s sister, that edict did not rattle him nearly as much.

  He despised killing just for the sake of it and he was concerned that Celimus often demanded death on a whim. The whole Rittylworth escapade was a disaster for the realm and the amount of damage it could do if the truth came out would be catastrophic for Celimus’s reign. Sadly, Jessom thought, the King could not seem to grow beyond his own sense of omnipotence when subtlety was so urgently required. However, with regard to Ylena Thirsk Jessom could appreciate the necessity of her death. She was a dangerous person on the loose, for her name alone commanded such respect across the realm and particularly with the Legion. It was not a task he relished certainly but Jessom believed her death was critical to the continuing power of Celimus.

  ‘I’m coming for you, Ylena,’ he muttered as he stalked through the corridors of Stoneheart towards his own rooms.

  FOUR

  CAILECH, THE MOUNTAIN KING, stood over the prone figure slumped on filthy straw in the cell that saw neither day or night. Buried deep in the mountain out of which the fortress had been hewn, it might as well have been a tomb. Gueryn, the prisoner, hoped it would be.

  ‘Is he dying?’ the King asked, his jaw working to temper the anger he felt. Cailech rarely wasted words and the man he spoke to knew to offer the same courtesy. The gaoler nodded. ‘Willing himself to death, my lord. He hasn’t taken food in a long time.’

  ‘Water?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Doesn’t talk; doesn’t move much either.’

  ‘I should have been told,’ Cailech said, disgusted. ‘Summon Rashlyn immediately.’

  The gaoler disappeared, well aware that he had not pleased his King. He called for a runner and a message was sent to the strange, dark man who was barshi to the sovereign.

  Inside the cell, Cailech paced as he thought. He had no idea who this man was, other than a soldier of the famous Morgravian Legion. Initially his delight in capturing him came purely from the opportunity to make an example of the Morgravian through torture and humiliation, to salvage some revenge for those of his people slaughtered by the cruel King from the south. The senseless killing of innocent youngsters, not even warriors, had offended Cailech deep into his soul. He would make the brash new King pay. But then Romen Koreldy had returned to the Razors, despite a warning from his previous visit that he risked death by doing so. Koreldy — whom Cailech could not help but like and, to some degree, admire — had spun a web of excuses, none of which resonated as truth to the Mountain King, but he could not prove otherwise. Even more strangely, Koreldy had seemed to recognise the Morgravian prisoner, even though the soldier claimed no knowledge of Koreldy. Why then had Koreldy argued to save the prisoner’s life? And why, in turn, had this man gladly given up his own chance at escape, bravely attempting to lead the Mountain warriors away from the trail of his fellow escapees, Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth of Yentro?

  And so King Cailech, who could tease at a secret as a dog gnawed at a bone, did not kill this Morgravian soldier as his heart wanted to. Instead, driven by an instinct he was still unsure about, he had incarcerated him. Had even had the man’s near fatal wounds healed, in order that he might live and prove useful in luring Koreldy back to the Razors and to death.
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  Cailech had not taken the escape of his prisoners with any grace. If not for the recapture of Gueryn le Gant he would have had his own men executed for allowing the three Morgravians to slip past their guard. They had had help of course, from Cailech’s own second-in-command. Lothryn’s deceit was a matter which continued to make the King’s gut twist, for they had been the closest of comrades. As brothers, no less. It seemed unthinkable that Lothryn had chosen betrayal, and Cailech was uncertain yet of his reasons. Whether it was out of affection for the female Morgravian, or out of grief for the loss of his wife, who had died in birthing the King’s son. Or, more likely, a result of their argument about the near cannibalism of le Gant and the other prisoners. Whatever it was, it mattered little now. Loyalty had been asked, Lothryn had refused to give it and now he was paying the price.

  Returning his mind to the prisoner in the cell, the King felt sure that Koreldy was not finished with this one yet. He would come back to rescue him and then Cailech would deal with them both. He smiled humourlessly at the thought.

  His musings were disturbed by movement from le Gant. A flicker of the prisoner’s eyelids told him that the starving man was aware of the King’s presence. The candle which the gaoler had lit threw a warmer pallor over the Morgravian than he possessed. The chill of the cell was biting and the constant drip of water in one corner was enough to send most mad. It had created a mossy slime down one rough wall but the earthy smell did little to mask the stink from le Gant, who had long ago given up caring for himself or his health. In fact, he had deliberately laid in his own dirt, hoping that infection would find his old arrow wound — a gift from Cailech — and kill him. He was clearly determined to die.

  All of this enraged the King but he held onto his famous temper as he spoke to his prisoner. ‘Understand, le Gant, that I will keep you alive. I must, for you will bring Koreldy back. Not only will I have his secret, but I will take his life. I know you hear me, soldier.’

  The man moved then, enough to let Cailech know that he was paying attention.