The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Why the silence, Morgravian? I would have thought you would welcome some company.’

  ‘Not yours,’ the voice croaked, weak but still tinged with anger.

  Cailech nodded, pleased with the recognition. At least the prisoner had not lost his wits.

  ‘We will make you well, le Gant. And then you will return here.’

  ‘And I will repeat the process,’ Gueryn said defiantly, still not opening his eyes.

  ‘As will I. You might crave death, soldier, but I will not grant it. Get used to the idea and make it better for yourself. Choose to live. Who knows, you might even see Koreldy again before you both die at the time and in the manner of my choosing.’

  ‘You are so naive, Cailech,’ Gueryn chided, weak as he felt. ‘No wonder Celimus isn’t worried about a threat from the north,’ he lied. ‘He knows you can be provoked into thoughtless rage and your kingdom dismantled at the time of his choosing and manner.’

  Gueryn knew the echo of his words would enrage the man who stood above him, and he waited for the kick or punch that would surely come. Instead he heard a choking sound as the King of the Mountains swallowed his anger.

  ‘Don’t be so sure, soldier. Your King is the ruin of Morgravia and I shall be its ultimate destroyer.’

  Gueryn had no time to respond. He heard footsteps and knew this would be the healer arriving, the strange man who had brought him back from the brink of death once before.

  ‘Sire,’ said the new voice.

  ‘I want him made well again — no matter what it takes,’ the King growled.

  Rashlyn nodded. ‘I shall see to it.’

  ‘And this time he’s to be force-fed and watered daily.’

  ‘It will be done, my lord.’

  Gueryn was moved from the dungeon to a room he recalled from his nightmares. It was here he had watched Cailech execute the kind, brave woman called Elspyth. She was a Morgravian, captured with Koreldy. How he had cheered inwardly when she had stood up to the King. It was she who had patiently cut away the stitches that bound his eyelids together so that he might look upon his rescuers. The one he had thought was Wyl, had heard speak in a strange voice yet with such a striking similarity to Wyl’s manner, turned out to be a handsome mercenary from Grenadyn. The man had certainly known Wyl but the disappointment had cut through Gueryn as keenly as a blade.

  Elspyth was every bit the feisty woman he had guessed she would be and pretty too, whilst his previous torturer, Lothryn, had turned friend. Gueryn could not imagine what fate had befallen the Mountain man who had betrayed his King. He had been Cailech’s second-in-command and so the defection would have been a damaging blow to the King. Gueryn was glad. He wished he could deal some damaging blows of his own, but he was pathetically weak, his only way of fighting back being to try and kill himself. That had been a fight in vain. The cruel healer was preparing to bring Gueryn back to full strength so they could continue laughing in his face.

  At this moment Gueryn had never felt closer to tears. He was not a man given to emotional outbursts; trained by the stoic Fergys Thirsk, he kept his thoughts and emotions in check. He had had many reasons to weep in his life. Since adulthood he had given into none of them, but he had never felt more like doing so than now. He felt useless — a senior soldier of the Morgravian Legion and personal attendant to the Thirsk family, and unable to offer any resistance to the enemy.

  He spat on the ground in disgust.

  ‘Save that,’ Rashlyn called over his shoulder. ‘No use in wasting precious liquid, or I’ll do just as my King asks and subject you to the added humiliation of having men hold you down and force food and water into your throat.’

  Gueryn sighed. He remembered Elspyth’s sad end and how her blood had gushed from the savage cut made by Cailech. It had congealed around Gueryn’s boots, marking him as her killer because he would not relent and tell them what they wanted to hear. Blackmail was only one of Cailech’s weapons. Gueryn remembered how Rashlyn had smiled as Elspyth died, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. He would not hesitate to hurt Gueryn, if given authority. But for now his job was to heal and Gueryn came to the painful realisation that the King of the Mountains was right. It was pointless fighting it, for they would continue the cycle and keep him alive — if not fit — until he was of no further use. But perhaps if he regained his health he could be of some use and strike some of those damaging blows. He could not think clearly enough yet, for his mind was dulled by starvation and thirst, but he promised himself to plan ways to hurt Cailech.

  ‘There’s no need to force me,’ he murmured, his voice cracking from lack of use.

  ‘Oh?’ Rashlyn said, turning now.

  ‘I’ll eat and drink.’

  ‘Good, the other method is rather messy.’ The wild-looking man cackled horribly.

  ‘I make a demand, though, for this co-operation.’

  ‘You are in no position to make demands,’ Rashlyn replied softly.

  ‘Your mad King wants me well and healthy. I will make this easy for you, for all of us, if he’ll allow me time outside to breathe fresh air and to work my muscles. If he won’t permit this then I will fight you, and I will promise you that I will find a way to die and anger him. Remember whose head will be on the chopping block then, Rashlyn,’ Gueryn warned.

  There was silence whilst the man he spoke to digested the import of his words.

  ‘I shall speak to the King. But now you eat,’ he said. He clapped his hands to summon a bearer with food.

  ‘You will remain here until I release you. Consider yourself lucky, Morgravian. You have a window to look out of and a comfortable pallet to sleep on.’

  ‘I want to be allowed outside for periods and for that I’ll exchange your comforts for the dungeon.’

  Rashlyn acted as though Gueryn had said nothing. ‘You will remain chained for the entire time you are in my care. Have no delusions, soldier. There is no escape, not even if you breathe the air of outside.’

  ‘I did it once before,’ Gueryn said, more out of defiance than any real threat.

  ‘With help. It will never be offered again.’

  ‘Where is Lothryn?’ he asked and hated the sound of the other man’s cruel laughter.

  ‘Nowhere you can help him,’ Rashlyn answered, delighted that he could hurt with words.

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Hardly,’ came the cold reply. ‘Although it was a lot of fun dealing with him.’

  Despite his lack of strength, Gueryn threw himself at the small dark man, his body toppling towards the King’s barshi out of pure will rather than an ability to move freely.

  But Rashlyn held his hand up the moment he heard Gueryn move and for the first time in his life Gueryn felt real terror, spine-tingling fright that made the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck stand on end. For at Rashlyn’s gesture the soldier found himself pinned in mid-air. The thought flitted through his mind that this must look comical but then his wits were flooded by the realisation that something awesome and terrible had just occurred. Rashlyn was a sorcerer and had wielded magic upon him.

  ‘I will make it hurt next time,’ the barshi said softly. ‘Never try that again, Morgravian. If you have never believed it before, then believe it now that magic exists. You and the rather strange position you hang in are testimony to that. Remember how it feels, le Gant, for I can immobilise you like this for eternity if I so choose.’

  Rashlyn removed the spell and Gueryn crashed painfully to the ground. He groaned in agony and gut-wrenching despair as he grasped the full terror of what he was up against.

  FIVE

  FYNCH SAT AT THE back entrance to the Forbidden Fruit. Knave had followed his friend’s suggestion to remain hidden for the time being but he had good vision from his quiet spot and could see the boy kicking at a stone, biding his time until someone arrived who might speak to him.

  Several women had already hurried past and in through the dark doorway, but they had not struck Fynch as being the friendly ta
rget he was looking for. He trusted his instincts, knew the right person would come along. It had been a couple of hours now. Winter was mild this year but still cool enough to chill his thinly covered bones. He must have looked cold, sitting on the fence stump, when the young woman arrived. She seemed in no rush and he could not see if her full-length cloak covered a revealing gown. With no firm knowledge of how a brothel actually operated his mind bothered at such minor detail.

  ‘You’ll catch your death out here,’ she said, eyeing him around her hood.

  He recognised the Briavel accent. So she was a local. ‘Yes, it’s right cold today,’ he replied in a strong northern dialect he had picked up from listening to some of the other lads, sent by their families to work at the kitchens of Stoneheart. He pitched it perfectly, masking his own less distinctive southern accent.

  ‘You’re far from home, boy. Morgravia?’

  Bullseye, he thought. ‘That I am, madam. How sharp you are.’

  She smiled. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

  Fynch nodded. ‘My sister.’

  ‘Oh? And who might that be?’

  ‘Her name is Hildyth. I’ve travelled many days to see her. Our mam’s dead. I was sent to find her.’

  Her expression melted as he had anticipated it would. ‘You poor mite — she’s not here, love. Come on inside. Let’s warm you up a bit.’

  Fynch followed, and as they walked past some of the other women, he heard them use her name.

  ‘Thank you, Rene,’ he said as she pulled up a chair by a stove and sat him down.

  ‘There, that should warm those thin bones of yours. Now, how about something to eat? You must be hungry — boys are always hungry.’

  He was not; hunger rarely entered Fynch’s mindset. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, forcing a grin, not enjoying beguiling this kind soul.

  ‘I knew it. I’ve got a couple of young nephews and their bellies are always grinding.’ She ruffled his hair and set about gathering some items to tempt him.

  A few women moved into and about the parlour, but they ignored Fynch and he them. He stared into the flames of the stove, ensuring he looked cold, scared even, and not open to conversation with others. As he became lost in his thoughts, he realised he had already begun thinking about Romen’s murderer as being Wyl. He wondered whose shoes Wyl walked in now. Fynch had no doubt the whore was involved, even though Liryk had looked shocked at the Queen’s insinuation. He intended that she would lead him to Wyl.

  ‘There you are, sweetie,’ Rene said, arriving at his side and dragging his thoughts back to the warm kitchen. ‘Cheese and home-made chutney is the best I can do. And here’s a knuckle of bread. I’ve put a glass of milk behind you on the table. What’s your name by the way?’

  Fynch hated milk. ‘I’m Fynch. Rene, you’re very kind.’

  ‘I just feel badly you’ve come so far for nothing,’ she said, her expression soft. ‘My little brother died some years past. He would have been ten summers now, a few years older than you.’

  Inwardly he sighed. He was ten summers but knew he looked younger. ‘You must miss him,’ he said, forcing himself to munch on the food.

  ‘So much. He was a lovely lad. Shouldn’t have drowned. It was an accident but still…’

  He had opened an old wound. ‘I’m sorry, Rene.’

  She forced herself to brighten. ‘I know. You remind me of him a little with your light colouring. Somehow I don’t think he would have trekked so many miles to find me though. You must love your sister very much to have come so far.’

  ‘I had to. We need Hildyth. Father is sick too and there are five wee ones, all younger than me.’ He laid the accent on thickly, suggesting he was becoming upset. He was, in truth, for lying was not Fynch’s style.

  ‘Oh, now, now. Come on. Hildyth is no longer working here — in fact, I know she’s left Crowyll. Let me see if I can find out any more for you.’

  He nodded, pushing more bread into his mouth so he would not have to lie any further to such a decent person.

  She disappeared for a few minutes and returned whispering with someone. Another woman, slightly older, regarded him. ‘You’re Hildyth’s brother?’

  He nodded, not allowing himself to fib any more. Her eyes were narrowed. ‘She never said anything about a brother.’

  ‘Hush,’ Rene said. ‘His mother’s just died. There’s several children. Be gentle.’

  The other woman shook her head. ‘Hildyth’s gone. She left on the night of that fellow’s death, the one who got stabbed.’

  Fynch wrinkled his brow in confusion. Rene rolled her eyes at her companion’s heavy tongue. ‘We had a mishap here not so long ago. A noble. We don’t know anything about him, but obviously someone wanted him dead. Hildyth was… well, she was with him — or I should say looking after him at the time. I took her home.’

  The other woman bent down. ‘Do you know what your sister does for a living, boy?’

  Again he nodded. ‘She makes men happy,’ he said seriously and saw Rene’s face soften once again with affection.

  ‘That’s right, love, she does that,’ Rene said. ‘Go on, tell him.’ She grimaced at the woman beside her.

  This time her friend sighed. ‘She came back much later that night, must have been in the early hours of the morning, when all the fuss had died down. Everyone was asleep or gone back to their homes. I just happened to be still around and I saw her.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Fynch asked, listening intently now.

  ‘Nothing, really. I mean, she looked terrified and who wouldn’t be with what she’d just been through. I asked her what had happened.’ The woman shrugged. ‘She told me briefly about the man’s death, said she was leaving.’

  ‘Why did she come back, I wonder?’ Rene queried.

  ‘She said she’d left something behind in the room, but she didn’t want to see all those soldiers again so she’d waited until the place was quiet.’

  ‘What was it?’ Fynch hoped for a clue.

  Irritatingly the woman shrugged again. ‘How would I know? She just stepped inside one of the chambers and was out again almost straightaway.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’ Fynch held his breath.

  ‘I didn’t know she was going anywhere to even ask. She was acting strangely, I recall — I mean, apart from being scared there was something else. It was as though she was drunk, but I smelt no liquor on her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rene asked. Fynch was glad she did.

  ‘Well, I can’t really say. You know, staggering a little, unsure of her words, couldn’t hold my gaze. I just figured she was upset, but she seemed really uncomfortable around me which would explain why she left me so suddenly.’

  Fynch tried to phrase his question differently. ‘Did Hildyth say anything that might help me find her?’ His accent slipped in his determination to learn as much as he could but neither of the women seemed to notice.

  ‘No. Perhaps she decided to go home, not that I know where that is. She said a name… a girl’s name. I didn’t catch it. Miriam or something. I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘Does that help you, Fynch?’ Rene asked, her face filled with hope.

  He hated doing it but he shook his head, adopting a glum expression. ‘No, but I’ll just keep looking,’ he said. Inside, his heart lurched at the mention of Myrren, which was surely the name Hildyth had spoken. ‘Thanks rightly for the cheese and bread,’ he said to Rene. ‘And to you, miss.’ He nodded at the other woman.

  She gave her habitual shrug and left, Fynch already forgotten.

  ‘Can I pack you a little food?’

  ‘No, Rene. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good luck, then.’

  Fynch surprised himself by giving her a hug. After all his sadness it was uplifting to have such a positive lead. ‘I’ll come back and see you some day.’

  She smiled, knowing he would do no such thing.

  He left to find Knave and they quickly moved away from the For
bidden Fruit. Fynch’s mind was racing. ‘I’ll explain everything in a moment,’ he said to the dog. ‘Let’s just get away towards the woodland.’

  Drinking water from the same stream that Wyl had in his new body, Fynch gathered his thoughts. He found it helpful to speak them aloud to his silent friend, arrange them neatly before storing them tidily away.

  ‘Wyl is alive — I’m convinced of it. The vision told me so. I have to believe it’s happened again and that he now walks as his executioner. If I’m right, then it was Hildyth who killed Wyl, and then Wyl had to lie about the man breaking in and stabbing Romen.’ Fynch adjusted his position to lean against the big dog. Knave licked him. ‘I suppose he discovered himself as this woman and disappeared from the scene as fast as he could.’ The boy shook his head, imagining how distressed Wyl must have been. ‘The woman at the brothel remembers Hildyth muttering a name. She said Miriam but I think she means Myrren. Only a handful of people know about Myrren — none of them in Briavel save our Queen and us. I’m certain he’s become Hildyth. We have to find her.’

  Knave wandered away. Fynch assumed the dog was hungry and would probably hunt down a careless rabbit. He settled back against a tree and closed his eyes to ponder. When he needed to think things through he had taught himself to let go. To stop teasing at one strand of thought and let his mind roam amongst all its wealth of gathered information. Invariably he found that clues began to show themselves as threads intertwined. Where would Wyl go, he wondered. The memory of his recent vision slipped into his mind. He went back over what had been said and the image of the town and the fields of hops. Why had that picture been given to him? Where had Myrren come from?

  Fynch sifted through his recollections of overheard conversations between excited city folk during the witch trial. He relaxed, turning his face up to the watery sunlight that filtered through the canopy of leaves. It came to him moments later. Baelup! Could that be where Wyl was heading? Baelup was where the realm’s best ale was made — he knew this from listening to the soldiers reminiscing about trips to the tiny town. Hops were used in ale-making. It was a clue. Perhaps Wyl was trying to track down Myrren’s family.