She spat on the ground between them, picked up her cleaned blade and, just fourteen, walked away from her life of despair, vowing never to desire a man. She had enjoyed the sensation of killing her father and, in her bitterness, looked forward to doing the same to other men. Her only regret was that her youngest brother might suffer for her bravery.
‘If you lay a finger on Tye, I’ll kill you both, and horribly,’ she said as a final warning over her shoulder.
She had not needed to carry out her threat. It seemed Shar had heard her plea, and the brothers died in a freak accident when their horse was startled, overbalanced their cart and they plunged down a ravine to their death.
Wyl, eavesdropping on Faryl’s memories, realised that she had indeed looked after Tye, sending money home in secret for him. One day, a few years after she had escaped, she had met him covertly and taken him away. She had continued to send money to what remained of her family. Faryl had lost track of Tye, but no longer worried about him for her brother was now rich and enjoyed a new life as a merchant.
Wyl felt hollow as he returned his gaze to the mirror and Faryl’s reflection. He felt pity, but understood that she had long ago rejected any such sentiment. She preferred to be utterly in control of her life and remained contemptuous of most men. Faryl’s coldness would never have warmed. She was an assassin and enjoyed her work.
He learned how killing Koreldy in the brothel was a thoroughly satisfying task until it ended so badly for her.
He shook himself clear of her memories and noticed with pleasure that she was a tall woman — he had got used to towering above people as Romen. Flat and trim though her belly was, it felt empty and interrupted him now with a loud grumble. He felt hungry enough to eat all the stew and a helping of the fowl. Towelling himself unnecessarily, he felt the sombre mood dissipate slightly and he was grateful, for it clouded his thinking. He was glad his curiosity had won through. Learning about Faryl’s past had enabled him to turn the key on it. He was Faryl now. He had no choice but to use her body to all of its best advantages and not lose sight of his mission to find Myrren’s true father and learn the secret of her gift. It was frustrating having to give over so much time and energy to chasing down strangers whilst Valentyna remained vulnerable to Celimus. But, as with Elspyth and Ylena, he was useless to the Queen of Briavel until he solved this nightmarish curse. He had no intention of being killed again; that said, he could hardly bear the thought of remaining as Faryl for the rest of his living days. The temptation to choose a victim himself flitted through his mind, but the seer had told him that he could not control this gift of Myrren’s. He could not choose who to become. It would be murder anyway, he reminded himself. No, the answer to this curse remained with the manwitch and finding him remained his priority. Wyl prayed once again that Shar would protect the three women he loved from the dark grasp of the man he hated.
Reluctantly he lifted the strips of linen which would help him look like a man again. Wyl sighed, knowing it was only for an hour or two, then wasted no further time in binding his breasts flat and climbing into fresh clothes. He swished his previous garments in the still warm bath and rubbed at them with the soap, congratulating himself as he realised this simple act brought all three of his personalities together: Faryl’s diligence, Romen’s need to be neat and tidy and Wyl’s training to take advantage of every opportunity. He squeezed the clothes out and hung them wherever he could position them on a chair to enjoy the draught.
Darkness had fallen. He should hurry down to eat. Checking his room for any giveaway signs of Faryl, he was convinced all had been well hidden. He re-glued the beard to his face and donned the wig, pinning his hair very carefully this time because he did not have the luxury of the hat to hold things in place. He would need to be vigilant tonight. Still, he was not planning to do anything more than eat his meal quickly and return to his room. Tidying away the glue, he satisfied himself in the mirror that he was now Thom Bentwood again — his alias for this journey.
He headed downstairs into the common dining room, marvelling at how easily Faryl’s body slipped into a masculine stride. His mind turned hungrily towards the lamb stew. He swept the chamber with a practised gaze without being obvious, taking in that the common room was busy with a group of men, some of them Legionnaires.
Wyl’s heart skipped but he settled his nerves. None of these soldiers could possibly know him. He did recognise one; a man older than himself whom he had never had much time for when he had been General. Wyl remembered the fellow to be lazy, the sort who looked for short cuts and always on to some lurk or another. He was loud of personality, though, and tended to impress the younger soldiers with his wit and confidence.
Wyl took a swallow of ale, deliberately looking away and around the room as he tried to remember the fellow’s name. It came to him. Always good with the ladies, he recalled, as he watched the man give one of the serving girls a brash smile. Wyl fiddled with his beard as he waited, trying not to think of his breasts which had sounded a fresh ache, threatening to ruin his appetite.
‘Lamb stew, wasn’t it, Master Bentwood?’ a plump young girl asked, startling him as she set down a huge clay plate. He nodded distractedly and she smiled. ‘I’ll be right back with some bread. Can I bring you some more ale, sir?’
‘Please,’ he replied, relieved that his hunger had remained intact as he eyed the meat which had been simmered to render itself into a deliciously rich and sticky stew. Vegetables and some dumplings floated in the dark gravy.
‘Perfect,’ he said quietly and began eating. He became so focused on his pleasurable chewing that the large serve was gone very quickly. He realised he must have been extremely hungry to wolf it down so fast. He pushed his plate aside and hardly noticed when it was cleared away and the new ale deposited before him. He felt sated and peaceful at last. He leaned back against the wall, turning his body so he could surreptitiously watch the rest of the room whilst not really seeming to be staring at anything in particular from beneath his bushy eyebrows. His attention was drawn back to the soldiers. There were three of them and they sat amongst five civilians clearly known to them. These five looked dusty and road-weary. They were travellers. Wyl wondered at the easy connection between the two groups and their increasingly loud behaviour. He noticed it was not just ale flowing freely but wine also. Money was plentiful, he could tell. All had eaten here, and if the night wore on much longer he believed they may even be staying here. Legionnaires did not normally stay at Grimble Town, and if they did there would be a small company of them passing through, certainly more than this trio.
He puzzled at it but could come up with no answer, other than a vague suspicion that the soldiers were not meant to be here at all. There was no officer present which was further damning. Three foot soldiers in a tiny town? He let it go. Right now he was Thom Bentwood and he had a mission. Whatever these members of the Legion were up to, it was not his business any longer.
Wyl finished his ale. As he drained his mug he saw that one of the civilians was watching him. He was big, built like a bear. The man averted his eyes immediately, rejoining the merriment around the table, but he somehow did not seem to belong there. Not that it mattered to Wyl — it was time to go. He stood and felt light-headed momentarily. Too much ale on top of the wine earlier. He noticed that he had managed to down two jugs of the liquid.
I need some air, he told himself and, against his original plan, decided to step outside the inn for just a few minutes before retiring. He waved his thanks to the girls, left some coin at the table — which he knew would be pounced upon as soon as his back was turned — and made his way to the main door. He did not even glance towards the group that had previously held his interest.
Stepping outside, the freshness of the night hit him and he felt sober straightaway. He allowed himself the luxury of a short stroll up the street, with the plan to head back upstairs just as soon as his large meal had settled. On his return, he was barely fifty paces from the door of the F
our Feathers when he noticed a figure leaning against the wall of the building next to the inn. It was one of the men from the group; he recognised the chap’s hat. He wanted to believe the fellow was merely taking some fresh air too, but all his senses were on instant alert.
Wyl walked briskly towards the inn. He was not daunted by the presence of a single man, and farther down the street a few locals were going about their business — closing up for the night, walking home, perhaps even headed for the Four Feathers… although probably not, as the darkened shadows were moving with purpose but not towards him.
As Wyl drew close to the figure, confident now he would pass without incident, the man began to whistle softly. It was too obvious. Wyl’s body clenched in anticipation, and his fears were confirmed as several other shadowy figures melted out of an alley. They manhandled him into the unlit area and dragged him around the corner, behind the sheds of the inn.
There would be no help here, so Wyl allowed his body to go limp rather than fight. He counted five of them, one of them the soldier he had recognised, Rostyr. He obliged Wyl now with one of those fake smiles he hated so much. ‘What were you doing watching us?’
Someone held a candle close to Wyl’s face. Wyl shook his head, feigning confusion. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Get these men off me,’ he said, hoping he sounded like an offended merchant.
‘Oh yes you do, friend. You were far too interested in us back in the inn.’
‘Good fellow,’ Wyl spluttered, realising he should have allowed Faryl’s instincts to rule rather than his own — she would not have allowed herself to be noticed, ‘my name is Thom Bentwood, I am a merchant and I have never seen you or your companions before this evening. You’re a soldier, anyway. What in Shar’s name could I want with you?’
‘My question entirely,’ Rostyr said with unnerving calm. ‘Perhaps we should help his memory along,’ he added. Wyl felt the first blow land and his breath whooshed out of him, leaving him struggling to fill his lungs. He coughed. The next blow, delivered with precision, doubled him over. The third brought him to his knees.
‘Pick him up,’ Rostyr ordered.
Wyl was hauled back to his feet where he hung between the two men who held him, sucking in air, his face battered, all of him hurting. He realised his beard had gone askew. So did his tormentor, who at first looked baffled then began to laugh.
‘It’s a lad,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you squeal the truth now, boy,’ he added, gripping between Wyl’s legs.
It would only be much later that Wyl would enjoy the memory of the shock on Rostyr’s face. Expecting to squeeze the truth from the impostor, Rostyr found his large hand gripped nothing.
‘What the…’ He jumped back. ‘Pull his breeches down!’ he yelled.
‘Are you mad?’ someone asked, then laughed. ‘Do it yourself!’
Rostyr, angry now as well as confused, did just that. ‘Bring the candle here.’
Wyl closed his eyes. He had not thought he could hate Myrren any more for her gift, but right now he believed he was plumbing new depths. His trousers were torn down to reveal the truth of what he had become. ‘It’s a fucking woman,’ a dismayed voice said.
Rostyr’s expression coalesced into something new and horrible in the glow of the candlelight.
‘Now this bitch will give us the truth all right. Hold her down.’
Wyl could not believe what was happening. He watched with horror as Rostyr, snarling menacingly, struggled to free himself from his clothes. Then some internal defence forced Wyl to close his eyes and not witness this. He felt the abomination of probing fingers, then something else pushing inside, and from deep within he began to scream. It was Faryl’s true voice this time, primal and angry. A filthy hand clamped itself over his mouth. He tried to bite it and succeeded. Wyl filled Faryl’s lungs to scream again but someone hit him on the head and his world filled with sparks of light before misting over.
When his vision cleared, he saw an altogether different scene. Rostyr’s body was arched, but not from the anticipated release, rather because a knife had just penetrated his lung. He spasmed then coughed, spattering Wyl’s face with bright blood. His body was hauled up and flung away like a rag doll.
Wyl looked around. Others were dead, one still dying. The candle was extinguished so now only a huge shadow loomed. Wyl thought he was almost certainly going to be run through with the knife too. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought wryly and wanted to laugh at his own dark humour as he imagined becoming the man who towered above.
The figure stepped over him and finished off the groaning man. Wyl held his breath, or thought he did; he could still hear someone breathing short and shallow and realised it was in fact him.
A face appeared close to his own.
‘Come,’ the voice said and he was lifted as easily as if he weighed nothing.
‘Who are you?’ Wyl slurred.
‘Aremys.’
The dizzying mist returned and this time it enveloped him entirely.
When he woke he was in a bed. He opened his eyes slowly. A large man sat in a corner watching him. Wyl remembered now — it was the bear from the dining room. He realised he was naked beneath the sheets. For some reason he found this deeply disturbing with the huge stranger nearby. He dimly recalled the man’s name.
‘Aremys?’ he said, careful to use Faryl’s real voice this time as it was obvious the man knew he was a woman.
‘I’m here.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like women being attacked.’
Wyl could not agree more. ‘You were one of them, I thought. The bear.’
The man smirked at the title, as though it had been levelled at him often before. ‘Not really one of them.’
Wyl remembered how the huge man had seemed distant from the others. He nodded, let it pass for now. ‘All dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘The bodies?’
‘Taken care of,’ the bear reassured.
‘Taken care of?’ Wyl could not keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘Five corpses!’
‘Seven actually.’
Wyl took a sharp breath. The bear had been with seven other companions and he had killed them all.
‘Why?’
‘That seems to be a favourite question of yours,’ Aremys replied, the suggestion of a smile behind his words.
‘It’s a good question under the circumstances!’ Wyl countered, a suggestion of anger behind his words. He moved stiffly to sit up. ‘May I have some water?’
The bear moved smoothly for a big man. He took his time, lighting a second lamp nearby before pouring a mug of water which Wyl gratefully swallowed in a single draught before falling back on the pillows. His body ached everywhere.
‘Tell me what happened… please.’
Aremys gave a reluctant nod. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
The man’s mouth twitched as if to smile but it did not eventuate. He sighed instead. ‘Let me pour myself a wine.’
‘Where are we?’ Wyl could see this was not his own chamber.
‘My room. The other inn.’
‘I see. Whose side are you on?’ It was a loaded question.
‘Yours, it seems.’ He leaned over to pour himself a cup of the wine from a nearby carafe.
‘Who undressed me?’
‘I averted my eyes,’ Aremys said and then a smile did ghost across his face.
Wyl could not remember a moment in his life when he had felt more embarrassed.
‘You took my clothes off?’ It came out in a girlish shriek, which he hated even more.
‘You’ve got lovely tits,’ Aremys added, fuelling Wyl’s discomfort, making his cheeks burn.
The big man laughed. ‘Couldn’t help myself.’
It felt good to share a joke, despite the awkwardness. Wyl smiled. ‘I’m glad you appreciate them.’
Their mood became serious again as Aremys attempted to apologise. ‘I’m sorry
I didn’t arrive in time to stop them… well, you know…’
Wyl closed his eyes in distress at the memory of the violation and the deeper memory of Faryl’s early life. ‘I know,’ he said, softly, wanting to put it behind him, but wondering if women who were attacked in this way ever could. Faryl had never succeeded. She had hated men ever since. ‘Is that why you killed them?’
The man sipped from his cup then looked over its rim at Wyl. ‘No, but your plight made it easier for me to do it.’
It fell into place. ‘You’re a mercenary?’
Aremys nodded. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve known a few.’ There was a wryness which his companion heard but did not pursue. ‘In whose service?’ Wyl added.
‘The realm’s.’
‘Celimus?’ It came out choked.
‘I suppose. His monkey, Jessom, hired me. I gather royal revenue has been going missing with alarming regularity. Jessom suspects it’s someone from within the Legion.’
‘Rostyr,’ Wyl murmured. ‘How fitting.’
Aremys shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I’m not Morgravian but anyone who can steal back taxes has my vote. Except your King has no sense of humour,’ he said, drily. ‘Jessom paid me a fortune to track down the culprits. It turned out to be three of them and I managed to infiltrate their group. It took me many weeks to find them and then the most of this winter to win their trust. Rostyr was the leader. Cluey fellow too. He used bandits to do the deed but he was the brains behind the jobs.’
‘I see,’ Wyl said, trying to straighten himself on his pillows again. ‘A lot of money stolen?’
‘Enough to fire a king’s wrath.’
‘Did they hurt anyone?’
‘Yes, on a couple of occasions. It wasn’t intentional but it happened.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘Yes. You seem very interested in them.’
‘Can you blame me after being raped by them?’ Wyl bristled. ‘It hurts, Aremys. I’m not sure many men realise quite how much!’
The Quickening Page 62