The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Apologies. That was blunt of me.’

  Wyl accepted it graciously although the part of him that was Faryl was angry. ‘And so why did you choose tonight to kill them?’

  ‘They were planning something daring. It would mean more innocent deaths and someone of note also. I could not allow that to happen — it was the right time to deal with them as I was instructed.’

  ‘Poison?’ Faryl’s senses told him this would be the best mode.

  Aremys nodded. ‘Good guess. That was my plan, until you decided to enter the dining room and ruin it. I had to use a messier method.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have spoiled things. What have you done with the bodies?’

  ‘Tomorrow they’ll be carted back to Pearlis as proof. I’ve already sent a messenger to inform Jessom of my findings.’

  ‘Not to mention requesting final payment.’

  Wyl’s barb had no effect on the man, who simply shrugged his burly shoulders.

  ‘And so now it’s your turn,’ Aremys said, setting down his mug. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To hear the intriguing tale of Thom Bentwood, a woman in disguise as a merchant passing through a town whose season for merchants is long over.’

  Wyl mentally kicked himself. Faryl’s instincts had niggled at him along these lines and he had ignored them. Aremys had him nailed good and proper.

  He tried for the obvious. ‘It’s not easy being a woman travelling alone,’ he replied. ‘The disguise helps.’

  ‘I accept that. But the point is, why do you travel alone?’

  ‘Do I need a reason?’

  Aremys fixed his dark gaze on the bruised woman before him. Secrets. That was all right; he had them too. ‘No, I suppose not. But will you tell me anyway?’

  That was unexpected. Wyl felt flustered.

  Aremys could see this. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Right now I suspect sleep is what you need.’ He sensed the woman’s relief. ‘Will you allow me to tend the injuries to your face?’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Are they bad?’

  ‘I shan’t be giving you a mirror tonight.’

  ‘Oh, that alarming,’ Wyl said, disappointment strong in his voice.

  Aremys was rifling through an old leather sack. He pulled out a small flat glass box. ‘It would be if I didn’t have my miracle salve with me.’

  He moved to the bed. ‘I’ll have a bathtub brought up tomorrow,’ he said absently, digging a finger into the cloudy ointment. He daubed it on to Wyl’s face, which soon began to tingle as the big man gently rubbed the salve into the injured spots. ‘The bruises will surface and disappear quickly,’ he assured his patient. ‘Now rest.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Not far. I’ll be here on the floor beside you. I’ll leave a fresh candle burning.’

  Wyl was touched. He could more than take care of himself under normal circumstances but it felt rather comforting to have someone looking out for him. It reminded him of being a youngster again, with Gueryn making all his decisions for him. He missed being looked after. He missed Gueryn. On that sad thought he closed his eyes and turned on his side. Sleep would come fast tonight.

  He listened to the sounds of Aremys trying to make himself comfortable on the hard floorboards. Wyl was grateful to him for not pursuing the story of Thom Bentwood further tonight.

  ‘My name is Faryl,’ Wyl said quietly into the darkness, surprising himself for giving the other man the truth… and for finally acknowledging it himself.

  SEVEN

  THE DAYS AT RITTYLWORTH passed slowly, following their own particular rhythm as the men of Shar kept to their routine of worship and work. For some, their duties were in the library, poring over texts and carefully scribing passages; others who were artistic spent hours patiently copying ancient illuminations. For many, their daily toil was in the vegetable gardens and orchards, or tending to the sheep and goats which kept them fed. Others looked after the few cows which sustained the gentle community with fresh milk for drinking, as well as producing the rich cream, butter and famed cheese of the region.

  Rittylworth Bruise took its name from the dark wax the monastery’s cheesemakers dipped their proud product into for maturing and preserving. The shiny violet rounds of hard cheese were stored in a special room beneath the chapel, which maintained a steady temperature through all seasons. But even this room was not as deep into the ground as the secret grotto — a place that few outside the monastic Order knew about.

  It became Ylena’s favourite place of all. Brother Jakub, all too aware of their visitor’s grief, had suggested within the first day of her arrival that she make it her own for a while. As much as Ylena enjoyed her sleeping room with its view over the orchards, it was to the grotto she escaped for solitude and it was there, alongside the gentle waters of the warm spring, that she had begun to slowly heal.

  In the beginning, the healing process was purely physical: regaining an appetite, finding her voice again, the fading of bruises and swellings. Eventually, as her slim frame regained some of its strength and vitality, she found herself able to think of the horror she had experienced, and to begin to grieve.

  In the dungeon at Stoneheart, forced to look upon her beloved husband’s severed head, she had thought she would go out of her mind. Darkness had gripped her then, and she sank into its embrace willingly, finding strange comfort in that wilderness, for there was no pain there.

  But at Rittylworth, surrounded by the monks’ serenity and faith, Ylena felt a subtle change occur deep within. The storms of helpless sobbing grew less frequent and slowly she understood that she could not bring back her loved ones, no matter how hard she wept. And in accepting this, her feelings of weakness and the belief that she was incapable of living without those she loved began to dissipate.

  It was not easy, and many times the grief threatened to carry her away again, but on those occasions Ylena would remind herself of her family name and the need to live up to it, to keep digging deeper towards the strength she knew she possessed.

  Wyl had once spoken to her of how he had taught himself to accept the death of their mother and, more lately, their father. Ylena drew on that teaching now, directing the painful emotions inward and burying them in a safe dark place where they could no longer disable her.

  Ylena would be the first to admit that she had led a pampered and spoiled life. But Thirsk blood ran in her veins and Wyl, Shar bless him, had never allowed her to forget that she came from the strongest of stock. And the knowledge gave her the resilience to fight the grief and despair and return to the light. She could think of Alyd and his execution now without being overwhelmed by the horror, and her shock at losing the only remaining member of her family, her dear, loving brother Wyl, had dulled to bitter acceptance. At times she still felt numb but she was learning to put that aside and ‘walk out into the sun’ as Brother Jakub so poetically put it.

  It was Celimus of course who had contrived all of this death and suffering and on whose hateful name she should build her own hate. Killing Alyd was his petulant reaction to them denying him the right to Virgin’s Blood during the tourney — how clever Wyl had been to suggest they marry within hours of learning Celimus’s intention. And how sorrowful that she had lost both men who loved her so much. She had cried for the loss of Gueryn too, whom she presumed had been felled for similar jealous reasons. Celimus had systematically set about destroying the Thirsk family and its closest supporters.

  And then there was Brother Jakub — calm and patient with searching eyes that seemed to see into the depths of her heart and the pain she had buried there. He had never asked directly about her dark experiences but it was obvious he knew what had happened and at whose behest. The old monk’s patient care had contributed much to Ylena’s recovery and she would be forever grateful to him.

  And so, nourished by the calm of the secret grotto, Ylena had allowed the days to blend until her body and her mind returned themselves to her whole. Now, she sensed a res
ilience within she had never known before. Daunting though it was, she would do what was expected of her as a Thirsk — what her father would want; what Wyl would admire. Despite her fear, she would fight back. Somehow, as impossible as it seemed right now, she would make Celimus pay for his horrific deeds.

  Crossing the main courtyard this bright morning, Ylena smiled at two brothers, who dipped their heads towards her but did not break the morning silence which was held until third bell — due any moment, she suspected. She wondered where Pil was. He was normally skipping around her by this time, making her laugh with his tall stories. The young novice monk took his role as her caretaker earnestly and she had to keep reminding him that she was not an invalid and preferred to do things for herself. He would smile shyly and apologise, then go right back to fussing around her. In truth, he was a large factor in her recovery. His almost childlike desire to make her smile and see her well again was infectious.

  Pil was one of a big family who hailed from the northwest. His father was a fisherman, as were his brothers. His sisters and mother prepared and sold the catch. Everyone in their village was involved in the sea and its bounty but Pil was the only member of his family who felt no calling for it. In fact he would be the first to admit that he suffered the ocean sickness and hated anything to do with boats and fish. Saying such things was sacrilege in his village so he suffered in silence and did a terrible job of mending nets and helping wherever he could. His father finally gave up on him and on one particular evening of high frustration asked a travelling monk whether he would take his youngest, good-for-nothing son with him and teach him the ways of Shar. ‘Perhaps he’ll be some use to us then and can pray for our safety and prosperity,’ Pil had haltingly repeated to Ylena one day. The monk had agreed and after travelling with the man for several months and discovering that he was not only interested to do Shar’s work but that he was good at his letters, Pil began to feel a calling to become a monk himself. The kindly guardian had contacted his old friend Jakub at Rittylworth and by year’s end, young Pil had found himself a new home and a new family who welcomed him with love and patience. He had fitted in easily and being the youngest had been spoiled with care and affection from the brothers. Ylena could see this and the love they had given him had manifested itself in Pil’s ebullience at life and his desire to do his god’s work with enthusiasm. She thanked her lucky stars that Pil had been so dreadful at fishing and had told him that not so long ago, enjoying watching him blush and stammer.

  Truly, it felt as though she had lived here amongst the brothers for an age when in fact it was only weeks.

  Despite the bright day, winter’s last bite still nipped at the air, although the buds on the fruit trees suggested spring was not that far away. Ylena pulled her soft shawl more tightly around herself. She felt the cold and even the steaming bowl of cream oats sweetened with oozing honeycomb she had swallowed gratefully early that morning had not warmed her sufficiently. She shivered, relishing the thought of her daily soak in the soothing waters of the grotto, which was where she was headed now.

  Her boots clicked on the flagstones of the great arched cloisters through which Ylena loved to walk. She turned her head, knowing Brother Tomas would be in the tiny courtyard to her left, lovingly tending his citrus trees. The peel of the akin fruit had healing properties, he had explained to her, and curiously it was at its most powerful in the morning. And so each day he checked the fruit at the same time, testing it for readiness. She waved and he nodded to her, holding up one of the bluish-green spheres and grinning. It was a good one obviously. Tomas had said that he was fortunate to coax one fruit per week from the trees when they were in season in early spring. They were one of nature’s more stubborn follies and one needed extraordinary patience to tend and harvest them. It was easy to be patient at the monastery, Ylena thought, surrounded by its sleepy, tranquil atmosphere.

  Skipping down some steps, she realised she felt the brightest she had in a long time. Happy was not quite the word she would choose, but she felt as though she was almost ready to consider a life beyond Rittylworth. Her first task would be to get herself to Alyd’s people. After learning the fate of his son the powerful Duke of Felrawthy would surely help her in her quest to bring down Celimus — she was sure of it. Ylena was convinced the Legion would not take up arms against them when it learned of the truth behind its General’s death and the execution of its popular Captain.

  Third bell sounded and Ylena smiled: the silence for the day was over. It occurred to her that she had meant to call in on Brother Farley and get a gargle for the gritty throat she had developed during the night. Torn between longing to immerse herself in the warm waters of the spring, but not wanting to risk falling ill now that she felt so much better, Ylena hurriedly veered towards the old physic’s rooms — and ran straight into Brother Jakub.

  ‘Ah, my girl. You are a sight to gladden the heart of an old man.’

  She hugged him. ‘Good morning, Brother Jakub. Are you ailing?’

  His face crinkled into his gentle smile. ‘No, child. There are some sick children in the village and I want to speak with Brother Farley before he becomes too engrossed in his day’s toil. I’d like him to look in on them this morning. And you?’

  She touched her neck. ‘Sore throat.’

  ‘Well, my dear mother used to say that if you gad about with wet hair on cold days you’re bound to catch a chill,’ he said, wagging a finger in fair imitation of an old woman. She enjoyed his impression and he squeezed her hand, delighting in her joy. ‘How good it is to hear you laugh.’

  Ylena pulled a rueful face. ‘Today, for the first time since I was married, I am pleased to be alive. I catch myself smiling and I feel almost guilty.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ Jakub counselled. ‘This is the human spirit, child, restoring itself. It is how we heal; how we go on and deal with life which can be so ugly sometimes. Let your spirit soar when it is of a mind to. Trust it, for it means you have found hope again. Hope is a powerful weapon.’

  She nodded, feeling tears welling at the goodness and generosity of this man. He sensed her emotion and, not wishing to upset her happy mood, changed the subject. ‘Is Pil attending you well, Ylena?’

  ‘Too well, Brother Jakub!’ she replied, with mock despair.

  ‘Ah, he’s a good boy and takes his role of protector very seriously.’

  ‘I know. He has been most kind… all of you have. But I must think soon of leaving.’

  ‘Not too soon, I hope,’ he said softly. ‘Take your time. Be well.’

  She took her chance. ‘I shouldn’t hold you up, Brother Jakub,’ — he shook his head slightly to show it was of no consequence — ‘but I wonder if I could ask you whether you have heard from Romen?’

  ‘I’ve received no word,’ he replied, guiding her into the warmth of the physic’s chamber. Brother Farley was busy measuring out powders and breaking clumps of dried herbs into smaller pieces. He muttered to himself, hardly noticing them.

  ‘Then may I impose on you further by asking whether he left something with you before he departed — something important for safekeeping?’

  Jakub’s expression grew grave and Ylena knew immediately that Romen had indeed left behind the sack containing the remains of her husband. She swallowed hard. ‘It’s all right. I can talk about it now. I’m much stronger.’

  ‘I know you are, child. You are a marvel and it is not difficult to see that you come from strong stock.’

  ‘Did you know my father?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Of him, of course. I regret I never had the pleasure of meeting your fine father, or your brother, in person. They were good men as I hear it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘So you do have it?’

  He hugged her. ‘It’s safe. In the grotto.’

  Ylena flinched at the realisation that she had been sharing her special place all this time with Alyd. ‘Where?’ she asked.

  ‘There is a false back to the cupboard where we
keep the candles. I hid it there. It has been preserved as Romen requested.’

  ‘He did?’ She had not counted on this and would kiss Romen right now if she could. It had been worrying her that Alyd’s remains would have deteriorated beyond recognition and she would never be able to prove to his father how his son had died.

  Ylena was about to speak again when the sounds of men yelling cut across the calm morning. Frowning, Brother Jakub told her to remain where she was and hurried outside to see what was happening. A few moments later he ran back in, face ashen.

  He grabbed her hand. ‘Ylena, hide behind this counter.’

  ‘Whatever is going on?’

  ‘Riders — king’s men!’ Pil burst into the room, a look of terror on his face. ‘They’re hurting the brothers.’

  Ylena’s eyes widened with disbelief and rising panic gripped at her throat, its soreness forgotten in an instant. ‘What —’

  ‘Do as I say,’ Jakub ordered, his voice hard. ‘Hide now, both of you, and as soon as you can, climb out of the window here and make for the grotto. You know what to do there, child,’ he said sombrely to Ylena, then turned to Pil: ‘Now is when you prove your worth, lad. Keep her safe. Get her away from here as soon as you can.’

  ‘Jakub!’ she began, her voice trembling with intense fear. ‘It’s me they’ve come for, isn’t it?’

  ‘But they’ll never find you, my girl. Not as long as I draw breath.’ He nodded at his colleague. ‘Come, Farley, be brave now. We have nothing to share with these men.’

  Jakub gave Ylena a searching look, kissed her briefly and whispered for her to be brave, then took the dismayed Brother Farley’s hand and together the two old men walked out into the bright day.

  Ylena was too stunned to move. Then she heard men’s voices gruffly questioning her friends who had just left the room. ‘Come on!’ Pil hissed and dragged her around the counter.

  They ducked behind Brother Farley’s weighing bench and crawled underneath his shelves. Ylena held her breath as she heard boots clattering into the room. Pil put his finger to his lips, more out of a need to comfort himself she was sure, for his eyes were tightly shut.