The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Perhaps Crys still lives, she comforted herself, desperately pushing away the fear that he might have been taken and tortured by their attackers. And then she remembered Pil and Brother Lewk and wondered why their bodies were not here amongst the dead. Aleda ran her hands through her hair, streaking it with more mud, and slowly permitted herself the knowledge that her body was badly hurt. The pain was not easily described. It felt deep within and, with a woman’s instinct, she knew the injuries may yet kill her. It was almost night now, so she could only see the blood on her skirts as a dark stain but she knew it was there, remembered all too well how it was earned. Death was not her fear now. Time was. She was happy to die, would welcome the sight of Shar’s Gatherers, if not for the painful hope that Crys may still live… may still need her.

  She could hear Jeryb in her mind, encouraging her to flee. ‘Get away from here,’ he said to her. ‘Hide!’

  Exhausted, she re-covered the pit and, weeping more lightly now, remembered a hide that Crys had once made just slightly uphill. He had boasted that he could see the northern route from there, just in case the Mountain People ever came raiding. He was much younger then and she had laughed indulgently at him but his father had praised him for his endeavour and foresight. ‘You can never be too well prepared for raiders, son,’ he had said and ruffled the youngster’s hair.

  Her eldest son still used the hide occasionally when tracking animals and had kept it clean and dry. He had invited her to sit in it once and Aleda had marvelled at the cosy comfort. It was sheltered and relatively warm for their harsh climate, and he always kept it stocked which amused her. Food had always been high in her growing son’s mind.

  She had crawled towards that haven and lay in its safe womb for two days, trying to heal, thanking Crys silently for the waterskin there. There was no food, but the water had kept her alive. Aleda had heard the men come back, heard their banter and ugly jokes at her family’s expense. And now she could see them as they dragged the bodies of her beloved menfolk towards a fire and, without ceremony, threw them on to the flames to burn. They could not burn her memories, though, Aleda thought, fanning her fury in tandem with the fire as its flames licked higher into the air. She knew who was responsible for this — a king, yes, but not the Mountain King. Celimus would be sorry his cold and beautiful mother ever conceived him, Aleda promised herself as she watched her family burn.

  She waited another half day in the hide, just to be sure the men had gone. It was too late to retrieve anything from the pyre. They had scattered it, destroying as much evidence of the fire and its contents as possible. All her men were dead — bar one, she prayed. She clung to the hope that Crys lived and, as she crept back to the family house to find warm travelling clothes and medicines to help kill the pain of her injuries, Aleda tried to imagine where her son might find sanctuary. He was no longer safe in Morgravia; neither was she for that matter. He had been escorting Elspyth to the border with Briavel. Perhaps he had returned to Tenterdyn but seen the devastation in time and fled. But where to?

  There was nothing for it. She would have to travel to Briavel and find Elspyth. Perhaps the young woman’s final encounter with Crys might reveal something. Hopefully Elspyth had succeeded in gaining the protection of Queen Valentyna. Aleda, in her befuddled state, even began to beg Shar that Crys had seduced Elspyth — it was obvious to all that he had been entranced by the woman from Yentro — and that they had travelled on together into Briavel. But Crys would not desert his family. It suddenly dawned on her she was not just chasing the last remaining heir of Felrawthy but also its new duke. Did Crys even know?

  With only a small bag to carry, it was not worth looking in the stable for a horse. The attackers had stolen everything; the house itself had been ransacked of all valuables. None of it mattered. Grazing in a nearby field was the same donkey that had brought Elspyth to them. She would take that. She assumed Brother Lewk had fled in such a hurry that he would not be back for the animal.

  She led the animal to the stables, found a saddle that would do and, as fast as her aching body allowed, got the animal ready for the long trip to the famed city of Werryl.

  If Wyl Thirsk believed in the Briavellian Queen, then so must she.

  Aleda lost track of time on her journey. She could no longer remember when the attack had occurred, how many days it had been since death came to Tenterdyn. All that mattered now was staying alive long enough to make it to the famed palace at Werryl and keeping the donkey fed, rested and watered so she could achieve her goal.

  She had been clear-thinking enough to pack oats and water. She knew the animal could forage along the way for grass and foliage that had survived the winter frosts. She herself was warmly dressed; besides, her anger and fierce single-minded determination prevented her feeling the cold’s pinch on her face. She intended to ride the donkey for as many hours a day as she could before her body fell from the saddle.

  She had bled again but ignored it. She did her best to keep her strength up and forced herself to eat. Sometimes she managed only a few mouthfuls but persevered. Her body — if it was going to heal, which she doubted — needed nourishment. She had also had the foresight to grab some family documents and a small portrait of herself and Jeryb. These would be required, she assumed, in order to prove her identity, for right now she looked anything but the wife of the second wealthiest man in the kingdom of Morgravia. She also carried the sack with its gruesome contents that Ylena had brought with her to Tenterdyn.

  Once Aleda had crossed the River Tague, she felt a small measure of her burden lift. She knew she was on enemy territory now, yet it was to this enemy she was turning for safety. She moved towards the east for some hours, knowing she would be picked up by the Briavellian Guard soon. She hoped so for her strength was rapidly dwindling; even her sight felt as though it was narrowing. But she had to hold on, had to find word of Crys.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE CURIOUS-LOOKING TRIO OF travellers waited at the Werryl Bridge while word was sent to the Briavellian Commander of the arrival of a novice monk, a noble from Morgravia and a young woman from Yentro claiming to have a special missive for Queen Valentyna.

  Liryk recognised the noble’s family name; it was not one to be ignored. All the same, he shook his head. ‘Ask them to give us the document and we will consider their request.’

  ‘I’ve tried that, sir,’ his captain replied. ‘They are quite firm.’

  Liryk considered. The Queen’s mood had plummeted into nothing short of despair since the death of Romen Koreldy. She masked it well for strangers but those close to her knew their sovereign was emotionally scarred. She carried on her duties with vigour and dedication but she was withdrawn and strangely detached from all of them.

  ‘Tell them it is impossible. The Queen is indisposed and they can either pass over the letter and await instructions or they can leave.’

  His captain clicked a bow and, rather than leave it to one of his minions, went out to meet with the Morgravians himself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been advised to tell you that Commander Liryk will not permit you entry. He insists on seeing the paperwork you speak of and then your request will be considered.’ The soldier saw the woman’s shoulders slump. All three looked exhausted and disappointed.

  As fate would have it, Valentyna chose that moment to emerge from her private study and stroll out on to the battlements. She noticed the trio on the bridge speaking with her captain. The woman seemed to be looking at him imploringly.

  ‘Who are those people?’ she enquired absently of Liryk who had welcomed her with a broad smile.

  ‘Morgravians, apparently, your highness, requesting entry to Werryl. Captain Orlyd will bring news of them shortly.’

  She looked down again. Their clear fatigue piqued her interest. ‘Do we have their names?’

  ‘The young noble’s name is known to me. A proud Morgravian family, but for all we know this man could be an impostor.’

  Valentyna frowned. ‘Why are
they here?’

  ‘Our patrol picked them up at Greenfield. They impressed our men as honest, offering the information that they were from Morgravia with a missive for you, your highness.’

  This struck the Queen as odd but she held her tongue and waited until Captain Orlyd had reappeared.

  ‘Ah, Orlyd,’ Liryk said.

  The man’s eyes flicked warily towards the Commander as he bowed to his sovereign.

  ‘What news of those people, captain?’ Valentyna asked, the kindness in her tone encouraging the young officer.

  ‘Your highness, they beseeched me to tell you that they are friends of General Wyl Thirsk. They… they mentioned Romen Koreldy,’ he stammered, embarrassed. He was one of those entrusted with the secret of Koreldy’s death and subsequent burial at Werryl.

  Both men saw Valentyna’s eyes widen and the flash of colour that suddenly erupted on her cheeks at the mention of Romen’s name.

  ‘Bring them to me,’ she ordered, flustered. ‘I shall be in my solar.’

  Liryk sighed and nodded. ‘Search them carefully,’ he ordered Orlyd.

  Two soldiers escorted the travellers across the famous Werryl Bridge. Former Briavellian Kings watched them pass by, their carved stone forms towering over them. Crys, despite his bitter sorrow, could not help commenting on the city’s spectacular setting, with meadows all around and the river rushing beneath them. He told their guides how he had heard about Werryl from occasional travellers who passed through Morgravia’s north, but no one had ever done its beauty justice. The men smiled, enjoying his sincere appreciation of their city.

  On the other side of the bridge their horses were led away and Elspyth, Crys and Pil were asked to follow the captain through the huge gate that yawned before them, giving entry to the famed city of Werryl. Elspyth marvelled at its sparkling beauty and soaring towers of whitestone, exclusive to this region. It struck her that where Stoneheart was all dark and brooding majesty, this palace was bathed in a light of its own, reaching towards the skies. She did not remark on it though; instead she lowered her head and gratefully followed the soldier to their audience with Wyl’s Queen. She could think of Valentyna no other way.

  ‘Let me do the talking, Crys,’ she cautioned in a whisper. He nodded. Pil trotted silently alongside, dazzled by the beauty around him.

  They ascended an ornately fashioned staircase. An older man met them at the top. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said and dismissed Orlyd.

  The old man bowed slightly. Elspyth appreciated his graciousness towards them. ‘I am Chancellor Krell. I will escort you to meet her majesty,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should hold off further introductions until you have been presented to our Queen and Commander Liryk. Come now, you all look terribly tired. Let me organise some refreshments.’

  He signalled to a page and quietly issued some orders. The boy hurried away. Krell gave the trio a reassuring nod. ‘I have decided you look famished too — we’ll rustle up some food so none of you collapse at her majesty’s feet.’

  Elspyth grinned. She liked him straightaway.

  ‘Why did her majesty suddenly agree to see us?’ Crys asked.

  Krell smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps her highness should answer that herself. We are here.’ He knocked at the door, then opened it for them.

  Elspyth knew for certain why the Queen had invited them in — it was the mention of either Wyl’s or Romen’s name. She knew Valentyna was attractive because she had pushed Wyl for a description during their long walk from Straplyn to Deakyn, which felt like a lifetime ago now. But expecting the description to reflect the embellishments of a man in love, she was completely unprepared for the tall, statuesque beauty who turned as they entered. Wyl had not exaggerated in the slightest.

  ‘Your highness,’ Krell said, ‘this is Elspyth of Yentro, Crys Donal of Felrawthy, and Pil, novice of Shar and lately of Rittylworth Monastery.’

  Valentyna nodded thanks to her Chancellor. ‘Be welcome, all of you. Krell, have we organised some refreshments?’ She knew he would have but the polite enquiry would help to ease introductions.

  ‘On its way, your majesty.’

  ‘Thank you. Come in, all of you,’ she motioned as they straightened from their various bows. ‘Do sit, please. I understand you have made a long and tiring journey.’

  A little stunned to be in the same room as this dazzling woman, they sat silently.

  ‘Now, forgive my informal welcome,’ Valentyna said, smiling wryly at her garments. ‘These are the Queen of Briavel’s working clothes,’ she added, arching an eyebrow and making Pil chortle briefly, which was precisely the effect she was hoping for. They all looked so tense, she could hardly imagine what news was about to be delivered. ‘This is Commander Liryk,’ she said.

  Their gazes turned towards the man standing near the solar window. He nodded at Crys. ‘I know your father,’ he commented. ‘A fierce soldier, a good man.’

  ‘Knew him, sir,’ Crys said. He had not meant it to come out so viciously but his emotions were not in control right now. ‘He was murdered a few days ago, along with my mother and my two brothers.’

  Elspyth’s heart sank. She had hoped to handle the news with a bit more diplomacy but it was out now. She risked a glance at the Queen who threw a look of sympathy towards her, as though she sensed this was not how Elspyth had planned their meeting.

  ‘What?’ Liryk roared. ‘Felrawthy dead?’

  Elspyth knew she had to take control; she could not let Wyl down again and allow Crys’s mouth to run away with details the Briavellians would not accept. This had to be told properly in order to win their help. She stood.

  ‘Crys, please. Your highness, we have a shocking tale to tell you. Perhaps if you’ll allow me…?’

  Valentyna nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said, waving away Crys’s attempt to begin an apology. The Queen, Elspyth could see, was very concerned for the young noble. Elspyth glared at him to stop him saying anything else damaging.

  ‘My companion is having to deal with much heartache,’ she said. ‘Please forgive us this sudden intrusion and how odd this must all look. Commander Liryk, Crys Donal is the new Duke of Felrawthy.’

  The Queen sat down, sensing the import of what she was about to hear. ‘Tell us everything,’ she said, as Krell ushered in serving staff with trays of food and drinks, both hot and cold. ‘But first you must eat.’

  She smiled encouragingly at Crys, but it was Pil, smitten by this utterly gorgeous woman who was a Queen but sat before him in the plainest of garb, who beamed back at her.

  In between mouthfuls, Elspyth told her audience their sorry story. When she had finished speaking she could not help but lean over and squeeze Crys’s hand. He had not eaten or drunk anything.

  ‘All dead,’ Liryk muttered angrily. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Pil witnessed all that I have spoken of. He can confirm that the duke and his twin sons are dead.’

  The young monk nodded bleakly.

  ‘They would not have permitted my mother to live,’ Crys said, emerging from his silence.

  ‘And you are absolutely certain that these men were hired by King Celimus?’ Valentyna asked, her voice as cold as the grave.

  Liryk squirmed. This was everything they did not need as negotiations progressed towards the marriage of Morgravia’s and Briavel’s monarchs. ‘Your highness,’ he began but Valentyna held up her hand and returned her penetrating dark blue gaze to Elspyth.

  It was unsettling to have such intense attention levelled at her. Elspyth suddenly felt as though no one else’s opinion mattered to the Queen but hers. She recalled how Wyl had mentioned how Valentyna could make you feel as though you were the only person in the room.

  ‘From what I gather, your majesty,’ she said carefully, ‘Celimus is capable of anything.’

  ‘That’s not absolute certainty, though, is it?’ the Queen replied, her gaze steady.

  Elspyth blinked. She could tell Wyl’s whole story and shock these Briavellians but she had swor
n not to break the promise, had seen the damaging effects of having done so once before. ‘No, but Aremys and Faryl, both assassins in the employ of Celimus, confirmed it was his doing. They were ordered to kill Ylena Thirsk.’

  ‘Your majesty, we cannot go on the word of hired mercenaries. They would say anything, do anything, for gold,’ Liryk warned.

  Elspyth bristled. ‘We did not pay them!’ she said angrily to the soldier, then pulled back her claws. ‘Forgive me, your highness. Aremys can be trusted.’ She delved into her pocket. ‘I have a letter for you. It is from…’ and she hesitated, almost saying Wyl. ‘From Ylena.’

  ‘Wyl Thirsk’s sister?’ The Queen frowned, taking it from her.

  ‘Yes, your highness. Aremys took her to safety,’ she said, despairing at her own ability to lie so easily. She eyed the others, daring them to contradict her.

  Krell stepped back into the room and glided towards the Queen at her nod. He bent to whisper something to her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said distractedly to her audience. ‘Apparently there is an urgent messenger from Morgravia.’ She tucked Wyl’s letter away. ‘I shall return shortly. Please make yourselves comfortable and eat more. We won’t keep you long from your beds,’ she finished kindly.

  In her absence Liryk felt obliged to continue the discussion, despite his shock at learning of the death of Jeryb Donal, a formidable enemy who had respected the laws of war. Like his former General, Fergys Thirsk, the duke was not one to pursue a battle for the sake of it.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of your loss, son,’ he said into the awkward silence.

  Elspyth was glad that Crys was gracious enough to acknowledge the Commander’s commiserations.

  ‘Can you enlighten me as to how you know for sure these were men sent by your King?’ Liryk pressed, hoping they could not.