The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Master Aremys, you’ll be riding Galapek this afternoon,’ Maegryn said. ‘Be firm with him, sir. But also give him his head on the flat. He likes to gallop. Could use a good run today.’

  It was all Aremys could manage to nod agreeably and take the reins from Maegryn. He wished he had been more careful and not backed himself into this situation. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it and deliberately turned his back against Rashlyn as he mounted. He could not allow the barshi to read his fear.

  Waves of revulsion pulsated through him as he took his seat in the saddle. It required all of his courage not to leap from the horse and flee. ‘You lead,’ he said tightly to Rashlyn, hoping to get the magic man ahead of him.

  Unfortunately, Rashlyn had his measure. ‘Myrt, you know the best paths,’ he said. ‘You lead.’

  The party of three set off with Aremys now fully convinced that he was under observation by the King’s sorcerer.

  TWO

  MYRT SUGGESTED A PATH VIA the lowlands surrounding the lake. Aremys grunted his agreement, still struggling to dampen his revulsion for the horse beneath him. Myrt did not linger for a comment from the barshi and set the direction. Once the horses were moving at a steady canter Aremys felt better, and when they set them at a gallop with the wind in his face the exhilaration seemed to alleviate the sickening taint permeating his body from below.

  For the first half of the ride the men said nothing and Aremys was happy about this, lost in his thoughts and the pure pleasure of being out in this breathtaking valley. The lake was mirror calm today and he marvelled at how it reflected the lower rises of the Razors. The cacophony of the waterbirds drowned any potential for conversation, which suited him perfectly. Although the sun was high overhead now, there was no real fire in it yet, but still the riders were glad to feel its gentle spring warmth upon their shoulders, loosening winter’s firm grip on the land.

  Aremys felt he was able to control his reaction to the stallion now that their bodies had been touching for some time. Whatever initially caused him to gag wretchedly in front of the King had diminished to a constant queasiness, which he was mastering. His revulsion had given way to an intense sorrow for this animal. He wondered what was provoking such empathy. The beast moved beneath him with superb grace, all muscle and power, eager to respond to his rider’s urgings, but Aremys sensed something beyond the physical; something he would almost equate with human emotion.

  ‘We can stop over there and rest the horses.’ Myrt butted into his thoughts, pointing towards a cluster of rocky outcrops which formed a loose semi-circle and a natural suntrap.

  Aremys nodded unhappily. He would have preferred to keep going but had no doubt this was all being carefully orchestrated.

  They settled themselves against the boulders while the horses grazed contentedly on some tender grass shoots. They were far enough away that Aremys could converse without the magical stench threatening to upset him. Nevertheless, Galapek called to him. Not in words, not even a true sound as such, but an insatiable pull. The more confident Aremys became in his resistance against the revulsion, the more strongly the horse pleaded to his senses.

  He looked away from Galapek to the stream gurgling nearby, bringing sweet, fresh water from the highlands. Aremys saw the silvery flash of a fish jumping courageously against the current and immediately likened the creature’s struggle to his own as a prisoner of Cailech, but also to his odd relationship with Galapek. The horse’s call to him was so intense and strong, a current constantly pounding against him as he bravely pushed against it to stop it dragging him down and under. What did it want him to do? What was this creature that it could generate such loathing as well as sympathy? A new thought struck Aremys: not what was this animal but who? The notion was so striking that it washed away his fear. Who was this animal? Who was calling to him using the magic of the Thicket? Could the beast be under an enchantment, like Wyl — a man trapped in another guise? The thought revolted him.

  As he shook his head clear of such a shocking notion, the barshi embarked upon the expected interrogation.

  ‘The King tells me you have lost your memory,’ Rashlyn said, without any preamble.

  ‘I have,’ Aremys answered Rashlyn. ‘It is a terrible feeling to not know anything about oneself.’

  ‘I gather it is returning gradually?’ the man replied, reaching to unwrap the hunk of cheese and hard biscuit which Myrt had packed.

  Aremys noted the man’s grubby fingers and looked away. The Mountain men were tough and capable of living rough, but he knew they bathed regularly. The King led by example: he was always scrupulously clean. As it had struck Elspyth not so long ago, Aremys had also realised that the people of the Razors were a sophisticated race with great artistic and creative skills as well as a love of the land and a deep respect for each other. Since Cailech had stopped the tribal fighting and had drawn their people together, that respect had extended beyond simple courtesies to living alongside one another in a manner that promoted cleanliness and protected them from disease. Aremys had noted with surprise the special ablution blocks built around the fortress, proof of how highly Cailech rated the importance of proper sanitation. The King was convinced of a link between human waste and disease, and so it was rare to see any Mountain Dweller squatting in the fields or in a corner of the fortress to relieve themselves. Instead, carts rolled away daily from the many ablution blocks to deliver the waste into pits dug deep into the ground, far from the main living areas, where it would harmlessly break down and return to the earth. It was part of the modern thinking — along with regular bathing, education, and the maintenance of the old languages — which Cailech insisted upon amongst his people. But this man, Rashlyn, with his dirty hands, his unkempt appearance and offensive manner, did not fit the Mountain folks’ mould. How did they tolerate him?

  Rashlyn was staring at him. ‘Yes, slowly,’ Aremys answered, finally. ‘I know my name, at least, and where I hail from.’

  ‘Would you like me to check your skull for any damage? I am a healer,’ Rashlyn offered, along with some of the cheese.

  Aremys was not taking chances. He could not risk that this sorcerer, or whatever he was, might sense through his touch the Thicket’s trace of magic. And Shar alone knew where those filthy fingers had last been. ‘Thank you, no,’ he replied. ‘I am not hungry and my head is fine.’

  The man frowned. ‘It must have been a firm blow to knock your senses so. You really should let me examine you.’

  ‘No need,’ Aremys replied briskly, glancing towards his quiet companion and hoping to be rescued. ‘Myrt here has already looked me over. There is no sign of any damage.’

  Myrt did not deny Aremys’s claim but did not support it either. It seemed to Aremys that he too was fighting a battle of loyalty. It was fairly obvious from his body language alone that Myrt despised Rashlyn.

  ‘This business of your lost memory is odd then,’ Rashlyn said. He spoke through his food and bits of the cheese crumbled and fell from his mouth into his tangle of beard. Again Aremys looked away, disgusted. ‘How could you lose your wits if not from a blow?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Aremys said, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’ He found the barshi’s probing stare most unsettling; there was madness lurking there, he was sure of it. He stood and said politely, ‘Excuse me whilst I take a drink,’ and glanced again at Myrt, this time for permission to sip from the stream.

  Myrt nodded and Aremys walked as casually as he could to the stream’s edge and bent down. He splashed freezing water over his face and swallowed some of it, enjoying the refreshing trickle of droplets that found a way into the front of his shirt and slid down his chest. As he straightened, flicking water in all directions, he sensed someone directly behind him. He turned abruptly, expecting to see Rashlyn reaching towards him. The thrill of fear that passed through him nearly unbalanced him into the stream. He felt stupid. He was definitely becoming paranoid, he berated himself silently and angrily.
r />   Yes, Rashlyn was standing behind him, but instead of reaching out for the mercenary he was digging in his pocket to retrieve a tiny jar.

  ‘Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man said, a little slyly, Aremys thought. ‘Here — this will ease the headaches I believe you have been suffering.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A soothing blend of herbs with a dash of laudanum. It won’t harm you, or dull anything but the pain, I promise. Sip it every hour as you need it.’

  Aremys was trapped. Rashlyn’s filthy hand was extended with the small bottle in its palm. He had to take it, or risk throwing yet more doubt into the mind of Cailech. It was certain that Rashlyn would be required to report back to his monarch precisely how the afternoon had unfolded. If the King was waiting to hear that Aremys had vomited again or had refused to ride his stallion then he would be disappointed, but this moment might yet be his undoing. Aremys saw the healer’s eyes narrow at his reluctance but still he hesitated.

  ‘I can easily make up some more; you’re not denying anyone by taking it,’ Rashlyn assured, the softness in his voice almost threatening. Aremys was sure the man was daring him to refuse.

  He took a moment to shake his head free of the water droplets, then paused to wipe a sleeve across his face. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, reaching out slowly, hoping Rashlyn would simply drop the phial into his hand.

  Before that could happen, Galapek alarmed all three men by rearing up behind them, screaming loudly as though in pain. Myrt reacted first, running towards the horse. Aremys took his chance, moving swiftly away from the healer. ‘Let me help!’ he called.

  The horse clearly wanted Myrt nowhere near him, rearing and screaming even more wildly as the warrior approached. To Myrt’s surprise, however, the stallion calmed a little at the sound of the big mercenary’s voice and allowed Aremys to sidle up to him.

  Aremys reached for the reins and called again to the big horse. ‘Galapek, there boy. There now. Settle, big fellow,’ he whispered. The horse stood still now, trembling and angry.

  ‘Poor Galapek, I shall save you. Whatever has happened to you, I shall rescue you, I promise,’ he said, stroking the animal’s broad, magnificent face. ‘Be calm now, boy.’ He buried his face in Galapek’s beautiful mane and, for the first time, the stench of the magic did not attack him. Whatever this curse upon the stallion was, it was somehow communicating with him, flowing through him and around him, begging him to keep his promise.

  And then came a word in his head. It was faint and desperately called, but he was not imagining it. Elspyth, he heard, just once, and then it was gone, like a sigh given to the wind and borne away.

  Aremys was so shocked he stood rigid against the horse’s neck, trying to recapture the word, aching to reach for it, but it was lost. Elspyth. Surely that was the name he had heard? The urgent voice of Myrt broke through his haze of confusion.

  ‘Farrow! For Haldor’s sake, man!’

  Aremys turned from the horse, surprised by the anger being levelled at him. Then he saw Myrt’s expression — not angry as he’d thought, but distraught — and followed where his friend’s hand pointed. By the water’s edge, where he had left him, Rashlyn writhed on the ground, shouting gibberish as spittle foamed and flew from his mouth. His arms and legs flailed wildly.

  ‘Check the horses are secure,’ Aremys called over his shoulder as he ran to the prone figure which had suddenly fallen still. He wished Rashlyn might be dead but luck was not with him. He lifted the small man’s chin to ensure a clear breathing passage, but stopped short of breathing any life-giving air into that mouth. ‘He has a pulse, I’m sorry to say,’ he risked to Myrt who had come up behind them.

  Myrt did not smile but something akin to a twitch of amusement flitted across his face. ‘What’s happened, I wonder?’ the Mountain man queried.

  ‘Is he prone to fits?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not heard of any occurring before.’

  ‘Could it be the cheese?’ Aremys wondered aloud.

  ‘Fresh. Nothing wrong with it.’

  ‘Something else then. It seemed to occur at the same time as Galapek took fright.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Myrt squatted, saw the indecision in his companion’s face. ‘Speak freely — I have protected you before.’

  Rashlyn lay rigidly still at their feet. Aremys lifted back the man’s lids. The dark, madness-filled eyes had rolled back into his head. The man was unconscious; he was hearing nothing.

  ‘I’m not sure I should air my views. You’re a loyal Mountain warrior, after all.’

  ‘Not to him!’ Myrt spat disdainfully on the ground. ‘Like you, I wish he was dead. He’s a danger to all of us.’

  ‘Because of his magic?’

  Myrt nodded reluctantly. ‘He uses it for evil, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I think it’s his magic that has prompted this episode.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Be clear.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t understand it either.’ Aremys sighed and decided to take a chance on Myrt. He hoped his instincts would serve him truly. ‘Were you given any instructions about me and this afternoon’s ride?’

  Myrt frowned. ‘Nothing special. I was briefed to give you a chance to enjoy Galapek because you had expressed such interest in the horse.’

  ‘The King didn’t tell you to keep a special eye on me?’

  ‘My job is to keep an eye on you, Farrow. You’re our…’ he hesitated, ‘our guest, after all.’

  Aremys grinned ruefully. ‘Myrt, you are more friend to me than most people I have met over the past decade. But let’s be honest here: I’m a prisoner — I have to accept that. However,’ he went on, scratching his head, ‘your King is entrusting me with a very serious task, which means he has faith in me. Sadly, I can’t be quite as honest with him as I can with you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he is in the thrall of this man. You’ve told me that much yourself, and spending just an afternoon with Rashlyn has convinced me he’s not someone to trust.’

  Myrt said nothing, merely frowned again.

  Aremys pushed on. He glanced towards the horse. ‘I could be aiming completely off target here, but I think there’s something very odd about Galapek. No, not odd. Enchanted.’

  Myrt rocked back on his heels as if slapped. ‘Magic?’

  Aremys nodded. ‘Worked by Rashlyn, I’m guessing. And known of by your King.’ There, it was said. He had admitted his fears.

  Myrt stood and began pacing. He said nothing for a while and Aremys kept the silence, watching Rashlyn for any signs of consciousness.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ the warrior hissed eventually, pointing at Aremys.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he replied calmly, having anticipated the anger. ‘I’m just offering my own thoughts. I’m not suggesting that your King — whom I like and respect— is in complete agreement with Rashlyn.’

  ‘Then what do you mean, mercenary?’ Myrt said brusquely.

  Aremys felt sorry that he had pushed his friend so far. It was obvious from his anger that Myrt had suspected something not so far from what Aremys had suggested. But the truth sometimes hurt, and the blood between the Mountain People ran thick with loyalty. Wyl had warned him as much and he should not have toyed with the idea that friendship might override that loyalty — although, of course, it did in the case of the man Lothryn, who had chosen love and friendship over his monarch.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given insult, Myrt. It was not intended, especially not to you. What I meant is, I think Cailech — under the spell of Rashlyn, as you have pointed out — has permitted something to be wrought upon this horse. And no doubt other enchantments too.’

  ‘And how for the love of Haldor’s arse would you know, Grenadyne? Are you a practitioner now to know when magic is being wielded?’

  The harsh words bit at Aremys, as intended, but how could he ignore the truth? Could he risk divulging it to Myrt and still keep his life?
>
  ‘Myrt, do you trust me?’

  The man passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What does your gut tell you?’

  ‘That you are reliable.’

  ‘Good. We have to get Rashlyn back to the fortress. Come, help me lay him across his horse and I will tell you everything I know as we travel.’

  They took the same route home but slowly. Aremys had tethered Rashlyn’s horse on a lead some distance behind them, so if the healer regained consciousness he could not hear their conversation. He would have to alert them by calling out. ‘An old mercenary trick,’ Aremys had said and winked.

  On the return journey, Aremys began to share with his friend all the information he was prepared to risk bringing into the open. He cast a silent prayer to Shar that he had this man’s measure, that he could trust him not to betray him. He said nothing of Wyl, of course, simply explaining that he had been in the employ of the Morgravian sovereign. Myrt accepted that the mercenary would not explain what specific task he was employed to do for Celimus, merely nodding when Aremys assured him that it was nothing connected with the people of the Razors.

  ‘Let me simply say that I was tracking someone of interest to the Crown,’ Aremys offered.

  ‘And that’s what brought you so far north?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve remembered that I came to a place called Timpkenny in the far north-east of Briavel,’ the mercenary lied. ‘I believed this person I was following had passed through there.’

  ‘And these people who set upon you — just common bandits, you think?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Aremys nodded. ‘Added a little something to my ale to make me feel sick so I would stagger outside the inn late at night. I’m guessing now — all of this is a little hazy, thanks to the drug — but they must have thrown me over a horse to remove me from prying eyes. They led me to the fringe of a region called the Thicket. Have you heard of this place?’ Aremys held his breath.

  Myrt was staring at him intently. He nodded. ‘They say it has powerful magic.’