The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Not really, child, for now you possess it. Rashlyn wishes to control the natural world. He is a corrupter of natural things. He wants power over the beasts. But Celimus is just as dangerous. He too wants power but of a different kind. I fear that if we do not destroy Rashlyn these two ambitious men might join together. I know how the minds of greedy men work, and should they claim the Razors and Briavel as their own, they will almost certainly turn their attention towards the Wild. With Celimus’s help, Rashlyn will try to destroy the Thicket. The King sighed. We do not wish to engage in such a confrontation.

  ‘What can I do to help, your majesty?’ Fynch asked, desperation seeping into his voice.

  I grant you permission to use the magic of the Thicket to aid Wyl Thirsk in his bid to rid Morgravia of its King, for without Celimus I do not believe Rashlyn’s madness can be fully unleashed.

  Fynch nodded thoughtfully, relief flooding his small body that the Warrior King did not mean to attack Wyl directly. He recognised that the dragon warrior had not offered his own mighty strength or powers, only that of the Thicket. Fynch also knew that the creatures of the Thicket would insist on keeping their secrets. He already felt a part of this mysterious community and was convinced he would do everything in his power to protect them and their magic.

  ‘Celimus has no heir,’ Fynch cautioned, even though he presumed the royal creature knew as much.

  Morgravia will survive. Do what you must. Knave is your Guide — use his wisdom well, child, and your own powers sparingly. I presume Elysius explained the price you may be required to pay?

  Fynch nodded. ‘He did.’

  The King waited, wondering whether the child would expand on his brief answer. A plea for mercy perhaps; a musing as to whether his life could somehow be spared despite the rule of the use of this magic. But no further words came. The King beat his wings in appreciation of the humility of this boy who was prepared to give everything of himself on behalf of those he loved and who asked for nothing in return.

  The warrior dragon’s gaze penetrated deep into Fynch’s heart and he was surprised to see there a startling and precious secret regarding this boy. He had not expected it but the discovery warmed him. Should he share it? The child’s life was already forfeit; what could be gained from adding more confusion? The King felt sorrow well up that they would use this boy so. But there was no other way. Fynch was the sacrifice, though it cut him deeply to send his own to die.

  Then we remain in your debt, Fynch. The Thicket and its creatures will always hold you in their hearts. We bless you and hold our faith in you with reverence.

  There was too much emotion swirling through Fynch for him to risk another word to this mightiest of beasts. Instead he bowed to show his complete acceptance. The royal creature acknowledged it with another powerful flapping of its wings, driving Fynch to the ground as it lifted effortlessly into the air and disappeared.

  Roark and Knave were at the boy’s side again.

  He has not appeared to us in an age, Knave said, the awe still evident in his voice. He came to pay homage only to you, child.

  Fynch was unable to respond, overwhelmed by this fateful meeting with the King of the Beasts.

  Knave understood and nuzzled his friend’s small hand. Come, Faith Fynch, we have a journey to begin.

  FOUR

  LOST IN BLEAK THOUGHTS, Queen Valentyna leaned on her elbows against the cool whitestone of the walkway that linked two of the palace towers. It was her private place, one which she rarely shared. The last person she had permitted to spend time with her here was Koreldy, and before him, Fynch. She could not help but think of those two friends now; both lost to her, both so keenly missed it felt like an open wound. With her face cupped in her hands she stared out across the Briavellian moors she loved so much and marvelled at a hawk hovering far ahead in the distance, watching patiently as it waited for its prey. Suddenly it plunged, arrowlike, towards the ground, making the Queen feel breathless for the small creature about to lose its life.

  That was how she felt. Vulnerable, and now suddenly exposed and helpless. Celimus of Morgravia was the hawk and she the creature giving up her life to him. Valentyna straightened, shook her head clear of her dark musings and tried to focus on happier times. During her childhood she had nicknamed this corridor the ‘bridge’ and had taunted her nursemaids by hiding from them on its narrow height. Her father had delighted in her fearlessness, even while admonishing her for disobeying her carers.

  Despite her best attempts, the happy memories were no match for the present-day threat from Celimus. He re-entered her thoughts to quench the brightness like a stormcloud blocking out the sun. Rumblings of war were filtering back via their spies in Morgravia. By all reports, the Legion was preparing for battle and Valentyna did not have to ponder too hard to guess at their enemy. Was it a ruse? Just an empty threat? Her instincts told her so, but still she would need to tread with the greatest of care. Valentyna’s good sense warned her that her relationship with Celimus teetered on a knife edge and all that stood between peace for her subjects and almost certain slaughter was her written consent to marriage with the Morgravian King.

  For that tenuous security she owed thanks to Chancellor Krell who had forced her hand and made her send the letter. And yet Valentyna could only hold her head in despair at the damage done by Chancellor Krell’s subsequent well-meaning but short-sighted interference in writing to his counterpart in Morgravia, Chancellor Jessom, to advise of recent developments in Briavel. Now Celimus was aware that Felrawthy not only still had a duke but one with sympathies for Briavel. Oh, she could scream just thinking on it. In fact, she was still so angry at the old man’s actions it had taken all her willpower to maintain her composure at Krell’s funeral. He had been quietly buried in the palace cemetery. No family had come for him; he went into the ground as lonely as he went to his god, believing he was despised.

  Krell had diligently and tirelessly worked for the Briavellian royal family for nigh on two score years. He was like a piece of old furniture: comfy, reliable, always there in the same place. Valentyna had grown up knowing that her father relied on him, and had come to appreciate his loyalty and advice herself. Despite her anger that he had invited such ruin with an ill-considered move, Valentyna could not help but feel a keen sorrow that this good man would be remembered for that one poor decision amongst a host of wise ones during a solid and devoted career serving the Crown.

  Right now, in a quiet moment of reflection and private recrimination, she regretted her harsh words to him. She had no doubt that she had prompted his suicide and it was something she knew she would have to live with. Valentyna had shed tears for him in private and she would be lying if she did not admit to herself that she missed his steadfast counsel. But she had also spoken the truth when she told him she could never forgive him for his terrible error. He had overstepped his authority and in doing so had risked the lives of all Briavellians.

  Morgravia’s King was vain, avaricious and cruel but he was not a dullard. Due to Krell’s poor judgement, Celimus would now know about Alyd Donal’s remains being smuggled into Briavel, and that the Queen he thought he had well and truly cornered had serious misgivings and was consorting with his enemies.

  A man cleared his throat quietly at one end of the walkway to interrupt her musings. She looked towards him, knowing who it would be — one of the few she allowed to come to her here if duty called. All other servants were banned from tracking her down to the bridge.

  ‘Liryk. Please join me,’ she said. He bowed in respect and walked to the centre of the bridge.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Valentyna said wistfully, indicating the view before them.

  ‘More than that, your highness,’ her army’s commander admitted. ‘It feeds the soul.’

  ‘Liryk,’ she said, unable to help herself, ‘you’re a poet.’

  It was good to hear her playful. That tone had all but disappeared these past weeks. ‘No, your majesty. I just never get ti
red of these moors. Always happy to see them when I return to Werryl after being away.’

  ‘And so how are you and I going to give this up?’

  ‘My Queen?’

  ‘This,’ she said, moving her hand in a sweeping arc. ‘We will be giving all this to Morgravia.’ There was a note of anger in her voice now. ‘It will no longer be ours.’

  ‘Not giving, your highness,’ Liryk proposed gently. ‘I’d prefer to think of it as sharing.’

  ‘Celimus is forcing us to give up Briavel to him,’ she said coldly. ‘He is blackmailing me, Commander, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. If I want our young men to live, I have to give up the realm.’

  ‘Pardon me, your highness, but I — and I think I can speak for all of your loyal subjects in this — do not view it that way. We applaud this move.’

  The Queen sighed. ‘And I am grateful for that,’ she said. ‘But will you thank me when King Celimus starts to stamp his own brutal form of authority across Briavel?’

  Liryk had no answer for this and the Queen did not expect one.

  ‘What news, anyway, Commander Liryk?’

  ‘The Legion is certainly gearing for movement east now, your highness. If we are going to placate our neighbouring King, we need to do it soon.’

  Valentyna closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She cast one more fond glance towards the moors and then gave her orders briskly.

  ‘Have Crys Donal summoned, please. I will meet with you both in my study. Elspyth too.’

  ‘At once, your highness.’

  Valentyna watched him leave, hating what she was about to do.

  The Queen dismissed the servant and poured the two men a glass of wine herself.

  ‘Where is Elspyth?’ she enquired of Liryk as he took the goblet from her.

  ‘Your highness, she is nowhere to be found,’ he answered, silently happy for the woman’s disappearance. He had agreed with Krell that Elspyth’s influence on the Queen was dangerous. The Morgravian woman had fired their Queen’s spirit; made her feel strong and capable of determining her own destiny by defying Celimus.

  Valentyna glanced at Crys who shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of days if truth be known. I thought she was with you, your majesty.’

  ‘Strange,’ Valentyna murmured. ‘Your search has been thorough?’ she asked her commander.

  ‘I’ve sent several runners to comb the palace, your highness. She’s certainly not in any of the usual places.’

  ‘Has anyone checked her chambers?’ Crys asked. ‘You lent her some garments, your highness,’ he added. ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘You think she’s fled?’ the Queen exclaimed.

  ‘Did she tell you about a man called Lothryn?’ Crys replied, calmly sipping his wine. He suspected that they would not find Elspyth. She had mentioned several times to him that she was no longer needed here. He also suspected his own stay had worn thin, and who could blame the Briavellians with the Legion gathering in force across the border.

  The Queen nodded slowly. ‘Only vaguely.’

  ‘There’s a story attached to him,’ he explained. ‘It involves Koreldy.’ Once again it pained him to see the Queen react to the man’s name. Wyl had given firm instructions that Valentyna was not to learn the truth about Koreldy, but it seemed unkind to Crys not to enlighten her that the person she obviously loved was not dead as she suspected but roaming the land in a new guise. The thought disturbed him, but Crys had personally witnessed the transference of Wyl’s soul from one body to the next. There was no escaping the truth: Wyl Thirsk lived. Through the curse upon him, he had claimed first Koreldy, then Faryl, and, more recently and chillingly, his own sister, Ylena. Crys felt a lurch of despair as he remembered that terrible night at Felrawthy. The next day had been worse, but he knew he must not think on that now. Bury your hurts, his mother used to say. Bring them out only when you are alone and strong enough to look at them. And so he had somehow buried the despair of losing his family so cruelly and tried not to dwell on their deaths.

  ‘Crys?’

  He was embarrassed to realise both the Queen and Liryk were watching him.

  ‘I — I’m sorry. Lost myself there,’ he said, not wanting to say more.

  ‘You were telling us about Elspyth and Lothryn,’ Valentyna prompted, deliberately avoiding mentioning her former lover’s name.

  ‘That’s right,’ Crys continued. ‘The Mountain Dweller, Lothryn, saved the lives of Elspyth and Koreldy in the Razors. No one knows if he survived Cailech’s wrath at helping the prisoners to escape. Elspyth is determined to learn his fate.’

  Neither of them referred to the fact that they knew Elspyth was in love with Lothryn. ‘And you think she’s gone back?’ Valentyna suggested.

  ‘I think she’s capable of doing something that bull-headed, yes,’ he said and smiled gently to reassure the Queen that he admired Elspyth for her courage.

  ‘Into the Razors?’ Liryk queried. ‘Alone?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. She’s a passionate girl. I don’t think fear stops her doing anything. If not for Elspyth I would be dead with the rest of my family.’

  The new Duke of Felrawthy could refer to his loved ones now without threat of anger or tears. His brief time in Werryl, offering a distance from all things familiar, and the new title by which everyone was determined to address him had made the difference between him collapsing into inconsolable anguish or rising to the challenge of what he was born and bred to do. It was what his fine parents would have expected of him.

  A knock came at the door. Liryk put his glass down. ‘Shall I see to it, your highness? It may be the messengers.’

  ‘Please,’ the Queen said, distracted as she pondered the business of Elspyth’s disappearance. ‘I miss Krell,’ she muttered.

  Crys held his tongue. No one had heard the exchange between the Queen and her Chancellor, which had preceded his death, but Valentyna had openly admitted that she had driven him to anguish with her harsh criticism. Crys had to admire the Queen for her forthright manner; she refused to shrink from blame but accepted and dealt with it as best she could. Krell’s death had been a shock for everyone, most of all Liryk, but the doughty soldier had kept his feelings to himself and remained stoic throughout the funeral and the ensuing mourning that had gripped the palace.

  Crys sipped his wine quietly, wondering why he had been summoned to what appeared to be a formal meeting and imagining how Morgravia could only benefit from having this woman sitting upon its throne, even though it meant she shared it with the hated Celimus. It would be better for her, he was sure, if he was to leave Briavel. Perhaps he should offer and save her the trial of asking him to do just that.

  Liryk returned to disturb his thoughts. ‘Your majesty, we found this note in Elspyth’s chamber.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Valentyna asked, as she broke the wax seal. ‘Clothes?’

  ‘Nothing, your highness,’ he replied, watching her frown as she quickly read the note’s contents.

  Valentyna looked up and sighed. ‘Your hunch is correct, Crys. She believes she has done what she came here to do and has taken her leave.’

  ‘Gone to the Razors?’ Crys enquired.

  ‘It doesn’t say but I suspect you’re right. I know how fond she was of this man Lothryn. If I were her, I too would want to know the truth of his fate.’

  There was another knock at the door. Valentyna could not disguise her frustrated expression at being interrupted again. She stuffed the note into her pocket and stood. ‘Gentlemen, I’m going for a ride. We shall continue this meeting this evening, please, when we can talk without disturbance. There are many things to discuss and I need to think. Liryk, would you see to that?’ She nodded towards the door. ‘I’ll leave by the back way.’

  The two men stood and watched her go.

  The highest point of the moors was the furthest Valentyna could get from her subjects — or so she liked to believe — and the ideal place to vent her fears or frustration
s. However, the ever-present soldiers, of course, were not far enough away, so the blood-curdling shriek she longed to let rip was not a good idea. She gave a deep groan instead. Too many of those she had loved or trusted had been taken from her or had left her of their own accord. She stared back towards the palace and counted them off softly to herself.

  Her father: murdered. Wyl Thirsk: murdered. Romen Koreldy: murdered. Fynch, her little rock of strength: disappeared, and with him the strange yet somehow reassuring presence of Knave. Now Elspyth, her new friend and confidante, had disappeared as well, almost certainly advancing towards her own death as she ventured into the Mountain Kingdom to discover the fate of her beloved Lothryn.

  Valentyna paused in her account of her personal sorrows to think on those of Crys Donal. An entire family slaughtered in one evening. So much death. And now, in order to protect Briavel, she would have to banish her latest friend too. That was what she needed to discuss with the new Duke of Felrawthy, but this afternoon had proved impossible with all of its interruptions.

  The Queen of Briavel shook her head with despair. Almost all of this destruction swirling about her was the work of one man. One cruel, scheming, greedy man. The man she would have to marry if she wanted to prevent further deaths.

  She cast a disconsolate glance towards the soldiers shuffling in the shade of the copse in the distance. Three were now being sent to shadow her every move. She hated it, but put up with it. Liryk’s caution was well-founded but she missed her freedom. She waved to them to ensure they understood that she was fine and was just taking some time alone. She inhaled the sweet air of the moors and felt even more despondent. Everyone seemed to be worrying about her at the moment. She sensed her advisers observing her; could feel their concern tightening around her like a bandage, constricting her free will. Valentyna knew what they feared — and they were right to fear it, for if she could find a way to avoid this marriage, she would renege in a blink. Except her good sense told her it was impossible. No one was going to save her. The nobles had told her to find Ylena Thirsk, but that was pointless. How could it make any difference? Ylena’s word might convince them that Celimus was a cold-blooded murderer, but in all truth she knew it would not make them change their minds about the marriage.