Valentyna saw Wyl’s amusement at the little fellow as they seated themselves and shrugged. ‘I miss Knave.’ Then she whispered, ‘I hear you have the curse. Have you taken some raspberry leaf tea?’
Wyl nodded, no idea whether he had taken such tea or not, and startled by her candidness. Women obviously discussed these maladies openly between themselves.
Her smile was all sympathy. ‘The first day is always the worst.’
Wyl wondered if his face was flushed red with the embarrassment he was feeling and was glad when Crys claimed his attention, drawing him away from the Queen’s conspiratorial gaze.
‘You’ve heard that Elspyth has gone?’ Crys enquired of Wyl; the young duke was fully composed again.
Wyl felt proud of him. Morgravia could recover with young men like this to lead it into the future. If only he could rid the realm of its present monarch, there was hope. ‘Yes, into the clutches of Cailech, I suspect.’
‘What can we do?’ Crys wondered, more to himself than to the others.
‘I shall have to go after her.’
‘What?’ Valentyna cried and Wyl could understand how strange his comment must have sounded. ‘What can a tiny creature like you do against Cailech and his Mountain men?’
‘Oh,’ Wyl said, finding a lazy grin which he was certain Romen would be proud of, ‘you’d be surprised, your majesty.’
‘But you’ve never been there before. You have no idea about this man!’ Valentyna spluttered, the noblewoman’s arrogance reminding her of someone she had once loved.
‘True,’ Wyl lied, and hoped the subject would rest for now or he was in for a long and tricky evening. ‘But Elspyth made her own choice,’ he continued, ‘and we have time on our side. Presumably she is on foot?’
The Queen nodded. ‘She took nothing, not even the horse she rode in on.’
‘She’ll be a while getting into the Razors then. In the meantime, there’s a realm at stake.’
Valentyna found a sad smile for her new friend. ‘I was measured for my wedding gown this afternoon.’
‘As you should be,’ Wyl said, hating the way any mention of the marriage made him feel. ‘You must be seen to be progressing with your plans for the wedding, your highness. Let the spies report that you are preparing as any imminent bride would be.’
Valentyna put down her goblet, her expression one of disgust. ‘And in the interim allow him to intimidate my people by setting up his arrogant Legionnaires in camps along our border?’ She briefed her guests on everything she had gleaned from recent reports.
Wyl considered this information, sipping quietly from his own wine, as a poultry course was laid before them. Valentyna’s fare was simple but delicious, as was her choice in most things. He stared now at the roasted chicken before him, the heady scents of lemon and rosemary, even a hint of garlic, wafting up to tantalise him.
‘The Legion’s movements are purely that,’ he said, looking up from his plate and sounding nothing like a pampered young noblewoman.
‘Pardon me?’ the Queen enquired, a fork speared with meat balanced halfway to her mouth.
‘You think it’s a ruse?’ Crys chimed in.
Wyl shook his head. ‘No ruse. Celimus would not hesitate to send in his men if pushed, but he has a good soldier’s brain. And he’s a King now with designs on broadening his empire, not losing his subjects. No, I think this is what you might call stage one. I would do precisely the same in his shoes.’
‘Which is what?’ Valentyna asked, stunned by Ylena’s likeness in this moment to Liryk or indeed her own father. She imagined the girl’s brother, Wyl Thirsk, must have sounded just like this when discussing battle strategy, and he no doubt had echoed his own father’s approach.
‘Parade the might of the Legion, remind Briavel of the power that lies across the border. He knows you are aware that war with Morgravia would be insanity and that you will not permit it.’
‘Won’t I?’ she said, suddenly gloomy. She sounded as if she would rather fight. Ylena’s presence, fragile though it appeared, seemed to have given her a new rush of hope.
‘No, your majesty,’ Wyl answered. Ylena’s voice was high-pitched and very feminine, but the tone he managed to hit left no room for argument. ‘You will send him a declaration of your affections instead. A reinforcement, if you will, of your commitment to the marriage and peace for the region.’
A hard blue gaze riveted Wyl to where he sat. He swallowed to loosen his throat which felt suddenly tight. Oh, how he would love to take her in his arms and kiss her, declare his love, tell her everything, and to hell with whether she might believe him or not. A roll of pain across his belly reminded him that the Queen was looking at a woman across the table and certainly did not harbour the same sentiments. What was more, her expression demanded an explanation of his statement.
He was about to continue when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Valentyna called for one of her aides to enter and Wyl saw the irritation flicker across her face. He knew how much she would be missing Krell’s competent presence in her life, realising how much he had screened from her and dealt with himself.
The man bowed. ‘Your highness, Commander Liryk said you would want to have this information immediately.’ He handed her a document.
‘Thank you,’ the Queen said, standing as she took the paperwork and nodding to dismiss the messenger. She moved to the fire to read it. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured to her guests.
Both watched as her expression grew more serious as she read, then darkened like a gathering storm. She let out a harsh sound: half laughter, half despair. Wyl pushed his chair back and, despising the swish of his gown and girlish click of his heels, was at her side.
‘Your highness, what is it?’ He could see her pale before him.
Crys too was on his feet. ‘Your majesty?’
The Queen shook her head, eyes closed, jaws firmly clamped together as she gathered herself. She opened her eyes and they were filled with tears. ‘Our spies report that King Celimus of Morgravia is on his way north to Felrawthy where he will meet for a parley with the Mountain King.’
‘Cailech and Celimus?’ Wyl murmured in disbelief.
She nodded. ‘It’s a reliable source too.’
‘What on earth would they have in common?’ Crys said into the tense silence.
‘Briavel!’ Valentyna banged her fist against the mantelpiece and let out a sound of deep anguish. ‘They mean to destroy us.’
‘Wait, Valentyna!’ Wyl cried, forgetting himself and all protocol. ‘Let me think.’ He began to pace.
Anyone who had known Fergys Thirsk, and perhaps his son, would be aware this was a family trait. It had always amused Magnus to see his General pacing as he formulated battle or peace plans, and if Ylena or Alyd were alive, they would be able to confirm that Wyl was hewn from the same block. Neither of the two people watching Ylena pacing now had known Fergys or Wyl Thirsk that well, but Valentyna had known Romen and she had watched him perform this very action when thinking and plotting. It struck her so resoundingly, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Even more disconcerting was the fact that Ylena was pulling at her ear as she paced. This was a habit Valentyna had teased Romen Koreldy about on several occasions during their short time together. There it was again, the tugging at the right ear, relentless slow pacing, face lost in thought. Shar! She was going mad. She looked away and reached for her wine, swallowed it in a single draught. The liquor helped steady her but did nothing to alleviate the shock of the news or the bewildering sense of Romen’s presence.
Suddenly she was reminded of Fynch’s strange suggestion that Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy were of one mind. The boy had stopped just short of saying they were one person. How could it be that Wyl’s sister now seemed to reflect similar traits? And then Elspyth’s words blew through her mind:
I believe that some people are reincarnated. Perhaps you should listen more carefully to your friend Fynch. It is to this which he refers, I am sure. And
you must promise me that should another person look at you and perhaps touch you emotionally as Romen did, reminding you uncannily of the man you loved, that you will permit it.
Permit them to love me, you mean? Valentyna remembered saying in amusement, almost teasing.
But Elspyth had nodded seriously and added, Perhaps even a woman.
Valentyna looked back at Ylena. Perhaps even a woman echoed through her mind and she gasped, turning away to hide the sound and the frightened look on her face. What was happening here? Why was Shar doing this to her? Something else nagged at the edges of her mind; something urging her to recall it, as though it was a valuable piece to a jigsaw which needed to be put in place. But it remained on the fringe, hovering and niggling, and her anxiety over this latest action of the Morgravian King won the battle and banished it for the time being. She had to focus on Celimus and his intentions, not her spiralling emotions and deranged thoughts that Ylena was somehow embodying Romen and that birds could speak to her, for Shar’s sake! Fool! she screamed at herself inwardly.
Crys urged Wyl to speak his thoughts.
Wyl swung around, the swish of his gown annoying him again. How he wished he could at least be Faryl, tall and strong and in masculine clothes. ‘I know Celimus,’ he said, just pulling himself back from blurting, I know Cailech too. ‘And I have travelled with someone who knows Cailech,’ he lied.
‘And?’ Valentyna prompted, pushing away her own confusing thoughts.
Wyl raised Ylena’s delicate hands in a gesture that said, hear me out. ‘Celimus despises Cailech. He is quietly obsessed with the Mountain King, your highness, and nothing would prompt him to organise a parley with a sovereign whose realm, I’m sure, he entertains visions of destroying.’
‘At least Celimus is consistent in his ambitions,’ Valentyna commented bitterly. ‘Go on.’
‘Everything I’ve heard suggests that Cailech hates Morgravia’s new King just as energetically — has more reason, in fact.’ Wyl’s mind was racing. ‘So in truth, I can’t see either of them making such a move of their own volition. Something has prompted it.’
‘As the Queen suggests then — joining forces against Briavel,’ Crys argued.
Wyl shook his head, felt Ylena’s hair bob from side to side and grimaced to himself. ‘No. Celimus doesn’t need the Mountain King to overwhelm Briavel. The Legion could crush the Briavellian Guard resoundingly. If he was of a mind to do so, he could take Briavel by force and then combine the armies to take on Cailech. That’s the more logical scenario — no offence intended, your highness.’
‘None taken,’ she replied, frowning. There was no doubting it: she felt as if she was being briefed by a soldier; certainly someone who understood military strategy. ‘Why the parley then?’
‘Does the letter say any more?’
Valentyna scanned it quickly again. ‘No, just the name of the man who brought the original message out of the Razors and delivered it to Celimus’s people.’
‘Who was it?’ Wyl said. No doubt someone reliable such as Myrt, he reckoned.
Valentyna squinted at the page. ‘Dreadful writing,’ she murmured. ‘I think it says his name is Farrow. Yes, Aremys Farrow.’
She was startled by her guests’ reactions.
TEN
USING FRESH HORSES AT INTERVALS, King Celimus had swept through the gates of Tenterdyn in swift time. He was impressed by the sprawling estate of Felrawthy’s duke and delighted to see that the manor itself was exceptionally well appointed. For a provincial home, the Donal family had not lived without their creature comforts he noticed. Freshly bathed and changed now, and having taken ownership of Jeryb’s magnificent study with its view over the heather-laden moors, Celimus nodded at his Chancellor who had accompanied him. ‘Bring him before me.’
Jessom entered the small antechamber where Aremys Farrow had been asked to wait. ‘I trust there are no tricks up your sleeve, my friend,’ he cautioned the mercenary.
Aremys eyed the hook-nosed Chancellor. ‘Just earning my living, Jessom,’ he replied. ‘Lead on.’
The man turned and showed Aremys into the main chamber.
‘Farrow,’ Celimus said from the window where he had been admiring the vista.
‘Your highness,’ Aremys said, dropping a low bow.
‘You are quite a surprise.’
‘That is not my intention, sire,’ the mercenary replied, straightening.
‘Will you tell me how it comes about that you are working for my enemy?’
‘Your highness, I am a man available for hire by anyone with coin to pay. I am always loyal to my employer, as your Chancellor would know. You must not fear that I have shared any secrets with Cailech, just as he need not fear I will share any of his with you. The two jobs are not connected,’ Aremys said smoothly.
‘So you admit he has secrets?’ Celimus said, moving in his fluid, elegant manner to sit on the corner of Jeryb’s old desk.
‘We all have secrets, your majesty,’ Aremys said carefully. ‘It does not mean they necessarily impact on one another.’
‘Farrow, I would know how you came to be in the Razors when you were on paid business for the Crown of Morgravia,’ Celimus replied testily, tiring of the banter.
Aremys was prepared for this question. ‘Your majesty, I was following the trail of Ylena Thirsk as instructed.’
‘Did you meet up with Leyen?’ the King interrupted.
‘No, sire. But I believe she may have discovered that our prey had visited this very house.’
‘Is that so?’ Celimus said, olive eyes narrowing.
Aremys moved into the critical area of his fabricated story. He would have to be convincing. ‘I have no idea what happened to Leyen. I presume she must have given up her pursuit for some reason, because I haven’t found any trace of her since Tenterdyn. Perhaps she had other tasks to do?’ he prompted carefully, and pretended not to see the glance between Chancellor and King.
‘I gathered Ylena Thirsk had already left Tenterdyn before Leyen’s arrival,’ Aremys continued, ‘and found myself giving chase to the eldest son of Felrawthy and the Thirsk woman, who seemed to be heading north to the very rim of the Razors before veering east.’
Celimus nodded. ‘Into Briavel.’
Aremys hesitated, a question in his expression. Perhaps the King knew something he did not.
‘We have heard reports that Crys Donal is at Briavel’s palace. Perhaps Ylena is with him.’
Aremys wondered how in Shar’s name the heir to Felrawthy had found himself in Werryl, although having learned with horror of the slaughter of Jeryb’s clan the very night of his own departure from Tenterdyn, he should not be surprised at anything now. ‘Not necessarily, your highness,’ he said into the lengthening silence.
‘What do you mean?’ Celimus queried.
‘Your spies have not reported a sighting of Ylena Thirsk, have they?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Hmmm,’ Aremys said, quietly theatrical, as though thinking something complex through.
‘Farrow, you still haven’t explained how you come to be with Cailech’s people,’ Jessom prompted.
Aremys understood now why Faryl had disliked Jessom so intently. He felt his own hackles rise at the interruption by the softly spoken, painfully thin man who seemed to inhabit the shadows, watching everything.
‘I was getting to that, Chancellor. I overnighted in a border village, preparing to cross into Briavel the next morning to see if I could pick up the trail of Ylena Thirsk. There was no inn, just a shorrock house, and perhaps I had one too many, I don’t know. I suspect my shot was spiked with something in order to make it easier for thieves to set upon me later. It seems I wandered away from the main village in a stupor, and I do remember stumbling onto a track which I presumed would lead me into the Razors proper. I was very cold, I recall, and desperate to lie down. I remember men following me from the village, which was what drove me towards the mountains. But I’m afraid I remember very little else, sir
e.’
The King shook his head. ‘So what occurred next, Farrow?’
‘I’ve pieced together that the thieves did attack me but were fended off by some men from the Razors, obviously using the track to enter Morgravia. They dealt with the villagers swiftly, by which time I was unconscious and they decided to take me with them.’
‘Why?’ Celimus demanded.
‘I don’t know, sire. Perhaps they knew I would die in the cold if they didn’t. They could see I was drugged and had been set upon by bandits. They felt obliged.’ He shrugged.
‘Obliged!’ Celimus roared. ‘To help a Morgravian?’
Aremys was determined not to be intimidated. He kept his voice low. ‘They are not all murderers and thieves, your highness. The people of the Razors have scruples, families, a desire for peace —’
‘Ah, you sympathise with the Mountain Horde, Farrow?’ the King interrupted, a definite barb in his tone.
‘My King, I am a Grenadyne so my soul is of the north. I like the notion that realms may prosper in peace rather than conquering each other through war.’
‘Is that what this is all about then?’
‘Yes, your highness.’
‘Cailech is holding out the olive branch to Morgravia?’ Disbelief was thick in the King’s voice.
Aremys nodded slowly. ‘You would like him, your majesty, if you’d agree to meet with him.’
‘This is rich beyond words, Farrow. When did the leap from drugged captive to King’s counsel take place, might I ask?’
‘King Cailech naturally wished to meet the stranger who had been picked up lurking on the fringe of the Razors. He learned that I was from the north, working as a mercenary in the south, and on business for the Crown of Morgravia. He does not know the details of my task for you, your highness, and did not ask. I would not have shared them anyway. When the King interviewed me our conversation led us towards discussing the future of the Mountain People. When he said it was his greatest desire to create peace in the region, I asked him what was stopping him from discussing same with the King of Morgravia. I mentioned that you were preparing for your wedding, sire, and that the two great realms of Morgravia and Briavel would soon be joined in peace. It fired his imagination I think. He asked me to set up this meeting.’
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