The smile remained fixed on the King’s face, bright, dazzling and, Eryd suddenly realised, predatory. It was the first time he had seen right through to the heart of the young man. He had always considered him supremely smart and quick-witted and felt these were qualities which would serve him well as King. He had heard troubling stories from years ago, when Celimus was something of a hellraiser, but had put it down to youth and riches. Like most of the nobility, he had hoped that despite the cool relationship between Magnus and his son, Celimus would shine as King if the right people were around him. He had always intended to be a pillar of support and wise counsel for this new King.
But too many of the lords were muttering that, for all their advice, the King was making his own decisions without reference to council. He did not even show the courtesy of informing some of the most senior people of his plans. The proposed war with Briavel had come out of nowhere and had escalated so fast it had ignited a private war of its own, with many of the senior officials — like Lord Hartley — quietly declaring that permitting the King to continue in this way was too dangerous. Such treacherous talk, even privately, was seriously disturbing. Civil unrest was the last thing the realm needed after Magnus had left it so strong, but then he was a ruler who was loved and gladly followed. His son had not earned any loyalty; in fact he was driving away the very people who might encourage others to give it.
Amongst the power-brokers of Morgravia, it was obvious that only Eryd had any proof of the King’s treachery at Felrawthy although many suspected that the Crown had been involved somehow in the razing of Rittylworth. However, the news of the brilliant union between Morgravia and Briavel had worked wonders in pushing aside hard questions and political reprisals. But for Celimus to then suggest war with the very realm he was making peace with seemed ludicrous. Everyone was confused, but Eryd saw it more clearly now having heard Crys Donal’s story. Celimus was waging the most dangerous of games, clearly subscribing to the notion of not allowing one hand to know what the other was doing.
The business of Wyl Thirsk was too incredible to credit. It was all hocus-pocus surely? Then again, Crys Donal had always been a level-headed, honest young man and he had no reason to lie now. Eryd had to admit that the young duke’s eyewitness account of this strange phenomenon which saw the cursed soul of Wyl Thirsk inhabit someone else — his sister now, for Shar’s sake — was hard to dispute.
And for all his loyalty to the Crown, Lord Bench knew he would be lying if he did not admit to his faith being truly with the powerful families of Morgravia who had kept the royal family so strong. Particular families including the Thirsks, the Donals and, yes, the Benchs. His committed friendships with men like Jeryb Donal and Fergys Thirsk meant he could not just ignore this claim of the young duke’s that the true General of Morgravia, Wyl Thirsk, lived on and was working towards the downfall of the new King whom he was insisting could not be trusted.
Eryd shook the confusing thoughts away.
‘Are you all right?’ the King enquired and Eryd was reminded that he was standing before his sovereign.
‘Yes, your majesty. My apologies. I think I was taken aback there momentarily by memories.’
‘The new breed is in place now, Lord Bench,’ Celimus admonished and although his manner was genial there was bite in the sparkling tone. ‘I know I can count on your loyalty.’
Eryd coughed. ‘Of course, your majesty.’
‘Which is why,’ Celimus continued, ‘I am glad you came this evening. Where is your lovely family, by the way?’
Eryd glanced at the Chancellor who was handing him a glass of wine. Jessom’s expression was blank, giving no clue as to why the King would ask such a curious question.
‘Er… at home, sire. Why?’ Eryd sipped, recognising a superb southern red, fruity and earthy with hints of juniper and blackberries. Normally he would relish the opportunity to share such a fine drop but the King’s carefully couched question turned the wine instantly sour on his tongue.
‘Oh, no reason. I just thought it would be lovely to see your charming Georgyana again. It would have been a pleasure to have you all here,’ Celimus replied evenly.
The answer arrived as smooth as silk but it was loaded and, sugary sweet as it sounded, Eryd was not fooled. He felt suddenly dry-mouthed and the ball of fear in his stomach, which just moments ago had felt small, now grew to ten times the size. Unless Eryd was mistaken, the King had just made a supremely well-disguised threat. Eryd sipped again from the glass, a bigger, more nervous gulp, but could hardly bring himself to swallow it because his throat suddenly felt as though it was closing up.
Chancellor Jessom was at his side, topping up the goblet.
‘To your good health,’ Celimus said and raised his cup. Lord Bench was paying scant attention. His thoughts had fled to Helyn and Georgyana.
‘Tell me why you came,’ Celimus said, suddenly turning to business.
Eryd was feeling light-headed. He thought it was anxiety but he noticed how warm the room had become and yet there was no fire burning. He tugged at his collar to loosen it. ‘I wished to talk to you about Felrawthy, your majesty.’
He saw the King glance towards his Chancellor and the subsequent twitch of a smug smile was not lost on Eryd either. So the King had expected him. Had anticipated this meeting. They were lost.
‘Oh, yes? What can I tell you, Lord Bench?’
Eryd felt worse by the moment. His vision was blurred and his thoughts were swimming. He forced himself to stay focused. ‘I heard a rumour, your majesty, that you have signed a treaty with the Mountain King.’ He was sure he was slurring.
‘That’s right, Eryd, I did. We are now peaceful neighbours. I had hoped to make this announcement at my wedding, as the icing on the cake, you could say.’ Celimus laughed softly at his own jest. ‘But it seems my learned lords are well ahead of my news.’
Eryd drew a shaking hand across his forehead. ‘Forgive me, your majesty, I suddenly feel very unwell.’
He heard the King tsk-tsk comfortingly. ‘Oh dear. Some more wine perhaps?’
‘No, no, thank you,’ Eryd said, holding the goblet towards Jessom who was once again at his side. The Chancellor did not take the cup though. ‘I think I should go, your highness. Perhaps we could continue this talk when I am feeling better. Tomorrow?’
‘Sit back, Eryd, and listen,’ the King said. It was said in a friendly manner but was clearly meant as an order. He obeyed, feeling a soft ringing in his ears.
‘I think you came here this evening to see if you could shed some light on the slaughter at Tenterdyn. Would I be right?’
As if no longer in control of his own body, Lord Eryd Bench nodded his head. The movement felt slow, as if a puppeteer were pulling strings to cause his actions. He could hear the King’s voice but it came to him as though he was deep inside a well, echoing around his mind.
‘Good. And I believe you might have heard something along the lines that I ordered the killing of the Donal family? I think I’m right in presuming it might be Crys Donal who told you?’ Celimus said, still friendly and speaking softly.
Against his wishes Eryd nodded, as if compelled to give the King what he wanted.
Celimus smiled. ‘Thank you, Eryd, for your honesty. I am afraid I can confirm that I did give that order, and I regret my men missed the Donal heir who, I assume, is now running around Briavel causing trouble and sending people like you these treacherous messages.’ Eryd frowned. Had he heard right? ‘Is this not making sense, Lord Bench?’ the King asked gently. ‘I suspect you are wondering now about Lord Hartley, or perhaps about those closer to your heart… your wife and your beautiful child? I would forgive you for not paying any further attention to me for you have good reason to be worried about your family, Lord Bench.’
Eryd tried to stand, thought he might even have made it to his feet, but he was imagining it. Just wishful thinking. He found himself paralysed.
‘My apologies, sir,’ Celimus continued, as nonchalantly as i
f he were discussing the weather. ‘I took the precaution of poisoning your wine. Won’t be long now. I’m right, aren’t I, Jessom, in thinking that Lord Bench would be experiencing some sort of paralysis now?’
Eryd could not turn to see the disgusted expression on the Chancellor’s face as he nodded. If he had, he would have known that Jessom had murdered one of the most powerful men in the realm tonight only under pain of his own death. He heard Jessom’s voice though — a whisper as the Chancellor removed the goblet from his catatonic grip. ‘Forgive me, Lord Bench,’ he said and then was gone, stepping aside to reveal the heinously grinning face of the King of Morgravia.
‘You are dying, Eryd, in case you hadn’t quite grasped it. We shall say it was your heart. I will ensure a proper ceremony for your funeral, you can count on it, and all your noble friends will come and pay their respects. I’m afraid I can’t promise the same for your women, although I will make you an oath that they don’t suffer, how’s that? Pretty Georgyana, such a shame.’
Eryd began to growl unintelligibly, the only voice left to him now. His vision had turned dark and, although he could hear, he no longer listened. The cruel words were too painful. He felt his chest constricting and his heart seemed fit to burst from the little space it had left. He tried again to move but it was useless.
His last cohesive thought was that the King had got it wrong; for all his smug satisfaction, he had no idea that Crys Donal had returned to Morgravia and was in fact already in Pearlis. Perhaps, Eryd thought, as his breathing came in shallow gasps, the young duke had already taken the Bench women and escaped, for he would surely not have liked the news of this visit to the King. Please don’t let Georgyana die, he prayed as the paralysis took him and he gurgled a final heaving gasp. He died, eyes wide open, saliva dribbling down the dark robes he favoured.
‘Check him,’ Celimus ordered.
Jessom obliged in silence, seeking a pulse at the neck of Lord Bench. He shook his head. ‘Dead.’
‘Good. That is a most effective weapon, Jessom. I might ask you to use it again some time. I gather you didn’t enjoy that death.’ Jessom did not reply and the King did not care. ‘You’ve already sent the men?’
‘They left for the Bench household not long after the two lords arrival, sire.’
‘Hartley knows too much.’
Jessom knew it was wasted breath to try to convince the King not to kill again tonight. ‘I shall see to it, your majesty.’
‘Arrange for him to be dealt with by men you trust, Chancellor. I want no wagging tongues.’
‘May I ask, your majesty, how we are going to explain the disappearance of Lord Bench and Lord Hartley?’ Jessom risked.
‘That is what I pay you for, Chancellor. Don’t trouble me with details. Be gone.’
Jessom turned, and so did something inside him.
THIRTY
WYL ENTERED THE SAME impressive chamber he had been escorted to when he was Romen Koreldy. And once again he was greeted by the Mountain King, who immediately dismissed the two warriors he was speaking with.
‘Ylena,’ he said, moving swiftly from the huge windows where he had been gazing out across his valley. ‘You look enchanting.’ He kissed her hand and moved back to the panoramic view, this time with her in tow.
Wyl closed his eyes with revulsion but permitted the courtesy. ‘Thank you for the fresh clothes.’
‘Can’t have you looking like a man all the time,’ Cailech replied, his light green eyes sparkling in the dying light. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Mountain People are always ravenous,’ he admitted. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be polite and pretend you’re eating plenty. Just push the food around if you must, but let the kitchen know you’ve appreciated their efforts tonight.’
Wyl nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Your hair, it’s so beautiful and soft,’ the King said, touching it.
Wyl stepped closer to the window, trying to avoid the King’s caress. ‘This is certainly a magnificent place in which you live,’ he said, keeping his voice steady, mind racing as to how he was going to escape. No ideas had presented themselves, save death, and he was not permitted to force that. The Quickening was sinister enough without antagonising its magic. He thought about those still left to him whom he loved — Fynch, Elspyth, Gueryn, hopefully, and, of course, always Valentyna. He could not risk these precious lives and he was terrified Myrren’s gift might strike at them if he broke its laws.
‘This is your home now, Ylena. I hope you’ll come to love it in the same way that my people do.’
Cailech watched the Morgravian noblewoman smile wanly at him. ‘May I ask you a question, sire?’
‘By all means. Come, sit, let me pour us something to enjoy whilst we talk.’
Sitting was good, Wyl decided, for there were no chairs in the room which could take the two of them. ‘Thank you,’ he said and walked deeper into the chamber towards the hearth.
‘I had a fire lit. I presumed you might be feeling the cold.’
‘Just a bit,’ Wyl said and shivered for effect. It made the King grin.
Seated, Wyl broached the subject which had burned on his lips ever since meeting Cailech again. ‘My lord, I have learned that someone very precious to me was sent into the Razors a little while ago with a scouting party.’
The King did not reply, simply arched an eyebrow in query as he handed Ylena a small exquisite glass of a honey-coloured wine which looked syrupy and delicious. ‘This is my personal favourite. Please enjoy.’
Wyl nodded his thanks and sipped. It was Romen’s distant memory which recalled the wine — a burst of sharp fruit whilst somehow being achingly sweet — but it was Ylena’s mouth that smiled with pleasure. Again the King grinned.
‘He is Morgravian,’ Wyl continued. ‘An older man. His name is Gueryn le Gant.’
Cailech’s expression remained unchanged. ‘Yes, I know of him.’
‘Is he alive, sire?’
‘I don’t know.’
Wyl’s heart twisted in his chest but he had to be especially cautious here. He could not let on that he knew anything more than Ylena herself could know. ‘I see. But you had him as a prisoner?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Could we find out if he has survived, my lord?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what, your majesty?’ Wyl drew on all his sister’s sweet manners.
The King put a finger to his lips at the sound of a knock on the door. ‘Come,’ he called.
A servant appeared. ‘Forgive me, your majesty, Warrior Borc wondered if you could spare a moment. He said it’s extremely important.’
Borc! Wyl remembered the name all too well — the man who had nearly prevented their escape from the fortress last time. He should have killed the man instead of respecting Lothryn’s wishes.
The King showed his irritation at being interrupted. ‘Very well, I can spare only a moment, and tell him it had better be vital news for this disruption.’ The servant disappeared. ‘Forgive me, Ylena,’ Cailech said, ‘this won’t take long.’
Wyl nodded, a polite smile on his sister’s face.
Borc entered nervously. Wyl stiffened as he saw the man still carried himself with a limp — the legacy of Romen’s sword wielded in his own hands.
‘This had better be good, Borc,’ the King warned. ‘I have company.’
The young warrior nodded towards the noblewoman, embarrassed, and made a low bow to his sovereign. ‘Please forgive me, sire, but I bring dire news.’
‘Dire?’ the King repeated, not taking the younger man too seriously. ‘Get on with it then, man.’
‘Should I speak freely?’ he asked, glancing again towards the King’s guest.
‘I would have said so otherwise,’ Cailech replied, his tone brusque.
‘Yes, your majesty.’ Borc bobbed another bow. ‘I… er, well, I was passing the stable earlier this evening, sire, and there was a terrible commoti
on from within. It was your stallion, my lord.’
‘I see, and where was Maegryn?’ the King asked.
‘That’s what I’m here to tell you, sire. Maegryn is dead.’
The King paused deliberately in an attempt to steady his erupting emotions. ‘Killed by the horse?’ he wondered aloud, mind racing as to whether Lothryn could or would do such a thing.
‘No, your majesty. Killed by one of our own and the Grenadyne.’
‘What?’ Cailech roared now, no longer caring for control.
Wyl stood and backed away, his own mind in a swirl of confusion as to what could have happened between Aremys and Galapek to provoke such a thing.
‘Farrow was there?’ the King demanded.
Borc nodded. ‘It was not Farrow who did the deed, sire.’
‘Tell me.’ Cailech’s face had darkened, his eyes were narrow. A storm was only barely under control. Wyl knew the look, had seen it through Romen’s eyes. Everything was warning him to flee but there was no escape. They had forgotten him in the shock and he frantically scanned the room now for a way out. But there was no side door, no entry other than the one presently blocked by Borc. Ylena was trapped.
‘It was Myrt, sire.’
The room became deathly silent. Even the air seemed to thicken in that moment of dread.
Cailech’s voice, when it came, was strung taut. It was a groaned whisper as the impact of a second betrayal from a trusted warrior hit hard. ‘You are sure of this?’
The man nodded, eyes darting towards Ylena and anxiously back to his King. ‘I was taking a tumble with a girl, sire. Forgive me. We were in the hayloft above your stallion’s stable when two men came in. I recognised Myrt immediately, and of course the Grenadyne was easy to distinguish even in the low light of the stable.’
‘Go on,’ the King urged, his body tensed like an animal ready to pounce on prey.
Borc looked as though he regretted the whole idea of bringing this alarming news to his sovereign. Gone is the smugness now, eh, Borc? Wyl thought, deriving momentary pleasure from the uncertain expression on the warrior’s face as he tried to explain something the King did not want to hear yet insisted on being told.
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