The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  He had felt it as a drawing of something personal and intimate from his being. The sensation had occurred a few hours ago, just before dawn. He had hidden himself in the palace compound, close enough to watch the guardhouse for any movement of Wyl. He had made sure that the Grenadyne had got out safely from Werryl and had seen him organise transport with some Briavellian folk on their way to the wedding festival in Morgravia. Then he had returned to the palace and kept Valentyna company on her ride, watching her fall so deep in thought that her horse ended up strolling so slowly it probably could have stopped and grazed without her realising it.

  He had watched Celimus prowl around the gatehouse, giving orders to his Legionnaires, making sure they remained alert and that nobody visited the prisoner without his express permission — not even the Queen. The palace had finally settled down for the night, although a constant quiet movement of servants prepared for the departure the next day.

  Knave had wandered away to the woodland where he had spent favourite times with Fynch. He found the spot where they had slept the night, where he had heralded the death of Romen Koreldy with a piercing howl into the dark. He lay there, his head on his huge paws, as the hours crawled by and he mourned the loss of the boy he had come to love, the boy who had given his life to destroy the enemy of all that was good and natural in the world.

  Knave threw back his huge head and howled in grief. It seemed the Thicket had heard him, for once again he felt himself connected to its magic.

  Knave? came a voice.

  Rasmus, he groaned, his throat swelling from the pain of his emotion.

  We promised Faith Fynch we would aid Wyl Thirsk, the bird said.

  Knave waited, his head hung low. He did not want any more instructions.

  Go to Argorn, Rasmus finally said. Find Felrawthy’s Duke and return him to Pearlis where he will meet Farrow.

  And then?

  They will know what to do. Go now. The Thicket will send you.

  Knave closed the connection, too numb to care what happened now that Fynch was gone. Very soon he was hurtling through the dark towards the region of Morgravia which had produced Wyl Thirsk.

  THIRTY-NINE

  WYL SAT ON THE COLD floor of one of Stoneheart’s dungeons, his head resting on his knees. Moments earlier he had turned to prayer, beseeching Shar to watch over and protect Valentyna, to heal Elspyth, to restore Lothryn and to welcome Ylena and Alyd, Fynch and Gueryn into everlasting life. As the list of souls lengthened he stopped, overcome by distress. How many lives had been lost or destroyed because of Celimus? Wyl’s anguish deepened as he accepted that he was helpless now. There was nothing he could do from the dungeon except wait for Myrren’s gift to mete out its final crushing blow and hope that Aremys would keep his promise.

  And so he sat in silence, wishing the guards would come for him and speed his death. A strange tingling sensation coursed through his body and then a blue shimmering light forced him to look up. He recognised the feeling — it was connected to the magic of the Thicket.

  ‘Fynch,’ he whispered as the shimmering coalesced to reveal a vision of his young friend.

  Hello, Wyl, the boy said into his mind.

  Are you alive?

  Not in the way you mean.

  Then you died during the battle with Rashlyn?

  Wyl, Fynch interrupted gently, my time with you is short.

  What is it that I must do?

  Just trust me.

  To do what?

  To forge a Bridge of Souls.

  Wyl felt comforted by Fynch’s visit. It had been inspiring, calming even, to witness the ghostly vision of his friend and to hear Fynch speak so surely. He had insisted that Wyl should trust him, and Wyl did — but that was all Fynch had told him, other than to promise that the Bridge of Souls would save his life. All Wyl had to do was call Fynch’s name. But, in truth, Wyl did not believe there was any escape from this dungeon or from his fate to be the sovereign of Morgravia. He had accepted this. Wyl appreciated Fynch’s attempt to soothe him but he was thinking only of death now — real death. There would be no coming back from the end of Aremys’s sword.

  Wyl looked around the cell, touched the cold black stone that encased him. Not so long ago Stoneheart had been his home. A place that embraced him with the love of Magnus and the security of his title as General. He recalled how the castle had been a playground for two boys — one red-headed, one golden-haired; both dead now. There had been such laughter in the short time they had known one another. He recalled a promise by a lake to always fight side by side, but it was not to be. Stoneheart was no longer friendly. Now the castle was the lair of his foe and its cold walls would witness his death twice over in the coming hours.

  Wyl’s gaze roamed absently in the dim light which filtered through from an outside cresset. It fell upon an inscription scratched into one of the bottom stones. Avenge me, Wyl, it said. His heart pained. He had come full circle. This was surely the work of Myrren, who had suffered in this very cell all those years ago. Her touching plea still had the ability to move him.

  He hated Celimus for being the cause of so much suffering. As if on some silent signal, he heard the click of boots on flagstones. There was only one person with that arrogant stride. He turned away, did not want to see King Celimus gloating over his rival King’s downfall.

  Liryk had got a message through to Wyl from Valentyna explaining that she had found a way to explain Cailech’s presence in Briavel. Liryk had watched Cailech shake his head at the idea, but had not had the heart to relay the Mountain King’s attitude to the Queen. Wyl had no intention of making excuses.

  He soon discovered this was also the reason for the King’s visit late into the night.

  ‘Tell me, Mountain King, was there a good reason for you visiting Briavel without an invitation?’ He gave a soft, deprecating laugh as he flicked some mote of dust from his jacket. ‘You see, the Queen seems to think you had very fine intentions of joining forces with her to plan some special festivities on my account.’ He shook his head with mock embarrassment. ‘How very jolly.’

  ‘I would not plan any festival around you, Celimus, other than your funeral,’ Wyl enjoyed saying.

  The King laughed in obvious delight. He clapped his hands, loving Cailech’s defiance because it meant he could execute him with a clear conscience — not that conscience was something that ever troubled Celimus. ‘You obviously want to die, my friend. Valentyna was surely throwing you a lifeline here.’

  ‘Thank her for her generosity,’ Wyl said. ‘And I’ll wait to see you in Shar’s eternal fire. We shall settle our score there, Celimus… if not sooner.’

  Celimus had looked at him quizzically, not understanding his final words, but Wyl did not elaborate. Intent on having the last laugh, the King gave his dazzling smile. ‘Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Do it yourself.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard me. Kill me yourself.’

  Celimus made a sound of disapproval. ‘I might miss and merely injure you — oh dear, that could be messy and painful.’

  ‘I’ll risk it. Let me feel the touch of your blade.’

  Celimus smiled and nodded. ‘Perhaps. We shall see what mood I’m in tomorrow. Sleep well, your highness,’ he said and left, chuckling.

  Wyl felt even more hollow than before. Not once but thrice he had betrayed her. First as Romen, later as Ylena and now as Cailech. She would never be able to forgive him. He sat in the darkness, which matched his thoughts, disturbed first by the scuffling of rats and then by the sound of yet another arrival. It was certainly a night for visitors.

  Once again, there was no need for introductions. ‘King Cailech, I regret to find you here, sire,’ Chancellor Jessom said. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘Other than the key, you mean?’ Wyl murmured, refusing to turn and make eye contact with the King’s servant. He would make him speak to his back.

  ‘A rug p
erhaps, sire?’

  ‘You forget, I am of the Razors, Chancellor. We don’t feel the cold.’

  ‘A candle then. Let me at least light this grim space for you, my lord.’

  ‘Do what you wish. It matters not to me.’

  ‘I meant what I said, King Cailech, I regret to see you incarcerated here. When the rider gave me the news of who was being brought here, I thought the man had been duped, charmed by a hedgewitch.’

  ‘Be careful talking of witches in here, Jessom. Or you may find yourself on this side of the bars.’

  The Chancellor cleared his throat. To be fair, even though Wyl was not in the mood to be anything of the sort, there was an abashed tone in Jessom’s voice. Perhaps he was genuine in his surprise and regret at the arrival of the new guest in the dungeon.

  Wyl heard the rasp of a clay plate being pushed through the bars and shadows leapt across the walls as a soft light eased the darkness.

  ‘There, that’s better, surely,’ Jessom said.

  ‘What is it, Chancellor, are you looking for absolution?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All the deaths — so much blood on your hands.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, sire.’

  ‘Why not? I am speaking the same language you do.’

  ‘But what could you know of me?’ Jessom replied. ‘We are all but strangers.’

  Wyl admonished himself to be careful. It was true: Cailech would hardly know the Chancellor, other than by name and sight from Tenterdyn. However, the truth was, he was not of a mind to be careful any more. He wished Celimus would hurry up and bring about the final death in Myrren’s ghastly plan. He ignored Jessom’s question and posed his own instead. ‘Where is your King?’

  ‘Asleep, I hope. He has a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘So the wedding goes ahead as planned?’

  ‘Of course, sire. Why would you think otherwise? I’m afraid the city will shortly degenerate into mass celebrations and no doubt drunkenness. It is but an hour to dawn.’

  ‘The Morgravians want the marriage as badly as the Briavellians,’ Wyl commented, more to himself than for the Chancellor’s hearing.

  ‘Of course. It is a brilliant union.’

  ‘Not for Valentyna, Jessom.’

  ‘Why do you say that, sire?’

  ‘Because he will destroy her.’

  ‘He wants her very much.’

  The words fired a new anger in Wyl and he swung around to face the Chancellor now. ‘He wants what she brings him, Jessom. He wants to own the glittering jewel of Briavel, and everything else that Briavel can give him. He doesn’t care about Valentyna. He wants her body and the sons she can provide, the peace and prosperity she brings. The people love her, and because of her they will love him, for surely they hate him right now.’

  Jessom cleared his throat. ‘You seem to have a very deep understanding of the south, King Cailech.’

  Wyl grunted. ‘It is my business to know these things. Mark my words, Jessom, if he destroys her — and he will — the people will rise up against him. Already I suspect there are mutterings within the Legion. The right whisper in the right ear and the army will move against the Crown. You know it is powerful enough.’

  Wyl realised that the Chancellor was actually paying attention to what he was saying. The man had not come here to bait him. If he could sway this powerful person, he might be able to help Valentyna from beyond the grave. Fynch had told him that Jessom would provide the key but Wyl had not understood and Fynch had not explained further. He could hardly imagine the potency of the magic it had taken for Fynch to transport his ghostly image all the way to Pearlis.

  Jessom interrupted his thoughts. ‘The King has placed his own people in senior positions in the Legion. They would not move against him,’ he said.

  If Jessom was truthful, he would admit that Celimus had played his last vicious act. Imprisoning and executing the King of the Razors with whom only days ago he had signed a peace treaty, much to the delight of his people, was sheer madness. But Jessom’s first attempt at arguing against killing the Mountain King had failed and a second might have dire consequences. Jessom knew the arrogant Morgravian King saw the killing of Cailech as ridding himself of the final obstacle to becoming Emperor Celimus. Jessom could imagine precisely the machinations of his King’s mind. And he did not agree. Not at all. It was a mistake.

  ‘When someone like Eryd Bench knows the truth of what’s been going on, his voice alone will be enough to motivate the Legionnaires,’ Wyl assured.

  Jessom could not guess at how King Cailech could know of Eryd Bench, but that did not matter now. The death and destruction had to stop. Morgravia and Briavel had a chance to achieve something never before seen in their history. Unification and peace was at hand. Jessom wanted to be the powerful Chancellor behind the most powerful Crown and to get on with the business of making Morgravia — through its peace with its neighbours — the wealthiest realm. But Jessom feared Celimus was not the monarch who would lead them to greatness. Whenever the King took a dislike to someone or felt in any way threatened, he turned to killing. There was no future in this. Such a sovereign would ultimately destroy the whole region.

  ‘Lord Bench is dead, sire, I’m sorry to say.’

  Jessom was astonished to see Cailech react as if punched. His head rocked back, his eyes closed in agony, and he threw his body towards the bars, gripping them with white knuckles. ‘Dead?’

  Jessom had sensibly stepped back. He imagined those huge hands closing around his throat and snapping his neck with the greatest of ease — and who could blame him? Cailech had nothing to lose.

  ‘I’m afraid so, King Cailech,’ Jessom confirmed.

  ‘How?’ Wyl rasped.

  ‘How else?’ Jessom replied, revealing more of his private feelings than he had intended. Still, this King was a dead man so what did it matter. ‘Let’s just say our King took umbrage at Eryd Bench’s gentle enquiries about certain events in the north.’

  Wyl groaned. His hands fell away from the bars and he slumped against the wall, slowly sliding his tall body to the ground. ‘His women — Lady Bench, Georgyana?’

  ‘How can you know them?’

  ‘Are they safe?’ Wyl yelled, no longer caring how he might be confusing the Chancellor.

  Stung by the Mountain King’s venom, Jessom answered truthfully. ‘They escaped. A servant told our men that two guests had arrived, a man and woman. The woman was injured; dark-haired, small, apparently attractive. The man was probably Crys Donal of Felrawthy.’ He surprised himself by offering so much information. There was something compelling about King Cailech. He seemed entirely different to the arrogant, sharp-witted man he had met in the north.

  ‘Elspyth,’ Wyl whispered to himself. ‘No sign of where they are?’

  Jessom shook his head. ‘May I ask why this interests you, sire?’

  ‘No. But I will tell you this, Chancellor Jessom: your days as a powerful adviser to the Crown are numbered. Mark my words, you will be dead at the hands of your King in a matter of days… perhaps hours. You will be lucky to see out the next few days, this I promise you.’ Wyl enjoyed the sudden insecurity that coursed across the angular planes of the Chancellor’s pale face.

  ‘He needs me,’ Jessom said.

  ‘No he doesn’t, Chancellor. I can sense your disgust at his actions. If I can, he already has.’ And Jessom heard the ring of truth in the Mountain King’s warning.

  ‘He doesn’t know that Lord Hartley still lives,’ Jessom muttered to himself, his agile mind racing towards where he might have made an error.

  ‘Lord Hartley?’

  The Chancellor looked up, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. ‘Yes, Eryd Bench’s close friend and confidant. Celimus ordered his death but I let Hartley go — he’s in hiding now. I can call upon his help to rally the other nobles and reveal to them the truth of our King.’

  ‘Not before the King kills you,’ Wyl said as cruelly as he could. ‘But I have an
idea, Jessom.’

  Could it work? He would give it one last try. Fynch was right — they could use Jessom.

  ‘It’s too late for me, Jessom — and for you, I fear,’ he said, ‘unless…’

  The man’s mortified expression was quickly replaced by wrath. He was no coward then. It was not death he feared, Wyl realised. It was loss of power, wealth and position. ‘Unless what, sire?’ Jessom asked. He was composed now, his tone curious.

  ‘Unless you put your considerable knowledge and influence behind Queen Valentyna. Protect her, befriend her, put your faith in her. Someone else will deal with Celimus, trust me on this. He will not live to see old age. He may not even live to see out the spring,’ he added cryptically. ‘But the Queen can live to a ripe age if she is given the right defences. She can win over the Legion, she can woo the nobles. Through her, Morgravia can achieve peace with Briavel and retain the truce with the Razors.’

  ‘The Mountain People will make war on Morgravia and Briavel if you are executed.’ No more diplomatic language, Jessom decided; King Cailech knew he could not escape his fate. There was a bargain being made here. He was not sure he understood it, or why Cailech cared about the peace in the region or supported Valentyna’s cause, but Jessom was a pragmatist and as smart as he was cunning. He agreed that Valentyna was the key to the region’s future. He had felt for some time now that if there was a way to rid themselves of Celimus, the three realms had a chance. Cailech was right: Valentyna was the future, especially if she were to quickly become pregnant to Celimus. Then nothing but the Queen and the heir — the true Crown of the newly unified realms — mattered.

  ‘You echo my thoughts so closely, King Cailech, it is uncanny.’

  ‘Come closer, Jessom. I have something to tell you and I do not wish to be overheard.’

  ‘I cannot save your life, King Cailech,’ Jessom warned, preferring to be candid at this point, in case the Mountain King had ideas of escape.

  ‘I understand,’ Wyl said and extended Cailech’s blunt fingers through the bars.