The Scrivener's Tale

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Her mate is the big dark wolf. All others fear him for miles around here. But he is as tender as any lover to Romaine.’

  ‘As he should be,’ Fynch said, ‘or he would answer to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand why he would.’

  ‘I know. There is a lot to tell you in a short time. Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we shall begin,’ he said, seating himself comfortably on an ancient fallen tree. ‘You know my name, you sense my age is impossible and I have informed you of my connection to the royals. Do you trust what I have told you?’

  He didn’t have a choice but also, if he were honest, there was only one answer. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because as much as I don’t like it, Romaine trusts you. What are you?’

  ‘That is probably the hardest question to answer.’

  ‘Then let’s get it out of the way,’ Cassien offered.

  Fynch gave a wry, brief smile. ‘Who is the king of all the beasts in your estimation?’

  ‘Folklore would say the dragon.’ Cassien frowned. ‘No, wait, I must qualify that. It’s not just folklore. It is at the heart of spiritual belief in Morgravia. The dragon is the beast closest to Shar in our estimation. Plus, the dragon is the creature that belongs only to royalty.’

  Fynch nodded his encouragement as Cassien thought back to his early education. ‘All the creatures in the world pay homage to the dragon in the same way that the people in Morgravia would pay homage to their king.’

  ‘Or queen,’ Fynch corrected. ‘Indeed. The dragon is a fearsome, splendid, majestic beast.’

  ‘And one of myth,’ Cassien added.

  Fynch raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t seen one?’ he asked playfully.

  ‘Have you?’ Cassien challenged without hesitation.

  ‘Seen, ridden, know well. What’s more, I am bonded to the dragon in a way that no other can be.’

  Cassien gave a mirthless snort. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me put it another way to you. The dragon and I are one … spiritually and to some extent physically.’

  ‘Physically?’

  ‘I ache to be away from him. I also suffer physically. He pines if I’m not near. We are of one flesh almost … not quite.’ Again the apologetic smile. ‘We are Shar’s servants but we are closer to Shar than any other. Why do you think that is?’

  Cassien decided to go with the line of thinking and see where it led. ‘The spiritual story we learned from birth is that Shar gave a bone to the dragon.’

  ‘And the dragon gave a tooth to every other creature,’ Fynch replied.

  ‘And scales to those without teeth,’ Cassien finished.

  ‘So?’

  It was like being back in one of old Brother Bellamee’s religious instruction classes. ‘So the dragon is of Shar and all the other creatures of the world are of the dragon, hence their homage.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But you said you were of the dragon and thus Shar.’ Cassien looked at him puzzled, unsure of what to think of this.

  ‘Correct again. How can it be, I presume you’re asking? All I can say is that it is. In the reign of the king known as Celimus — do you remember hearing of him?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Well, my loyalties were to his enemy. His enemy’s name was Wyl Thirsk.’

  ‘Thirsk,’ Cassien repeated. ‘Should I know it?’

  ‘Only if you’re a scholar of history. The Thirsk family were the celebrated soldiers of Morgravia. Each son became a general to his Morgravian king. Wyl was general, briefly, for King Magnus before the heir Celimus wore the crown, but the Thirsk ancestral line died with Wyl. His sister died young and in unfortunate circumstances.’

  ‘He never married? Had children?’

  ‘He did both. What I’m about to tell you I have not uttered previously to any person.’

  Cassien frowned. ‘Why? Is it a secret?’

  ‘Yes. It is also dangerous knowledge.’

  ‘But you trust me with it.’

  ‘I do but only because you believe in magic.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I am going to make you part of that secret.’

  Fynch stared at him and Cassien felt impaled by the golden gaze. Twilight would be closing in on the forest but he was struck by the notion that the man seemed to glow with an internal light.

  ‘Wyl Thirsk’s life was profoundly changed by a powerful magic. It matters not the whys and wherefores to you — only that it existed. He unwittingly became King Cailech and ultimately emperor of the three realms of Morgravia, Briavel and Razors, through that magic’s curse. It’s Wyl and Valentyna’s descendants who are our current generation of royals: Magnus, Florentyna and Darcelle.’

  An owl hooted once in the distance and Cassien could hear animals bumbling around not far from where Fynch sat. His sharp sense of smell picked up an aroma that he suspected was gobel … probably a pair.

  Fynch continued. ‘The heir, Magnus, a fine young, healthy prince, died as a result of an accident, which was a shock to everyone. He left behind two sisters, one barely out of childhood, both of them groomed to be excellent wives — although I daresay Florentyna would go slit-eyed on me to hear it.’ He put a finger in the air. ‘That said, Florentyna has accepted her role with strength and energy.’

  ‘So where is the problem?’

  ‘Her sister, Darcelle. She is younger than Florentyna by five years, the spoilt child of the family, but she is quick and smart, fiery and very beautiful.’

  ‘She sounds like a perfect woman.’

  Fynch shook his head. ‘Far from it. She demonstrates more of the arrogant, brutal brilliance of the mountain king’s ancestry than the subtle and more modest strength of the Thirsk blood that runs so strongly in Florentyna. Darcelle is cunning and capable. With Magnus dead and the way open for a queen to rule, an empress’s role to play — well, Darcelle suddenly fancies herself in that part. Up until Magnus’s death, I’m uncertain whether it had occurred to her that a woman might rule. Perhaps the possibility was too far away from the third child for it to concern her.’

  ‘Exactly how cunning is she?’

  ‘Enough to potentially consider regicide.’

  Understanding erupted across Cassien’s expression. ‘I see.’

  ‘And she would make a terrible ruler. I suspect Darcelle is capable of some atrocious decision-making as long as it serves her needs. And with the wrong people pushing her she could be convinced to make the worst decision of her life.’

  ‘So you want me to protect Florentyna.’

  Fynch glowed. ‘Yes. Protect her from her sister and those who would see her ousted. But here is the problem, Cassien. Florentyna will not hear a bad word against her younger sister.’

  ‘Do we have any sense of timing on the danger?’

  His older companion shrugged. ‘It is present and immediate. Florentyna has not had much luck. She was promised to the eldest prince of Tallinor. He became king a few years ago and the wedding ceremony — a mere formality — was to take place at the cathedral.’

  ‘Let me guess. He was murdered.’

  Fynch shook his head. ‘Close enough though. The king’s ship was accidentally sunk en route, smashed onto rocks during a storm. Two hundred souls were lost that day. Florentyna was deeply withdrawn for her moons of mourning. She is a sensitive girl but don’t let that fool you into believing she doesn’t possess a will of iron when required.’ Fynch pointed a bony finger. ‘Test it by saying something negative about her sister.’

  ‘Does Darcelle have a match?’

  ‘A mighty one, the King of Cipres. The power it brings in so many hidden ways can’t be ignored. Darcelle must marry King Tamas and here’s the most interesting part of all.’ Cassien looked over at him. ‘He’s fifteen years her senior and Tamas seemingly adores her as much as she adores the notion of being Queen of Cipres. In his presence she is almost gentle and genuinely fond of him.’ Fynch laughed. ‘A mat
ch made by Shar.’

  ‘And of course she would return to Cipres.’

  ‘If Darcelle goes to Cipres, I no longer have to fret about the threat from within.’

  ‘So where is the hurdle?’

  ‘Darcelle may not want to leave Morgravia just yet. The empress is not encouraging her to rush away. Her stepmother, whom she is very close to, wants her to have this Ciprean crown but again I think they’re clinging to their youngest.’ Fynch stood. He shrugged. ‘I can’t second-guess women. Walk with me. It is time to return to Loup.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you need me especially.’

  ‘I need your fighting talents and especially that magical skill you possess that you don’t speak of to anyone.’

  Cassien halted abruptly. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Only what Romaine has told me, for we both know that you have hidden this aspect from your fellow Brothers. Oh, Brother Josse knows there is something rather special about you but he doesn’t really know much at all. He believes you can “see” things. Puts it down to being in tune with the spiritual world.’

  ‘And you?’

  Fynch urged him to move forward, his look gentle and reassuring. ‘Romaine has spoken of the magic you call “roaming” as dangerous to the forest creatures but that you’re careful.’

  ‘I shall have words with Romaine about her loose mouth.’

  ‘I must assure you that she was torn between her loyalty to you and her duty to her king. Be assured, she loves you, Cassien.’

  ‘So tell me how you want me to protect the queen? Should I call her a queen or an empress?’

  Fynch nodded. ‘Confusing, I agree. In Morgravia she is addressed as its queen. But she also sits on the imperial throne and is an empress by right, although that increasingly seems to be in title only. The union of the three realms, so strong under Cailech, has been whittled away gradually. She hasn’t travelled enough to each for people in Briavel or the Razors to know their empress.’

  ‘How is she addressed?’

  ‘In Morgravia as Queen Florentyna.’

  ‘And surely she has an army to command,’ Cassien retorted.

  ‘She does. But no number of mortal men can fully protect Florentyna. The Crown needs the aid of skills that go beyond.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Darcelle is only the closest threat but by no means the most fearsome. The greatest danger to Florentyna will come from the spiritual world, where gods and demons play.’

  Cassien stopped walking. ‘I’m very confused.’

  Fynch chuckled and Cassien heard a soft note of underlying despair. ‘I have seen the signs. No-one is better placed than I who straddle the two worlds of men and spirits. The threat is real. The enemy is hungry. The queen is vulnerable …’ Fynch trailed off.

  Cassien could see the soft drift of smoke coming from the hut’s rudimentary chimney. ‘What does the enemy want?’ He still didn’t understand what this was all about.

  ‘Oh, the usual. Destruction, damnation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suspect because magic was unleashed into Morgravia a long time ago — a very powerful magic that disrupted the natural order of life decades previously.’

  ‘Wyl’s magic?’ he wondered aloud in a blind thrust.

  ‘Wyl didn’t possess magic and he didn’t wield it. That was the tragedy of his life. He was a good man, who never sought power or wealth or status; all seemed to find him. But it was brought about originally by a curse being set upon him as a young man by a witch called Myrren. From thereon he was a puppet, dancing to the tune of her sinister magic. It controlled him. He moved through several lives, not by choice and each death he brought — including his sister’s — was heartbreaking in its own way. He tried to avoid it, but lives were given so Myrren could take her revenge on Morgravians.

  ‘The curse’s dark path was finally cut short when he entered the body of King Cailech and became sovereign.’ Fynch gave a sad smile. ‘I know I say that casually and I know it requires a lot more explanation but we don’t have time now. Wyl died of old age as Cailech.’

  ‘So it’s over? The curse I mean.’

  Fynch frowned. ‘Myrren’s curse has ended but that dark style of magic may not be. I don’t know where the threat is coming from and I don’t really know why I feel it, but I do feel it … even as removed as I am in the Wild. All the signs are there.’ Fynch looked up from the leaf he’d been studying and fixed Cassien with a firm, disconcerting gaze. ‘The magic is alive.’

  Wednesday night closed in early and Parisians knew winter had surely arrived as the icy cold wrapped its claws around the city. A ripe yellow moon was intermittently shuttered by heavy clouds drifting across its face and threatening rain. Gabe couldn’t wait to close the shop. He’d promised himself an indulgent risotto and on the way home had resisted the urge to take the shortcut; instead, wrapping his scarf tight around his mouth to keep out the chill, he ran to the nearest Monoprix to grab his fresh ingredients.

  The clouds burst while he was paying for his groceries and he’d forgotten his umbrella; he pictured it on his desk at the shop and remembered that Cat had distracted him as he was packing up to leave. Cursing his luck, he had to walk home in the rain, but rather than allow himself to slip into misery at being cold and wet, he pictured himself turning on the fire, sipping a glass of wine as he chopped leeks and garlic, the intoxicating aroma spreading as both began to warm in the olive oil and release their fragrances and flavours. His mouth watered. Gabe delved into his coat pocket for his house keys and hit the stairs outside his building, taking them two at a time, and nearly tripped over her at the top. He only just managed to stop himself from sending the bag of food sprawling across the landing.

  ‘Angelina?’

  She pushed herself to standing on the stair. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured but didn’t seem embarrassed; more amused if anything.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Gabe asked, quickly adjusting his voice from surprise to a neutral tone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently, suddenly worried for her.

  She shrugged.

  He looked around. ‘Where’s René?’

  ‘Not here,’ she answered and he heard defiance.

  Gabe’s lips twisted slightly in thought. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, making up his mind. He opened the front door of his building and looked over his shoulder. ‘Come on, unless you want to sit here all night. It’s too cold to sit in the hallway.’

  ‘Not for René, though?’

  ‘Cruel guardians don’t count,’ Gabe answered with a wink.

  ‘He’s not my guardian,’ she said quickly.

  ‘All right. How would you describe him?’ he said. ‘I prefer the stairs to the lift,’ he warned.

  She shrugged as if it mattered not to her and followed him.

  ‘Go on, how do you describe his relationship to you,’ he encouraged as they made their ascent to his apartment.

  ‘Keeper is too gentle a word. Jailer is probably too harsh.’

  ‘Supervisor?’ he offered helpfully but equally wry in his tone. ‘Minder?’ he added, flicking through his bunch of keys for the right one to open his door.

  Angelina shook her head as she arrived alongside. ‘Guard.’

  ‘Guard?’ he repeated as the door opened. ‘Odd word. What is he guarding against, I wonder?’ She shrugged again as he tapped in the alarm code and deactivated the security. ‘Get that wet coat off,’ he suggested, letting the topic go for now. He dumped his groceries on the kitchen counter and flicked on the gas fire. ‘I’m just going to dry off.’

  He strode to his bathroom and closed the door, reaching for a towel to dry his hair. As he dragged it across his face he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused, only his eyes visible over the top of the towel.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he murmured to his reflection. ‘This flies against everything you know to be correct protocol.’ He took a deep breath, knowing he had to make a decision. He finished drying off
his hair, neatened it with his fingers by pushing it behind his ears and nodded at himself. ‘It’s your funeral,’ he said, echoing a favourite threat he and his wife used to throw at each other when one was in disagreement with the other’s decision.

  He emerged. ‘Okay?’

  She smiled back. ‘Fine.’

  Gabe watched her from the corner of his eye as he unpacked his groceries. Angelina had taken off her coat and stood with her back to the fire looking around his room as though seeing it for the first time. She didn’t appear in the least uncomfortable or embarrassed to be here with him alone.

  ‘So are you going to tell me?’

  ‘What?’ she said, turning to gaze at him with her smoky, dark eyes so full of promise that Gabe found himself clearing his throat. Today she was wearing a pair of narrow, tight jeans that clung to her petite, beautiful shape with vigour. Her mauve cashmere knit top was short and tight, revealing a few centimetres of bare midriff and accentuating her full breasts. He tried not to stare but this garb was entirely different to her almost childlike clothes of the previous day. For so long, women he met had not excited him in this way … now, suddenly, there was Angelina.

  She found a lighter on the mantelpiece. ‘May I?’

  He shrugged. ‘Of course.’

  Angelina began to light the candles he’d put around the room months previously simply because they looked good. She switched off overhead lights as she continued around the room touching her flame to the wicks, making sure he had plenty of opportunity and time to watch the graceful movements of her lithe body. Six were burning by the time she returned to the fireplace and the space had already begun to fill with the rich perfume of earthy, fresh sandalwood and sweet, heady frankincense.

  Control seemed impossible now. He wanted to hold her, feel the contact of her skin against his, his lips on hers, his hands on her —

  She broke into his guilty thoughts. ‘Do you have a lover?’ Angelina asked, eyes glittering in the low light.

  The question was so brazen the corkscrew he’d just placed on the wine cork slipped and stabbed into his left thumb, slicing it open.