The Quickening
Author: Fiona McIntosh
Date: 2014-02-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: For the first time - MYRREN'S GIFT, BLOOD AND MEMORY, and BRIDGE OF SOULS in one collection. Enter the world of THE QUICKENING... In this superb trilogy, Fiona McIntosh weaves a gripping story of action and intrigue.
Publisher: Voyager
Rights: Copyright © Fiona McIntosh 2014

Dedication

For my good friend Diane Rogers,
who in sharing her fascinating experience with a ‘seer’
unwittingly prompted this tale

Contents

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Praise

Map

PROLOGUE

HE KNEW THE INJURY would be fatal. Accepted it at the very moment he caught the sword’s menacing glint as it slashed down.

Fergys Thirsk, favourite son of Morgravia, began the last part of his journey towards death as a grey dawn sluggishly stretched itself across the winter sky. He faced his end with the same grace and courage he had called upon for all of his life as General of the Legion.

It had been the King’s idea to attack the Briavellians gathered on an opposite hillside under the cloak of night. To Fergys it had seemed somehow ignoble to interrupt the traditional night’s peace in which men sat quietly around small fires, some singing, others deep in thought as to whether they might live through another day of battle. But the King had fixed his mind on this bold plan to take his enemy by surprise on a night where dark, brooding clouds eliminated the moonlight. The River Tague, which bisected the realms of Morgravia and Briavel from the mountains in the north to their midlands, had already run red with the blood of both armies earlier that day and Fergys had been reluctant to put the men to the sword again so soon. But his sovereign had persisted and Thirsk had accepted the challenge. There had been no sense of foreboding as he carried out his monarch’s wishes and led the attack. He simply did not like the plan. Fergys was a man of honour and tradition. War had a code which he preferred to observe rather than flout.

Nevertheless he had fought ferociously — he knew no other way — but had been disturbed when Magnus, his friend and King, going directly against his wishes, had joined the fray. Without further thought Fergys had planted his feet and grimly despatched three Briavellians before he was able to make a move towards protecting his sovereign.

‘The white cloak’s suitably inconspicuous,’ he had yelled sarcastically above the din towards his oldest, dearest friend.

Magnus had had the audacity to wink at him. ‘Got to let Valor know I was here when his army was beaten into submission.’

It was a reckless act and more dangerous than the King could ever have suspected. They were fighting on Briavel’s side of the river and once the element of surprise had passed, both armies had got down to the business of slaughtering one another. Valor’s men were no cowards and had worked with a new-found passion to repel Morgravia.

Fergys had noticed Briavel’s standard — signalling that Valor too was in the thick of the fighting — and remembered now, as lifegiving blood leaked from him, how he had feared for both Kings. With Briavel having the advantage of higher ground, Fergys had made the decision to pull back. His army had already inflicted a terrible price on its enemy; no need for either of these sovereigns to die, he recalled thinking. He knew by daybreak and the inevitable clash that would come later that day, that Morgravia would overcome its enemy once again. So he had given the order and his men had obeyed immediately.

All except one.

And it was that one man whom Fergys Thirsk had sworn to protect. The one he would give his life for.

As with the Thirsk Generals who had gone before him, Fergys had lived long so the only regret which surfaced as the killing blow came was his absence from the family he loved. Fergys was not at all used to losing but it seemed Shar had asked more of him on this occasion; his god had asked for his life and he had given what had been requested without hesitation. He had fought so many battles and rarely returned with more than surface wounds, such was the fighting prowess and tenacity of the man.

And this battle had looked to be no exception until he had seen the danger, heard the man’s battle cry and deliberately stepped in front of that slashing sword. Up to that fateful moment only a thin line of dried blood across one cheek marked the closest a blade had come to threatening him. Duty, however, came first. Fergys had not even paused to consider the implication of pushing aside King Magnus, knowing he would have no time to block the inevitable blow. The only obstacle between the King’s survival and certain death was Fergys’s own fragile body, which he offered up gladly. The blade struck, fate guiding it ingeniously beneath the breastplate armour.

He did no more than wince at the sucking wound in his abdomen, too intent was he on despatching the Briavellian and ensuring the life of his King. Only then did Fergys Thirsk fall, not yet dead but the longest journey of all commenced.

As they had hurried him from the battleground and back over the Tague, he was still calling orders to his captains. Once he had heard the full retreat sounded, he lay back on the canvas which would bear him back to Morgravia’s camp. This journey seemed endless and he now used the time to reflect on his life.

There was little to complain about.

He was loved. That in itself should be enough for any man, he reasoned but then there was so much more. He commanded respect wherever he went — had earned it too — and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with a King whom he called friend. More than friend … blood brother.

That brother now walked in shock by his side, giving orders, fussing for his care, whispering to himself that it was all his fault; his stupidity and recklessness had seen the great General felled. It was all pointless. Fergys tried to tell the man this but there was insufficient strength in his voice to speak above the din of the retreat. If he could have he would have hushed his blood brother and reminded him that Shar’s Gatherers had spoken and whether any of them liked it or not he must now answer that call. No regrets. Duty done.

Men were bowing their heads as the stretcher passed by. Fergys wished he could somehow convey his thanks to each. The Legion produced exceptional soldiers; loyal to a man to his command. They had never let him down; never questioned a decision. He spared an anxious thought for how they would accept the new General, yearned for a last opportunity to beg their tolerance. ‘Give the boy a chance,’ he would beseech. ‘He will be all that I am and better still.’ And he knew it to be true.

He thought of the youngster. Serious, complex, a firm follower of tradition. Tarred by the same brush, as they say, especially in looks. They were plain, stocky, fearless men the Thirsks, and this boy was already shaping to be a natural-born leader. The Morgravian Legion followed a curious tradition of handing down leadership from father to son. Fergys wondered if it could last. The lad was so young. Would he have time to sire his own heir to continue the Thirsk tradition or would a new family vie for the right to lead the army? Thirsks had led the Legion through two centuries now. It was an extraordinary history for one family which seemed to breed sons with warrior capabilities, tempered with intelligence. In his heart he knew his son would be the best General ever, for his mother had given him humility to match his courage, and it seemed the boy had inherited her indomitable spirit too.

The dying man’s bearers were nearing the tent which he knew would be his final resting place. Once he was laid down he would have to concentrate on his King for as long as his heart held out. He wanted time to think about his beautiful wife Helyna of whom so much lived on in their son. Not her looks, mind. Those exquisite features belonged to their daughter alone. Fergys grimaced, not from pain so much as grief. His daughter was so young … too young to lose both parents.

How would his family manage? Money was no problem. They were the wealthiest of all the nobility, perhaps barring the Donals of Felrawthy, he thought sagely. He would have to rely on Magnus. Knew he could. What his family needed now was time. Time to grow into their new lives. Peace must be achieved with Briavel until the young Thirsk was ready to lead into battle. That peaceful time would have to be bought and he hoped his life would be the raw currency.

They laid him down. The King had insisted he be settled in the royal tent. Physicians hurried to Thirsk’s side. He ignored their probing, knowing it would ultimately be followed by a shaking of heads and grave glances. Fergys closed his eyes to the sudden frenetic activity and returned to his ponderings.

The old hate. It all seemed so pointless now. Valor of Briavel was a good King. He had a daughter. Little chance now of a son. Valor had shown no inclination to remarry after the death of his wife; it was rumoured that theirs had been a love gifted from Shar. And he was probably too old now, at seventy, to bother himself with trying to sire a male heir. He too needed peace for Briavel’s Princess to grow up and grow into her role. The wars had been a tradition in a sense. Their forefathers had fought each other when they were little more than feuding families. Initially it had been a case of maintaining the balance of power between two small factions suspicious of one another. But when the two strongest families established their own realms, and kingdoms were born, the battles were fought to increase power, gain more land, greater authority. Over the centuries, neither managed to claim domination over the region and so their animosity degenerated into squabbles over trading rights or merchant routes — any petty excuse, in fact, until by the time Magnus and Valor had inherited their crowns, neither was sure exactly why the two realms hated one another so intently.

Fergys shook his head. If truth be known, he rather admired Valor, and lamented the fact that the two Kings could not be neighbours in spirit as well as location. United in friendship and mutual respect, the region would be rich beyond dreams and near invincible to any enemy. Now he would never see that dream come to fruition. He sighed.

‘Talk to me,’ his King beseeched, voice leaden with guilt.

‘Send the physics away, Magnus. We all know it’s done.’

The King bowed his head in sad acceptance and gave the order.

All except his friend had now been banished by Thirsk. No emotional farewells would he tolerate from his captains. He could bear neither their sympathy nor their despair. They had filed out in silence, stunned by the notion that their General may not even see this day’s sun fully risen.

Thirsk asked for the tent flap to be left open so he could see across the moors to the smoke from the distant fires of the Briavellian camp, where soon the sounds of dying men and beasts would be heard again should the battle resume today. In his heart Thirsk knew the two armies were bleeding and wearied; all of the men were now keen to acknowledge the outcome of yet another battle between these ancient enemies and return to their towns and villages. Many would not be going home, of course, and their widows and mothers, sisters and betrothed were mostly from Briavel.

And yet, as Fergys Thirsk slipped further into death’s cool embrace, most from his side knew it would be later argued in the taverns that it was the great realm of Morgravia which had suffered the stunning loss on this occasion.

The General looked wearily back at his oldest and closest friend.

‘It’s over for them,’ King Magnus of Morgravia finally said.

Thirsk tried to nod, relieved that Magnus had navigated his way out of the shocked stupor; there were things to be said and little time. ‘But Valor will try to fight on,’ Fergys cautioned. ‘He will want Briavel to salvage some face.’

The King sighed. ‘And do we allow him to?’

‘You always have in the past, your majesty. Pull back our men completely and let him have the news of my injury and subsequent passing,’ his dying companion replied, shivering now from pain cutting through the earlier numbness. ‘It will be a proud moment for them and then we can all go home,’ he added, knowing full well he would go home shrouded in black linens and tied to his horse.

The battle was won. Morgravia had prevailed as it usually did under General Thirsk. It had not always been so, however. There were centuries previous when Briavel had triumphed. These nations had shared a long and colourful hate.

‘I wonder why I give him quarter — a weakness, do you think?’ Magnus pondered.

Fergys wanted to tell his King that it was not weakness but compassion which saw today’s Morgravia resist the temptation of out-and-out slaughter. That and the fact that Magnus had never had to watch his best friend die before — suddenly the battle had taken second place in the King’s priorities. And if compassion was a weakness, then Fergys loved his King for the contradictions in his character that could see him willingly pass sentence of death on a Morgravian criminal whilst, on the battlefield, sparing the lives of his enemies. It was this enigmatic mix of impulsiveness and honour, stubbornness and flexibility which had drawn Fergys to Magnus from childhood.

Thirsk noticed his own breathing was becoming shallower. He had witnessed this many times previously on the battlefield as he held the hands of the dying and heard their last laboured words. Now it was his turn. Death was beckoning but it would have to wait just a little while longer.

There was more to be said even though it hurt so much to talk. ‘If there is weakness in this, then it is shared equally amongst us all,’ Fergys responded. ‘Without it, Briavel and Morgravia would not enjoy this regular opportunity to send their young men thundering on fine steeds across the moors to kill each other.’

Magnus nodded at the irony of his friend’s sentiments. There had been a Thirsk at the head of the Morgravian army for so many years, all but the historians had stopped counting. The Thirsk line bred exceptional soldiers. It was a gift, people said. But in this particular Thirsk there were other exceptional qualities, such as his respect for the enemy and fairness; his humility, humour and his genuine hate for war.

Fergys Thirsk never willingly went to battle; he cared too much for the sanctity of peace and the preservation of lives, particularly those of Morgravian men. But history attested to Fergys Thirsk being the most successful of the campaigners to lead Morgravia and not once under his leadership had a battle been lost. He was legend amongst his men. It was a favourite saying of Magnus that if his General told his men to ride off a cliff, they would do so without hesitation.

Through a haze of pain Thirsk scrutinised the grieving man before him, noticing for the first time how grey his King’s hair had become. Once lustrous, it framed a strong-looking face, a determined jaw and eyes which somehow reflected the man’s extraordinary intelligence. The King’s tall bearing suddenly gave the impression of a vague stoop, as though his big body was getting too heavy for him to carry around. They were getting old.

The General suddenly rasped a laugh. He would grow no older than this day. The King looked up sharply at the unexpected sound and Fergys shrugged, sending a new wave of agony through his ruptured body.

‘We’ve always managed to laugh at most things, Magnus.’

‘Not at this, Fergys. Not at this.’ The King sighed again.

Fergys could hear the pain in that deep breath. They had shared their childhood. Their fathers had raised them to be close but the friendship was not forced. Fergys had worshipped the heir and then the King, and for his part, Magnus considered his General a brother in all but birthright. He loved Fergys fiercely and relied on his counsel, had done so throughout his long and flourishing reign. They were as wise together as they were wily.

‘What must I do?’ the King whispered.

With his last reserves of energy, the soldier squeezed the hand of his King.

‘Your majesty, it is my belief that you would no more celebrate the death of King Valor of Briavel than you do mine. Morgravia has nothing to fear from him now for perhaps as much as the next decade — make it so, my King. Call a parley, sire. No more young men need lose their lives today.’

‘I want to. I have no desire to prolong this battle, as you well know, and if it had not been for my own stupidity, you wouldn’t —’

Thirsk interrupted the King’s outpouring of guilt with a spasm of coughing, blood spattering his shirt. It was the ominous sign that death would no longer be patient. The King began to reach for linens but his General pushed the monarch’s fussing hands away, answering his query instead.

‘My death should suffice — it will be seen as a major blow for Morgravia,’ he said matter of factly before adding, ‘Valor is proud but he is not stupid. He has no male heir, sire. His young Princess will be Queen one day and will need an army of her own, and for Briavel to breed the soldiers of the future, they need peace. But her men, and ours, would do well to dispense with the ancient quarrel altogether. The threat from the north is very real, my King, for both our realms. Perhaps you may need each other one day.’

Thirsk spoke of Cailech, the self-proclaimed King of the Mountain People. In the early days Cailech had merely been the upstart and impossibly young leader of a rabble of hard Mountain Dwellers who rarely left their high ground amongst the imposing sprawl of ranges which framed the far north and north-east. His kind for centuries had kept their tribal squabbles to themselves, contained within the Razors, as the range was called. Back then, fifteen or so years ago, this young warrior, no more than eighteen summers, had begun to stamp a brutal authority across the tribes, uniting them. Thirsk had believed for several years now that it was only a matter of time before Cailech would feel confident enough to look beyond the mountains and out towards the fertile lands of Morgravia and Briavel.

‘I will continue your strengthening of the Legion to the north,’ the King said, reading his thoughts.

‘That will help me rest easy.’

Both men could hear Thirsk’s increasingly rapid breathing.

Magnus had to push back all the emotion welling inside him. ‘And so for you, my dearest friend. What can I do for you before you leave me?’ They clasped hands for the last time in the Legionnaire manner.

‘A blood pact, sire.’

The King’s eyebrow raised. He remembered the first time they had mixed blood. They had been lads and permitted to witness the ritual being performed between the former dukes of Felrawthy and Argorn — a special linking of Morgravia’s most powerful duchies in the north and south of the realm. The two boys had watched the rites wide-eyed, impressed at the solemnity of the occasion and the deep commitment between the participants. It had been Magnus’s idea for them to do the same. ‘We’ll commit to each other,’ he’d said to Fergys. ‘You will love me as your King and I will love you as my General, but we will be blood brothers above all else.’

They had found the courage to cut each other and hold palms together as the two nobles had done. They were not even ten years old.

Thirsk coughed violently again. His passing into the dark was just moments away. They could sense it.

‘Name it, Fergys!’ the King growled, his anxiety betraying him. ‘Whatever you ask is granted. You know it.’

Thirsk nodded, exhausted. ‘The children. My boy, Wyl. He must return from Argorn immediately. He is already General of the Legion and does not know it. He must finish his training in the palace.’ A new fit of coughing interrupted him. ‘Bring Gueryn with him, sire. Keep them close. There is no better teacher for him.’

‘Except the one who leaves him now,’ the King replied grimly. ‘And Ylena?’

‘All I ask is that you make a good marriage for her.’ Thirsk looked towards the table where his dagger lay.

Magnus moved without a word and fetched it. He sat down again beside his friend. The King passed the blade over his palm and did the same to Thirsk. They rejoined hands, mingling their blood.

The King spoke softly as he made his promise. ‘Ylena will want for nothing. Your son is now my son, Fergys Thirsk.’

‘A brother for your Celimus,’ Thirsk rasped as his breathing turned ragged.

‘They will be blood brothers, as we are,’ the King said, fighting back tears. His grip on his friend’s hand tightened. ‘Go now, Fergys. Struggle no more, my friend. May your soul travel safely.’

Fergys Thirsk nodded, the light already dying in his eyes. ‘Brothers in blood,’ he whispered, breathing his last.

King Magnus of Morgravia felt the clasp of his friend’s hand slacken as death claimed Thirsk. ‘Our sons will become one,’ he echoed gravely.

ONE

GUERYN LOOKED TO HIS left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirsk, Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why did they all believe Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility on his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. A Thirsk had been at the head of the Legion for almost two centuries. But this one was by the far the youngest. Gueryn thanked the stars which shined on them for giving the King sense enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near fourteen-year-old into battle.

Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital, Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No, Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while … long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be. He had no doubt Fergys Thirsk’s death had much to do with Briavel capitulating — Valor had his spoils now to take home from war.

Gueryn regarded the boy. The distinctive flame-coloured hair and squat set, so reminiscent of the Thirsk line. And he so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.

Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster worshipped his father and who could blame him, most of Morgravia’s men did as well. That Wyl should lose him so young was a tragic blow, particularly as they had not seen each other in many moons.

Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten which Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Ever a serious, complex child, this would push Wyl further into himself, and Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.

The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn, arguably Morgravia’s most talented soldier and strategist next to his General, had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this incredibly important job only to his accomplished captain whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. There could be no finer teacher. Gueryn understood this and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live amongst the rolling hills of Argorn, amongst the lush southern counties of Morgravia.

Essentially he became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.

‘Don’t watch me like that, Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.’

‘How are you feeling about this?’ the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.

Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of colour to his pale, freckled face, betrayed his next words. ‘I’m feeling fine.’

‘Be honest with me of all people, Wyl.’

The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress towards the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.

‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. ‘But I know this was my father’s dying wish,’ Wyl added, trying not to sigh.

‘The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.’ Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. ‘You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,’ Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months — weeks even — just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.

Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity which belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed after a determined fight to the virulent coughing disease which had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through, for her heart was as courageous as her husband’s. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.

Wyl remembered his softly spoken mother, missed her acutely in his contained, reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.

There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion — his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife chose to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plain-spoken, even plainer looking man who walked side by side with a King.

Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colourful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.

Wyl interrupted his thoughts. ‘Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?’

He had been waiting for just this question. ‘I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir,’ he answered tactfully.

‘I see,’ Wyl replied. ‘What else do you hear of him. Tell me honestly.’

Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. ‘The King, I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be moulded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of, although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.’

‘Why?’

‘I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys, they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia, believing it to be filled with peasants.’

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘She said that?’

‘And plenty more apparently.’

‘Where was she from?’

‘Parrgamyn — I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?’

Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia, in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. ‘Exotic then?’

‘Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.’

‘So she would have been of Zerque faith?’ he wondered aloud and Gueryn nodded. ‘Go on,’ Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something different than the pain of his father’s death.

Gueryn sighed. ‘A long tale really but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man, and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.’

‘She died quite young, though, didn’t she?’

The soldier nodded. ‘Yes but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.’

‘The King’s?’ Wyl asked, incredulous. ‘My father never said anything about this to me before.’

‘The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colours. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.’

‘How could it have happened?’

Gueryn shrugged. ‘Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.’ He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.

‘So Celimus has never forgiven his father?’

‘You could say. Celimus worshipped Adana as much as the father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,’ he offered. ‘The lad, I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.’

‘Better than me?’

Gueryn grinned. ‘We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat — excluding myself at your age, of course.’ He won a smile from the boy at this. ‘But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.’

Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.’

‘Do I need protection?’ he asked, surprised.

Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. ‘I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.’ He watched the sorrow at those last words take a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. ‘The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.’

‘Oh?’

‘Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.’ Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. ‘Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.’

Wyl bit his lip and nodded. ‘Let’s not tarry then, Gueryn.’

The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse, as the boy kicked into a gallop.

Wyl remembered that ride into Pearlis as if it were yesterday. It had been three moons now since his father’s death and, although he was now used to the routine of the palace and his role, Wyl hated his new life. If not for his overwhelming sense of duty he would have run away.

He scowled as an exasperated Gueryn struck him a blow on his wrist. ‘You’re not concentrating, Wyl. On the battlefield that slip could have cost you a hand.’

The soldier deliberately struck again but this time Wyl countered just as ferociously, his wooden sword making a loud clacking sound as he pressed back against his opponent.

‘Better!’ Gueryn called, relieved. ‘Again!’

From out of the corner of his eye, Wyl could see Prince Celimus had sidled up to a few of the flatterers he usually surrounded himself with. Wyl doubled his efforts and Gueryn was prudent enough to not criticise further.

About time, the soldier thought as he increased his speed, stepping up the session to a combat level rather than just a drill. He was pleased to see the boy relax slightly — a good sign that he was no longer concerned with who was watching but fully attendant on defending himself. Gueryn then upped the skills still further, delivering a frighteningly fast series of slashes and thrusts which would have challenged a battle-hardened soldier, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy. Those around them in the practice courtyard had fallen silent, and various trainers and other lads wandered over to watch what was clearly a ‘fight to the death’.

Wyl, sweating lightly now in the chill morning, stepped back, feinted, moved to his left, parried and then dodged back to his original position, feinting once again before he saw the gap and struck hard and fast. He crouched nimbly to avoid the low, normally ‘fatal’ slash he had already anticipated from his wily opponent and then struck upwards with force, two-handed. Suddenly Gueryn was on his back panting and Wyl’s piece of timber was at his throat.

There was murder in the boy’s eyes and if they were on the field, Gueryn believed he would be drawing his last breath. Gueryn also knew Wyl had genuinely bested him, despite his smaller stature and strength, with a blaze of raw anger. He realised he would have to counsel him on this and explain that Wyl needed to fight clear-headed. Fighting decisions were always based on training and intuition rather than just pure emotion. That approach only worked once; Gueryn knew that when wave after wave of soldiers were bearing down, it was the cool, emotionless approach that won the day.

He stared back at Wyl, forcing him to give way. Onlookers were clapping and whistling their appreciation of the demonstration. Wyl regained his composure and pulled Gueryn to his feet. He glanced towards the smirking Prince, anticipating some snide comment to humiliate him in front of his peers.

The Prince was predictable in this. ‘Can you do that with a real sword, Wyl?’ Celimus enquired, innocently.

It was Gueryn, smacking the dust from his clothes, who replied. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to take him on with a blade,’ he said, hoping to deflect attention. He laughed and clapped Wyl on the back.

‘No? But I shall,’ Celimus interjected, his smile broad and anything but genuine. The Prince’s voice was sly now. ‘What do you say, Wyl?’

Gueryn held his breath. This was the most direct provocation that Wyl had encountered from the Prince, who had spent much of the time since their arrival simply baiting the youngster.

Wyl regarded the heir to the throne coolly. Gueryn’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing hard. They did not permit the lads to drill against each other with anything but wooden or blunted swords and this rule was especially rigid where Celimus was concerned.

Wyl looked away, hating to back down from that clear, defiant gaze. ‘I’m not allowed to fight you, your highness.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ the Prince said, as though suddenly reminded of the palace rules. ‘You’d better remember it too, General.’ Celimus laced the final word with as much sarcasm as he could.

Wyl had never felt such a well of hate rise within himself. Until recently he had lived life with carefree joy, had hardly known dislike for anyone. He had been surrounded by people who loved him. Now his every waking moment seemed filled with torment. Celimus baited him at every opportunity and if he was not using his cruel mouth against Wyl, then he was laying traps for him with a few of his henchmen. A day hardly passed in which the Prince did not succeed in bringing gloom to settle on Wyl’s shoulders. If there were not dead rats in his bed, then there were cockroaches in his drinking water, or mud in his boots. His food was tampered with and his training kit hidden. Childish and pointless it all was and yet it wore Wyl down, nibbling at his resolve to follow in his father’s footsteps.

It was then a page arrived. ‘Wyl Thirsk?’

‘Over here,’ Gueryn replied, nodding towards his despondent charge and grateful for the interruption.

The messenger addressed Wyl. ‘You’re wanted in the King’s chambers, General,’ he said, politely. ‘Immediately, sir.’

Wyl looked up at the still-grinning Prince and bowed. ‘With your permission, your highness, I’ll take my leave,’ he said, carefully observing the correct protocol.

Celimus nodded, his silky lashes blinking once over olive eyes that missed nothing. Everything about Celimus was beautiful. Even at fifteen, when most of the boys were still struggling to fit into their awkward bodies, his looked as though sculpted from pure, smooth marble. Muscled and polished, there was not a blemish on it.

In looks, Celimus represented to Wyl everything he personally was not and that realisation was painful for a boy born to lead men. Celimus was tall with wide, squared shoulders. His hands were large but deft and he carried himself with grace; even his swordplay was elegant and clearly highly skilled. His features were independently arresting but together they formed a face which was destined to turn heads. Manhood was still to settle on him but, looking at the youth, it was obvious an especially striking man was in the making here. His voice had already deepened to a timbre Wyl could only dream about, whilst Wyl’s own still squeaked and cracked in places — usually at inopportune moments.

He’s perfect, Wyl thought glumly to himself, cursing his own shorter stature, red hair and no doubt blushing face of pale, freckled skin filled with unremarkable features. He tried to mask his despair as the Prince nudged his friends and excused himself, still smirking. The men standing nearby gave polite bows but exchanged looks of distaste. Celimus may be a glorious-looking individual whom the young women of the court were already swooning over but he was unpopular amongst the larger palace community. In this he was his mother all over again. Whilst the King was revered, the heir had no loyalties he might count on from any but the sycophants who hung around him.

‘May Shar help us all when that one takes the throne,’ someone said, and many gave wary nods of agreement.

Wyl strode away, a sense of foreboding now mingling with his hate: King Magnus had summoned him, no doubt to ask questions about his loyalty. It was hardly news that he and Celimus did not get on.

‘Come on, Wyl, make haste,’ Gueryn urged.

They did so, following the page as he weaved a practised route through the halls of the palace, taking shortcuts via various walled courtyards and sunlit atriums. On the way they stole a chance to wash their faces and rinse their hands in a bucket of water raised from a convenient well, whilst the page hopped from foot to foot in urgent need to deliver his ‘goods’ to the King’s secretary.

Neither Gueryn nor Wyl had realised how beautiful the palace of Stoneheart was. To them it was an impregnable fortress with solid, grey walls, dusty yards, stables and a mess hall which was always noisy. Dogs, horses, soldiers and servants scurried about in a small world of their own within the castle walls. This more serene aspect of Stoneheart was as unexpected as it was attractive. They felt like intruders on a new world.

The dark stone looked suddenly handsome in the many light-filled, elegant spaces especially created within the internal structure of the castle. For the first time, Wyl began to appreciate that the castle was not simply a fortification of stone but a palace in its own right, possessing a distinctive style of which simplicity was the key. Walls were not busily cluttered; instead, one eye-catching tapestry might be the only decoration in a vast chamber. Furniture was practical, always simple, favouring the heavier, dark Lomash wood so abundant in Morgravia. Adana had had no influence here, Wyl mused; there was no hint anywhere that a Queen of such exotic heritage had lived any of her short life in this place. He wondered if Celimus’s more extravagant taste would leave its garish mark on Stoneheart when he took the throne.

Wyl considered his own home in Argorn, which was a mix of his parents’ tastes. Solid Lomash furniture, favoured by his father, seemed to sit comfortably alongside his mother’s more whimsical pieces, including her gold-framed mirror and screens, and the wealth of soft cushions and drapes. His mother loved colour and he imagined she might have rather liked Stoneheart because of the richness of colours that punctuated the decoration of its chambers.

Hurrying through the corridors and up stairs, trying to keep up with the page, Wyl caught glimpses of carvings of the great beasts. It was believed that every Morgravian was chosen from birth by one of the beasts, and the choice became known when a person made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at Pearlis. There, the magical creatures were gloriously presented, each holding up one of the pillars of the great nave. Whenever Wyl visited the cathedral, he looked for the famed winged lion — his creature. Now, in the palace, he spotted the taloned bear, the magnificent eagle, the serpent, cunningly twisting out of the stone, and the beautiful jewelled peacock. Finally, as they drew nearer to the King’s chambers, he saw the mighty warrior dragon, talisman to all the monarchs of Morgravia. Wyl looked at it in wonderment, then thought about his father’s creature, the phoenix. There was a symmetry there which pleased him: both Magnus and Fergys were creatures of fire; no wonder they had loved each other so loyally.

‘Wait here please,’ the page said finally, at the top of a second flight of stairs.

‘Where are we?’ Gueryn wondered aloud.

‘Outside the King’s private study, sir. Please be seated.’ The boy gestured towards an open corridor with a stone bench fashioned on both sides out of the walls. The area was flooded with sunlight and by the soft, unmistakable fragrance of winterblossom. It was seductive. They strolled over to the balcony and stared into a small but exquisite orchard. Its beauty and perfume kept them silent in their own thoughts.

Soon enough an older man arrived quietly behind them. ‘It’s difficult to drag oneself away, isn’t it?’ the man said, his voice low and friendly. Gueryn assumed he must be the King’s secretary. When they turned, he added, ‘You must be Wyl Thirsk.’

Wyl nodded.

‘We all loved and greatly respected your fine father, son. He is deeply missed in our community.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Wyl stammered, unsure of what else to say, wishing people would allow him to heal that wound and not keep reminding him months after the hated event. This man meant no harm, though. It was their first meeting and only right that he would make mention of his prestigious lineage.

The soldier beside him cleared his throat. ‘Er, I am his guardian —’

‘Ah, yes, Gueryn le Gant, isn’t it?’ the man said. His manner was brisk yet kind. ‘Welcome to you both. Can I offer you something cool to drink? I gather we interrupted your training.’ The smile was genial.

‘Thank you, we’ll be fine,’ Gueryn answered politely.

‘I am the King’s secretary, Orto,’ their host said. ‘The King has requested a private discussion with the young man so I will ask you to remain here, Gueryn. Please sit, we shall call Wyl soon.’ He smiled again and departed.

Within a few minutes Orto returned. ‘Wyl, come with me now. You may leave your weapon and belt out here with Gueryn.’

Wyl did as he was asked and, with a glance over his shoulder towards his friend, followed the servant.

Massive oaken doors, carved with Morgravia’s crest, were opened before them. Wyl looked up at the keystone of the archway they passed through: carved into it was another fire-breathing warrior dragon, signalling that he was entering the private domain of a King … his King. The large chamber he entered had windows running the length of it and a stone fireplace at either end, again featuring the royal talisman.

Wyl had lost his bearings in the journey through the palace; he wondered what those windows looked out onto. But the sound of voices called him back from his distraction and he heard the scratching of ink on parchment.

‘Last one I hope?’ a gruff voice said.

‘It is, sire,’ another man’s voice answered and then the owner of that voice shuffled past them carrying rolls of documents.

‘Ah, Orto, you have the boy? Bring him in, bring him in.’

Wyl emerged fully into the study and came face to face with the man he had met only briefly once; the man his father had died protecting. Magnus had headed north to Felrawthy almost immediately after Wyl’s arrival and this was their first occasion to meet again. He noticed that the King was tall but stooped and he appeared much older, even since their first very hurried talk. Magnus, he noticed now, looked very little like Celimus, although the strapping physique was there. A gentle push from Orto, on his way out of the room, reminded Wyl that he was in the presence of his sovereign. He bowed low.

‘You look like your father, boy.’

It had been meant as a compliment but Wyl’s plain looks made him feel that almost any reference to them was a barb.

‘He always told me I look more like my grandfather, sire,’ he replied politely.

Magnus grinned then. ‘That’s probably true, son. But you remind me of how he was when we were both mere scamps together in this same castle.’

Wyl could tell the King meant it sincerely. He knew how fond the friends had been of each other and imagined that Magnus losing Fergys Thirsk would be like him losing Gueryn. More than just painful.

‘I miss him, sire,’ he admitted.

The King gazed down at him with soft eyes. ‘Me too, Wyl. So keenly that I still find myself talking to him now and then.’

Wyl regarded the King and saw no guile. He appeared nothing like his son in temperament either then, thought Wyl.

‘So, Wyl,’ the King said, sitting down and gesturing for Wyl to be seated too. ‘Tell me, how are we treating you in Pearlis? I imagine you must regret not being in that glorious world of Argorn. I know your father constantly did.’

‘Yes, sire, but … I am settling in.’

Magnus scrutinised the lad before him, sensing he was cautious like his father — and probably just as unforgiving if he was wronged, judging by that proud jut of his chin.

‘I have seen your sister about the place. What a sunny, pretty young thing she is. I trust she is happy?’

Wyl shrugged gently. ‘I think Ylena would be happy anywhere, your majesty, providing she has her dolls and fine dresses.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you for all that you’ve given her, sire. She is pretty, that’s true. She’s the lucky one in looks who took after my mother.’

He was startled by the King’s sudden laugh. ‘Don’t put yourself down, Wyl.’

‘No, sire. I’ll leave that to others.’

‘Ah.’

Orto re-entered the King’s study and brought with him a small tray with two cups of blood red wine.

‘Don’t tell old Gueryn, eh? He’ll think I’m corrupting you.’ The King winked.

Wyl could not help but like the man who sat before him. He wanted to be wary of him. He was the father of Celimus after all, but still it was hard not to enjoy his company.

‘Now here’s to you, young Wyl,’ the King said, lifting his glass.

‘And to your continuing good health, sire.’ The underlying message was not lost on Magnus.

‘Has it been hard settling in?’

‘Oh the usual stuff, sire.’

Wyl felt Magnus fix him with his direct gaze. ‘Tell me about Celimus,’ the King said.

‘What can I tell you, your majesty, that you don’t already know?’

The King paused and Wyl thought it was a telling hesitation. ‘Tell me any good points you’ve noticed about him.’

Now Wyl felt really cornered. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Magnus said gently. ‘I grasp more than people credit me, Wyl. Celimus has many imperfections within himself. On the outside, however, he is a truly remarkable individual. I freely admit, without any shame, that I think he will turn into one of the finest-looking men Morgravia has ever bred. Shar rest his mother’s soul,’ Magnus added, more out of habit. ‘I don’t know whether it’s because he lost his mother early, or because he has no siblings … or simply that I am a woeful father. Whatever the reasons, Celimus is not so remarkable on the inside. In fact I know him to have a darkness within which troubles me.’

Wyl nodded, fearful of what to say to a King making such a frank admission about his own son.

Magnus held him with a light blue gaze. ‘I’ve heard the two of you are enemies. Is this true?’

Wyl felt tongue-tied. He had no desire to lie to Magnus who was being so candid with him and he tried to be diplomatic in his response.

‘That’s a strong word, sire. I am Morgravian. I am prepared to die for my kingdom and for its ruler. I am no enemy to the King,’ he assured, horrified to think the King might think otherwise.

Instead Magnus grinned. ‘So like your old man. But perhaps you are prepared to die for this King, son. How about King Celimus?’

Wyl understood. ‘You obviously wish me to do something for you, sire,’ he said, pleased with his forthrightness in the presence of this powerful man.

The King sighed. ‘Yes, Wyl, I do. And it’s not going to be easy. I trusted your father all of my life, I trust his son now. Moments before your father died we joined our bleeding palms to make an oath. Your father’s deathbed wish was that I bring you back to Pearlis and make a General of you. You are a Thirsk and it is your birthright to head the Legion. But part of our oath was that we make our two sons blood brothers.’

Wyl had known nothing of this blood oath. He felt the slow crawl of a chill through him as Magnus continued.

‘I gave my word to your father — my closest friend, my blood brother — that his son would become my son.’ He paused again. Wyl said nothing, his silent thoughts racing ahead to guess what the King might ask of him. ‘Do I have your loyalty, my boy?’

Startled, Wyl quickly moved to kneel before the King. He placed his hand on his heart. ‘Yes, sire. You will never have to question it.’

The King nodded. ‘Good. I am elevating you to your father’s revered title of King’s Champion. It comes into effect today but I do not grant this position lightly. You despise my son.’ He held up his hand then to hush Wyl’s ready objection. ‘I know this — and he has given you little reason to think in any way highly of him, so I do not hold this against you. However, from now and especially from when he takes the throne you will protect him with your life, as your father protected me with his.

‘As of this moment you will shadow the Prince in all that he does. I don’t doubt for a second that many of his activities are distasteful, as I know my son has a penchant for cruel habits. Together we will try to change this. Make a friend of him, Wyl. Influence him. Everything which made your father the fine man he was is embodied in his only son — I know this to be true. Your reputation precedes you, boy. You have the qualities that make a special man, a leader of men, and I want you to do everything you can to imbue Celimus with those qualities.’

The boy tried to object.

‘No buts, Wyl. This is my command. You are already General to the Legion and Champion to the King, and one day you will be called to act for Celimus — at his command. In the intervening years, you will befriend the Prince and somehow, child, I pray your humility, your sense of right and wrong, your courage and your leadership will rub off and help him as he matures. I know I ask a lot of you, Wyl, but this is your duty now … your duty to me.’

The King’s eyes blazed as he reached forward and grabbed Wyl’s wrist. ‘Swear it to me, Wyl. Make this pact with your sovereign.’

Wyl felt his world suddenly spin as he put his other hand over his heart and gave the solemn oath to be ‘blood’ to Celimus.

Magnus suddenly dropped Wyl’s wrist and reached for his dagger. Wyl saw the blade glint as Magnus drew the sharp edge across his own palm; bright blood sprang instantly to the surface. Without hesitation, Wyl offered his own hand and the King repeated the process. The knife bit cruelly and swiftly through his young hand until it too yielded up its precious liquid. Wyl did not wince at the pain, but he suspected the King had deliberately cut deep enough to leave a scar — one that would always remind him of this oath.

‘You will protect the life of Celimus with yours, preferring to die by his hand than save your own life.’

They clasped fists, blood to blood.

‘I pledge it,’ Wyl affirmed.

‘You and he are to be as one body, one life.’

Wyl swallowed silently. ‘As though my blood runs in his veins. I swear it, sire.’

TWO

IN THE END IT was her eyes which gave them their excuse to hunt down Myrren.

Her eyes were bewitching indeed — one a piercing grey, the other an arresting green with flecks of warm brown. Lovely enough in isolation but so ill-matched as a pair they were alarming to behold. Little wonder then that as soon as those eyes had settled from their newborn blue to their strange final colouring, her parents had fled from the city of Pearlis to the sleepy hamlet of Baelup in the west, where they raised their only daughter in relative obscurity.

Both knew this facial oddity would symbolise much to the Stalkers, hungry for prey. Thankfully the family’s sudden departure was soon yesterday’s gossip and quickly forgotten. Meanwhile, the folk of Baelup were known to be of liberal mind. The father, a wealthy physician, was a great boon for a community lacking in any medicinal talent, whilst the mother, a scholar, was a special bonus for the youngsters of Baelup.

Not prone to the old supersitious fears of their city cousins, the folk of Baelup welcomed the gentle child, Myrren, with her strange eyes and shy smile.

So when the Witch Stalkers finally came some nineteen years later it was such a shock that the physician’s weak heart had given out. He had died at their feet upon answering their terrifying banging at the door. The mother was helpless; all she could do was rail at them, cursing them for having ever been born. She had finally slid to the floor in despair as she had watched Myrren, now a beautiful young woman, being dragged into the street.

The Stalkers had gone through their usual pointless list of contrived accusations — everything from disease in the south to an irritating bunion on the King’s foot was now firmly linked to Myrren’s devil craft.

And this was merely the beginning, Myrren knew. She wondered why they had come for her; how could they have even known of her after all the care family and friends had taken? And then she had recalled the noble. Yes, it made sense. He had made unwelcome advances towards her during a brief stay in Baelup’s only inn where she helped out in the kitchen.

As fate would have it, she had crossed the busy hallway at the same time he had. The noble’s mind was too clouded from his liquor to baulk at her odd eyes at the time but he was not so much in his cups that he could forget her public rebuke or the harshness of her words. She had regretted them the instant they had cut loose from her mouth.

Myrren realised he must have returned to the capital and, still stinging from her refusal to spend time between the sheets with him, had whispered of the strange-eyed woman living in one of the outlying hamlets. She remembered him well — middle-aged, hugely wealthy and influential. He had the ear of the King, she presumed, and pressure had obviously been brought to bear.

It had been a long time since anyone had been accused of witchcraft and captured for trial. They must be desperate for a burning, she decided, bravely ignoring the men as they deliberately tore her garments to bare her flesh in places. She could hear her mother still crying inside the house; could see her beloved father slumped in their doorway with the new puppy her mother had recently given her whimpering over his body.

There would be no escaping the Witch Stalkers. Her life would end … if not this night, then soon. Myrren steadied herself as they bound her with a long rope to one of the horses. She expected she would be forced to walk in its dust all the way back to Pearlis and knew her captors would just as happily drag her if she fell. But not too far perhaps, she reckoned, for that would spoil the fun for later.

Myrren was tired of hiding anyway. She stood to her full height which was not inconsiderable, flicked back her chestnut hair and made her resolve. She cast a final thought towards Knave, her pup, promising she would find a way to send someone to care for him, for surely her mother would die of a broken heart in the coming day.

As they led her away, she knew she would not capitulate to the Confessor’s desires.

She would die with courage.

Pearlis loved a witch-burning. Nothing could bring the city folk out faster from their homes than the clamour of the cathedral bells that signified a witch had been discovered and sentenced to die for her sins. And it had been more than a decade since the capital had heard that doleful clang which, according to tradition, was a sound the brides of the devil could not abide. It began with a particular single bell pealing six times every six minutes for six days to announce the discovery of a witch. Six was the devil’s number. Once the trial began, the rhythm would change to a single sombre peal every six minutes for its duration.

In truth, very few continued to believe in sorcery under Magnus’s rule. However, the older gentry of Morgravia, particularly those whose parents had been seduced by the Zerques, and who themselves had fallen under Queen Adana’s spell, remained suspicious of any who might show a leaning towards the fey. The now fading tradition of wariness had been grounded in the practice of Morgravian Kings to keep a hag within the castle. An old crone, usually harmless enough, she brewed healing teas for the royals and was called upon at births, marriages and deaths. She also performed readings and sightings for the King, in order to make prophecies.

The first indication that the ‘hag’ influence was waning occurred about one hundred and fifty years before Magnus came to the throne. According to the history books, his forefather King Bordyn kept a hag who favoured the drawing of blood for her prophesying. After the loss of two heirs and a wife in a series of accidental deaths, Bordyn objected not only to his hag’s unsavoury practices but to her prophecies of doom and gloom for Morgravia. When tragedy struck again, twice in the same year, with the death of wife number two and her unborn babe after she toppled down the castle stairs, and the routing of his Legion by the Briavellian Guard, Bordyn declared his hag an instrument of darkness. Branded a witch, she was tortured and burned in order to cleanse Morgravia of her stain. It was the first time in the history of Morgravia that a person had been tried and punished for having magical influence. Uncannily, after the hag’s death, life for Bordyn took a turn for the better. The King lived to a ripe age and, taking a third wife, sired a son who outlived him and inherited the throne.

During this period of prosperity, the belief began to grow that hags — or witches, as they were now called — were a blight on society. Many innocent people, who had openly practised the healing arts and even sold spell confections for everything from wards against a poor harvest to helping a woman keep her man happy, were hunted down. Around this time, a theologist called Dramdon Zerque emerged, preaching a new order that claimed Shar himself denounced sorcery because it challenged belief in the god’s omnipotent powers. Zerque was a gifted orator with a brilliant mind — skills which worked especially effectively on the gentry, who embraced the radical new religion, along with its message to annihilate all who showed even the slightest talent for those arts considered magical.

It was Zerque who coined the term ‘witch-smeller’, when he proclaimed that ‘anyone who even smelled of magical taint should be brought in and given the opportunity to confess their sins’. Using Shar as his battering ram, he challenged Morgravians — and later Briavellians — to take up the fight against witches and warlocks. His influence spread, reaching beyond Morgravia and Briavel across the oceans to as far west as Parrgamyn, where the new order was embraced with a special vigour. It was this more fervent form of the religion that Queen Adana and her contingent brought back to Morgravia all those years later, turning Pearlis into a Zerque stronghold.

Interestingly, in these more modern times it was the rural areas that dismissed the Zerques as religious zealots, claiming they threatened Shar’s gentle teachings far more than any hedgewitch might. Country folk simply ignored the Order’s claims and those areas became a tentative sanctuary for those with magical tendencies.

Now, with an enlightened King — who had little tolerance for the gossip that the witch-hunting Zerques might be finding a foothold in the realm again — the opportunities to persecute any so-called practitioners were few and far between. As soon as Queen Adana had died, her death taking with it the last key supporter of the Zerque Order, Magnus had grabbed his chance to stamp out the practice of persecution. It was his cold and cruel wife who had encouraged more of the Zerques into Morgravia; she who had encouraged they make the pilgrimage to this ‘peasant’ realm across the ocean from her own country a long way to the northwest where life for the lower caste was intolerably cheap. Her father had been determined to do trade with the southern realms of the eastern peninsula and considered a marriage necessary to build those important bridges where his merchants could move freely amongst these ‘barbarian’ lands.

Magnus had been seduced by the audacious glamour of the bride on offer. One look at the twenty-one-year-old Adana had seen desire take precedence over prudence and his acceptance was immediate. It was barely a matter of days following the lavish royal wedding some months later that Magnus had first grasped the enormity of his poor decision. His friend and counsel, Fergys Thirsk, had argued passionately against the union in those intervening months. He had suggested that the gap in cultural differences was yawning, not to mention the stunning age difference of almost three decades, and could not envisage how Magnus and Adana would overcome such obstacles.

‘I want her!’ Magnus had resisted, recalling the dark beauty who had already been offered.

‘She is rather young, sire. Your fourth decade is well behind you.’

‘And you can talk, Thirsk, courting Helyna of Ramon … barely into womanhood,’ the King had countered, wanting to hurt back, for the truth of his friend’s barb had hit home.

He remembered the words of ever-wise Fergys Thirsk as if they had been spoken yesterday. And Magnus had never stopped wishing that he had listened to his friend’s well-intentioned wisdom instead of following what he soon realised was nothing more than lust.

The promised dowry came but Morgravia was already a rich realm. What he had not bargained on were the zealots who followed Adana and, using her influence, weaseled their way into the fabric of Morgravian life promoting fear and loathing. In truth the Zerques were already well established in Morgravia but Adana’s eager priests brought a new verve to their fanaticism.

The royals’ dislike for each other extended to the marriage bed. Adana despised Magnus so much as touching her. On their wedding night the King despaired that nothing in his wife burned for him except contempt — and the power he could provide.

He gave her none as a result. She gave him only her derision.

‘Your hateful grasping hands and loathsome wrinkled skin could never entice me, old man,’ she had hurled at him on the very night of her marriage vows.

Twice in their time together he had forced himself upon her and deeply regretted his desperation on both occasions. It remained a wonder to the couple that Celimus was ever born a few years later. His son was conceived in anger and horror when Magnus impregnated Adana on that second and most brutal of rapes. He never touched his wife sexually again; hardly touched her at all, save to take her arm as required on formal occasions.

No one offered more silent thanks to Shar than King Magnus at the untimely, though suspicious death of the Queen. Whilst the rest of Morgravia publicly displayed its shock, Magnus found himself going through the motions of grief whilst inwardly rejoicing. It was a release he shared only with Fergys Thirsk, and his friend never once reminded the King of his early advice.

As soon as Adana’s body was cold in its tomb, Magnus had begun systematically breaking down the Zerque structure and in his reign could claim that he had single-handedly achieved the destruction of an Order which had been centuries in the making. But he had made concessions — as one must during campaigns of change — to give those gentry who clung to the old ways time to adjust to a new regime.

Magnus had agreed that only in the event that there be damning evidence brought to bear against a man or woman, would he permit the traditional trial of that individual. In the years since Adana’s death only two witches had been brought to trial — only one of those had burned. He permitted a judge and jury to be embodied in one man — a fellow called Lymbert — and gave him the authority to roam the realm with his three Witch Stalkers, more as an appeasement for the destruction which the Crown had visited on the entire Zerque Order, than for witch persecution.

‘It will keep the traditionalists quiet, Fergys,’ he had explained to his friend who, though proud of the King’s determination to destroy the Zerques, did not appreciate the new twist on the old theme. ‘We let those who remain true to the old fanaticism believe we still pursue the devil’s doings. In the meantime we dismantle the structure which has, for too many decades, brought fear and loathing into Morgravia.’

‘And then?’ his friend had asked.

‘And then we wait for a new generation to finish what we have begun,’ the King had replied with certainty. ‘A generation that has not known the terror of the Zerque Witch Stalkers and will therefore hold no faith in them.’

Fergys had agreed that a handful of deaths — if any at all — were preferable to the early years of persecution of suspected witches, usually innocents with the unfortunate afflictions of cleft palates or club feet. The introduction of a single Confessor and the binding of the law which gave the sovereign final say over any cases was a worthy compromise during the Years of Abolition, as Magnus termed it. Fergys was not fully convinced that granting concessions to those still suspicious of herbwomen or people of irregular features might not encourage the fanatics to take their fervour underground, but he conceded the sense of giving the King ultimate say over who might be brought to trial. He had to trust that Magnus would frustrate the progression of cases to such an extent that the practice of witch-hunting would simply peter out.

Confessor Lymbert, in the meantime, had walked a careful path, never overstepping his authority, and as a result his role quietly continued long after the abolition of the Zerques had been achieved. Magnus regretted this and had made a promise to himself that he would abolish the office of Confessor. The war with Briavel had distracted him, and then his General’s untimely death had so profoundly affected the King’s health that he had paid little attention to domestic affairs for some time. Lymbert had survived and, sadly, his Witch Stalkers had found Myrren.

King Magnus hated the sound of those doleful bells and he knew as the clangour began that morning that the few remaining Witch Stalkers would be understandably desperate for a trial and a kill. They had found her then. He had hoped the girl Myrren and her family had taken the sensible precaution of fleeing their village but then he knew Lord Rokan to be far too wily to allow such a thing to happen.

Magnus had pieced it together in his mind, even though Rokan had only told half the story. It was obvious to the King that Rokan had made unwelcome advances to this youngster, Myrren, and when spurned had decided to get his own back. He had a long history of indiscretions outside of his marriage and this had been just another attempt to get a young woman into his bed. It was a tragedy, Magnus felt, that Rokan had stumbled across this particular girl’s village.

The problem for Magnus was that the noble’s accusation carried weight in the eyes of the Stalkers and those who still harboured deep-rooted suspicion of any man, woman or child who might show some physical difference. The Zerques had preached for a century or more that a person born with a caul, more or less than ten fingers or toes or — Shar forbid — ill-matched eyes must be a member of the devil’s clan.

Magnus might have officially dismantled the power of the Zerque Order, but he could not control the minds and hearts of his people. He knew that some in his realm still used the odd warding against sorcery, or wore specific colours on certain days, and whilst these seemed little more than harmless superstitions he also knew how easily they could develop into full-blown fear, a baying for blood. He hoped that any genuine sentient — if there was such a person — would have the wisdom to keep his or her practices secret.

No such chance for young Myrren — witch or not, her case was now very much public. Magnus did not personally believe the girl was guilty of the charges, but only privately scorned those who did. No matter his own personal opinion, the law — his law — provided for Myrren’s trial. And Morgravian justice was not renowned for its mercy where a guilty verdict of devil craft was handed down. Worse, he knew what lewd enjoyment some would derive from seeing her tortured and debased — not least of all, Lord Rokan — and there was nothing he could do to stop it now.

Rokan’s evidence was crushing and the law was sadly on his side. When Lord Rokan had called for a private audience with the King and had seemed utterly determined to have this woman brought to trial, Magnus had felt his hands were tied. Odd-coloured eyes of all things were the single most damning characteristic a person living in Morgravia could possess. The girl was well and truly doomed by the peculiarity of her features. He felt sorry for her, but the time to save her had past. At the point when Magnus could have intervened, he had instead been distracted by anger towards his son. Celimus’s irresponsible behaviour was drawing far too much attention and the boy was still only sixteen. Shar help them when he was of an age where his father’s height and wrath could no longer cow him. But mostly he had been feeling an uncontrollable rage at the fact that he was getting old. The physics had given him the dark news only that morning that his days were numbered. Magnus was fearful it would not be sufficient time to mould Celimus into a responsible heir to the throne, to create a true King from the ruin of his marriage.

His anger was fully stoked by the time Lord Rokan strode in and began throwing his weight around. Celimus had not excused himself either, which would have been the polite move under the circumstances. Instead he had hung on Rokan’s every word, his sly smile creeping wider across his face. He even had the audacity to join the conversation and this was the taper which lit the dry straw on his father’s smouldering mood.

‘Go ahead, Father,’ he had said, just short of a sneer. ‘A witch trial would take the heat from those in Pearlis I have apparently offended. Deflect attention from the Crown’s wayward heir and give them something to really talk about.’ The mocking smile had returned, challenging the King.

Magnus could tell his son had no ability to emotionally touch on the repercussions of his own actions. He was a young man without love and all his parents had given him, it seemed, was the capacity to be cruel and self-centred. The King of Morgravia realised in a moment of clarity that he had no one to blame for Celimus’s ways but himself and Adana. If he had been a better father, a more affectionate and loving one — even just a father who had been more present through the child’s early years — it might have made a difference.

Instead what stood before him was a clever, avaricious individual who was, to all intents, heartless. A frightening combination for the person who would sit on Morgravia’s throne. That day’s indiscretion had simply been the latest in a long line of acts which made his father despair of him, hate him even.

Rokan had continued to bluster and Celimus had egged his father on. In a fit of pique, Magnus agreed, if just to get both detestable men out of his chamber. Had he any inkling that he would reign, without succumbing to his illness, for another six years, he might never have let it happen. The Crown had ultimate authority. He could have saved Myrren if despair had not ruled his heart that day.

He could not know the repercussions of that angry retort by which he gave permission for Myrren of Baelup to be brought in and put to trial.

THREE

CELIMUS WAS IRRITATED. HE enjoyed belittling Wyl but still this person he hated almost as much as his own father was not giving him the sort of smug satisfaction he wanted. He would be King one day and he wanted to see this one in particular cringing early to him. He was Fergys Thirsk’s son after all and Celimus had despised Fergys since he was old enough to measure the bond between his father and his General. Perhaps without the red-headed soldier in the King’s life, his father might have paid more attention to the son, once so desperate for his praise.

Now all Celimus had to offer his King was contempt.

The rift had come when his mother died twelve years previous. Whispers around the court had hinted that perhaps her death was not quite the accident it had seemed at first. Try though his carers might, they could not protect the sharp, highly intelligent four-year-old from absorbing the enormity of what was being gossiped. If he craved his father’s praise, he worshipped his mother ten times as much. Although he had sensed her cool detachment from Morgravian society and its people — especially his father — Celimus also grasped that this aloofness did not extend to him. Celimus she loved with an intensity. He was every bit her child. Whilst his father was golden in looks, their son had her dark, exotic glamour to his features. Olive skin and black lustrous hair meant Celimus was Adana all over again. She granted him his height was no doubt inherited from the King but that was all. Men should be tall, she argued. For sovereigns she felt it was a prerequisite. She had no doubt that Celimus would be an imposing man in years to come — he was already an arresting child to look at. And with it came a bright and agile mind which she adored. Adana made good use of those early years, manipulating her son’s thoughts, trying to poison him against his father — the peasant, she called him — but not to much avail. It remained a failure of hers. The young Celimus craved the attention of Magnus but she was relieved to note the King neither had time nor inclination to level much interest towards the boy. She hated the red-headed General even more and used his presence as a weapon to turn Celimus against the King.

‘He loves that Thirsk fellow more than us, child. See how they bend their heads together. Plotting. Always conniving.’

Celimus had not understood the grown-up words then but he had grasped her meaning. She accused Thirsk of constantly filling his own coffers at the King’s expense; she laughed hard at the shy and reticent creature Thirsk had finally married. ‘Peasant for peasant!’ she had spat at Celimus one day. Although he had thought Helyna Thirsk quite pretty, he was only a few years old, and so believed his mother must surely be right. And when she had finally seen the Thirsks’ first child, Adana had attacked the infant’s red hair, claiming it was the sign of a warlock. Magnus had overheard her snide comment and his reaction was the closest Celimus believed his father had come to striking his mother. His parents had hardly spoken after that. They had never behaved as a family might — eating together or playing together. Magnus was absent as a father, preferring his war rooms, his soldiers, the hunt and other manly pursuits.

It was after that incident between his parents that Celimus first began to feel the notion of rejection of his father. Watching the tall man’s anger stoke so fast had frightened him. His mother had fallen to the floor as if struck, though he knew his father had pulled the blow just in time. She had shrieked and writhed on the flagstones of that courtyard before rising to cast a final cold slur at the man she despised.

Celimus remembered it well.

‘I would rather die than have you touch me again, you pig!’

And the chilling, prophetic reply. ‘Perhaps that can be arranged,’ his father had said, just as coldly, adding that she should be gone from his presence.

Celimus had not been the only one in earshot of the harsh exchange and so when the hunting accident occurred not long after, it was a small leap for many who had heard the gossip. Anyone who knew Magnus would refute the claim fiercely. Anyone who knew him well enough would know the man was more than capable of such a thing. Whether he killed his wife or whether it was an accident remained a tantalising mystery to the people of Morgravia. It was a matter never discussed, even between Magnus and Fergys Thirsk, and over the years it had become a buried issue, as cold as the tomb which enclosed the subject of that gossip.

Celimus never forgot it, however. He had heard his father openly threaten Adana. And from the day of her death he had privately sworn to make his father pay. As a child there was little more he could do than remove all affections. Drawing on memories of his mother, he became cold and distant towards Magnus who, by the same token, had begun an all out effort to bring his son closer. But it was too late.

Too late for the father to give love. Too late for the child to want it. In a youngster’s warped way Celimus had linked the always present Fergys Thirsk with wanting Adana dead too and maturing had not eased the young Prince’s attitude towards his father’s closest friend. When the news of Thirsk’s passing had begun to filter through Stoneheart, Celimus had rejoiced at the old General’s death. He had hoped it would drive a stake of pain so hard into his father’s heart that he might die of the agony and loneliness. But now he was having to deal with the hated seed of Thirsk’s loins. And the son appeared to have the same qualities which the father had showed before him.

Celimus had deliberately never given the lad a chance. From the moment of Wyl’s arrival at Stoneheart Celimus had set about a campaign of destruction — he would break Wyl’s spirit and send him running home to Argorn. But so far the lad’s keen desire to follow in his father’s footsteps was giving him sufficient grit to withstand Celimus’s underhanded tactics. He did not care for Wyl’s defiant gaze either, that remained even when he was seemingly paying homage.

The Prince had heard the change in the bells a day or so ago. He knew the witch trial was in progress now and it had given him an idea for how he might bring the sensitive Thirsk boy down. Discreet enquiries had told him this afternoon was the right time to strike.

‘I don’t care where you have to go, but you find him!’ Celimus bellowed at the scared young page. ‘Don’t come back here without Thirsk,’ he yelled towards the retreating figure.

Wyl was not so far away on this particular afternoon but had made himself scarce with Alyd Donal. Fortune had smiled upon him a few months after the meeting with the King. A new boy, the same age as Wyl, had been brought into the group. He too came from a close family and because they were both feeling a similar emotional dislocation the boys became inseparable.

In his wisdom Gueryn had done everything within his power to encourage the friendship and had gone so far as to include Alyd in his personal training with Wyl who, much to his lament, now spent long periods out of the yards and in tutoring with Celimus.

Wyl had kept his promise to the King and gone to extraordinary lengths to make himself as available as he could to Celimus. Deep down, though, Gueryn could sense that nothing had changed in how they felt about each other. His quiet sessions with Alyd, who was as open a personality as Wyl was closed, revealed how strong Wyl’s disgust for the wayward Prince was. But as Alyd had explained, his friend had forged the ability within himself to simply accept his lot. He would not join in with any of the mischief which the swaggering Celimus promoted and yet, like a shadow, was never very far away.

Wyl watched and Wyl protected where he could, often warning Celimus of impending discovery of his latest scheme or diverting attention to prevent him from being found out. He could see that Celimus, unaware of his father’s pact with Wyl, could not help but be amused by his new-found devotion, although Wyl could never fully suppress his smouldering contempt.

Ugly to his beautiful eyes, Celimus took immense pleasure in reminding Wyl of his plainness. To his credit, Wyl accepted the taunts with grace; he knew the Prince was, for once, not lying in this regard. Nevertheless the words stung. It was Alyd who always helped him retrieve his sense of humour and whenever the pair found time alone together explosions of laughter could be heard.

Gueryn firmly believed Shar had sent a golden-haired angel to them in the shape of Alyd, for laughter had been rare in Wyl before his arrival, and now six months on, the boy lit up whenever Alyd was near. Alyd’s sharp wit and easy style were foils for Wyl’s remote, yet very direct manner, and where Wyl was brutally honest, Alyd had the gift of gilding the lily, always prone to exaggeration which is what made him funny for Wyl. Alyd’s storytelling powers had become legend, even in his short time at Stoneheart; a minor event, such as Lord Berry’s wig slipping when the old fellow napped during a council, took on gigantic, hysterical proportions when retold through the imagination of Alyd Donal.

Wyl loved Alyd for his friendship, his ability to make him laugh out loud and for his interest in Ylena. It never bothered Alyd on the rare occasions she tagged along with them and he appeared to take as much delight in entertaining her as Ylena did in accompanying them. And whilst she was blossoming into the same golden beauty her mother had once possessed, the boys had put on some height and bulk. Gueryn had seen to it that if Wyl was not going to be especially tall, then a strong physical presence would impress his men in years to come. He devised for Wyl and Alyd a special training routine which worked on their boyish muscles and the results were impressive already.

‘You’ll be my second, I promise,’ Wyl said solemnly to Alyd as they chewed on apples near the lake that flanked Stoneheart. It was a free afternoon; the day was cold but the sun shone and both boys had nothing better to do than lie on their backs, hidden from the castle’s world and stare up at the sky, making plans as they dreamed of soldiering together in the Legion.

‘How do you know they’ll allow it?’ Alyd replied.

Wyl snorted. ‘Who is they? I will be they,’ he said in a rare show of arrogance. ‘I am General of the Morgravian Legion.’

‘Title only,’ Alyd corrected.

Wyl ignored him. ‘And in a few years, I will lead our army. My father had total control of the men. And I will have only those I trust as my captains and lieutenants.’

‘But what if —’ Alyd broke off as a dishevelled and weary-looking page suddenly crested the hillock they lay against.

‘Oh what now?’ Wyl muttered. ‘Ho, Jon!’

The relief was evident on the youngster’s face. ‘You’ve got to come, Master Thirsk — he commands you.’

Wyl grimaced, resigned. He stood. ‘The Prince?’

Jon nodded, still breathing hard from his exertions. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. He’s in a hot temper, too.’

‘Lovely — just how we like him,’ Alyd said, grinning and standing as well. ‘How did you find us anyway, young Jon?’

The boy’s eyes flicked nervously at Wyl. ‘Your sister, Master Thirsk. I’m sorry but I had to find you.’

‘That’s all right, think no more on it.’

‘We’ll just run her through with our swords later,’ Alyd reassured him.

Jon looked aghast.

‘He’s being witty, Jon. As if he would harm the girl he loves.’

It was Alyd’s turn to look shocked. He threw his apple core at his friend, then in a blink he knocked Wyl backwards and they were both rolling down the hill with the poor page running after them.

‘How dare you!’ Alyd accused, not sure whether to laugh or punch his friend.

‘It’s obvious to a blind man, you fool.’

‘She’s not even eleven, curse you!’

‘Yes and when you’re twenty, she’ll be sixteen summers and equally eligible. Don’t deny it, Alyd Donal. You’re starry-eyed over my baby sister. But I actually approve … lucky for you.’

‘I refuse to prolong this ridiculous conversation any further,’ Alyd said but Wyl could see a treacherous red flush at his neck — a sure sign that Alyd’s protestations were empty.

He grinned. And then noticed the trembling Jon. ‘Shar forgive us! Sorry, Jon. I’m coming. Lead the way. See you, Alyd — don’t get into any trouble whilst I’m away.’

‘Watch your back, Wyl. He’s never up to any good.’

At sixteen the Prince’s stature had undergone a major transformation and it felt to Wyl as though Celimus towered above him, making his own recent spurt of growth irrelevant. The Prince had broadened as well. He was indeed breathtaking in looks, but spoiled by the scowl.

‘Don’t keep me waiting like that again, Thirsk.’

‘My apologies, your highness,’ Wyl said, adopting his usual politeness. ‘How can I assist?’ he added, moving the conversation quickly forward. He knew from experience that if he did not it would follow the traditional path of insult.

‘You’re well fortunate that I am in a good mood today.’

‘I am glad of it, highness. How can I make it brighter?’ he said, almost smirking at his own sycophantic manner. Alyd had taught him how to say something in a sugary way whilst meaning something quite different. Wyl had learned that this tactic worked well on Celimus who was too vain and preoccupied to notice. Alyd would be proud of him.

‘Back to your duties,’ Celimus said to the page and Jon trotted off, happy to be away from the growls of the Prince. Celimus returned his olive gaze to the lad his father had implored him to get closer to. He sneered. He hated Wyl Thirsk and wished the old man would hurry up and die so he could claim the throne. His first task would be to end the Thirsk notoriety once and for all.

For now, though, he must be seen to be going along with his father’s request and in truth, Wyl was certainly helpful on occasion. Well, today he intended to expand the lad’s education — surely the King could not object to such a kindness?

He smiled viciously and Wyl wondered what wickedness lay behind it.

‘Come along, then,’ Celimus said chirpily. ‘I have a special treat for you.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise, Wyl.’

Myrren’s bruises and cuts had begun healing. She now sat shivering in the dungeons of Stoneheart where they had brought her days ago. The hunger pangs of near starvation had recently settled into a numbness. She had refused the deliberately salty food they had thrown into the cell, knowing full well no water would be offered later when her parched throat would scream for it. And after a few days of such treatment the raging thirst would be enough to send one mad, as it had some poor soul a few cells down. She was the only Stalkers’ prey in the dungeon and thus inwardly accepted that she would offer the best sport.

They were preparing her for the ‘trial’ which would extract her eventual confession under torture. Myrren could hear the mournful ringing of the bells and was half tempted to fall to the damp flagstones and writhe about as witches were apparently meant to. That would soon bring them running, excited that she had been found out. It would save a lot of pain, she realised grimly. She could just confess and be done. They would kill her anyway so why suffer more than was necessary?

A small voice inside begged her to make it easy for herself. Death was coming whichever way she looked at it and it could either be a merciful end by fire after possibly days of agony or she imagined it could be swift and relatively painless; a brief confession and a blade into the throat. Myrren thought of the flames. They frightened her more than the notion of torture, which seemed harder to imagine. But she had no trouble picturing herself bound and screaming as the fire melted and consumed her flesh.

The trial — as had been explained to her by a tall, hook-nosed creature who had introduced himself as Confessor Lymbert — had three categories. Lymbert, whose name Myrren had recognised with a sinking heart, preferred to call these categories ‘degrees’. The word made him smile each time he uttered it.

Myrren had already undergone Lymbert’s so called first-degree. Apart from the permitted rape by one of his assistants in which her virginity was torn away from her, she had been stripped, bound and flogged in front of a group of hooded men. They were presumably remnants of Zerques whom she realised were far more interested in viewing her naked body in pain than extracting anything more than her helpless shrieks.

Myrren had always believed that King Magnus was not in favour of these fanatics, that he had crushed them and their Order. Her parents had not shared her optimism. They had always warned her to be careful.

‘It’s your eyes, my love,’ her father would gently say. ‘The zealots will not see your beauty or hear the intelligence of your words. They will see only the mismatch of your eyes and all the old superstitions will rise up to frighten them.’

She had known since she was old enough to converse with others that she was different and was being protected by her parents. Her mother had once confessed the constant anxiety she and her father held for Myrren. She too had referred to her daughter’s eyes and the old fear.

‘Poke them out, then!’ Myrren had once suggested angrily, much to her parents’ dismay. She had not meant to shock them but she was tired of the constant care she took to distract strangers from looking at her full in the face. Tired of the scarves and shawls her mother insisted she wore when out and about.

It was never going to change. The fear was ancient and, though Morgravians were more enlightened and even openly dismissive of the existence of magic these days, the need to privately ward against things of sorcery still pervaded. Myrren had wished she did possess the power to change the colour of her eyes because she had known the Witch Stalkers and their whisperings would hover around her for all of her life. She remembered how she had felt hollow after being so abrupt with the noble, sensing immediately that it could lead to trouble simply because of old-fashioned superstition about eyes — although she was past caring once his unwelcome hand had slipped beneath her skirts. His drunken breath made her feel ill and his decrepit and desperate desires brought a wave of disgust. Her contempt showed in her rebuke. And now she was paying the price.

Nevertheless, she would give no satisfaction to these men.

And so after the first couple of licks from the whip which brought her shrill objections, she had clamped her teeth as hard as she could and uttered no further sound. She would give them nothing of herself, not even her groans.

Another woman, far older than her, had received similar treatment simultaneously and she had cried throughout, begging for pity. She was accused of slaying her husband but no one paid any attention to the old burns, the bruises, the obviously previously broken and now twisted limbs. Here, clearly, was a woman tormented by a brutal husband. It mattered not. In finding the courage to kill him, she would now pay with her own life. The flogging had finally stopped and both women had remained bent over barrels, inhaling whatever air they could drag into their lungs to steady their trembling limbs and shattered nerves. The pain from the bleeding welts on Myrren’s back had been so intense and all-consuming it became part of her. She had somehow been able to absorb it and put it aside. Moments later she had been turned and strapped to a post. She recalled ignoring the cloudy messages of pain from her back as it had chafed against the rough timber. Still naked, the men had then enjoyed watching her body from a different angle, but more importantly, she had been able to witness what was happening to her companion.

They had obviously decided, Myrren deduced, that she should be saved for future entertainment — a suspected witch, after such a dearth, was to be savoured after all. Myrren had watched mournfully as the other woman had been dragged from her barrel.

‘Put her boots on,’ Lymbert had commanded, bored with this one, and Myrren had closed her eyes. She knew what was coming, for Lymbert had already taken sincere delight in giving her a guided tour of this torture chamber.

The sagging woman had been hauled jabbering towards a bench where she had been pushed into a sitting position.

‘Bind her hands,’ Lymbert had ordered.

‘I beg you, sir,’ the victim had beseeched and Myrren had clenched her eyelids tight and had tried to close off her hearing but could not. She knew there would be no mercy now, not for a killer … certainly not for one who would not admit to murdering in cold blood.

Two specially crafted vices had then been clamped around the woman’s feet. She had been still too much in a swoon from the pain of her flogging to even realise that more pain was coming. Needless to say it had not taken too many twists of the cruel screws to shatter the shin bone in one of her legs, at which point the victim had screeched a confession, agreeing that she had in fact pre-planned and then murdered her husband without remorse.

Myrren could tell that the Confessor had little interest in pursuing the truth, particularly in the cases of common criminals. With her knack for perception, Myrren understood that Lymbert did not view extracting confessions from thieves, bandits and murderers as his appointed duty. It seemed he wanted the old woman dealt with as quickly as possible, in order to pursue his real interest — the annihilation of witches and warlocks, what he called the curse of society. Myrren’s father had once shared a rumour he had heard that Lymbert’s grandparents had been fervent Zerques, whose only daughter had supposedly been killed by a suspected witch four decades previous. As a result, right from childhood Lymbert had harboured a grudge against anyone who dealt in matters of magic — and extended this to herb men and women, whom he believed drew on devil craft for their healings. Fearful for their daughter, Myrren’s parents had gathered as much information as possible about the Confessor. Lymbert was renowned for being so stringent in his investigations that he never brought a victim to trial without their conviction being a certainty — and Myrren knew it would have taken only one glance at her eyes for him to be sure of winning a conviction in her case.

Myrren opened those same odd eyes now and fought back tears at the memory of the older woman’s terror. She remembered how Lymbert had turned and smiled directly at her as he signed the woman’s death warrant. The message Myrren received from that cold grin had been unmistakable. He was reserving her for much harsher treatment. The woman had been carried off and not heard from again, presumably despatched that same day.

Lymbert’s assistant, the same one who had used her body, had then untied Myrren, blowing his foul breath into her face as he had whispered all the other sexual obscenities he would like to inflict on her. He had deliberately let her fall when the bindings had come loose and had then savagely grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her feet but still she had given none of those present the satisfaction they so desperately wanted.

‘Back to her cell,’ Lymbert had commanded, unmoved by her courage. ‘The Witch Myrren of Baelup will undergo second-degree torture in three days,’ Lymbert had proclaimed to all present. Then he had looked at her. ‘That should give you sufficient time, my dear, to lick your wounds,’ he had chuckled softly at his jest, ‘and perhaps loosen your tongue.’

So now she sat in the dungeon contemplating the next stage, when Lymbert and his henchmen would get down to the real business of torture. Myrren was not sure whether it was day or night. The cell was small, windowless and airless save whatever fetid air might leak up the corridor and through her bars. She huddled herself on the ground, naked save for a rough scrap of blanket crawling with biting insects. Nevertheless it was all she had and the young woman wrapped herself as best she could, turning away from the doorway.

She thought of her parents but did not cry this time — it seemed every pointless tear had leaked from her body. But then she thought of the black puppy and tears surged again. He had been a special present and had brought such joy. Myrren had called him Knave. He was abandoned now — she felt sure her mother would not be of a state of mind to care about a dog.

‘I wish I could fight back,’ she whispered. ‘If I were a witch, I’d seek revenge.’

The tears came for Knave and with them a voice in her head.

Fear not, my child. You are no witch but you will have your vengeance.

‘Who speaks?’ she whispered, terrified, whipping her head around in the darkness.

I am Elysius, the man spoke into her mind.

A few hours later Myrren felt exhausted but at peace. She was amazed that she could think so calmly about the inescapable trauma which lay ahead for her. Elysius had explained much. Now she understood. He had urged her to be brave. She realised she had no choice to be anything but courageous.

Lymbert and his henchmen were preparing to come for her. The Confessor had sent her some items of clothing. Through his aide he insisted she wear them but she soon found out they were nothing more sophisticated than a piece of rough cloth, with a hole for her head, and another strip of fabric for a belt. Myrren wondered if Lymbert had suddenly had a change of heart and would allow her a modicum of dignity through her trial. But she was an intelligent and perceptive young woman and nothing about Lymbert’s conduct so far could convince her that he possessed any empathy for his victims. She dismissed her notion as wishful but gladly donned the garment. In sudden inspiration she used the blunt spoon, which sat amongst the congealed mess that passed as food in this place, to scratch a message onto one of the stones. It made her feel defiant in these last hours of her life.

Myrren considered her torture now. Lymbert’s choice would most likely be the rack, for his eyes had lit up at its mention during her tour, and probably thumbscrews, which she had seen the Confessor almost lovingly stroke when he had presented them to her.

But Myrren was wrong.

When they led her once again into the main torture chamber it seemed he had reserved something far more special for her. Many more people had gathered, including the smug Lord Rokan, invited no doubt to savour the results of his connivings. In fact the room was crowded with men, none hooded this time, eager to witness her trial and the confession.

As she had entered there had been talking, some jocular and a few voices raised in obvious excitement and anticipation of what was to come. Her arrival had all but silenced the chamber. Myrren, fuelled by her strange conversation with the man she knew only as Elysius, felt brazen. She raised her head and challenged her audience with a compelling gaze which saw most of the men clear their throats and cast their eyes towards their feet. It was a small win but it made Myrren obstinate in her resolve to die with courage.

Rough hands began to tear the flimsy garment from her body and Lymbert’s seeming generosity fell into place for the falsity it was: he had insisted on her being robed only in order to make the theatre of her torture, beginning with nakedness, that much more dramatic for his audience. She hated him and she hated the King who would permit this.

The rents in her robe revealed her body, just blossomed into womanhood, and the audience’s gaze no longer rested in discomfort by its collective feet but was drawn to her bared skin. Rokan watched hungrily. A squealing noise sounded from above and she noticed that the onlookers were now staring at a contraption being let down from the high ceiling.

All but one, that was.

Myrren ignored the contraption as well. Her gaze was inexorably drawn to the one pair of eyes which watched her and not the strange instrument of torture. It was a youth. A crop of bright red hair sat atop a plain and lightly freckled face which was heavy with despair. His own unremarkable eyes were riveted upon her. Not upon her bare flesh but on her own ill-matched eyes. She could not help but allow her expression to soften at this lad and she even dared the barest of smiles. He looked petrified and her heart hurt for him, for she could tell that this boy did not want to be here and bear witness to her suffering.

Lymbert was making some announcement to the gathered who nodded and made sounds of approval, led by her accuser, Rokan, but she paid no attention. She had already lost all sense of embarrassment at her nudity but was acutely aware of her hands being tied tightly behind her. Myrren had no idea what they were doing or why. The Confessor had certainly not talked her through this particular scenario.

Myrren felt grateful that since hearing the voice of Elysius she had felt a strange numbness overtake her body. She recalled his softly spoken words now, repeating them silently to herself.

They will hurt you, my little one. But the pain will be minimised. I cannot save you but I will give you the means to avenge your death. Hear me now, I give you a gift …and he had told her it all.

Why can I not use this gift to save myself? she had asked into this strange void opened in her mind.

Because, child, they will burn you. It will not work. He explained why.

She had fought back the initial surge of hope as understanding dawned. He had spoken more but it was of an intimate nature. She had heard his words, his explanation of who she truly was. Despite the shock of it, she had loved him then for sharing the news and she had buried the information within. She would not resurrect that joy and have it tarnished here by these proceedings.

Myrren of Baelup was no witch but she had a gift to give which would unleash a relentless power until it found the true target of her vengeance.

Now a cleric was brought to absolve her of her sins. She turned her gaze on him and watched him recoil at the sight of her eyes. Nevertheless, he prayed to Shar’s Gatherers to claim her soul and for that she was grateful.

‘Thank you,’ she uttered to him alone as he began his mournful prayer to guide her soul to Shar.

She looked over the short priest’s bowed head, her attention drawn again to the youth with the red hair, whose gaze had not released her. To his side, she noticed, stood a bigger, stronger looking lad, bordering on being a man. She took a sharp intake of breath. Her captors thought it was because they had just tested the ropes which bound her hands but Myrren’s sound had escaped at the beauty of that olive-skinned fellow who stood next to the only sympathetic soul in this chamber.

The beautiful man leered at her nakedness and presumably whispered something lewd to the red-headed lad who scowled with disgust and blushed furiously. Hitting his mark, the dark-haired one laughed loudly and Rokan nearby joined in.

She heard the dark one mutter, none too softly over the prayer, that the trial had been his idea. People nodded and grinned.

‘And it was I who discovered the witch in the first place, my Prince,’ Lord Rokan added, keen to be included in the praise.

When Celimus scowled in his direction, the middle-aged noble considered it politic to remain quiet from hereon and allow the young upstart royal to have his moment.

‘Have you anything to say?’ Lymbert’s voice suddenly boomed to Myrren above the idle murmurings. Apparently the priest had stopped his praying. She had not noticed.

Myrren took a deep breath and looked around her, not caring for her lack of modesty or the hungry looks it produced.

‘Yes,’ she replied. She had nothing to say about her situation, but she did have a question of her own. ‘Who is that person?’

Lymbert stepped aside, taken aback by her odd question, and looked at those gathered. ‘Which one?’

Myrren gazed at Celimus. ‘You.’

A triumphant smile stretched across the young man’s face and the redhead looked down at his feet as if in disappointment that she had not chosen him. Celimus took a step forward, all easy grace and arrogant swagger.

‘My lady,’ he said, accentuating his words to ensure the insult could not be mistaken for genuine politeness, ‘I am Prince Celimus.’

She had not expected such lofty company for her pain but she managed to keep her expression unmoved, her voice steady. ‘I understand why the pig-fingered Lord Rokan would bring along his bruised ego and flaccid member for inflation at my expense.’ There was a series of audible gasps followed by sniggers amongst the audience and Myrren revelled in the high colour suddenly on the cheeks of the noble who had brought about her ruin.

‘But why,’ she continued, ‘would a Prince of the realm have any interest in this …’ she swept her strange eyes around the chamber, ‘mummery? For that’s what this is, sire.’

The Prince grinned. She tried to imagine how many young women’s hearts would flutter at his smile and not recognise how malicious or indeed derisory it was. ‘Lord Rokan’s flaccid member aside, madam, I am here in the name of education,’ he replied and then grabbed Wyl. ‘This lad here has never watched a witch confess before. As he is soon to lead our great Legion and stand up as my Champion when I am King, I felt it was my duty to expand his knowledge of Stoneheart’s ways and the culture of Pearlis which has been sadly lacking in his life. He’s a country bumpkin, you see.’

Wyl twisted away angrily from the grip of Celimus and shook his head vehemently so Myrren would know his attendance here was forced. He remained silent, though, imploring the beautiful woman before him to understand.

She nodded but this time her gaze rested on Wyl. ‘Thank you,’ she offered and he knew she understood. ‘Do what you will, Lymbert. You’ll get no confession from me.’

‘Feisty,’ Celimus said, running his tongue over his lips. ‘Pity she had to be broken so. I would have bedded her first and loosened her tongue from a different sort of torture.’ And everyone around him laughed loudly again, led by Lord Rokan aiming to ingratiate himself to the crowd once more after the young woman’s heinous accusation.

Lymbert’s eyes were sparkling. He hated that he had not won her confession … not yet anyway. ‘Myrren, may I introduce you to the strappado. It’s my favourite instrument. I’d like to take a few moments to explain how it works, if you please.’ He was all graciousness now, enjoying the chance to show off his latest contraption of pain. ‘Your hands are tied behind you for a reason and now my assistant is attaching the strappado to your bound hands. When I give the word, those three men over there,’ he said pointing but she refused to look, ‘will use that pulley to hoist you aloft, at which point we’ll all enjoy hearing your arms dislocating. My favourite sound.’ He all but shivered with delighted anticipation. ‘And did you notice the hundred pound weights, my dear? Well, as you can see — if you would only look — they are attached to your feet now and they, of course, will do their best to prevent your body leaving the ground, thereby assisting us to dislocate your hip joints. Oh glorious agony! Incidentally, we have decided to bypass the somewhat tedious second-degree and go straight to the third to save time and a great deal of pointless screaming. I hope that’s agreeable to you?’ He laughed jovially and everyone except Wyl, she noticed, joined him.

She turned her face away.

‘Oh and, Myrren,’ he added, ‘I nearly forgot — how careless of me. I thought I’d throw in some squassation for good measure. Perhaps you don’t know what that is? It’s the most exquisite suffering I think I could possibly inflict without actually drawing blood. This is when we will let go of the pulley — just momentarily — and you, of course, my dear, will fall. But oh — and this is the good bit — my men will suddenly halt that fall by grabbing the rope and you just can’t imagine what torment that’s going to mean for those suffering sockets and limbs, long past their pain barriers. Now, do be a good girl and confess after the first drop because you should know that by law I have another three times to inflict it. It will hurt a great deal more by the fourth and I do think it’s more noble to die by the flames than hanging dead and broken on the ropes, don’t you?’

This time she turned back to her tormentor and in a last show of defiance spat in his face. It was a momentary triumph.

‘Hoist the witch,’ he said viciously and his henchmen obeyed, hauling on the rope attached to a pulley.

Wyl felt his stomach contents lurch into his throat as he heard the inevitable and sickening sound of Myrren’s shoulders capitulating almost immediately. As the first of her limb sockets popped, Wyl’s midday meal burst onto his boots and no one paid him any attention, except Celimus who pushed him aside to avoid being splattered.

The Prince was laughing, though, enjoying Wyl’s terror. Finally he had unsettled Thirsk into humiliating himself. Plenty of other watchers looked away or retched at the hideous sound of her shoulders releasing their arms.

But no one in that room heard Myrren utter a sound.

They dropped Myrren four times that afternoon, all the while demanding she confess herself a witch, and failing. For several periods she appeared unconscious, presumably from the torturous pain. No one watching could comprehend how she resisted. Many were quietly in awe of what courage it took to repel such an assault; none were able to imagine the level of punishment her body withstood.

Lymbert, coolly detached, expertly revived Myrren on each occasion with strong smelling salts and a dousing of freezing water. Still her mouth was firmly closed to any sound, although every other opening from her body slackened with the shock of her trauma, and if she were able, she might even have derived some satisfaction from the effect her loosened muscles had. Initially the chamber smelled of men’s sweat and lust. Now it smelled like a cesspit and a few experienced trial attendees held perfumed linens to their noses.

Knowing this was a test of his own nerves but also frozen with fear at what this young woman endured, Wyl remained as still as one of the statues of Stoneheart. He had conquered the second wave of nausea and panic, fighting back the sour bile. Now he would conquer his fear and be like her; he would not capitulate.

Wyl understood now why Celimus had brought him. It was to show him up to be a child; a pretender to his father’s title. He would not permit Celimus to succeed in this humiliation and, ignoring the stench of his own soiled boots, he lifted his chin and stared at the closed eyes of Myrren, his own new bedrock of determination derived from her refusal to succumb to their demands.

Lymbert had his victim pulled higher so that the weights attached to Myrren’s already distended legs and arms could stretch them further. He was satisfied to hear her ankles and elbows give up their resistance. Now every major joint was loosened from its socket and several inches added to her height, some wit acknowledged.

Naked, broken and surely dying, she was still true to herself, Wyl realised. He now would prove himself to be just as true to the name of Thirsk. He was no coward and, although this was a shocking, intensely barbaric scene, he would not flinch again.

As her eyes opened once more at the dousing of chilled water, they searched for his, and in that moment he felt connected to Myrren. Together, united through her immense courage and linked via their personal despair, they would get each other past this torment. Her time was short and he would see her through to her end without turning his head again. He would now be strong for her.

Look at me only, Myrren, he willed. But she closed her strange and exhausted eyes once again. He wished she was dead but knew otherwise as she retched for the umpteenth time from her agonies, her thin framework of delicate bones in stark relief beneath stretched skin.

She had endured four mighty drops. Lymbert had begun to scream at her to confess, seemingly demented with his desire to overpower and win this admission from her. Realising she had somehow impossibly won, he looked around wildly and then ran towards one of the braziers, surprising the man tending it. The Confessor could not afford to fail in wringing a confession from the girl, particularly with the Prince in attendance. Lymbert had been unprepared for the royal presence, had not experienced such an important audience in his work, and having sensed the cruelty smouldering in his regal guest, the Confessor intended to display the full breadth of his skills.

He grabbed a nearby glove and picked up a pair of white-hot pincers from the coals. Tearing the flesh from victims’ bones was not Lymbert’s favourite practice, although he knew other torturers loved the sensation. No, he preferred to break the body inside, but he could see this woman was built of otherworldly stuff; her resistance would become legend if he did not break her spirit now. There was no other way he might prevail in this battle of wills. No one resisted strappado and squassation and yet here she was, her fourth drop completed and still adamant.

Reaching for the pale flesh of Myrren, who was hanging unconscious once again, he was stopped by a loud command into the now brittle atmosphere of the torture chamber. The crazed Confessor turned around, scanning for its owner, his face a mask of fury.

‘You will put those down,’ Wyl repeated. ‘She has suffered enough punishment by your hand, sir, and she has survived the four legal drops.’

‘And who in Shar’s Name are you to give me orders?’ Lymbert sneered, gathering his wits.

Wyl felt his own internal rage focus on this cruel man. And the white flash of anger coursing through him suddenly made him feel stronger, older, bigger than he knew he was. Even his voice suddenly sounded deeper as he faced down the torturer.

‘I am Wyl Thirsk. You’d do well to remember that name, Confessor. It belongs to someone with the ear of our King and I will recount all that I have witnessed here today and the law you are about to break if you do not end this procedure now. Our King would not permit you to step beyond the legal boundaries. The trial is over. Let her die.’

Celimus stepped in, the ever present grin across his mouth, and was about to take charge of proceedings when something in Wyl’s glare stopped him.

‘Your highness,’ Wyl said. ‘With respect, I believe it undermines your status to witness these proceedings any further. As your protector I insist we get you away from this place.’

Celimus was shocked. All eyes were on him. If he remained he would certainly appear the sadistic royal voyeur — as Wyl had cleverly insinuated. He could not risk that. Cunning, Wyl, very cunning, he thought, and found an appreciative nod for the lad.

‘Of course, you are right, thank you, Thirsk. I had no idea it would be so ugly,’ he lied. ‘Lymbert, do as he says: bring her down. Incidentally, let me introduce General Thirsk of Morgravia.’

‘But … but he is a mere lad, sire,’ Lymbert spat.

‘Young, yes,’ Wyl countered, not allowing Celimus to answer on his behalf. ‘But my name carries weight where yours never will unless you consider travelling butcher as a memorable title. Do as your Prince commands. Lower her!’

It was an audacious order coming from the red-headed youth. Watchers muttered to one another but none challenged outwardly as it was obvious the lad was with the Prince and everyone knew who the youth’s father was.

As Myrren was lowered, Celimus shouldered his way through the onlookers but not before whispering to Wyl: ‘There will be a reckoning for this.’

Wyl watched the Prince leave and then to Lymbert’s disgust he demanded a cup of water be poured from a pitcher. He knelt by Myrren and, after gently lifting her head, he dribbled a trickle of it into her throat. Her lids fluttered open and somehow she mustered a smile which touched her oddly coloured eyes.

‘I’m Wyl,’ was all he could say.

‘I know,’ she croaked through her cracked lips, bleeding from where she had bitten them. ‘I shall return your kindness with a gift. Use it to avenge me, Wyl.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

What could you possibly give me? he thought as her eyes closed once again.

‘She’s for the flames now, Thirsk,’ one of the dungeoners growled.

They dragged her limp body away.

‘When?’ Wyl demanded of Lymbert. He had decided the man deserved no courtesies.

‘No time like the present,’ the Confessor replied and rediscovered his smile.

FOUR

WYL STRODE AHEAD OF the column of people scrambling out of the city to get a good view of the Witch Post on the hillock where they held the burnings. Some remembered the last burning, but most of the youngsters had no idea of the horror they would witness. Public executions in Morgravia were usually swift. This was a people forged from a tough, warring background and they had no need for theatrics. Any noble sentenced to death had head and body separated by a quick falling sword; those of lower caste fell to the axe. Criminals convicted of a crime lesser than murder or treason were hung, and in such cases Magnus favoured the drop method. It was brutal but merciful. He did not believe in death as an entertainment. Unfortunately, the very rarity of a witch-burning turned it into a public spectacle.

Traditionally, the Zerques had promoted a festival atmosphere for a burning and although the open celebration of death had long been wiped out, there remained a strong sense of theatre. Lymbert’s Witch Stalkers deliberately played off the harmless superstitions of the people, making warding signs as they led the procession up the hill. Many onlookers were bemused to realise that gestures they often performed without thinking — such as crossing their index and third finger should they inadvertently pass someone on a flight of stairs — were rooted in the ancient belief that such a sign in the vicinity of a witch would prevent the devil entering your body.

For the majority of Morgravians, their interest in viewing a proven witch stemmed from plain curiosity, but there were still those in Pearlis — wealthy older folk — whose fear and loathing of magic was very real. Lymbert was counting on this to convince his audience that this woman was a danger. He would fan the flames of those fears and watch them erupt into a desire to see the witch suffer as she burned.

Wyl’s mood was as bleak as he could ever remember. With his mother’s death and more recently his father’s passing, his deep sorrow had been like a darkness over him and he had never felt more alone. But this turn of events involving the young woman called Myrren provoked in him a pure and seething rage … an anger he never thought he was capable of. And as always Celimus was at the root of his problems. If not for the Prince, Wyl might be none the wiser to Myrren.

Alyd caught up with him. The news of Wyl’s standoff in the torture chamber had travelled fast.

‘Is this wise?’ he asked carefully, knowing how determined his friend could be.

Wyl stopped short. ‘You needed to be there to know why I do this.’

Alyd’s gaze narrowed. ‘Do what exactly?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Why not?’

Wyl shrugged, the rage cooling to a hard determination. Gueryn had always warned him to harness wrath and unleash it only when he had it under control. He felt it was his to use now. His voice was brittle. ‘It’s too hard to explain.’

People jostled past them and in the distance Wyl could see Gueryn striding purposefully towards where they stood. Alyd noticed him too. Time was now very short, for he knew Wyl would say nothing more in front of his mentor.

‘Tell me quickly. Let me understand,’ he urged.

‘I need to share it with her,’ Wyl blurted, rubbing a hand through his flame hair.

‘Share what?’

‘Her death. I can’t describe it any better.’

They both glanced towards the grim-faced Gueryn, now only a few strides away.

‘Why? You can’t do anything for her!’

‘She needs me,’ was all Wyl could say and then the shadow of Gueryn fell over them.

‘What happens here, Wyl?’ There was no trace of emotion in the man’s voice. Not a good sign. It was often easier when Gueryn was stirred to raise his voice.

Wyl told his tale as simply as he could, sticking to the facts, in soldier fashion, as he was trained. ‘I was forced to accompany Celimus to watch the torture of a woman accused of being a witch.’

Gueryn sighed. ‘I gather.’

‘She wouldn’t confess, didn’t even utter a single sound of protest,’ he continued. ‘Confessor Lymbert made her go straight to third stage. They dropped her four times — strappado and squassation.’

Gueryn could see the confusion on Alyd’s face and the inevitable question springing to his lips but prevented it with his own comment. ‘I have only witnessed such a thing once in my life. I only wish that I had been around to spare you of such a thing.’

Wyl looked down. ‘I survived. She won’t, guilty or otherwise.’

‘I heard that you assisted her.’

‘A sip of water.’ Wyl shrugged.

Gueryn nodded. He had heard all of this from someone who had been present. ‘That was noble of you, boy. So why are you here now?’

Wyl stayed quiet. It was Alyd who answered. ‘He says he wants to share her death.’ He looked back at his friend with an apology in his eyes and could see none was necessary. Wyl would forgive him anything.

Their attention was diverted to the main party bringing the accused.

‘Here she comes!’ Wyl exclaimed and made a move towards them.

‘Leave it alone, lad,’ Gueryn said, grabbing his arm and spinning him back. ‘I felt similarly when I had to watch a woman suffer. I felt I should do something to help her but it was useless. They’re going to burn her in spite of you.’

Wyl’s gaze considered Gueryn coolly. ‘I know.’

His expression was now as serious and determined as any his father would strike when he had made a major decision. Gueryn knew all too well that Wyl would not be moved.

Wyl tried again to explain his feelings. ‘She needs to know that when she dies here today that her death is witnessed by at least one person who disagrees with it.’

It sounded like an accusation. Gueryn let go of his arm — it was useless to argue with him further. He and Alyd watched Wyl draw up alongside the cart and call to the slumped figure it carried.

‘I thought they paraded convicted witches,’ Alyd queried.

‘Normally, yes, but not if they’ve survived strappado,’ Gueryn answered, ‘and it would be nigh impossible after squassation.’

‘Oh … is that when they rip all the limbs from their sockets?’ Alyd asked, unable to quell his eagerness to learn all the bleak details of torture.

Gueryn answered absentmindedly. ‘After what I’ve heard they’ve done to that poor girl, they’ll be lucky if she can do any more than lie at the burning pole. Come, lad, if he’s determined to see this, we must stay close. I fear it will be his undoing.’

Wyl was already a brisk walk away, so his two friends did not hear the exchange between him and the torturer.

‘Come to say your farewell?’ Lymbert asked Wyl.

‘Come to see that you treat this woman with the respect she deserves,’ he answered.

‘Respect! A witch?’ The Confessor was amused.

‘Not proven, Lymbert. Your vile tortures won nothing from her.’

‘Watch yourself, boy. I know who you are but your rank counts for naught with me when I am about my business.’

‘That may be so, Confessor,’ Wyl replied, scowling at the title, ‘but officially those are my men behind you escorting this charade and I could disrupt affairs just as easily as let them take their course.’

Lymbert regarded him with pure hate, although he was wise enough not to show too much of such an expression on his face.

Wyl sensed it, though. ‘Have a care, Confessor,’ he added. ‘Do it right. Where is the samarra she is supposed to wear?’

‘For someone so squeamish, you appear to know a great deal about the formalities of witch trials.’

The barb did not work. Celimus’s taunts had ensured Wyl was well used to ignoring insults. Instead he glared. ‘I am a noble’s son, sir. I am well read.’

Gueryn, approaching, had caught this final comment and was amazed at Wyl’s composure, wondering where this sudden maturity had come from. He sounded years older than himself. Perhaps the famous Thirsk blood ran even stronger in this one’s veins than his father’s. He might just surprise them all.

Lymbert stepped away to order one of his men to fetch the special cloak. He carried a samarra with him as he travelled the realm but it was rarely seen. Ancient law required that the victim be burned wearing the samarra, which was believed to entrap evil humours emanating from the witch’s flesh. The cloak bore a design of flames and dancing devils, with the Zerque sigil of a silver star to denote purity in the face of debauchery and evil. It was crafted by a special tailor who had royal assent to produce this garment. In ancient times, the cloak itself was considered enchanted and dangerous, and as such no other tailor could be granted permission to touch it.

Morgravian law required that the victim be burned wearing the samarra which would trap the evil humours. Lymbert realised this would be the first occasion for its use and grumbled at the price he calculated he would need to replace it. He stalked away from the upstart ‘General’ and awaited his man.

‘Myrren,’ Wyl called gently, trotting now alongside the cart, knowing he had but moments. ‘Myrren!’

Her eyes opened to slits. He watched her sore lips mouth his name. She tried to say something but he could not hear. He smiled, trying to convey his care, not knowing what to say. There were no words of comfort which could begin to touch what she had endured or would still endure before she met her god.

Wyl reached to her hand and touched it gently, casting a silent prayer to Shar to send his Gatherers for her soul and make her end quick. Then her minders pushed him aside as they arrived on the hillock. There was nothing remarkable about this location. A single post had been buried into the ground, rising up to stand taller than the tallest of men. Around it were placed bushels. It was a sharply bright afternoon with few clouds. A breeze ruffled everyone’s hair and the more wily onlookers took the hint and moved upwind of the promised smoke.

‘General, if you please?’ Lymbert said with a forced politeness that was all underlying insult. ‘We have a witch to burn.’ He hurled the highly decorated samarra at her.

She could not support herself, and so Lymbert’s men, with no care for her suffering, pulled the cloak over her naked body before taking her by her stretched and broken limbs and throwing her towards the Witch Post.

‘No point in tying her, Confessor, she ain’t going anywhere,’ one commented.

The people near the front of the crowd dared a nervous laugh. Lymbert smiled indulgently and nodded as a priest might to his flock. He stood on a hay bale and began reciting the list of terrible acts which Myrren was supposedly responsible for.

Gueryn grunted and muttered. ‘I see they make it no easier for her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Wyl asked.

‘The bushels are damp to ensure a slow burn.’

Wyl did not reply but his expression darkened further. He was glad of the sack he carried with him. He glanced around, hoping no one could smell its contents.

The accusations done, Lymbert had nothing further to say other than to acknowledge that the accused woman had not confessed to being a witch.

‘However, you can all view her eyes — as ill-matched a pair as you’ll ever see.’ He made a gesture and one of his men pulled open the lids of Myrren’s eyes to reveal the disturbing facts. Those closest peered obediently and made warding signs. ‘Might I add,’ Lymbert continued, ‘the mere fact she has survived four drops of the strappado proves conclusively that she wields evil power,’ he bellowed to the agitated gathering. The city’s bells tolled their dour clangour again — a new series of peals which announced the burning was about to commence. Myrren had not moved since they threw her amongst the kindling. This was not what Lymbert wanted for his spectacle. The people had waited a long time for a burning and this wretch was determined to ruin the event. He noticed not a single noble was present, barring the lippy redhead and his hangers-on. Not even Lord Rokan was in attendance. It irritated Lymbert that he was performing for commoners; he ignored the small voice in his head which whispered that it was only they who might take him or the claim seriously enough to be impressed.

He called to his henchmen. ‘I suspect our fancy cloak need not burn with the witch,’ he said and chuckled, inviting all the onlookers to join him. Like sheep, they followed, unconcerned that in the absence of the samarra they might be infected by evil humours. Unlike their ancestors, who truly believed in the power of witchcraft, the majority of onlookers viewed the burning with curiosity. A few older members of the crowd made a warding gesture, but their mutterings were ignored.

The samarra which had covered the girl was wrenched away leaving her naked once again.

That should spice things up a little, Lymbert thought to himself, pleased with the effect her broken but still strangely desirable body had on the menfolk. He was especially glad that the red-headed youth had not protested at the cloak being removed, although it surprised him. It seemed the young man’s attention was diverted to a sack he was holding. Lymbert cared not. ‘Burn her!’ he commanded.

And then there it was again, that damnable voice.

‘Wait!’ Wyl yelled, surprising Gueryn and Alyd who flanked him. He stepped away from them. ‘Myrren of Baelup has not confessed to being a witch. She remains only accused and convicted. She will die by the flames, yes, but she will die with the dignity she has shown throughout her ordeal.’

Wyl lifted out a shirt from the sack he carried. It looked damp but no one seemed to pay attention; they had all turned back to Lymbert.

Lymbert heard a sound and glanced behind him. ‘As you will, General Thirsk,’ the Confessor responded through gritted teeth. At least his expensive cloak was spared.

Wyl knew the Confessor had acquiesced because no fuss had been made about the removal of the cloak. However, he had expected a small war of words, but then he noticed a group of the King’s private soldiers moving briskly towards them on horseback. Amongst them he saw the unmistakable figures of Magnus and Celimus. So that was why Lymbert conceded so fast. Men immediately bowed low and the womenfolk curtsied, taken by surprise that their sovereign was present. Magnus said nothing but his face was grim, his jaw clenched.

If you don’t like it, stop it, my King! Wyl begged inwardly. But Magnus only nodded once as he and his men continued on, passing by within twenty feet of the crowd. Celimus’s expression was dark with his own anger but he managed a smirk at Wyl. It was Wyl’s only consolation in this disturbing day that Celimus was clearly not going to be permitted to witness the burning. Perhaps his father had forbidden it. One could only hope. How these people could watch something like this — and cheer over it — eluded him.

It made him think of how, as a realm, they poked fun at the Mountain Dwellers, accusing them of being nothing more than barbarians. His father had cautioned him once at levelling that tag.

‘You’ll be surprised, my boy, at just how wrong we are in that jibe,’ he had said but never expounded further.

We are the barbarians, Wyl thought, to still be persecuting helpless women in this way. Peasants! Just like Adana had claimed. He looked around at the folk of Pearlis, out for some excitement. There were no nobles present, he was glad to note. Many of the crowd were youngsters, who had never seen a witch-burning before, and so he found it within himself to forgive them their gawking.

The King’s arrival had broken the spell. People looked suddenly uncomfortable and Lymbert felt himself lose control of his special event. He grimaced as Wyl, rising from his obeisance to his sovereign, walked over to the girl and placed the damp shirt across her body.

Wyl whispered something again to her and she heard him, raising her face towards the one person who had shown her tenderness.

‘My dog, Knave. Promise me you will keep him,’ she croaked.

‘I swear it to you,’ Wyl said, bewildered at her concern for a beast when her own life was about to be obliterated.

At his response she smiled and her torn, twisted body seemed to relax.

‘Farewell, Wyl. Use my gift to you wisely.’

Wyl nodded once, wondering how he might use a dog with any wisdom. He returned to stand alongside his companions, feeling that he had done all that he could for this woman.

Gueryn muttered under his breath, ‘I see you’re well ahead of the Confessor, boy.’

‘She’s suffered enough,’ Wyl murmured back.

‘What are you both talking about?’ Alyd whispered, helplessly mesmerised by the torches being lit.

‘You’ll see,’ Gueryn replied. ‘Good work, Wyl.’

The torches touched the dry kindling. Immediately the twigs began to burn but Lymbert smiled, safe in the knowledge that the bushels would be a long time in the burning. Her throat would scorch and her insides would dry from inhaling the smoke long before her body would be consumed by the flame.

He reached out to take the comforting cup of wine which one of his assistants had poured from a clay flagon. Such thirsty work, this burning, he thought, satisfied he had wrested back control and eternally glad that the King’s party had not lingered. He was just tipping back his head to take a gulp of the wine when his attention was grabbed by the sudden whoosh of flames around Myrren.

A spark had landed on the shirt Wyl had placed over her to protect her modesty and the tiny flame had caused the linen to ignite. Myrren, her body aflame now, struggled to sit up. Predictably, she failed. Lymbert searched out the cursed boy, realising now that Wyl had doused the shirt with lamp oil or some other inflammable liquid. He saw him amongst the crowd, the glow of the flames brightening the orange hair atop his smug face, and realised the young General was indeed as well read as he had claimed to be.

Wyl’s eyes were only for Myrren now. Her lovely hair caught alight, shrivelling about her as flames reached out to lick at her pretty face and through it all Wyl noticed her eyes … those arresting oddly matched eyes which found his gaze and locked onto it. She began to tremble as her flesh burned freely now, the oil clinging to her body and helping the flames do their work. Her face was charred, her teeth bared in a grimace of agony but still her eyes held his in a final embrace of death.

Wyl heard her words again in his mind. Use my gift wisely.

Now Myrren did finally vent her anger and despair. At last Lymbert heard her voice and he revelled in her agony.

And at the sound of her final, chilling scream, Wyl Thirsk, General of the Legion, felt a strange sensation overcome him. It was neither painful nor pleasant but it was keen and pressing. It devoured him. Then it changed into a sharp, splintering agony and Wyl felt as though he was losing his breath — his ability to breathe in fact. It slashed horribly through every fibre. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth against it, unaware of anyone around him, only the piercing sound of her scream. When her voice ended abruptly Wyl lost his wits, collapsing into an all-encompassing darkness. A few people watched him fall to the ground including Lymbert.

‘Some General,’ he commented, eager to get a final and powerful thorn driven into Wyl’s image. ‘Imagine him in battle.’

A butcher nearby agreed. ‘No stomach for death, that one. He should come and work in the slaughterhouse with me. We’ll toughen him up.’

Gueryn and Alyd pulled Wyl’s limp body away from the grim scene and the smoke. A shocked Gueryn ordered Alyd to find water immediately. His stunned companion wasted not a second.

‘Wyl, my boy. Wyl! Come on now, lad.’ The older soldier pulled back Wyl’s lids and was mortified to see the pupils dilated so large that there was no colour in his eyes at all. Black and dead they looked.

Gueryn looked up anxiously for Alyd. His glance landed on that of a painfully thin boy, scrawny and grubby. The smell alone emanating from him was powerful enough to make the hardiest person gasp but in his outstretched hand was a bladder of water.

‘It’s fresh, sir,’ the boy said. ‘And clean. I fetched it just an hour ago from the well.’

Gueryn cast aside his doubts and took the water. He threw some of it over Wyl’s face and hair before trying to pry open his mouth and get some of it into Wyl’s throat.

‘He will be all right, won’t he, sir?’ the boy asked, his face a mask of worry.

The soldier did not answer, his attention distracted by the muffled groan of Wyl coming back to consciousness.

‘Ah, lad, you scared me.’

Wyl’s eyelids fluttered open and Gueryn, horrified by what he saw, sat down hard on the ground in a new wave of shock.

‘Wyl! Your eyes!’

Wyl shook his head to clear the blur. ‘What?’

‘Look at me, boy,’ Gueryn said, his voice filled with dread.

Alas, the feverish gaze before him was still burning brightly from a pair of eyes which were bewitching indeed — one a penetrating grey, the other an arresting green, with flecks of warm brown.

Wyl closed his ill-matched eyes as Alyd hurried to his side, pushing away the small boy whose water had helped revive his friend.

‘Help me get him out of here,’ Gueryn ordered, too shaken by what he had witnessed to give further explanation.

FIVE

ALYD DONAL COULD NOT keep the smile from his face. It had been his companion since sixteen-year-old Ylena Thirsk had accepted his proposal of marriage. He had been patient; six years of absence from his beloved family in Felrawthy had been made less painful because of his fiercely loyal friendship with Wyl Thirsk but mainly because there was Ylena to love. There had never been anyone else for him since the day his red-headed companion had introduced him to his exquisite sister. The strong urge Alyd felt to protect this beautiful creature had surprised him, not that he was such a champion. Ylena had her seemingly fearless brother and the ultimate protection of a powerful King; she had no need of his sword and yet even as a bashful twelve year old, confirming the promise of the handsome woman she would become, Ylena had sought out his company. It seemed, even at that age, there was no one else for her either. Still, her shy nod and gentle tears prompted by his question of marriage had sparked such surprise and intense joy for him that he could not imagine life could ever get any happier than now. Ylena would make the prettiest of all brides. Not wanting to wait a moment longer than they had to, they had set a date which allowed barely enough time to make all the necessary formal announcements, let alone preparations for a nobles’ wedding.

General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The duke and duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.

Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive dukes.

Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favourites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.

Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had revelled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which meant his constant presence in Pearlis, this garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of colour was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.

‘Can you credit it!’ he said with amazement. ‘A blue nifella, normally only found in the northern climes of the realm.’

The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.

He smiled over his cup. ‘You youngsters make me feel envious.’

‘Sire?’ Alyd queried.

‘Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,’ he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General had suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. ‘I envy you your energy and youth,’ he added.

Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. All the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the King sat a man and one who reminded him achingly so of his old friend. Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-coloured hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General — they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.

He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion. Honest, forthright and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but then so was most of the army these days, Magnus realised. He knew they followed in the steps of the young Thirsk avidly.

It was just such a pity that the acrimony between Thirsk and Celimus still stood. For all Thirsk’s polite posturing and his obvious determination to keep his promise to his sovereign, Magnus saw through the veil. There was no love lost between the two. And no one could appreciate such a sentiment more keenly than the King. But, so long as Wyl Thirsk protected the heir faithfully, that would have to be enough. Magnus understood Wyl’s feverish loyalty and would not have to question whether the younger man would put his understandable doubts over Celimus before Morgravia.

It would not be long now before they could test this theory. Magnus sensed his own time coming to an end and quietly welcomed it. He was tired. And lonely too. His wife long gone — Shar rot her — his great companion dead and his only son not much more than a stranger. Yes, it was drawing close to the time to hand over Morgravia to the new breed and give Celimus his time. Perhaps it would be the making of him. Who could know? King and General would need to work together, though, as they always had in the past.

Morgravia and Briavel could rarely rest beyond a decade without waging war on each other. He nodded to himself. Old Valor would be feeling creaky on his horse too. Perhaps they should just leave it to their children now, although Briavel had only a queen-in-waiting to govern it and a faint-hearted, fragile one at that, Magnus reckoned. He had seen the Princess only once, at a royal marriage many years ago in faraway Tallinor when King Gyl had wed a civilian of no noble line, the honey-haired beauty, Lauryn Gynt. All neighbouring realms felt obligated to attend.

Magnus hated travelling out of Morgravia, but Fergys had counselled him gently, reminding him that Gyl’s father, old King Lorys, had been an ally to Morgravia many moons ago and a once powerful sovereign of a vast realm. To snub his line, by not attending the royal wedding, would be unwise. Magnus had sensibly relented and with Fergys at his side had made the interminably long journey.

He had decided to take Celimus, which came as a surprise to the child’s minders. But Magnus, again at the urging of Fergys, wanted to spend time getting to know his son better. Without a mother to love him, the boy needed the strength and affection of his father to reassure and guide him. Fergys argued with Magnus that the visit provided an ideal opportunity to forge closer lines with his son. Embarrassingly, the boy showed an early aggression towards Briavel as Magnus had paid his respects to its monarch. The two Kings had stiffly bowed to each other but their curt salutations had been interrupted as Valor’s infant daughter had suddenly become near hysterical.

Granted, Celimus had looked decidedly guilty and the doll was in several pieces on the flagstones of the reception hall but the racket which had ensued far outweighed the supposed deed. It was only a doll, for Shar’s sake, and her terrible howling had clearly embarrassed her father. Magnus recalled how the plump, dark-haired child had been run out of the hall by her maidservant, not to be seen again. He shook his head ruefully. She was no match for Celimus then and he knew she would be no match for the vain, often cruel man he had become. He wondered what would become of Morgravia and Briavel under their respective guidance.

But in truth, what worried him most was the threat from the north. Fergys had begged with dying words for Magnus to pay keen attention to the Mountain King. The Legion knew for a fact — had reported it on countless occasions — that Cailech’s people slipped across the border. They were clever, rarely lingering, doing lightning fast trips into and out of the realm for trade. He remembered his General’s warning: ‘It might be trade now. One day Magnus, he’ll bring an army. He’s testing us. We must never allow him to feel comfortable.’

Magnus wondered whether Cailech and his people had made the same sorts of ‘trips’ into Briavel. No doubt. He mused that the best response would be for the two heirs to the southern thrones to marry. Bind the realms, blend the armies. Scare off Cailech.

He laughed to himself at the fanciful thought of Morgravia and Briavel being on friendly terms. It was then the King realised he had been in his thoughts too long and it was only politeness which kept the two young men before him alert.

‘My apologies,’ he said softly.

‘No need, sire,’ Wyl replied, relaxing into the cushions at his back. ‘Your garden is so tranquil, I too feel myself drifting.’ He smiled.

Magnus returned it, glad in his heart to see Wyl Thirsk at such ease. There was a time when he had worried for the boy. All that business with the witch from several years ago was a distant memory now, but he still regretted the death of that girl. He had hated witnessing the sight of her battered naked body tied to the witch post. Bah! Sorcery, he thought to himself, a lot of stuff and nonsense. He was glad he had finally rid Morgravia of the office of Confessor. He had personally dismissed Lymbert the day after Myrren’s burning, and with the Confessor’s demise the only remaining channel for the Zerques’ religious zeal had closed. It was six years since the last witch-burning and, in another few, most of the older folk — the believers — would be dead and with them their fanatical pursuits. The battle would be fully won and the Zerque Order would no longer hold any influence in Morgravia. The prospect was a relief, for Magnus no longer had the strength to fight that battle in the little time left to him. He was sorry that a young woman had to die to remind him of his promise to rid the realm of the Zerques, and that others — including his General — had also suffered.

Gueryn had still been in shock when he met with Magnus and had described the strangeness that had overcome Wyl during the witch’s execution. He had also mentioned the lad’s eyes changing colour. Magnus stole a glance at them now, relieved to see how ordinary they looked, a similar murky blue which Fergys had possessed. The King had not believed Gueryn then and still maintained it was an aberration. When Wyl had regained consciousness properly and with the King’s own physics in full attendance, the lad had appeared perfectly normal. Self-conscious but no worse for the curious event.

Those same unremarkable eyes now regarded him with a faint trace of amusement sparkling in them. ‘A mynk for your thoughts, sire.’

The King was pulled from his ponderings. ‘Ah, Alyd. How remiss of me. You see what age does to you, lad? So waste no time, marry this bright young sister of Wyl Thirsk’s and my blessing upon you both. May love and laughter follow you in your lives,’ Magnus said, adding, ‘…and in your bed chamber.’

Both soldiers enjoyed the King’s words and Alyd grinned at the King’s final comment.

‘Are we looking forward to seeing the pretty Ylena as a Newleaf bride?’

Alyd cleared his throat and a blush stole across his open, handsome face, which like Wyl’s had taken on a more angular look. His golden bright hair would probably still flop in his face if not for the short manner in which he styled it now. It suited him, together with the short beard and clipped moustache he now favoured. Many a lass at Stoneheart would feel her heart break at the marriage announcement, the King realised.

‘Your majesty, I can’t wait a moment longer. As soon as the royal tournament is done, we wish to make our union formal.’

‘That soon?’ Magnus replied, clearly surprised.

‘I’ve tried, sire, to talk them out of it but there’s no stopping this pair, I’m afraid,’ Wyl admitted. ‘Ylena’s determined to wed Alyd within the month.’

‘Then so be it. Fare well at the tourney.’ The King stood, towering over Wyl despite his stoop. He clapped a hand on Alyd’s shoulder. ‘And, Alyd, watch that handsome face of yours if you’re to stand in front of an altar a few days later.’

‘Thank you, your majesty, nothing will happen to me, sire. Ylena and I will grow old and fat together.’

Their laughter was disturbed by the arrival of Celimus.

‘Ah, Father. I was sure I would find you here.’

Wyl and Alyd made stiff but courteous bows before the Prince.

‘Forgive me, am I interrupting a private gathering?’ he asked, the dazzling smile masking his contempt.

‘No, son. Alyd here has just won my permission to wed his lovely Ylena. We were discussing the timing of the ceremony.’

‘Congratulations, Alyd,’ Celimus said, his smile not faltering. ‘I had always hoped to taste those rosy lips of Ylena Thirsk myself.’

Alyd felt Wyl’s stance stiffen yet more beside him. He always grabbed hungrily at the baits thrown him by the Prince. When would he learn to ignore him?

He replied in his usual deprecating manner. ‘Well, there’s such a long list of eligible beauties awaiting your attention, my Prince, I can’t imagine crossing Ylena off would matter to you much.’

‘No. You’re right, it’s not such a loss really, is it?’ the Prince said, enjoying watching Wyl bristle. ‘And you, General. What say you to this union? It must make you happy to see your sister off your hands and tumbling into the bed of a very rich duke’s son.’

‘Indeed, my Prince,’ was all Wyl could think to say which sounded remotely polite.

‘And when does this happy union take place?’ Celimus persisted, pouring himself a cup of the wine.

Alyd answered, more than used to the chill which settled around this pair whenever they were near each other. ‘Soon after the royal tournament. Your father has given his blessing. Your invitation will arrive shortly, my Prince.’ He gave the heir his very best smile.

Wyl sighed within. Even Alyd’s disarming looks were nothing compared to those of Celimus. The Prince of Morgravia had grown into a glorious-looking man, easily overshadowing the handsome youth he had been a few years previous. Taller now than his father, broad and slim-hipped, he could still the tongues of a room full of chatting people simply by his arrival, such was his impact.

‘Then I shall have to dream up an appropriate wedding gift for the sister of our esteemed General here,’ Celimus replied after draining his cup.

Magnus decided to bring the barbed conversation to a close. ‘Son, you came here to talk with me? Let me just bid farewell to my guests and we can sit together awhile.’

‘No need, sire,’ Celimus replied. ‘It involves these two fine soldiers — in fact their good opinions would be valuable.’

‘Oh?’ said the King, wondering what mischief might be afoot now.

‘Yes, it’s about the tournament, Father. I wish to make arrangements for us to use real weapons.’

The King shook his head and made to move away. ‘You know my feelings on this, Celimus. I will not risk the heir.’

‘My lord.’ For one rare moment, Celimus lost his smirk and the tone which usually accompanied it. There was a plea in his voice now. ‘It is because I’m to be King of Morgravia one day that I beg this of you. We are not boys practising in the bailey any more, Father. We are trained soldiers. Thirsk here could cut down any man I know blindfolded … except me, of course.’ His regular demeanour made its return. ‘This is no longer a time for play swords, Father. Let us fight like men because we are men. You may need us on that battlefield sooner than you think and then we’ll have to die like men at the end of an ugly blade.’

Wyl leapt onto the Prince’s words. It would be one of the rare times in his role as General that he would agree with Celimus. ‘Your majesty, my Prince is right. This is an exhibition but let’s give everyone a genuine insight into hand-to-hand fighting.’

Magnus was cornered. In truth he did not know why he had fought so hard against the use of real swords; a small voice told him that it was because he had been afraid that Celimus and Wyl — even as youths — might have well fought to an ugly end. But here they stood, strong and bold; men bristling with barely repressed energy and passion.

He was making a fool of Celimus to make him fight with wooden weapons.

He nodded, resigned to their plea, and the three in front of him could hardly contain their pleasure at his concession.

The annual royal tourney was a major festival for Morgravia and the folk travelled from far and wide to partake of the festivities. Around the tournament fields grew a veritable village of travelling sideshows and marketers of exotic wares. A seemingly endless queue of gypsy wagons, tinkers’ carts and country people queued patiently at the city gates to gain entrance into Pearlis. Troupes of tumblers, singers, musicians and even a small circus formed part of this line too.

The population on the outskirts of the northern end of the city where they held the tournament had doubled, then quadrupled over as many days. Excitement was building and the local inns were enjoying their traditional high season.

Magnus, having learned from past experience, was keen to ensure the city dwellers did not take advantage of the poorer visitors enjoying a day’s holiday from their back-breaking toil on the land. He sent out edicts that special fees were to be offered on accommodation, stables, eating houses and watering holes. Through Wyl he set up a special crew of soldiers to make random checks on the various taverns that their ale was not too watered and that their food remained honest. Wyl chose Alyd to supervise this crew, knowing his friendly and open manner would ease the pain for disgruntled tavern proprietors out to double their fees.

Helmets and breastplates, the only armour Morgravian soldiers wore, were polished until they sparkled. Horses were groomed until their coats shone and weapons were oiled and sharpened so that sparks would ignite when they struck each other. The thrill of using real weapons had touched off a fire of excitement. Training in the lead up to the day had never had a more fierce intensity.

Wyl had to constantly remind his men on the use of these weapons.

‘Exhibition only. Don’t forget it. There will be ladies of the court present and a wealth of guests from all over the realm. We do not want the women passing out at the sight of flesh being opened by over-zealous combatants.’

He had more advice on the other skills that would be on display.

‘Yes, you heard me right,’ he said above the indignant mutterings. ‘Wrestlers, oil up out front this year — I’m assured the women like to watch, and apparently so does Captain Donal,’ he added, winning a roar of delight from his men who clapped a furious yet helplessly amused Alyd on the back.

Wyl dismissed the men and caught up with Alyd. ‘I’d like to take you up on that sparring idea but I’m afraid I’m being reserved for a special piece,’ he admitted grimly.

‘Oh?’ Alyd enquired, his mind racing as to what this might be. ‘Let me guess. The Prince?’

‘Correct.’

‘My guess then is that he plans to hurt you and what better opportunity than in the name of entertainment at our most public festival.’

‘He has to be able to get through my guard first.’

‘I’ve watched him too, Wyl. He’s good.’

Wyl shrugged. ‘But perhaps not good enough. We’ll see in a few days.’

Alyd laughed. ‘And then we’ll celebrate at the Alley,’ he said, a wicked glint in his eye.

But Wyl did not grin. ‘I need to share something. Celimus is planning more than just a humiliation for me. He aims to hurt me in more ways than physically. He wants to fight for the Virgin Kiss.’

‘So?’ Alyd looked perplexed. ‘I think I would too.’

‘Mmm. But which virgin is he most likely to choose, do you think?’

Understanding struck Alyd like lightning. ‘Ylena,’ he said flatly and stopped walking.

‘Correct again.’

‘I won’t permit it,’ Alyd said, shaking his head wildly. ‘I will not allow that man’s lips to touch those of my betrothed.’

Wyl looked pained. He cast a glance around to see no one could overhear them. ‘It’s worse. He’s re-introducing the ancient form of this rite. It’s called Virgin Blood. It’s far more sinister than the Kiss, Alyd.’ Wyl had only just been informed about this dark turn of events himself and he was now on his way to the King to seek an audience. ‘He means to bed Ylena before you.’

‘Then he’ll have to kill me first,’ Alyd replied, his voice cold and hard.

‘No, he’ll have to kill me,’ Wyl answered.

When Wyl arrived to petition the King, Orto informed him that the sovereign was ailing — it seemed Magnus was far more fragile than Wyl had been previously led to understand. He was permitted to see his King, but only briefly, a hollow-eyed physic cautioned before leaving them alone.

‘Hello, dear Wyl. I knew I would see you here before long,’ the old man said.

Wyl was too diverted by the sickly appearance of his sovereign to hear the underlying message in those words.

‘Sire, what ails you?’ he asked, taken aback.

Magnus was propped up on a mound of cushions and, although his manservant had seen to it that he was perfectly groomed, nothing could disguise his newly sunken, pale visage.

‘Can you not guess?’

Wyl was unprepared for this. Suddenly all notion of aggressive petitioning fled. It was clear this old man would not make it to the royal tournament and even less likely to Ylena’s wedding.

Magnus allowed his guest’s silence for a few difficult moments and then said what needed to be shared. ‘I am dying, Wyl.’ The King held his hand up as his young visitor made to protest. ‘Please … sit with me a while. I have some things to say to you.’ Magnus motioned for Wyl to take the seat next to his bed. Wyl obeyed, his mind running the King’s words over in his head. Dying.

‘Ask me an intelligent question … the sort your father would want to know.’

Wyl did not feel like playing games but knew he must go along with his King’s request. He took a moment to consider before he spoke.

‘I believe my father would want to know how long you might reckon we have.’

Magnus clapped his hands once. ‘Good, Wyl. Excellent. That is precisely what Fergys would ask. No shallow sympathies, no dwelling on what cannot be changed. He would set aside any personal emotion and get on with the business at hand which is what must be set in place before I depart.’

Wyl nodded. ‘Which in your estimation might be when, sire?’

‘Ah, well, my physic tells me with luck I may see the next full moon.’

Wyl felt as though a knife were turning in his gut, and sensed the person holding that knife was Celimus. It was too soon for the old man to die.

‘Does your son know?’

‘Another good question. No. I have not seen Celimus since that time in the garden with you and Alyd and yet I have seen plenty of you since then. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’ the old man asked genially enough. It belied how he truly felt.

Wyl did not know how to respond. He blinked. ‘I cannot imagine our lives without you ruling, sire.’

The King’s voice became earnest and his sunken eyes seemed to spark. ‘You must! You alone must have a vision for the protection of Morgravia because Celimus, though skilled enough in the tools and strategy of war, will not. His mind, sadly, is filled with debauchery just now.’

‘My King, with deepest respect, I fear you may underestimate the Prince. He is ambitious.’

Magnus agreed. ‘I sense that is not a compliment to him, although you dissemble cleverly, General.’ Wyl sensibly said nothing. ‘If he is ambitious, then he hides it well from me. However, I think you are right, Wyl. I too believe Celimus is not as shallow in his thoughts as he would have us all think.’

‘No, sire. He has a razor-sharp mind and if I might talk freely?’ Magnus nodded. ‘Then I would suggest upon your death he will rule with a fierce hand.’

‘This much is true. He may be subtle but he lacks the finesse and indeed the largesse I would have hoped he may have acquired by now. He is, however, true to Morgravia, I believe, and in this I commend him. He will not permit it to lag behind its neighbours … and neither must you, Wyl Thirsk. Briavel may make a move towards war again in the next few years, when it feels strong again.’

‘It is the Mountain Dwellers who concern me more, sire.’

‘Just like your father.’ The old man sighed.

‘He was right, your majesty.’

‘Yes he was. You must continue to strengthen our northern forces. Cailech grows more bold.’

‘The retaliative skirmishes occur more often, sire. In days gone the Mountain Dwellers would normally flee if they encountered any of our patrols.’

Magnus sighed. ‘And now they stand and fight. Bold indeed. Your father warned as much with his last breath. You must pay attention to the north, son. It may be that Cailech takes on Briavel first, but it’s Morgravia that presents the greater challenge, with a King to topple. If he can take Morgravia, then Briavel — when Valentyna ascends the throne — will be an easy victory.’

Wyl frowned in thought, recalling the most recent reports. ‘I don’t like us taking the Mountain People’s lives. I feel it only inflames a potentially lethal situation and have given an edict that they are to be spared on all counts. Taken prisoner if necessary.’

‘Thank you, Fergys,’ the King said, finding an ironic grin. ‘Oh but you do remind me so hauntingly of him, Wyl. That’s exactly the sort of thing he might say.’

Wyl shrugged. ‘I don’t want us at war on two fronts. Cailech right now is controllable if we don’t incite problems. Perhaps, if we can calm the escalation, we might even be able to hold talks with him.’

Magnus flicked a glance at his General. ‘A parley with the King of the Mountains. I wish I could be there for that,’ he mused.

Wyl could hardly believe they were having this conversation. He felt as though he was sitting on the King’s deathbed already. He switched topic. ‘How do you feel, sire. Is there pain?’

‘Of no consequence. It is manageable with the poppy seed liquor.’

Wyl suspected Magnus of withholding the truth but he allowed it to pass. ‘Your majesty … Ylena’s wedding. Would you care to hand on the duty of giving her away? Perhaps to your next of kin?’

Magnus’s eyes became wide with mirth. ‘Celimus?’

Wyl swallowed hard. It was pride alone which prevented him from betraying how he really felt about such a situation.

‘You are priceless, my boy.’ The King enjoyed a feeble burst of laughter. Wyl already missed the bellow which Magnus was known for. ‘You would do that … allow Celimus, the person I suspect you dislike more than any other, to have that honour?’

Wyl did not hesitate. ‘I would, sire … if it be your wish.’

Magnus fixed him with a more sombre stare now. All mirth was gone. ‘Why couldn’t you have been my son, Wyl?’ He clasped Wyl’s hand. ‘You are the one who should rule Morgravia.’ The King’s eyes had gone misty.

Wyl cleared his throat. ‘It cannot be, your majesty,’ he all but whispered. ‘You must not speak of this again.’

‘Yes, but I think it all the time. You are fit to rule. The man who would be King seems to have no compassion in him. I fear for our people. I fear for you.’

‘Fret not about me, sire. I have his measure and he has my loyalty.’

‘Does he, Wyl? Does he have your loyalty?’

Wyl wondered why the King would ask this of him a second time. He paused and searched himself. He came out of his thoughts, wanting. ‘Sire, may I say this? If Celimus rules poorly he cannot expect my respect but I will pledge you this from the bottom of my heart: Morgravia has my loyalty. I will protect her to my dying breath.’

The King closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he nodded, squeezing Wyl’s hand in his own large fist. ‘It is enough for me, Wyl Thirsk.’ He smiled. ‘As for Ylena, I would ask that Gueryn step in for me. He is as good as family to you, and your father would be pleased with such a choice.’

Wyl visibly relaxed. ‘Thank you, sire. I know that Gueryn would consider this an honour.’

‘Keep him close to you, Wyl. He can watch your back like no other. And now to the real business at hand,’ Magnus said, looking drained of all energy.

‘Sire?’

‘Why you came to see me today. I imagine this is to do with the tournament.’

‘You know then?’

‘About Celimus ensuring you and he are the main exhibition piece for swords? Yes. I believe, though, that you wish to talk to me about the Virgin Kiss and your suspicions that it is Ylena he will choose.’

This was a surprise. Wyl had underestimated his King and was reminded once again of what a wily pair Magnus and his father must have made in their prime. ‘Yes, your majesty. Except it has taken a darker turn. Celimus has announced he is upping the stakes.’

‘Oh?’

‘His plan is to claim Virgin Blood,’ Wyl said, standing suddenly, his distress showing. ‘It is my suspicion that Celimus wants to bed Ylena before Alyd, ensuring my hate hardens. I can’t deny it, sire.’

Magnus said nothing, although a deep frown creased his brow. Wyl, unable to be still, paced.

Finally Magnus spoke. ‘This is very serious.’

Wyl spun around. ‘Can you not overturn it, my King?’ he implored.

‘You know I cannot. It would gravely undermine Celimus and reinforce his fear that I love and favour you.’

‘He fears this?’ Wyl spluttered.

‘How could he not? He and I share nothing but our bloodline,’ Magnus said firmly. ‘You are the son I should have begotten.’

Wyl could see the King was tiring. He needed an answer and pushed a little harder. ‘He means to win, sire.’

‘I realise this. In fact I think you’ll find that Celimus will never play his hand unless he is confident of winning.’

‘So you cannot overturn this decree?’

‘And I will not. Celimus is beginning to flex his muscles as the heir. You will have to play to his rules soon enough. This is your first test,’ Magnus said with regret.

‘What can I do? I cannot permit this.’

‘Then don’t play into his hands. Can you best him on the field?’

‘Yes,’ Wyl replied confidently.

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’

‘And still I do, sire.’

‘Well, then you have to be even more cunning than he is. Use that wise head on your shoulders. There is a solution to every problem, my boy — those are your father’s words, by the way — and by Shar we always found those solutions in the nick of time. How long have you got?’

‘Two more days after this, sire.’

‘One more day than you need, then,’ the old man said, his eyes glittering now. Wyl could not tell whether it was from the fever or because the King already had the answer. ‘And when is the wedding again, my boy?’ he asked, his voice croaking.

‘Month’s end, sire.’

‘Ah yes, you did say. Perhaps you should go about those arrangements then,’ he said, again as though passing on some sort of underlying thought. ‘I am feeling rather fatigued. We shall speak again soon.’

And to all intents and purposes it appeared as Magnus closed his eyes that he was already drifting into a drugged slumber.

As if he could see through walls, the physic knocked and made his entrance. ‘With respect, sir, I would ask that the King be left to sleep now.’

‘Of course,’ Wyl said, pondering the cryptic nature of his sovereign’s words.

SIX

WYL SAT IN A tiny, elevated courtyard, known as the Orangery, which cunningly trapped the sun, encouraging its fruit trees to grow luxuriantly behind Stoneheart’s impenetrable walls. The fragrance of the blossoms was heady and Wyl loved the tranquillity of this place, as did Ylena whose suite of rooms overlooked it. He could never accuse Magnus of not following through on his promise to their father. Ylena lived in quiet splendour with maidservants to tend her needs, amongst a glorious series of chambers and this courtyard which Magnus had designed and built for the little girl who came to him all those years ago.

The daughter I never had, he had once whispered to her and she loved him for it. Had loved him ever since. Ylena had never forgotten her father’s love but it had been taken from her so early that she had found it relatively simple to transfer it to his highly influential friend of a similar age who showered her with gifts and beautiful gowns and just about anything a noble’s daughter could wish for.

Wyl awaited his sister, his mind clouded in thought. A black dog sat patiently beside him, its mournful eyes staring up at Wyl, occasionally nudging his hand to remind him of its presence. Wyl stroked the large head absently and Knave complained softly at being so ignored by his master. He dropped his beloved ball, fashioned by Ylena from old linens, stockings and wool, in the vain hope that Wyl might kick it and begin one of their games.

The dog’s ears pricked at the sound of a footfall.

‘What’s up, Knave?’ asked Ylena as she appeared fresh and primped from her rooms, her spicy fragrance mingling with the courtyard’s perfume. ‘Hello, Wyl,’ she said, tweaking her brother’s ear and planting a kiss on his coarse, red head.

He pulled her close, loving the joy she found in simple pleasures and hating himself for bringing news to ruin her perfect day.

‘You even smell like our mother,’ he commented, kissing her on the cheek.

Ylena sighed. ‘I wish I could remember her as you do. I’m wearing her scent.’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Father gave it to me so many moons ago. He said I was to wear it on my wedding night. I’ve saved it for all this time and yet felt reckless today and dabbed a little on. Do you think he’ll like it?’ she asked shyly.

‘Who?’

‘Prince Celimus of course!’ she said, pulling an exasperated expression which changed immediately to one of concern at the way Wyl started at that name. ‘Alyd, you fool — my husband to be. Who else could I mean?’ she laughed.

Wyl felt relieved that the subject had been raised inadvertently. He opened his mouth to say what he had rehearsed in his mind but Ylena interrupted him, reaching over to talk to Knave.

‘You daft dog, you still have that silly red ball.’

‘And woe betide anyone who touches it,’ Wyl said affectionately.

‘Other than you, of course,’ she replied. ‘What is it between you and this dog, Wyl? He strikes the very fear of the devil into almost everyone at Stoneheart and yet he’s like a puppy around you.’

‘And you.’

‘Yes, but it’s passing strange, isn’t it?’

‘Not really. He lost Myrren when he was a baby and then I came along out of the blue.’ Wyl wanted to add that it was probably similar to how Ylena transferred her love from Fergys to Magnus. Instead he shrugged and scratched the dog’s ears. ‘I was the next best thing he had.’

‘Whatever made you follow her instructions?’ Ylena suddenly wondered.

‘I’m not sure, in truth. I felt somehow compelled and perhaps a little obliged after all her suffering. She said he was a gift and I was to use him wisely.’

‘Do you understand what she meant?’

Wyl shook his head.

‘What happened to her family anyway?’

‘I heard the father died on the morning the Witch Stalkers came for her. The mother was addled when we met. She listened to my tale and handed me the dog without another word. I don’t know what became of her but the house had been all packed up when I visited and I presumed her mother was leaving town. She was probably glad to be rid of the burden of the pup.’

‘Very strange,’ Ylena admitted. ‘I’m just glad Knave sees me as friend and not foe.’ Then she lowered her voice before adding: ‘He hates Celimus most of all, of course, but then I think he gets that from you.’

‘Hush,’ Wyl admonished.

‘No one’s around.’

‘Even Stoneheart’s thick walls have ears.’

‘Well, it’s true. I think Knave hates anyone you don’t like. Think about it, he barely tolerates others who mean little to you but is loyal to those you love. How’s that for a fine philosophy?’ she said, kicking the red ball, much to the dog’s surprised delight.

Their conversation was interrupted by one of Ylena’s maids announcing the arrival of Alyd. His expression was bleak as he kissed Ylena’s hand.

‘Whatever is wrong with you, Alyd Donal? One would think the King had denied permission to our marriage.’

‘Have you told her?’ Alyd asked Wyl, who shook his head.

‘Told me what?’ Ylena’s eyes moved between two grim expressions.

‘Ylena …’ Wyl began.

‘Wait!’ she said. ‘This sounds bad.’ She called to her maid and asked for a spiced cordial to be brought immediately. The maid returned quickly, and Ylena drank her small helping down in one gulp.

‘Right. I’m presuming this is connected with our wedding. Tell me,’ she commanded, her throat burning from the liquor.

Wyl started again. He told her what he knew and of his suspicions. She felt for Alyd’s steadying hand as Wyl bowed his head and finished with: ‘All that’s standing between you and the bed of Celimus is my sword.’

‘But I’ve never done him a wrong,’ she said, her voice shaking.

‘You’ve never done anyone a wrong, my beloved,’ Alyd comforted. ‘This is not about you. This is about hurting Wyl … and your family name.’

‘Are we sure of this?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But I know how his mind works. He knows how best to damage me.’

Ylena shook her head. ‘Why does he hate you so much, Wyl?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, not wanting to repeat what he had learned from the King.

‘I do,’ Alyd admitted. ‘I believe it’s because the King is so fond of you.’ And when Wyl shook his head in denial, he added: ‘It’s true. Everyone’s seen it. Celimus has no time for the King and yet he sees you in his father’s company and enjoying it. Don’t forget either, he had to grow up around the inseparable friendship of your father and his. By all accounts Magnus spent little enough time with his son. I’ve heard whispers that he blames his father for his mother’s ugly death — has never forgiven him.’

Wyl nodded. ‘I’ve heard similar comments.’

Alyd was not finished. ‘Perhaps Celimus blames Fergys Thirsk for being in the way. And lo and behold when the General dies, he is replaced by a boy similar to his own age who seems to win the fond attention of his own father.’ Alyd blew out his cheeks briefly. ‘Seeing it from his side, you can almost understand why he might be twisted about you.’

Wyl shrugged. He did not want to admit that Alyd’s argument was, in all probability, very sound. ‘And so, Ylena, by stealing what’s so precious from you he humiliates the sister I adore, creating despair for my best friend and a chance to fire my anger sufficiently for an all out confrontation.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, I won’t co-operate. I’d sooner die.’

Alyd nodded. ‘And although I’m no match for him, I swear I would gladly die trying to stop him laying a finger on you. Wyl, I’ve been thinking about how we can get Ylena away from here. My intention is to —’

Wyl shook his head. ‘Alyd, stop! I’ve told you, there is no escape. Celimus is not one for being thwarted. It would be a cruel blow to his ego not to attain something he has set his heart on — and taking Ylena in the way he imagines is a masterstroke guaranteed to hurt both you and me. No, he would hunt you down as easy as blinking. And he is in no hurry. You would be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your lives. The fear of being caught at every turn will destroy any chance of true happiness.’

‘Then what? What can we do?’ Ylena’s voice was shaking.

‘We have to be smarter than he is, more cunning.’ Wyl stood and walked to one of the orange trees, inhaling its freshness and stealing a few moments to convince himself his plan could be done.

He turned back to them. ‘I have a plan. It was a comment from the King which seeded it in my mind, and we have only what’s left of today and tomorrow to make it work.’

They listened.

SEVEN

THE DAY OF THE tournament dawned sharp and bright over Stoneheart. Rain clouds of the previous day had blown through, leaving clear skies and a cool morning. It had drizzled the evening before so the ground was soft yet not slippery enough underfoot to be troublesome, making it perfect for charging animals and wrestling men. The horses were gleaming and colourful bunting was flapping in the light morning breeze around the tournament field.

The carpenters had finished erecting the seating arena and, although damp, the small tents which encircled the field had held firm overnight. Each would become the base for a noble family and it was from here their sons would wage mock war on each other. Another larger and less flamboyant tent would house the jugglers, tumblers, dancers and other entertainers, including a famous fire-eater and contortionist who was in attendance by express request of his royal highness, Prince Celimus.

The younger ladies of the court would be encouraged to try their hand at archery for the grand prize, from King Magnus, of an exquisite pearl pendant. Ylena, who was no slouch with a bow and arrow thanks to Wyl’s training, was looking forward to wearing the pearl that evening. She was sad the King would not be in attendance and, having learned she was not permitted to see him, had sent him a brief note together with a sprig of her orange blossom and some other blooms from her garden. She knew they would convey her love more sincerely to the sick man than the written word.

Despite his sense of caution, Wyl had told Ylena and Alyd that Magnus was dying. All three could imagine how bleak life would be with Celimus sitting on the throne and the young couple had wondered whether this was the best excuse to flee Stoneheart. But this morning Ylena blocked the thought of how it might feel to be touched by the vile Celimus should he win the contest. He made the very blood in her veins chill.

Throughout her childhood at Stoneheart he had taken little notice of her so she had not felt the impact of his cruel, selfish ways as Wyl had. Still, her surname was Thirsk and there were occasions when she too had felt his penetrating gaze of hate. More recently, since she had grown and filled out in a flattering way, that same gaze had taken on new meaning. The Virgin’s Blood idea was all wrapped up in the manner Celimus looked at her now. Ylena pushed the Prince and his lusty thoughts from her mind. She inhaled the scent from her trees and turned to the man she loved on this her most special of all mornings.

‘You look wonderful,’ she said to Alyd, straightening his shirt front. ‘Quite the dashing warrior.’

He grimaced. ‘Hardly.’ Pulling her close, he kissed her passionately. ‘Let’s hope your brother can best him.’

‘And spare us —’

Alyd hushed her with another kiss. ‘Say no more. I must away, my lady, or risk the wrath of the famously bad-tempered, red-headed General.’ Ylena laughed but he could see anxiety in her eyes, and knew she was reading the same concern in his. ‘Come on, where’s that famous Thirsk courage?’

‘It all lives in Wyl, not me, I’m ashamed to admit,’ she said, wringing her hands.

‘And he has sworn to defend you, as I have, so you need not fear.’

‘Then why am I starting to tremble, Alyd Donal?’

He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes. ‘I love you. You have to trust that love. And Wyl’s plan, of course. We’ve done everything we can.’

She nodded, hoping he would be gone before her inevitable tears betrayed her. After Alyd’s departure, Ylena took the final — and, she knew, daring — precaution of sending a page to Orto, the King’s secretary, with an urgent request, then sent her maid hunting for her archery gloves.

The morning session of the tournament had proceeded smoothly, with the joust creating much hilarity for the onlookers as various noble sons were toppled. The population of the city had swelled even more dramatically than anticipated. As a special gesture, Magnus — on Orto’s wise suggestion — had released several dozen barrels of his ale to be distributed freely at the celebrations together with roasted oxen. All the bakers close to the castle had been harried into action and now the air hung heavily with the tantalising smell of fresh loaves and meat sizzling on the spits.

The midday feast had begun. Purveyors in the Alley’s corridor of tents and awnings were enjoying a brisk trade during this break in the day’s events as everyone enjoyed their food and ale. The latter helped them loosen their purse strings.

A mountebank entertained the meandering folk with his colourful patois, hawking a magical salve that promised to ease all aches and pains. To keep their attention and their laughter high, his pet mynah bird hurled insults at its owner who deliberately ignored it. The contortionist made his audience cringe but despite the squeals they still threw their coppers for more. Children amassed around the confectioner’s stall where treats they had only dreamed about were on sale for just two mynks each: fairy floss, toffee apples, caramels, sherbets and hard shapes of brightly coloured sugar which could last a full day if sucked wisely. A group of women had joined forces to sell knitted blankets, woven baskets, even a few rugs weaved by a team of their children. And then, of course, there were the sideshows where, amongst other frolics, passers-by were encouraged to throw wet rags at some poor soul who had agreed to stand in a stock for a share of the earnings. Three direct hits won a flagon of mead. Elsewhere, strong men took their turn at hacking through a log, their times carefully monitored and recorded by a stony-faced gent with a piercing stare, who chewed constantly on a willow twig, absorbing its painkilling juices for his sore joints.

A small queue formed outside the tent of the mysterious Widow Ilyk, who claimed she could tell people their fortunes simply through touch. Wyl smiled as he strolled by. He liked these people who poked fun at Morgravia’s old fears. In former years, claiming to have the Sight would have brought forth a howling troop of Witch Stalkers. He was glad those days were done and ingenious people like this widow could make a living from parlour tricks. If there were any positive outcomes from Myrren’s demise, they were that King Magnus had rid Morgravia of Lymbert and his cronies and the Zerque influence had virtually died out. Myrren’s death had horrified many younger onlookers, who were more enlightened than their elders and did not fear sentients; in fact, did not really believe such powers existed. But most people were willing to pay a coin to have someone tell them that their knees would stop aching, or they would indeed marry a wealthy merchant and escape a life chained to a field of barley. Fortune-tellers, these days, rarely lacked patrons.

Alyd caught up with him outside the widow’s tent. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Trying to keep my mind occupied.’

‘Come on. It’s time we got you ready.’

‘Would you pay a bronze regent to learn your fortune?’ Wyl mused.

‘I’ll tell you what, if you pull off the extraordinary today, we’ll get drunk and celebrate by coming back here to this very tent — what is it? Ah yes, the Widow Ilyk, and we shall have our fortunes told.’ He grinned.

‘I’m glad you’re confident.’

‘I’m not,’ Alyd admitted. ‘The truth is, I’m paralysed with fear for Ylena.’

‘How is she?’

‘Have you not spoken with her yet?’ Alyd looked aghast.

Wyl pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I haven’t. Is she … all right?’ he asked sheepishly.

Alyd’s expression turned to one of genuine smugness. ‘Dare I say, since last night she is glowing.’

General Thirsk put up his hand in mock defeat to prevent his Captain saying more. ‘Come, I have a fight to prepare for.’

The city bells tolled the commencement of the afternoon’s entertainment and, to ensure the throng made its now slightly intoxicated way back to the fields, several pages were sent out with handbells to ring loudly through the Alley.

The court ladies’ archery contest was not that much of a competition in truth. It was quickly distilled down to Ylena matching her clearly superior skills against a ferocious opponent from the House of Coldyn, who not only desired the pearl very badly but had her eyes firmly set on winning the attention of Alyd Donal. For both these reasons Ailen Coldyn had a burning hatred for Ylena Thirsk who seemed to have everything a girl could want — ‘and no need for more jewellery,’ she had pouted to her mother.

Ailen shot with courage but too much aggression made her aim inaccurate, whilst Ylena’s arrows, gloriously fletched in her family colours, landed true. A clear winner, she did her best to ignore the scowls of the other contestants and to act graciously. Ylena did not need more jewels, but for sentimental reasons she did want the pearl from Magnus. An excited buzz moved through the crowd as King Magnus was unexpectedly helped to the small stage set up for prize-giving. He looked desperately frail and ill, despite his finery. Orto and a surprised Prince Celimus aided him to stand for the presentation, ignoring the murmurings from the folk who were shocked at the state of their King.

‘Father, this is not a good idea.’

‘Still, it is an idea I like,’ came the prompt response. ‘Ah, my lovely,’ he said, beaming towards his favourite lady. Magnus clasped the pendant around Ylena’s neck so the pearl sat at the base of her throat, and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘This was meant to hang from one beautiful neck only,’ he said, eyes burning brightly with the fever which would soon claim his life.

Ylena curtsied. ‘Thank you for coming, my King,’ she whispered fervently, imagining what it had taken for him to be here.

‘How could I resist your request?’ he asked, shaking off the arms of Celimus and Orto, forcing them to step back and in so doing winning himself a moment’s privacy. ‘I’m sorry the Felrawthy clan is not in attendance,’ the King admitted. ‘They should have seen you shine today.’

‘I think the duke is disappointed too, my lord, as is Alyd. His father’s clan is too busy in the north.’

‘Mmm, yes so I gather. By the way, child, don’t be frightened,’ he whispered, knowing she would understand his meaning. ‘Your brother is more wily than you credit. Now turn so they can all see your pretty prize.’

‘I shall never take it off, your majesty. It will be treasured and will always keep you close to me.’

He smiled as a father to his child, loving her in the same manner. The King straightened to his full height with difficulty. His eyes were damp and he could feel the fever beginning to make his body tremble; knew he must keep it at bay just a while longer.

Ylena stepped away from the podium to rousing cheers and catcalls from the soldiers so loyal to her brother, each one of them just a little bit in love with the graceful, golden beauty of the young woman who did not resemble the General in the least.

Meanwhile Celimus moved forward to whisper to the King. His words were cloying and sweet. ‘Father, it was exceedingly good of you to leave your sick bed for the prize-giving. May I ask Orto to assist you back to your chambers now, sire?’

‘Actually no, Celimus. The fresh air makes me feel brighter just at present,’ Magnus lied, ‘and I hear you and Wyl Thirsk are to provide a special exhibition piece. I should like to see this.’

Celimus gave a terse yet still elegant bow. ‘As you wish, Father. I feel privileged that you will witness it.’

The old man nodded, despising him. ‘And I also hear you have a special prize for the victor of this contest. Am I right in understanding that you have invoked the ancient Virgin Blood claim?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Celimus answered brightly, determined not to be intimidated by the sack of bones which sat before him. ‘I thought it might add some spice to the sometimes dull occasion of two men matching blades.’

‘It was my belief that the addition of real swords would provide enough excitement.’

‘In this you are right, my lord. However, I felt inspired to mark this as the most memorable of royal tournaments.’

‘And why is that?’ the King asked, dreading the answer.

Celimus moved closer still. ‘Because it shall be your last and we need to mark it well, sire. This tourney did, after all, arise out of celebrations of our ancient customs. It is right that we send your ancient body off in ancient style.’

Magnus worked hard to keep his voice steady. ‘Indeed, son. I admire your observation of the old traditions, although I cannot admire the rite you have resurrected; the very one my grandfather worked so hard to abolish. It is, if you will forgive me pointing out at this late hour, barbaric and beneath you to perpetrate such a thing on one of the young maidens here.’

‘Ah well, as I so rarely please you, Father, this is but another nail I will gladly hammer into your coffin.’

Magnus was shocked at the vehemence in Celimus’s words, all muttered only just loud enough for the two of them to share.

‘You are clearly in a hurry for me to die, son.’

Celimus bent down, his smile to the crowd unfailing but his words chilling as he whispered to Magnus: ‘I shall give you until Newleaf, Father. If you are not wheezing your last unwelcome breath within that time, I shall personally speed you along to Shar.’

‘How badly you must want this crown, boy.’

‘You can’t begin to imagine — and my patience wanes. So enjoy today’s spectacle and then go off and do me the only good deed you will ever do me as a father … and die.’

Magnus, feeling his strength leave him as he absorbed how strongly Adana’s blood ran in Celimus’s veins and how he had so completely failed his son, collapsed back into a chair which had been conveniently placed behind him by the ever-attentive Orto.

‘Your majesty,’ the servant started softly, his tone reflecting his concern. He had heard none of the conversation between father and son but knew well it would have brought no cheer to the old King.

Magnus did not allow him to finish. ‘A drink, if you please, Orto. I wish to watch the exhibition.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Orto said, a twitch of his fingers sending a page scurrying for a watered ale. ‘As you command,’ he added, reaching into his pocket for the small vial of poppy seed liquor.

Gueryn and Alyd had helped Wyl dress in the ceremonial fighting uniform of the House of Thirsk. They stood now admiring him.

‘Pity about the red hair,’ Alyd observed.

‘Oh shut up, Alyd,’ Wyl replied out of habit.

‘It clashes so badly with the house colours,’ Alyd continued, staring at the magenta and deep ultramarine of Wyl’s show battledress. He wanted to try once more to convince his friend to wear some armour, but knew it would be in vain. Wyl had already refused on the grounds that the contest was to be purely an exhibition.

‘Well, you can blame my ancestors for their blindness to pleasing colour combinations. They had red hair too.’ Wyl scowled at himself in the glass, Gueryn stood beside him.

‘Celimus likes to feint to the left,’ Gueryn cautioned.

Wyl nodded, taking his sword from Alyd and sheathing it.

‘And he likes to show you all of his right side — don’t fall for the ploy and strike. Swipe hard and low to his left.’

‘I know this, Gueryn. Be still. There is nothing more I can learn about Celimus’s swordplay that I don’t know already.’

Gueryn knew what was at stake; he knew Wyl must best Celimus to protect his sister, although the consequences for beating the Prince so publicly would be dire.

‘When this is over and we’ve seen Ylena and Alyd married, I suggest you take yourself off to the north. You need to get away from here for a while.’ He did not notice the glance which passed between the two younger soldiers.

Wyl understood that it made Gueryn feel safer to talk of the future. ‘Well, only if you agree to accompany me. We can check on the border patrols that so consumed my father.’

‘That’s a promise,’ Gueryn said gravely. He put his hand over Wyl’s heart and spoke the family motto: ‘As one.’

Wyl repeated the gesture, holding his own hand over Gueryn’s heart: ‘As one.’

He accepted Alyd’s brief hug. ‘Go, be near her. She will be terrified.’

Alyd could only nod. Suddenly he felt his world tipping. He tried to sound confident. ‘I can already taste our first celebratory ale.’

Gueryn and Alyd left the tent and Wyl followed moments behind, emerging into the glare of the clear, mild afternoon. His friends moved towards where Ylena nervously sat. He walked into the main arena. The master of ceremonies announced the arrival of General Wyl Thirsk and was quickly drowned by the loud cheer which erupted from the soldiers encircling the area. If the civilians were intrigued by this contest which had been recently announced between two such highly ranked combatants, they were fascinated by the promise that the victor would have the right to Virgin Blood.

Many of the shallower, less wealthy nobles had been thrilled at the whispers of this ancient rite being reinstated at the direct behest of Prince Celimus. They felt that if the king-in-waiting chose their unmarried daughter to lie with, it was almost as good as a royal seal of approval on that union. The richer, more cynical families, stung by the cunning of Celimus on previous occasions, wisely kept away from the royal tournament, claiming illness or urgent business in a faraway part of the realm. None of this mattered to Celimus; he wanted to see the blood of only one virgin on his sheets tonight and she was very much present.

He arrived in the arena to wild applause from the commonfolk who knew little of his true character yet. To them he appeared a glorious king-to-be; the dashing Prince of a much-loved sovereign. His fabulously handsome appearance, seemingly humble acceptance of their cheers and his bright, wide smile, did nothing to dissuade them of this fine opinion.

Magnus grimaced and noticed Wyl did the same. The King joined in the charade with a half-hearted clap and benign smile for good measure, but behind it lay his cold fear. His physic had recently reconsidered his estimate on the King’s longevity. No longer did he believe Magnus would last until the next full moon — in fact, he had culled his prediction so savagely it was now his expert opinion that Magnus would barely survive the next few days. It seemed Celimus would get his wish, Magnus thought grimly. He no longer despaired of himself for hoping Wyl might somehow prevail; that he might just have found some resolution for this terrible dilemma.

The truth was he needed Wyl to beat Celimus. His son was poised to plunge Morgravia into its darkest times and he suddenly realised he was powerless to prevent it.

The two men touched the flat of their swords first to their lips and then against each other’s blade. The sharp metallic sound sent a shiver of anticipation through all from Stoneheart who knew what a formidable fighting pair they were. Both supreme swordsmen, standing side by side fighting for the same cause, many speculated they would be invincible.

The master of ceremonies had announced that the winner would be decreed by whichever opponent drew first blood. This was sinister news to Wyl. It was his understanding this was nothing more than an exhibition. However, it was too late now to argue the finer points. He looked towards Gueryn and noticed the old soldier’s face was a blank contrast to Alyd’s open expression of intense anxiety. Wyl had to look away. There was nothing to be done now except to fight with the blade as well as he knew he could.

The King was given the task of dropping the white square of linen. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground and the two opponents immediately drew their blades back and began circling. Wyl knew Celimus would not be long in this foreplay and, rather than waiting, struck hard and fast.

The dance of the swords had begun.

Whatever Wyl gave away in height and strength he made up for with cunning and speed. Celimus was light on his feet and his strokes were so elegant his dance was beautiful to behold. He smiled the whole time he fought. As different as dark and light, they were. Wyl’s face was set as a mask and he stood his ground, patiently parrying, ever watchful for the right opening. Gueryn had always admired the shrewd manner in which Wyl wielded his sword. There was nothing flamboyant in his style, his strokes were neat and economical. Celimus liked to move in a wide arc with large, airy strokes, but this was also part of his skill and Wyl knew it. Wyl appreciated how Celimus was enticing him, daring him to take advantage of the room he provided.

And that would be your undoing. Gueryn’s advice rang as loudly in his mind as the sound of the blades rang in his ears. It was all Wyl could hear; the crowd’s murmurings had faded away for him. He had become one with the sword, moving with lightning reflexes.

They were well matched and, as the fight began to extend, none of the onlookers could say that either was getting the upper hand. The audience marvelled at the grace of this contest. The combatants appeared as well-rehearsed dancers who knew every move the other would make. Even Ylena and Alyd, pale with worry, were entranced by the glint of the swords and the speed and beauty of their movement.

Wyl jumped expertly as Celimus struck low, and then, to the surprise of those watching, Wyl spun around one way to stop a harsh blow coming again at his legs and then reverse-spun to parry another. Sparks ignited as the blades crashed together. It was a wonderful spectacle — not that Wyl was in a position to hear the sounds of high appreciation from the crowd. He knew better than anyone that he was in the midst of a death struggle.

The Prince, slightly less focused, did hear the cheers for his opponent and that made him angry. Wyl heard his competitor’s subtle change in breathing, provoked by wrath, and felt the first nuances that the balance of the contest had changed. Remembering Gueryn’s warning about the dangers of fighting on pure emotion, he pressed harder, feeling his own senses withdraw even further within himself until he could no longer see the Prince but simply the blur of aggressive strokes which he could anticipate and deflect.

The Prince was rapidly becoming prey to his own emotions and his skills suffered.

‘Wyl’s beating him, isn’t he?’ Ylena whispered nervously to Gueryn.

‘I would agree that Wyl’s gaining the ascendancy,’ he replied dryly, adding, ‘If he keeps going like this, the Prince will tire quickly as he is expending far more energy than your brother.’

Ylena nodded and squeezed harder on Alyd’s reassuring hand.

Wyl leapt forward to thrust, knowing what Celimus would do in reply, and was already feinting left to counter the stroke which inevitably came. He could see the beads of sweat now on the Prince’s brow and he too felt his shirt damp against his back. He had no idea of time. As he danced backwards the Prince followed, thrusting and slashing. It seemed Celimus had found his balance again and the strokes resumed their whirring grace.

Both now deep in concentration, neither could detect the enthralled silence which had claimed the audience.

The Prince searched constantly for the opening which would allow him to draw first blood and Wyl just as nimbly defended. Celimus suddenly moved wide, deliberately airing his stroke to reveal one side of his torso which begged to be slashed. Wyl was so tempted — it would be so easy — but he recalled the caution of Gueryn and just as forcefully moved in the same direction as his royal opponent, ignoring the invitation and surprising the Prince with a hard, arm-numbing smash downwards.

Infuriated, Celimus began to take short angry jumps forward. Leading with his right leg he hammered at Wyl’s blade, reverting to brute strength over his shorter opponent. Did he see a grin on Thirsk’s face? Yes, damn him all to hell. Well, he had a few surprises left and he began a brilliant series of spins and leaps to dazzle the crowd who yelled their encouragement.

Ylena caught a mutter from Gueryn. He seemed to be repeating something just under his breath. She listened intently and heard it: ‘…the Magician, Wyl, use the Magician …’

Celimus was still pushing forward, bearing down hard, beating the General backwards towards one corner of the arena and apparently winning, when Wyl saw it. Saw the potential as the complex series of strokes of the highly difficult manoeuvre came to mind. It was possible. Celimus, in his arrogance, his confidence that he was in fact winning, would not be ready to counter, for he could hear applause now, was not concentrating quite as ferociously as a minute or so ago.

Gueryn called it the Magician in honour of Fergys Thirsk, who had designed the manoeuvre and used it to devastating effect in many battles. The older soldier had counselled Wyl on it, claiming only the very skilled in swordsmanship could make it work in a true battle situation — or would have the courage to use it. It needed constant calculation and readjustment depending on the opponent, and many in the heat of the fight could forget one of the tightly woven moves which made it such a formidable trick.

‘Its purpose is to confuse,’ Gueryn had said during their private practice of this piece of art.

And Wyl would use the Magician to daunting effect now.

He audaciously threw his sword from his right hand to his left. Unbalanced by the curious move, Celimus hesitated. Wyl thrust and the Prince only just blocked in time, but the move pushed him off balance in the other direction. Wyl kept tossing his sword from hand to hand, seizing every opportunity in between to strike. Suddenly it was all Celimus could do to defend and keep stepping away from this blitz of frustrating, seemingly random strokes from both sides.

Wyl could hear the breath coming hard in the Prince now. With one final toss to his left hand he brought his sword from that side, slamming hard against the Prince’s right, intending to slash across his fighting arm. Celimus was dazzlingly fast though, and at the last second countered, their swords shuddering to a halt, crossed in front of their grimacing expressions.

It was now simply a test of strength.

Their faces were almost touching as they bent against each other.

‘Yield,’ Celimus whispered hoarsely.

‘Go to hell!’ Wyl replied.

‘Yield to me now or those you love will die. Make it look good, for I shall start with le Gant.’

The unexpected threat hit Wyl so harshly that his shocked reaction was immediate. He feigned a trip, stumbling away from the Prince and dropping his sword in the process. The arena was silent. Everyone held their breath, wondering how the General, after such a brilliant display, could be so suddenly clumsy.

‘Good decision, Thirsk,’ the Prince uttered just loud enough for his opponent to hear. He smiled broadly before whipping his sword expertly from the top of Wyl’s shoulder in a diagonal stroke across his body.

Through the rent in Wyl’s shirt bright red bloomed.

‘First blood!’ Celimus called proudly and encouraged the crowd to honour his achievement.

In their bewilderment, they did, throwing their caps into the air and cheering wildly, although not one soldier present joined the celebration. Their eyes instead lingered on the anguished figure of their General. Gueryn was first at Wyl’s side. He knew the cut was a surface one, exquisitely laid for maximum visual impact. Wyl would wear the scar for ever but the stinging cut would no more threaten his life than the prick of a rose thorn.

‘Do what you must,’ he urged Wyl.

Wyl gathered his fractured thoughts and found the wherewithal to bow to his opponent, pick up his weapon and then touch swords once again to lips and blades. It signalled the end of the contest.

Celimus began to strut around accepting the accolades.

‘He said he’d kill you if I didn’t yield,’ Wyl groaned, shaking his head with despair.

‘I expected something like this,’ Gueryn admitted as the master of ceremonies began speaking. ‘Come on.’

‘Your majesty,’ the announcer said, bowing to Magnus who barely acknowledged it. ‘My Prince,’ he turned, bowing now to Celimus. ‘My lords, ladies and all gathered here for this festive occasion. I ask you once again to show your appreciation for the most impressive display of swordsmanship I think any of us will ever witness. I’m sure you’ll agree that if this is the standard of our young Morgravian warriors, then Briavel and all who challenge us had better think twice!’

The crowd erupted at the deliberately provocative words. When the noise had died down a little, the man continued. ‘As you know, there is a special reward for the winner of this particular contest.’ A murmuring broke out amongst the crowd. ‘Prince Celimus, with the permission of his majesty King Magnus, has reinstated the ancient rite of the claim to Virgin Blood.’

The murmurs turned into discussion. Ylena felt her knees tremble as Celimus slyly glanced in her direction. The cool air surrounding his hot body had caused a gentle drift of steam to lift from him and he stood, proud and regal, his shirt opened to reveal his broad, hairless chest. Ylena was not the only one to notice his dishevelled and yet still so sensuous appearance. She was, however, one of very few — perhaps the only one, in fact — amongst the ladies of the court that day who did not feel her blood stir at the sight of this beautiful man.

The master of ceremonies had finished his explanation of the rite: ‘…which now leaves me with nothing more to say than to invite our esteemed Prince Celimus to make his choice,’ he concluded, beaming with satisfaction that he had held the crowd enraptured.

Wyl, hardly noticing the burning sensation from the slash on his body, glanced cautiously towards Alyd.

Celimus quietened the excited crowd. ‘This is a difficult choice for me. Cast your eyes amongst the beautiful young women of the court and you will see that every one of them defies being ignored,’ he said grandly.

Magnus, exhausted and sorrowful at how things had turned out, looked at the square of linen on the grass. He could put a stop to this incident by simply raising a hand, but after his death there would be no one to stop his son and he must consider the repercussions of humiliating Celimus. Magnus knew he would most likely be dead within days, perhaps this very night. He needed to pass on Morgravia in a strong state. If he over-ruled Celimus now, who knows what might occur and who else — including Valor of Briavel — might consider it plausible to attack when the boy was still vulnerable. No, he needed to hold his tongue and allow this terrible event to take its course. Celimus must ascend to the throne feeling invincible. He was popular with the people after this most public victory; it would be prudent, for the time being, to let sleeping dogs lie. Despite Magnus’s own misgivings as to the outcome of this contest, if Wyl was going to stage a coup then it must be his own decision and happen in his own time frame. Only Morgravia mattered now, and this would be the old King’s final sacrifice for his realm. He prayed it would be the only time Celimus would employ the old rite. Yet, as powerless as he felt, Magnus reached towards a way he might ease the balance of power between new King and General in the light of this contest. Wyl would not be easily consoled should Celimus unwisely select Ylena as his prize. Magnus left his ruminations and returned his attention to Celimus’s gallant speech.

‘…and so may I ask for the indulgence and indeed forgiveness of all of these adorable young ladies today that I can’t choose each and every one of them.’ The Prince grinned, his arms sweeping across the platform where the nobility sat and enjoyed the titter of amusement from the girls who had clearly gone to some pains — or at least their social-climbing mothers had — to make themselves as alluring as possible.

‘I choose the Lady Ylena Thirsk of Argorn,’ he said, his dark eyes finally coming to rest upon the one woman who would sooner die than give up something so precious to this fiendish man.

He walked to where she stood not far from King Magnus, who had closed his tired eyes at the mention of his ward’s name. Celimus ensured his own hand was outstretched graciously towards her in what, to the audience, looked like a charmingly beseeching manner and yet to Alyd appeared purely predatory. Celimus arrived in front of Ylena, ignoring her slump-shouldered, bleeding brother and the outraged Alyd Donal.

The Prince had no intention of wasting any time. He would take her to his bed this moment and relish the opportunity not only to loose his passion on someone so comely but to drive a blade into the heart of the two men whom he knew hated him more than any. Those who might defy him would learn a hard lesson today and it would serve them well for when shortly he took the throne.

Celimus bowed formally. ‘My lady,’ he said, unable to contain his delight at his conniving brilliance.

‘Prince Celimus,’ Wyl said, stepping up and bending low before the royal. He turned towards Magnus. ‘Your majesty, if you’ll forgive my intrusion?’

Magnus opened his eyes and nodded, hardly daring to believe that Wyl might have taken his hint as to how to prevent Celimus deflowering this most delicate and favourite of all blooms at Stoneheart.

Wyl straightened. ‘Sire, apologies, I do believe there has been a misunderstanding here.’

‘Oh?’ Magnus replied, hope suddenly flaring in his heart.

Wyl nodded gravely. He looked at Celimus. ‘My Prince, as her only living relative, I cannot permit you to choose Ylena.’

Celimus’s smile faltered, turning into a sneer. ‘I’m not sure your familial ties override the royal claim, Thirsk. Step aside.’

Gueryn’s eyes narrowed. He had no idea what was going on here and he could only pray that Wyl knew what he was doing.

‘No, my Prince, I’m afraid I cannot do that. You are not grasping the full import of what I say. It is not I who forbids you to lie with my sister. It is the law of our land.’

Celimus could no longer brook this delaying tactic. He was tired and sweaty; the lust was already coursing through his veins for revenge on the Thirsk family, as well as the sweet release that lying with the young woman who stood before him could achieve. ‘Law! Which law would that be, Thirsk?’

‘The sanctified law of marriage, my Prince,’ Wyl said, his face deliberately portraying one of troubled confusion. ‘I’m sorry, sire, did no one here know?’

‘Know what?’ spluttered Celimus, looking between his father and the increasingly smug expressions of the Thirsks.

Alyd stepped in. ‘Perhaps I can explain, my Prince. You see, it is I who forbids you to lie with my wife.’

‘Your wife!’ Celimus roared, his body fairly shaking with the rage he now felt.

Gueryn, behind him, began to smirk as he pieced together what must have occurred.

Alyd nodded. ‘Yes. Ylena and I are married. Apologies to all, we thought the loose-tongued priest would have let the whole of Stoneheart know by now,’ he said, grinning and taking Ylena’s hand. ‘We were otherwise engaged in marital pursuits to broadcast our happy news, although we did intend to make formal announcements later today.’

Wyl thought he might laugh at Alyd’s sugary manner.

‘Fetch the priest,’ Celimus demanded and a page was sent hurrying to find the man. ‘In the meantime, Ylena, please tell me when this marriage occurred.’

Ylena curtsied to Celimus. ‘Our wedding took place yesterday, my lord Prince, a little earlier than planned.’ She looked towards the King as she spoke, rather than Celimus.

‘And I can certainly vouch that my wife is no longer a virgin, probably already with child,’ Alyd said, standing a bit taller.

‘You knew of this?’ Celimus said flatly to Wyl. His voice was harsh and low.

‘My Prince, you must forgive me. I gladly gave my sister away to her betrothed, an honour which was also sanctioned by the Crown. I had no inkling that she would be your first choice. But then, as you yourself have mentioned, every young maiden here is delectable in her own right. I know you will have no trouble choosing another.’

The priest arrived, pale and shaking. His pudgy hands kept moving across his mouth nervously.

‘Answer me in a word, priest. Did you marry Ylena Thirsk of Argorn to Alyd Donal of Felrawthy?’ Celimus demanded.

‘Yes,’ the priest answered, trembling, then added for good measure, ‘in Stoneheart’s chapel.’

Celimus closed his eyes briefly in what looked like pain. ‘When?’ His tone was acid.

‘Yesterday morning, your majesty. It was a private ceremony, attended only by the bride, her brother the General, and Captain Donal. This was done in accordance with General Thirsk’s wishes,’ he said, turning to look at the King beseechingly.

‘You may depart,’ Celimus responded, barely able to contain his rage. ‘Father, you are legal guardian to Ylena. I presume you have given your signed permission to this union?’

Magnus considered how best to answer his son without betraying the Thirsk family. He looked towards Orto and it was his calm and collected secretary who came to the rescue.

‘Sire,’ Orto said gently. ‘I recall the papers being signed two nights ago. It was a brief session, for you were very unwell. If my memory serves me right, you put your signature to only two parchments. This sanction was one of them.’

‘Ah, there you have it, son,’ Magnus said, but Celimus had already turned on his heel and pointed to one young woman from the nobility, much to the delight of the crowd. He strode away from the Thirsk party.

Wyl glanced towards Magnus who nodded almost imperceptibly, a wry smile of relief barely touching his mouth. Cunning indeed, young Wyl, he thought. He turned to Orto. ‘Come, Orto. I believe we have some pressing paperwork.’

‘Yes, sire,’ the man said, his solicitous expression unchanged. ‘Allow me to assist you.’

EIGHT

A RECKLESS MOOD HAD hit Alyd and Wyl that evening. With a number of soldiers, they broke the Legion’s drinking record, leaving an increasing number of the men retching in the street and doomed to sleep where they had fallen, too intoxicated to help themselves. Tournament night alone was the only occasion on which this sort of indiscretion by the Legionnaires would be tolerated.

‘Leave them,’ Alyd called over his shoulder, swerving into Wyl. ‘Weak sods that they are. Now, hear me, men still standing,’ he bellowed, ‘I gave my word to General Thirsk that I would take him into the Alley and have his fortune told.’

Sounds of hearty agreement ensued and Wyl, his spirits still soaring from Ylena’s close escape, made no protest at being swept along on the merry, drunken tide of happy soldiers prolonging their tournament revelries. He had managed to put behind him Celimus’s diabolical threat to hurt those he loved, and was even feeling slightly foolish at falling for it. The group wended its way into the Alley, which was itself still a lively hive of activity.

‘Right, lads. We need to find the Widow something or other,’ Alyd said, grinning crookedly, eyes vague and red.

‘Widow Ilyk,’ Wyl corrected, far less in his cups than his friend.

‘First one to find her gets a silver duke for his trouble,’ Alyd yelled, brandishing the coin.

Soldiers departed in various directions, more out of fun than a need to earn more coin to drink with.

A small boy with a curious smell about him emerged from the crowd and grabbed at Wyl’s shirt. ‘General, sir, I know where the widow’s tent is.’

‘Then you can earn the duke,’ Alyd said, unsteady on his feet. ‘Could you take us to it?’

‘Follow me,’ the boy said brightly.

‘How old are you?’ Wyl asked, suddenly noticing that Knave had appeared with the lad.

‘Ten summers, General, sir.’

‘Call me Wyl.’

‘I couldn’t, sir.’

‘Then what do I call you, young guide?’ Wyl said, ignoring the odd aroma and taking his small hand.

The youngster eyed him. ‘My name is Fynch, General.’

They walked on, Alyd calling to some of the men to stop their search and to follow.

Wyl looked at the lean child who had large, seemingly all-knowing eyes. ‘Do you live in Pearlis, Fynch?’

‘Yes, sir. And I work at Stoneheart,’ he said proudly.

‘I see. And what is your duty?’

‘I’m a gong boy, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘I’ve been cleaning the sewer tunnels at the palace since I was four, but I’ve recently been promoted to take care of the royal apartments’ dropholes, so I can assure you I am earnest in my work.’

‘Well now, that would explain the rather individual smell you carry around with you, Fynch,’ Alyd said, not unkindly. ‘And you will no doubt be very busy tomorrow as Prince Celimus’s lavvy will be getting a right royal workout tonight, I’ll wager.’

Fynch did not understand the jest but he joined in the men’s laughter, thrilled to be in the company of the General he had admired for several years, and pleased that this was the first person ever who had not made a comment on how tiny he seemed for his age.

‘Here we are, sir,’ he said presently as they came to the tent, which now looked even more mysterious with its candle-lanterns of many-coloured glass strung along the awning, sending flickers of red, blue and green into the darkness of the Alley.

‘Do you believe in this fortune-telling stuff?’ Wyl asked him.

‘I think the widow does this purely for fun,’ Fynch admitted. Then he fixed Wyl with a direct gaze. ‘But if you ask me whether I believe in some people being able to see things … whether some people have the Sight, then yes I do.’

‘Blasphemous child!’ Alyd said theatrically. ‘Look out for Stalkers,’ he added but stopped that line of jest at Wyl’s pained expression. ‘All right, who’s first?’ Alyd called. The men all raised their hands at once and drunkenly pushed into the tent. Alyd flipped the boy the coin. ‘Thanks, Fynch.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ he answered. ‘Can I assist with anything else, General?’

‘No. You’ve been most helpful. I’m sure we’ll see you around the castle.’

‘That you will. Would you mind if I waited for you?’

Wyl smiled. He suspected that the boy had no home to go to. And he was intrigued at how Knave stayed close to the boy. ‘I don’t mind at all. You can walk back with us later. I might need help with my friend.’ He glanced towards where Alyd swayed at the entrance.

‘I’ll wait out here then, sir,’ Fynch said, seating himself cross-legged on the grass next to the General’s large black dog.

Wyl and Alyd were the last to be seen by the fortune-teller, by which time the rest of the soldiers had staggered out, still drunk and seemingly none the wiser for the counsel. It did not surprise their Captain. No one took a fortune-teller seriously.

‘Fairground tricks, General,’ he said, a dazed grin on his face. ‘All a bit of fun for the lads.’

‘Come in,’ they heard the woman call.

Wyl threw a resigned expression towards Fynch before he and Alyd pushed open the drapes and entered the dimmed space within.

‘Welcome,’ she said.

Wyl stared at the old woman standing before them who called herself the Widow Ilyk. It came as a shock to him that she appeared to be blind, her eyes almost white from whatever afflicted her. The rest of her face was forgettable. A collection of ordinary features which had seen much weathering by sun and wind on her travels. As a result she was tanned and her skin looked like well-worn leather. She wore no adornments and her clothes were simple, well-patched garments of dun brown. For some reason he had expected her to be gaudy of dress and dripping with charms and bracelets.

It appeared that the same thought had struck the Captain through his liquor haze. ‘What, no fancy costume for us, Widow?’ Alyd feigned disappointment.

‘I am tired of it,’ she replied, her milky gaze never leaving Wyl. ‘I wore it all day. Those clothes are hot and heavy.’ She grinned, revealing gaps in her stained teeth. ‘Ah, but the people do enjoy the theatrics. I like to please. Would you prefer that I climbed back into them?’

‘No,’ Alyd answered, holding up his hands. He looked very unsteady. ‘No bother. I’ve brought my friend here — just for a laugh.’ Alyd belched, rocking on his heels.

Wyl decided it was time to get him home. He looked back at the fortune-teller, a little embarrassed. ‘Do you travel alone?’ he asked, for want of anything better to say.

She hobbled towards a chair, feeling for it. ‘My niece helps me. She is not here this evening,’ she replied, seeming to stare at nothing now. ‘You two men were here earlier today, weren’t you?’

‘How can you know this?’ Alyd slurred, teetering dangerously.

‘I’m guessing.’ She chuckled to herself and changed the subject. ‘Young man, would you be kind enough to hang the sign you see beneath this table outside my tent? I think I am done for the night.’

Wyl obliged. When he returned to the dimly lit area where the widow sat, Alyd had placed himself opposite her and she was holding both of his hands in her large, wrinkled pair. Blue veins traversed their old journeys across the backs of her hands and her oversized knuckles suggested she suffered the disease of the joints.

As if reading his thoughts, she spoke. ‘Ah, but the pain in my fingers is bad today.’

Alyd winked crookedly at Wyl. ‘What can you tell me, old woman?’ he mumbled.

‘What would you like to know?’

‘Tell me about Captain Alyd Donal, the luckiest husband in all of Morgravia,’ he said expansively, all but falling off his chair.

‘Well, I can see that you have consumed too much of the King’s fine ale today. And in the future I envisage a mighty headache and fragile humour,’ she said, a smile at the edges of her mouth.

Alyd tried to focus on her, his expression confused. ‘Do you know, I think you’re right, Widow.’ He hiccupped; a sign of impending doom. ‘You are indeed a woman of insight,’ he said, suddenly overcome by nausea. ‘Would you excuse me, I think the ale wants to be returned.’ And he ran from the tent.

Wyl spun around in surprise to watch him stumble out and then awkwardly turned back to the woman. He wished he could leave as well.

She chuckled again. ‘And so to the quiet friend,’ she said, the white eyes resting somewhere over his shoulder.

Wyl shrugged. What harm could it do? He sat and offered his hands but she did not take them.

He risked a personal question. ‘Are you blind?’

‘Almost. I see everything as a blur. Still, I have never needed the sight through eyes.’ The tent felt suddenly still and tense as Wyl absorbed her meaning. He felt a disquiet take a hold. Talk of magic made him uneasy.

She seemed in no hurry. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘Argorn,’ he replied. ‘And you?’

‘Not these parts. My home is in the far north — a little-known town called Yentro. Now, what would you like to know?’

Wyl shrugged at her question. He was here now and suspected she would not permit him to leave without some sort of reading. He wanted to say he knew this was just for fun but her intent, serious expression compelled him to play along. ‘Why not tell me my fortune?’

‘Pah! I’m no sideshow fortune-teller. I put on that act for the revellers.’

He took his chance. ‘Perhaps I should leave, then?’

‘Stay. You intrigue me. There is an aura about you.’

Now Wyl laughed. He could hear loud, sickly groans coming from Alyd outside and thought it best to make his departure.

‘I promise you, Widow, no one has ever found anything intriguing about me.’

She did return his smile this time. ‘Tell me, do you believe in otherworldly things?’

‘Such as?’

‘Having the Sight,’ she said, carefully this time.

‘No. But here is the regal I owe you for permitting us to visit your tent. I think I must go see to my sickening friend.’

Wyl pressed the coin into her hands and was taken aback at the alarmed manner in which she shrank from his touch.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, indignant.

She did not reply. Instead a low moan issued from her throat.

‘Widow!’ he called. ‘What ails you?’

The old woman began to sway and then she spoke a soft, mysterious chant in a language Wyl had never heard.

He recoiled from her. ‘I will leave now.’

She seemed to come out of her strange reverie. ‘Wait!’ she hissed. ‘You must be told.’

‘Told what?’

‘Let me hold your hands.’

‘No! I want no part of this. I don’t know why I let myself come here tonight.’

‘Because you were relieved.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That you foiled him,’ she answered, her milky gaze locked on his astonished face now.

Wyl sat. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded.

She shook her head, her blank stare moving to look past him. ‘None of that is important. Neither is the fact that I know. Only one thing matters.’

Wyl was confused now. ‘You’re not making sense to me.’

‘Listen to me carefully, Wyl Thirsk,’ she said, her voice low and grave.

‘I didn’t give you my na —’

‘Hush! I am in much pain and have the strength to say this only once. Pay attention to me. I am a seer and I speak only the truth to you. Keep your money — I give my advice freely to a man touched by magic.’

Wyl baulked but she grabbed his hand this time. Her grip was harsh. ‘You walk a perilous journey, son, and on it you are accompanied by something dark and friendless.’

Wyl’s eyes narrowed. He felt a hollow open in the pit of his stomach.

‘Heed me well,’ she continued. ‘It may destroy you or you may use it wisely to your own ends. It has no loyalties; no rhythm of its own. No care for anything but itself.’

‘Woman … what are you talking of?’

‘I talk of the Quickening,’ she snapped. ‘It is Myrren’s gift which she bestowed on you as she died. You must take great care, Wyl Thirsk.’

Quickening? Wyl repeated in his mind. ‘What is it?’

‘Some might consider it a curse but Myrren made it her gift.’

Until this moment Wyl had never considered Myrren anything more than a beautiful and tragic young woman. To hear this stranger infer that she was empowered was unnerving.

‘Her gift to me was a dog,’ he said flatly.

She nodded now. ‘He is part of it. Knave will protect you and the true gift she gave.’

Wyl pressed her. ‘How can you know all of this?’ He shook his head, bewildered; how she could know his name, his dog’s name, even Myrren’s name? He took a steadying breath. ‘How must I use it?’

‘That I cannot advise. It is your gift to wield as you see fit.’

‘When will I know of its existence?’

‘It is already within you. It exists now.’ She coughed raggedly.

‘What do I do with it, woman? Tell me!’ he begged, frightened now by her words.

‘You will know when the time comes, although I see swirling about you a woman of note. She needs your protection.’

Wyl was baffled. ‘You have to tell me all that you see.’

The widow coughed again and dropped his hands. When she had recovered, she said breathlessly, ‘I see only this. Those you love will suffer. Keep the dog and its friend close.’

The world was spinning for Wyl. He could not tell whether it was the effect of the ale making him dizzy — although he felt suddenly sober — or the strange sticks which burned their spicy fragrance in her tent.

‘You lie, old woman.’

Her voice was hard now when she spoke. ‘I never lie in what I see. Your friends are vulnerable. There is a woman — she’s important — who needs your help.’

He wanted to ignore her, wanted to run. Instead he grabbed her arm, caring not for the way she flinched again from his touch or perhaps from the pain he might be inflicting.

‘Get gone, woman. We have no need of you here.’

‘Take care, Wyl Thirsk. Beware the mountains. The other friend I spoke of is already known to you. Keep him close.’

Wyl shoved her arm aside and strode from the tent.

NINE

FYNCH WAS FOUR WHEN his father first pressed him into service as one of Stoneheart’s gong boys. His wages, a pittance though they were, had helped to keep the family from starvation and, although his daily grind was about as unsavoury a task as any could imagine, the young Fynch had quickly taken pride in his work. So much so, his diligence and commitment to his lowly task over the past six years came to the attention of the King.

Before his illness forced him to his bed, Magnus had enjoyed morning walks around the palace, during which he had come across the hardworking lad. Both were creatures of habit. Fynch found himself toiling in the same place at the same time most days, and likewise the King followed a preferred route through the grounds. The regularity of their encounters meant that a nod of greeting eventually ensued, which turned into a few polite words and then into a daily discourse, brief but engaging. Magnus, in his later years, had become interested in the young. It was his eternal regret that he had not played a greater role in shaping Celimus and that he had, in effect, lost his own child. He had found Fynch, despite his low status and serious nature, to be intelligent beyond his years.

One summer morning when the uncleared refuse from the royal lavatories had become particularly ripe in the heat, the King had complained to the seneschal about the unreliable nature of the youngster in question and suggested that young Fynch was the lad for the task. Fynch was promptly moved from one of the lowlier tunnels to the main royal apartments. It was a meteoric rise in status for one so young. From then on his wages had quadrupled, for the gong boy to the royals was expected to be discreet.

Fynch had taken his promotion very seriously — as was his way — and there had never since been cause for complaint with regard to the keeper of the royal dropholes, for either his tongue or toil. But now that the King had taken so ill, Fynch missed their fleeting chats; Magnus did too.

Since his new appointment both of Fynch’s parents had died in a cart accident, leaving the family of four children with its eldest barely thirteen years old. Like Fynch she was a serious child and took to the task of caring for her brood with vigour. Fynch’s wages were now of infinite importance to ensure the younger ones could count on at least one daily meal and he considered himself the man of the family.

Even at ten Fynch remained a painfully slight child. He ate as little as the bird which inspired his name. His sister, who loved him well, had given up on scolding her brother with regard to his poor eating habits. Even though she still fretted that if he fell ill the family would perish, she had the sensibility to realise that Fynch was not driven by his belly as were so many lads working around the castle. Yet, in spite of his woeful leanness and stunted growth, he continued to thrive. His size also meant he could continue in this line of work for many years yet, which further secured the family’s wellbeing.

At the time of his promotion to the royal dropholes, Fynch struck up another curious relationship — this time with a big black dog. It was an unremarkable autumn dawn, misty and chill. But the gong boy was about his work early to ensure the King’s and the Prince’s individual dropholes were cleared and freshened before they had risen for the day. Whilst shovelling he had noticed an immense black dog emerge from around one of the castle walls. It had stared at him for a long while. He had whistled to it, knowing this beast looked too well fed and shiny to be a wild dog and glad of the small distraction from his filthy work, but the dog had remained motionless, watching him carefully through dark, intelligent eyes.

When it did finally approach, it was swift and without warning. The boy had stood his ground but felt nonetheless terrified.

‘Easy, boy, easy,’ Fynch had urged, trying not to show his fear.

This was an enormous dog and when it had arrived to stand boldly in front of him, he was only just able to look down upon it. It had neither blinked nor flinched when he had tentatively reached out to touch it. But as he did so he had felt as though he was being blinded as a torrent of information had flooded into him. It took his breath away and suddenly he had a vision of Wyl Thirsk swirling into his mind. The vision had dissolved as quickly as it had come and he had found himself staring into the liquid eyes of the dog.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Fynch had sat down to regain his wits. The dog then settled by him and allowed him to absently scratch its ears and stroke its huge head whilst he thought about what he had experienced. When the dog suddenly barked, the huge sound frightened Fynch so much he fell backwards. As if to reassure him, the dog had licked his face before bounding away. The next day it had returned for more of the same. Just as Fynch had struck up an unlikely relationship with King Magnus, he had now become friend to this dog. They had nothing in common, no reason to pursue each other and still here they were, eager to see each other.

Fynch often felt, in fact, that this beast could sense his thoughts, although he would never admit to such a thing. He was privately convinced that he and the dog did communicate on a deeper level than the ordinary man-to-beast relationship. It became important to him to learn its name and who owned this fine canine and so he followed it back one afternoon and found the dog playing and gambolling around the red-headed General, of all people. More than just coincidence, then, that he had experienced that strange vision. He knew very little of Wyl Thirsk but since that alarming vision and through his interest in the man’s dog — whom he noticed paid scant attention to anyone in the soldiers’ yards except the General — he began to learn more about him.

He quickly discovered the dog’s name was Knave and realised that it did attend a few other people including the older soldier, Gueryn, the General’s sister and the always smiling, friendly Captain Alyd Donal. For almost every other individual, barring himself, the dog reserved a menacing stare or low growl.

Fynch was a born observer, unconsciously absorbing vast amounts of visual and spoken information each day and then, without even realising he was doing it, he would sift through it all of an evening, taking from it what he wished. Although he never used this talent beyond his own interest, the lad had gathered an enviable resource of information on just about anyone who wandered Stoneheart. He knew their habits, their friends, their lovers. He shared his information with no one, but his memory for detail only grew more intense as he matured. Fynch realised he could extract items from years gone by, bringing them into instantly sharp focus.

Over the months since he had befriended Knave — their familiarity now stretching to sharing his midday meal with the dog — he had begun to loosen from his memories various whispered conversations and scenes involving Wyl Thirsk and had soon produced a comprehensive picture of a man he now liked immensely. Finally he had plucked up the courage to speak with him last night, on the evening of the tourney, but that was not the first time he had been that close. No, the first time he had seen Wyl, he was new to his trade as gong boy. The General had collapsed at the witch-burning. Fynch had gone to the scene out of a childish curiosity. It was his first witch-burning and, appalled by the horror and the excitement of the adults around him, he had quickly decided it was to be his last. He was just four summers when he witnessed the terrible sight but what he saw afterwards would make an even deeper impression on his mind.

Although the soldier, Gueryn, thought no one else had witnessed the phenomenon, Fynch, the lowly gong boy, who happened to be carrying his tiny water bag and offered it to help the young man, noticed that when Wyl Thirsk regained consciousness his eyes were of a chilling and strange hue.

It had frightened him. But the General’s eyes had reverted to their normal colour, blue and unremarkable. He did not know what to make of all that.

Now, at dawn, as he made his way through the grounds towards the royal dropholes, he mulled over the previous evening’s events. He had been surprised when General Thirsk had burst from the tent of the Widow Ilyk and ordered them back to Stoneheart. The General had been distracted and solemn as he grabbed his sore-headed friend and together with Fynch’s assistance, had helped the semi-conscious Captain back to the castle, Knave trotting happily ahead.

The General had tossed him some coin and thanked him for his help that evening.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Fynch recalled asking, a reflex to the man’s suddenly vacant stare.

He remembered how the General, only an hour earlier so jovial, had finally focused upon him and replied. ‘I am well. A little startled from what I learned,’ he had admitted and then fallen abruptly silent as though regretting he had said as much as he had.

Fynch had instinctively understood not to press further. ‘I am but a lowly gong boy, sir, but I am at your service at any time of the day or night should you need.’

‘Gallantly said, thank you,’ he recalled the General saying and had flushed with pride at the remark. Then the soldier had added curiously, ‘I see, Fynch, that my hound has taken to you.’

‘Yes, sir. We play together each day.’

‘Is that right?’ the General had commented, clearly surprised, adjusting his snoring friend into a prone position on the grass. ‘This is passing strange.’

‘How so, sir?’

‘Because Knave is deliberately contrary to all but a few. I can’t explain it better than saying he is just short of vicious to almost everyone.’

Fynch had nodded then. ‘That’s true, sir … to all but the people you love.’ At this he recalled that Wyl Thirsk had stared at him, obviously taken aback and so he had quickly added, ‘I think he likes to protect you, sir.’

‘Yes,’ the General had admitted, ‘he is an odd animal but he likes you well enough, which pleases me, for you are a good lad.’

‘He hates the Prince, sir,’ Fynch had suddenly blurted. ‘I sometimes know when the Prince is near simply by the way Knave behaves.’

The General’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You notice much for a gong boy.’

‘Perhaps I should not have said so much. Forgive me.’

He pondered now as he came to the royal drophole and immediately set to shovelling, how Wyl Thirsk had smiled at this and then nodded. ‘Good night, Fynch. I’m sure our paths will cross again.’

‘Sleep well, sir,’ Fynch had said and then watched Wyl hoist a complaining Captain Donal and throw him over his shoulder.

He had continued watching until the General had disappeared after a few quiet words with the gatekeeper and had not been surprised to see a familiar shape re-emerge from the darkness. Fynch had stepped back into the shadows as much out of sight of the guards doing their rounds as he could.

‘Hello, Knave,’ he had said quietly. ‘Come to say good night?’ The dog had nudged his hand and Fynch had knelt then to hug his friend. A soft sound had issued from the dog’s throat. ‘I know. You want me to look out for him, don’t you, boy,’ Fynch had said gravely, stroking the dog’s ears. ‘Though I don’t know how.’

The dog had nuzzled closer to the small boy and they had remained entwined for a few silent moments.

‘You’d better go now, big fellow. I need some sleep too. I’m working on the Prince’s drophole tomorrow. He hates it if it goes beyond a day or two and I promised myself I’d clean further up the channel. Not very nice but it will be fresher for my efforts,’ he had mentioned brightly to the dog.

Knave had then growled. Even the mention of Celimus made the dog’s hair bristle.

Fynch came out of his thoughts and sighed to himself. He had made the pact with himself that today he would get on with the muckiest of tasks. Ignoring the eye-watering smell he bent to look up the drophole which led to the lavvy attached to the Prince’s apartments. It was filthy and desperately in need of a good brushing out.

He put down his shovel and after casting a quick glance around he took off his shirt and trews to reveal his pale, painfully thin body. No point in getting them all putrid; his sister would scold him harshly and at least he could wash the muck off his body in the nearby lake before he went home. He carefully folded his clothes and tucked them away in a small bundle.

At that moment, Knave padded up softly and Fynch brightened.

‘Guard my clothes, boy,’ he said seriously and was bemused to see the dog settle itself by his garments. ‘I’m going up there, Knave,’ he explained, pointing up the drophole. ‘Nasty work, so don’t distract me, all right? I need to get it done quickly and my body washed because the stuff up there stings my skin. But, I’m very glad you’re here — it will help.’

Knave barked playfully once. Fynch was quite sure the dog understood.

‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he said, just stopping himself from waving at his friend.

He picked up his sturdiest brush and, naked, ducked into the opening. Indentations in the vertical tunnel had been cleverly hacked out by the stonemasons of ages gone for this very purpose of climbing to clean. He flinched as he felt the first cold touch of the slime covering the walls of the drophole. Fynch smiled grimly in spite of it, taking a fierce pleasure that most gong boys only have a short life span at this job because they grow too big for it within a year or so. Not him, though. His all but skeletal frame still fitted Stoneheart’s dropholes with room to spare.

Fynch had long ago learned to distract himself from the nauseating odour of his work. He had taught himself how to breathe through his mouth but nothing was more effective than his unique ability to lose himself in his thoughts. He glanced down and saw the outline of Knave’s dark head staring back at him and that made him think of the General again.

Climbing instinctively now with slow care he gave himself over to his ‘information’, as he liked to call it, and delved into where he kept his details on the General. There was no way that General Thirsk should have lost that contest to the Prince. Even a dolt could see that Thirsk had the heir well and truly beaten and still he yielded. And then that business with the fortune teller later in the evening. That was most odd. Fynch was sure she was only a fairground fake and yet something had happened in that tent to rattle the General.

He was not that far from the top now and he slowed down to consider the connection he had suddenly made between the General’s strange behaviour last night and that equally odd moment when Wyl Thirsk had collapsed at the witch-burning and how his eyes had changed colour. Fynch had to admit it. Curiosities definitely surrounded Wyl Thirsk, not the least of which was his mysterious dog. He had gleaned from overhearing some of the soldiers talking that Knave was a special gift from the woman who had died at the stake, in exchange for his small kindness to her. As Fynch brushed away the slime he laid out tidily in his mind all of the information he had gleaned, including his disturbing experience when he first touched Knave.

His agile mind picked its way across all that he knew and finally, disturbingly, it crossed Fynch’s consciousness that perhaps the General was somehow touched by an enchantment. The woman who burned was hailed a witch, after all. Fynch did believe in sorcery, though he could never admit to such a thing to others. The idea of enchantment was whimsical, he granted, but it nagged. He continued his slow climb upwards and as he toiled he came to the conclusion that Knave was somehow part of it. When all was said, Knave was the witch’s dog.

An enchanted General. A fanciful notion, he chided himself, but one he could not let go of as he looked up to see dim light coming from the small windows hewn out of the stone walls of the lavvy above. Soon he would be able to slip his fingers over the lip of the drophole and start his more vigorous cleaning, steadily moving downwards and back to Knave whom he could sense was still watching him. Just as Fynch was about to heave himself to the opening, he heard an unmistakable low rumble coming from below. It was the dog. Knave made many sounds and, as strange as it seemed even to him, Fynch believed he could understand many of them. It was as though the dog were speaking to him. And this sound was unmistakably the growl which Knave reserved for Prince Celimus.

He was warning Fynch that the heir was near.

Fynch ducked to cower in the darkness. Surely the Prince did not need to use the lavvy now! Worse, he was afraid of Celimus and wholeheartedly shared Knave’s feelings towards the man. Carefully, Fynch began lowering himself as he too could now hear footsteps. His first thought was to let go and jump. Whatever breaks or bruises occurred, so be it. He could not bear the thought of being caught like a peeping tom by the Prince — Shar alone knew what the man might do to him.

The growl intensified and then Knave fell silent and in that moment Fynch froze. He heard it too. Speech as well as footsteps … and it was not just one voice. Fynch recognised Celimus but he was talking to another man and they were in the lavvy. Why?

He carefully and silently lowered himself to where he thought he was in sufficient shadow to be hidden and then he listened intently. It was uncanny how clearly he could hear them.

It was the other man who was speaking. ‘…yes but why here?’

‘Because it is the only place where I feel we can speak plainly without risk of being overheard,’ Celimus warned. ‘The walls are made of thick stone, my friend, but most of them have ears.’

‘All right,’ said the other. ‘Your privvy it is then. Why am I summoned, my lord?’

‘Because my sources tell me you are the best.’

‘I am competent in many things, your highness. I wonder to what you are referring?’

‘Don’t be glib with me, Koreldy. You are a mercenary, am I correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And an assassin for the right price?’

There was a pause and Fynch felt himself holding his breath for fear of them hearing even his heartbeat.

Finally the other man replied. ‘It depends on who and how much.’

‘Several hundred crowns,’ said the Prince without hesitation.

Fynch’s eyes widened in surprise. Even to the wealthiest noble, this was a fortune.

‘You must want this person dead very badly, your highness,’ said the assassin, politeness in his words yet it was clear he was not daunted by the Prince.

‘I make no jest. Will you do it?’ Celimus sounded impatient and seemed not to have noticed the man’s direct manner.

‘When?’

‘Soon. I must arrange a few things to ensure your job is easier — see what a considerate employer I am?’ said Celimus.

‘And payment?’

‘Half this very minute, if you agree. The gold is in my chamber.’

Fynch heard the other man whistle low and softly.

‘Who?’ he finally asked.

‘General Wyl Thirsk.’

Fynch felt the shock shudder through his tiny frame. He almost lost his grip on the slimy wall.

‘Ah, I knew it could not be that easy to earn so much,’ the man said, resignation settling into his voice.

Fynch could hear Celimus move around the confined space. He was agitated. ‘He is but one man and unsuspecting. Surely you can handle it?’

‘Yes, of course I can handle it, your highness,’ the assassin replied smoothly. ‘The trick is in feeling comfortable about doing it to a man I respect.’

‘How about five hundred crowns … will that help ease your guilt?’ asked the Prince, just a hint of sarcasm edged in his voice.

Again there was silence as the man considered.

Celimus filled the quiet. ‘You are falling for history, my friend. Wyl Thirsk is no more of a hero than you. You’re from Grenadyn,’ he pressed, ‘how can you care?’

The man replied so softly that Fynch’s excellent hearing had to strain to catch it. ‘My family is originally from Morgravia, sire. Before our families moved away from these parts, my grandfather fought with his. I hear old man Henk Thirsk was a fearsome warrior and a fine commander — apparently this one takes after him.’

‘You seem to take a strong interest in history,’ Celimus said.

‘I remain Morgravian at heart even though I was born across the oceans,’ the man said coolly.

‘Well, you hear tales, I’m afraid. This one is a coward who throws up his dinner at the sound of a bone breaking,’ Celimus said.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. Which is why I want him dead. He is useless to me and threatens the safety and security of Morgravia. As a mercenary I assume you have no allegiances?’

Fynch presumed the man must have shaken his head because Celimus continued.

‘Good, then you should feel nothing at his death and I am paying you a vast sum of money to suffer no regret. We follow a rather quaint and, if I might add, senseless tradition of promoting the Thirsk males to Generals without so much as a thought to whether they are any good at it. This one, it appears, does not bear comparison to his predecessor you speak of.’

‘Can you not demote him, your highness?’

‘Only when I am King.’

‘I gather that may occur soon, my lord.’

‘Not soon enough,’ Celimus spat.

‘I see,’ the man replied, and again Fynch was amazed at how direct he was with the Prince. ‘Why not have him killed by one of your own, then? It seems extravagant to spend so much on a foreign assassin if the man is so incompetent. Surely one of your own soldiers would do your bidding for one tenth of what you would pay me?’

Fynch waited, willing his numb fingers to hang on. The mercenary was no idiot and the boy marvelled at the man’s composure in front of the Prince who intimidated most.

‘It would not look good. I’m sure you understand,’ Celimus answered, disguising his discomfort with a harsh chuckle. ‘I do not want Wyl Thirsk’s blood on any Morgravian’s hand. The Thirsk family is revered and closely connected with my own.’

Fynch imagined the canny mercenary’s eyes narrowing at this. The Prince’s reasoning sounded thin.

‘What is your plan?’

‘I will brief you shortly. In the meantime I have hired some foreign soldiers to accompany you.’

‘Can they be trusted?’

‘No. But they will do my bidding or they will not get paid. And they will be paid handsomely for following my direction. Greed alone binds them to us. They will have their own orders which do not involve you. Your task is simple: despatch Thirsk.’

‘Where must it happen?’

‘Not on Morgravian soil.’

‘Half now?’ the man finally said.

‘And the other half when I have proof that he is a corpse,’ the Prince replied, the familiar slyness back in his voice.

‘Agreed.’

‘Good. Come, now, let us drink to our pact.’

Their voices began to recede and Fynch felt relief flood as he risked moving his body and flexing one of his hands. He heard the soft growl again and froze: the Prince had returned.

‘Pour me one,’ Celimus called. ‘I’ll be right out,’ he added and proceeded to rid his bladder of its contents.

Fynch closed his eyes and quickly looked down just before the hot liquid hit his bent head, stinging his face on its journey towards where Knave stood. In his humiliation mixed with despair at this newly learned information, he barely heard the soulful ringing of the cathedral bells, the particular rhythm of which signified the death of a sovereign.

TEN

MAGNUS DIED IN AN opium-induced stupor as he gazed absently through his beloved arched windows into the cold, bright autumn morning.

The night previous, sensing death was standing at his bedside, he had met with as many of his counsellors as Orto considered important. He had also met briefly with his son; they had little to say to each other, although Magnus had certainly tried to speak about his vision for Morgravia, hoping in a last ditch effort to reach his son on some level where the two might find common understanding.

His painful effort was in vain.

A wintry smile had passed across the Prince’s face, as cold as the heart which beat inside him, as he once again wished his father a speedy death. Then he leaned towards Magnus and for one blinding moment of hope the dying man thought his only son might be offering a hug of farewell. It would be enough, Magnus had thought in that shining second of anticipation. And then he had grimaced wryly as he realised how wrong he was … indeed how desperate he was for his son’s love. The King’s was a dark smile of sudden and complete acceptance. It was his final surrender to the sickening notion that he truly hated Celimus as much in return.

The young man had bent only to tug on his father’s hand, pulling viciously at the large ring which bore the seal of Morgravia. The sovereign felt the bile rise to his throat.

‘You have no further need for this, Father.’

Magnus had then summoned such a withering look it had made Celimus step back. His son’s reaction had given the King a final sense of power. ‘And your reign will be cursed. You will die hated as I make my final prayer to Shar that your crown is somehow wrested from you. Get away from me! Let me walk towards Shar looking at the palace dogs rather than you. Leave!’

‘I’m gone, you useless old fool. By nightfall the kingdom will be mine to do with as I please and I swear to you, Father, it will bear no resemblance to your weak reign. My mother was right. You are a peasant. Good riddance to you and all who swore fealty to you.’

Celimus had departed then but not before he deliberately paused to spit at his father. ‘That’s all you’ve ever meant to me. Die lonely and with the thought that Wyl Thirsk will fast follow.’

And Magnus, too helpless now to even call loud enough for a runner to Wyl, had watched in horror as the Prince strode gracefully from his chamber, leaving behind his saliva which slid down his father’s face and mingled with the tears which freely came.

When Orto had arrived a short while later he found the King slipping away. His servant knew it would be only minutes now. With his knack for making intuitive decisions, Orto had sent his speediest page to fetch Wyl Thirsk and a second runner for the physic, who arrived first.

‘I can give him a draught which will send him peacefully on his way,’ the man had offered.

‘Do it after Thirsk arrives,’ Orto suggested.

The physic nodded and silently went about his business of preparing the lethal concoction.

Wyl arrived breathlessly and Orto welcomed him softly. ‘I think I’m right in suggesting, General, that yours might be the last face our dear King Magnus might wish to look upon before he leaves us.’

‘Celimus?’ Wyl asked, knowing it was an empty question.

Orto shook his head. ‘They have spoken. It left him disturbed. Please, General, the physic would like to give him a draught to soothe the pain and make his journey over.’

Wyl nodded, his chest tightening with sadness. He knelt by the large, canopied bed and took his sovereign’s hand. He kissed it reverently.

‘Sire, it is Wyl.’

Magnus struggled through his rapidly vanishing wits to reach the brightness where daylight shone and beloved Wyl Thirsk’s face smiled crookedly at him through damp eyes.

‘My boy, my son,’ he whispered, trying to squeeze Wyl’s hand in return but knowing he failed.

The physic handed Wyl the cup and nodded. Inside was a shallow amount of a dark, strong-smelling liquid.

Wyl held the cup to the King’s mouth. ‘Drink, sire.’

Magnus knew what it was. ‘Yes, time for me to cross over, Wyl,’ he mumbled.

‘Now you and my father can be together again,’ Wyl whispered, holding back his tears.

The King swallowed the contents of the cup and his head fell limply back against the cushions. The physic was dismissed by Orto. The King turned, eyes suddenly blazing with clarity.

He spoke haltingly as if each word pained him but he was clear from the slur which plagued only moments earlier. ‘Wyl, the blood promise I made you give years ago. I take it back, all of it. You know what I speak of. You alone have the power to take Morgravia. The Legion is loyal to you.’

Wyl looked towards Orto, shocked by what the King said. Orto’s expression glimmered with triumph. Wyl hoped his loyalty was true.

‘Sire, you must not speak of such treachery. Please … I —’

‘No time! Get Ylena away. He means to kill you. Leave now …’

The King’s voice trailed to murmurings and then nothing. His eyes stared blankly over Wyl’s shoulder as he took one last look at the bright sun shining on Morgravia. A final shuddering breath issued from his sunken chest and then he was gone.

‘I must fetch the priest,’ Orto said quietly.

‘Orto —’

The man turned back. ‘I am loyal to Magnus, not to Celimus, sir. I heard nothing but the shallow breathing of a man drifting in the poppy seed liquor to his death.’

‘I am in your debt.’

‘I will be leaving the palace, sir. Soon it will not be a safe place for me to be. You may care to take similar precaution. I shall find a way to send word of my whereabouts, should you ever have need of contacting me.’

A look passed between them over the corpse of Magnus.

Wyl stood and shook Orto’s hand. ‘I’ll send word for the cathedral bells to be rung.’

Orto nodded. ‘Good luck, sir … until we meet again.’

Fynch shivered, his teeth chattering against the biting chill of the lake. He had scrubbed his body raw of Celimus and still he kept ducking his head underneath the surface until it ached so much he felt his eyes might pop. And all the time Knave paced at the water’s edge, agitated and barking over the sound of the bleak drone of bells.

‘I’m coming,’ Fynch called through numb lips, his mind like stew after the shocking revelation he had stumbled over.

Would Thirsk believe him? Likely not. His story would sound too far fetched. And him just a gong boy — who would listen to him? Knave barked again, louder this time, and Fynch swam his weary way to the bank, using the dog’s strong tail to heave himself out of the water. As he did so the vision blazed in his mind again: it was General Thirsk, a sword being pulled from him, the light dying in his eyes. It vanished and his head hurt once more. A fresh wave of nausea shuddered through his tiny frame and the boy retched. Earlier panic had made it hard for his normally agile mind to think coherently. He knew to wait until the dizziness dissipated.

Knave’s rough tongue licked the droplets of water from him repeatedly. The dog’s breath was warm and gradually Fynch found his wits again, coming out of the frightening vision. His head pained but he ignored it, rubbing himself vigorously with his shirt before he pulled on damp clothes. There was no time to lose. Convinced now that his vision was a warning, a premonition, Fynch knew he had to find Wyl Thirsk, tell him what he had overheard and somehow make the General believe him.

‘Come, Knave. Let’s find him,’ he said, knowing he would be risking his job by entering the main palace grounds. It mattered not. The life of a man he was somehow mysteriously connected to was at stake and he alone knew.

The dog bounded off and Fynch ran behind, not knowing he was already too late.

Wyl paused outside the new King’s chamber. Celimus had not even had the courtesy to wait for his father’s body to cool. Tradition required him to hold off claiming kingship quite as blatantly until at least the old King had been laid out in the cathedral. He should wait until the stone had been laid on his tomb to be actually crowned but Celimus stood on no ceremony. He wanted the crown so badly, Wyl imagined, it was probably already glinting on his head. He knew it was a nervous inclination but he had to bite his lip to stifle the sudden desire to laugh at the picture which flitted into his mind of Celimus meeting him in full royal regalia when hardly anyone outside of Stoneheart had actually learned the news that King Magnus was dead. Only the tolling of the bells would give hint to what had occurred this morning.

It had been only an hour since he had kissed the dead face of Magnus. In that short time, the body had been washed, presumably would now be moved to the chapel, and Celimus had apparently swept into power and his father’s chambers. It was sickening.

Wyl took a deep breath and wondered what Celimus was up to by summoning him so soon. He wished Alyd was there to accompany him, but he had not been able to find his friend, not even in his chambers — which was odd considering Alyd’s state the previous eve. Ylena too was elusive; perhaps she had been cross at her husband’s drunkenness and taken herself off on a shopping expedition in the city. More worrying was the news that Gueryn had been posted north during the night. Wyl was extremely unhappy about this and felt guilty that he had been revelling with his soldiers and therefore unable to prevent the sudden departure of his mentor. The posting had the King’s signature on it, but it smelled wrong to Wyl. Magnus would have been in no fit state to be signing off on despatch orders. That piece of manouevring had Celimus stamped all over it and Wyl meant to get to the bottom of it. Celimus’s threat to him at the tournament began to niggle anew at his mind.

The soft fragrance of winterblossom wafted in through an open window and reminded Wyl of former days — happier times — when he had stood at these massive oak doors awaiting entry to see King Magnus. Now he was dead, taken by Shar’s Gatherers to be with Fergys, he hoped. Wyl felt alone indeed as one of the doors opened and a man he recognised as one of Celimus’s most loyal servants stepped out.

‘At last,’ the man said. ‘The King does not like to be kept waiting.’

Any number of retorts sprang to Wyl’s lips but he bit them back. This one did not warrant his attention and so he gave the fellow a look of disdain.

‘Hurry up, then. Announce me.’

The doors were opened fully and Wyl stepped inside to wait. His gaze was drawn to the carved keystone he had marvelled at as a child. Once again he was reminded that the fire-breathing warrior dragon signified he had entered the private domain of a King — but this time, one he detested. The man returned soon enough, a scowl settled on his face.

‘King Celimus will see you now.’

Wyl ignored him and strode past to where another servant led him into the study.

Wyl knelt, his whole being privately protesting at having to pay homage to Celimus.

‘My King,’ he said, not looking up but glad his voice was firm.

‘Ah, Thirsk.’ Celimus did not invite him to stand. Wyl could just see the feet of an aide step up to the King who had obviously motioned for him. Celimus whispered something and then the feet disappeared. Wyl remained kneeling, saying nothing although he heard other people had, as quietly as possible, arrived behind him. Out of respect, soldiers were required to remove all weapons when in the private chambers of the royals. He wished now he had not observed the protocol so honestly. Gueryn had oft warned him to conceal a small dagger.

As Celimus finally stood and walked around him, Wyl was grabbed. He struggled valiantly, crushing a nose with the back of his hand. That assailant staggered backwards, and Wyl then bent low enough to fling another over his own back. He swung around ready to face the enemy only to feel the razor-sharp tip of a sword at his throat. He felt it break his skin.

‘I wouldn’t,’ its owner said smoothly and Wyl, perceptive to such things, picked up a Grenadyne accent.

Whilst men Wyl did not recognise chained his wrists and ankles, the stranger’s smile never left his face nor did he remove his blade until the General was twisted around to face the King. Wyl now looked more closely at his burly attackers; their beards and the way they wore their hair marked them as foreigners. He dragged his gaze away from them as the King spoke.

‘I’m wondering, Wyl, how loyal you are,’ Celimus commented from the large picture windows where he stood.

‘I am sworn to give my life for Morgravia and her citizens, sire,’ Wyl answered, breathing hard with fury at this treatment.

‘That’s all well and good. But a new King must surround himself with people true to him first and foremost. I cannot have my own General plotting against me.’

Wyl was silent.

‘Speak freely,’ Celimus encouraged. ‘They don’t care,’ he said, shrugging and gesturing towards the foreigners. ‘They are loyal to money only.’

‘I am your servant, sire. I am your General and yours to command.’

Celimus smiled now and Wyl hated him for that sudden easy way he could become so casual and friendly.

‘That’s good, Wyl. It seems both our fathers had high hopes that we might run the realm as they did. Do you think it might work as they dreamed?’

‘I see no reason why not, your majesty,’ Wyl said, glancing around again, wondering at his options for escape. His mind was already racing to how he could get word to Ylena. Old Magnus was right to warn him. Celimus knew Wyl was dangerous simply by the power he held over the soldiers of the Legion. Wyl had been the one too slow to recognise it. And now here he was, helpless and captive.

‘Well, I’m impressed by your optimism, General. But I need something more than words. Words sound hollow when there is no action as tangible proof of sincerity.’

‘How may I prove it, sire?’

‘Simple. I have a mission for you, Wyl. And if you can carry it off successfully for me, then I think you will have gone a long way towards proving your words are not empty. I realise we can never be friends but I would value your loyal service.’

Wyl nodded. ‘Tell me what you wish me to do.’

‘Please, sit,’ Celimus said, waving his beefy henchmen back.

Wyl preferred to stand but felt it was best to do as he was told at this moment. He noted Celimus remained standing by the window, looking out into one of the small courtyards. He also did not give any order for Wyl’s hands to be released.

‘It’s a delicate mission which requires your touch — or at least your family name,’ Celimus said, not turning. ‘I want you to lead a small company of men into Briavel and win an audience with King Valor.’

Although he tried not to, Wyl knew he showed his surprise at the audacity of what Celimus suggested.

The King continued. ‘You will make him an offer.’

Now Wyl was intrigued. ‘What is my offer, sire?’

‘An offer of marriage between myself and Valor’s daughter, Valentyna. He is an old man now and would see the sense of joining our two realms, for no young royal — especially one as flighty as I gather she is — would choose war over peace and prosperity. I alone can give her that security. Or, I can bring her interminable grief as I will systematically wage war on her realm until it falls.’

Celimus stopped talking and turned around, his dark gaze resting languidly on the General. Wyl felt strangely heartened. Was he really hearing right? He saw the King was patiently waiting for his response.

‘Your majesty, your idea is inspired,’ he admitted. ‘It would bring peace after centuries of war,’ he added, hating that he was stating the obvious and yet was still unable to contain his pleasure. ‘I will gladly take this mission and I will not fail you, sire.’ Wyl stopped, realising he was gabbling.

‘I’m glad you like my plan,’ Celimus said sardonically.

Wyl’s brow creased again. ‘But why did you think you’d need to bind and subdue me to hear such a promise?’

‘Because I don’t trust you, Thirsk, that’s why.’

‘And do you now?’

‘Perhaps. I have assembled the company you will take with you.’ He looked past Wyl’s shoulder and nodded. ‘You’ve already met Romen Koreldy. I have appointed him your second.’

Wyl’s gaze fell again upon the tall stranger. The man had dark features, although his eyes were of a particular silvery grey. They had a laughing quality to them. Hair dropped thickly to his shoulders and a closely trimmed moustache followed the line of his neat, wide mouth. When he spoke his salutation it had the same amused quality in its timbre that his eyes held. This was a man who was clearly comfortable in his own skin; confidence and surety seemed to ooze from him.

Wyl stood. ‘Alyd Donal is my Captain, your majesty,’ he said firmly, swinging back towards Celimus.

‘Not on this sensitive mission, Wyl. In fact you’ll be taking none of the Legion with you.’

Wyl baulked. ‘You would send me into an enemy kingdom without my own men, sire?’

Celimus opened the window. ‘Entering our enemy’s kingdom so boldly is precisely why we will not send Morgravians other than yourself. The mere presence of the Legion would be like a spark to kindling. I cannot risk it.’

‘And you trust foreigners to the task?’ Wyl said, looking again towards Romen Koreldy who smiled back, his manner infuriatingly easy.

‘You are no foreigner, Wyl — you are a proud son of Morgravia. The foreigners will be briefed and fat purses await each on their return from a successful mission.’

Wyl wondered if it was his imagination that Celimus’s grin had a new wolfish quality to it. Mercenaries, Wyl thought, grimly. Both our fathers will turn in their graves.

‘No, sire,’ he said, ‘I regret but I cannot do this without the men I trust around me and I must recommend that you reconsider this plan.’

Celimus’s voice was now laced with a sharpness. ‘This is not about you or what you want,’ he snapped. ‘This is about achieving peace between two realms through a strategic marriage. You are its negotiator.’

Wyl bristled. ‘I am a soldier, sire, not a politician. Perhaps I am the wrong man after all.’

Celimus shook his head as though in the presence of a stubborn child. ‘Valor will trust no other name. He may be our enemy but his respect for your father is well known.’

‘And yours too, sire,’ Wyl countered. ‘It might be more appropriate for you to go in person and ask her hand.’

Celimus swung around now. He could no longer disguise his anger. ‘Are you afraid, Wyl?’

‘No, sire. I’m just not stupid,’ Wyl said, instantly regretting his choice of words and what they intimated. He pressed on. ‘These men are strangers and I do not trust them with my life or anyone else’s.’

‘And if I guaranteed your safety?’ Celimus asked. Wyl opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He knew now this was a trap. ‘I have, of course, sent a diplomatic messenger ahead to request Valor’s co-operation in entering into peaceful talks with my envoy,’ the King added.

Wyl shook his head, determined not to show the shock he felt that Celimus had obviously begun orchestrating this plan when King Magnus was still alive. Trusting Celimus was laughable. He was as cold and as unpredictable as a snake. ‘I regret it, but no, your majesty.’

‘And this is your final answer?’

Wyl nodded, fearful now of what the repercussions might be but resolute nonetheless. He would not risk his office nor his family name, conspiring with mercenaries.

Celimus sighed dramatically. ‘As I thought. So now we must find new ways to encourage your loyalty,’ Celimus said, throwing open the other window. He turned to the burly men standing near. ‘Bring him,’ the new sovereign commanded.

Wyl was dragged to the window, his eyes helplessly drawn to what had previously held the rapt attention of Celimus. Kneeling at a block was a man. Above him stood an executioner, his hands on a large axe, the blade resting menacingly between his feet.

The prisoner’s hair was grabbed, his head pulled back. Wyl felt his knees buckle. It was Alyd. He saw Wyl and screamed Ylena’s name as his head was allowed to fall back to the block.

‘My King, please, I beg you …’ Wyl cried.

‘Too late, General Thirsk. I am not someone to be trifled with.’

Celimus gave the signal and the axe rose and then fell. Wyl watched as his friend’s life was cut tragically short on the whim of a madman. Even the use of the axe was an insult to his friend’s noble status.

‘You evil bastard!’ His voice broke as he shouted at Celimus through the tears, struggling against the men who held him and the chains which prevented him from striking out.

Celimus had barely batted an eyelid at what he had witnessed. ‘It’s your fault that he had to die, Wyl. If only you had followed your King’s instructions without question — isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that what your father did for mine?’

‘My father did not follow the orders of a lunatic,’ Wyl spat, suddenly realising how calamitous his words were as his mind raced towards how to keep his sister safe.

At Wyl’s insult, Celimus turned back to the window and gave another signal.

‘Where is Ylena, Celimus?’ Wyl demanded.

‘Right here,’ the King replied, menace in his voice.

Wyl looked out again and despair racked his body for the second time as he saw his distraught sister being pushed into the courtyard. She saw her husband’s headless body slumped against the block; the initial dramatic spume of blood had slowed to a stream which pooled on the dusty ground.

Fynch stopped running abruptly as his mind swam with a vision of blood. We’re too late, Knave, too late! he screamed inwardly and slumped against Stoneheart’s cold walls, his distress too much for him to bear as he succumbed to a small boy’s tears. His four-legged companion seemed to understand and allowed Fynch to bury his head against him.

‘Don’t do this, Celimus.’ Wyl was begging now as he watched Ylena slipping amongst Alyd’s blood, as they carelessly booted her husband’s body aside. Alyd’s corpse toppled to the dust and Ylena had to step around his legs before they pushed her face towards the block. He could see her body shaking as she began to wail.

‘I’ve had her dressed in virginal white. An ironic touch, don’t you agree?’ Celimus said coldly.

The King raised his hand to give the signal and Wyl begged harder. The men holding him loosened their grip to allow him to fall to his knees.

‘Celimus, I beseech you. Spare her. I will do whatever you ask.’

‘On your sister’s life, yes you will,’ Celimus said viciously. He turned back to the executioner. ‘Take her back!’

Ylena was roughly pulled back to her feet, her face and gown wet with Alyd’s blood.

Wyl called out to her. ‘Remember who you are, Ylena. As one!’ He urged the family motto through his own distressed and trembling body.

She did not even look up.

Celimus laughed. ‘Wait! Make her carry her husband’s head back to the dungeons. He can keep her company, and tell her if she drops it, she’ll be flogged.’ He turned back to Wyl. ‘I’m glad you saw reason. Ylena will remain in the special accommodation I have chosen for her until you complete the mission we have discussed. Is this clear?’

‘Yes,’ was all Wyl could trust himself to say.

Magnus had alarmed him by echoing his own conviction just hours earlier that Celimus must die if Morgravia was to be saved. He looked at the new King now and knew he would be the one who must do it.

‘Excellent,’ Celimus replied. ‘The messenger would have arrived by now and I have already taken the liberty of briefing the men. You leave immediately. Romen will accompany you to the stables. Don’t worry about packing, it has already been arranged.’

‘May I see Ylena?’

‘No. You will see her when you return. Until then, she remains a guest of Stoneheart’s dungeons. Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Wyl said, trying to think straight. He grit his teeth before he spoke. ‘Gueryn. I will need to get word —’

‘Ah, I should have mentioned this before, Thirsk. My father asked your friend, le Gant, to go on a special mission deep into the Razors. A task requiring experience but also, I suspect, involving certain death. Le Gant, to his credit, accepted the mission without hesitation — a brave man indeed.’

It was the final crushing blow and Wyl could not hold in his gasp. ‘This is surely a jest,’ he said, eyes wide with disbelief. ‘What special mission? Why was I not told about it!’ he demanded.

‘A secret mission,’ Celimus repeated. ‘Not everything, General, is cleared through your office.’ His voice was filled with sarcasm.

‘Gueryn is not dead,’ Wyl affirmed.

‘Not yet,’ the new King said, and Wyl did not care for the manner in which those two words were uttered, as though Celimus planned otherwise. Once more he recalled Celimus’s threat at the tourney and realised now that it had been a true warning. The King was now following through on his intention to harm all those Wyl loved.

Magnus was dead. Alyd was dead. His sister had been imprisoned and, Shar forbid, his beloved Gueryn had been sent on a death mission.

Wyl’s world fell apart.

ELEVEN

THE COMPANY MOVED OUT of Stoneheart’s eastern gate in a frigid silence. Celimus had masterminded his plan with some brilliance and all news of Alyd Donal’s death, Ylena’s imprisonment and the coercing of General Wyl Thirsk, was contained. Meanwhile, the city bells continued to mourn the death of a monarch and Morgravia’s proud flag was being lowered in respect for the passing of a great man. Three official days of mourning prior to the King’s full ceremonial burial would now take place. This would include the closure of all drinking houses, eateries, brothels and indeed any establishments of entertainment.

Any non-essential work places would close. Throughout the kingdom no animals would be slaughtered during the coming five days and Morgravia would live on vegetables and pulses in a further sign of respect. People would not be about the city. The dwellers of Pearlis would be encouraged to remain at home or attend chapel to pray for the soul of Magnus to speed it to Shar.

They should be rushing to church to pray for deliverance from Celimus, Wyl thought bitterly, as he steered his horse through the great stone tunnel and beneath the gate. Celimus’s timing was perfect. The fact that Morgravians would be off the streets and Stoneheart had effectively become a ghostly place meant no one of any note knew this party had left.

That is, all except a small boy and a large dog who followed at a safe distance. Fynch had cautioned Knave to stay quiet when he noticed the dog’s tail wagging as Wyl passed by. As usual Knave appeared to understand the warning and now they moved at their own pace keeping the last rider’s dust in sight. Fynch’s plan was to catch them up by nightfall and he also hoped by then he would have found a way to convince Wyl of the truth of the plot he had overheard.

Fynch had got word to his sister not to worry about him. He had recently been paid so he knew the family would be fine for a while. He had run all the way home to fetch the family mule, their only asset, and pack a stock of dried food, oats and water. Fynch had no idea how long he might be gone or what indeed he might be able to do. All he could think about right now as he followed discreetly was reaching Wyl and warning him of the trap Celimus had laid.

Stoneheart was behind them now and the signal was given to increase the pace. Fynch noted that the horses quickly put more distance between them.

‘Come on then, Knave, we must stay with them, boy.’ He moved his heels against the mule and the sweet-natured beast obeyed his wishes and broke into a canter, Knave bounding easily alongside.

At the head of the column, Wyl rode in stony silence next to Romen Koreldy. Everyone except Wyl was armed, although there was no further need to hobble him. Celimus knew Wyl would give full co-operation with his beloved sister as security.

‘Thirsk, this is not personal,’ Romen finally said when they were resting the horses with a trot.

‘It is for me,’ Wyl snapped.

‘I understand. I’m sorry about your friend.’

‘Why would you care?’

‘Because it was unnecessary, frivolous even. No man should lose his life for a whim. It was obvious that you would have agreed to almost anything if Celimus had simply threatened your sister. If it means anything to you, it sickened me.’

‘You don’t know the new King as I do, stranger. He has no scruples. If there’s an ugly way to do something, that’s the way he prefers. Killing Alyd was settling an old score — it was convenient that it looked to be serving the purpose of coercing me.’ Wyl looked away, disgusted.

Romen nodded. ‘I see. We have a code, us mercenaries. We kill only if it pays.’

‘I am the General of the Legion of Morgravia, stranger. Mercenaries are the dung which clings to the bottom of our boots.’

The man sighed. ‘Yes, it would seem that way, although it also seems that we have our place in the world, doing the unsavoury tasks which you more superior soldiers prefer not to take on.’

Wyl’s head snapped back to look upon the handsome foreigner with the easy manner. ‘I do not kill for money,’ he spat.

Romen smiled sadly. ‘Oh, we all ultimately kill for riches of some sort. It’s just a matter of perspective, Thirsk.’

‘Who are you, Koreldy?’

‘Just someone who fell by the way. Let’s just say I wasn’t cut out for traditional soldiering. Our two grandfathers fought together, by the way — my background is Morgravian.’

Wyl was surprised. ‘All the more reason for you to find this task despicable.’

It annoyed Wyl to see the man grin. There was no unkindness in it. Just a wryness he could not interpret.

‘You need me, Wyl Thirsk, because I’m the only one who can control this lot following us. Don’t look upon me with such disdain — we are not so different, you know. I don’t care for Celimus’s tactics much but I agree with what he’s trying to do. Morgravia and Briavel will just end up destroying each other and leaving themselves open to genuine threat from the north. His rationale is sound but I admit the way your new King goes about his business is certainly brutal.’

Wyl grimaced. ‘He’s a lunatic.’ Anger boiling again, he changed the subject. ‘What do you know about the threat from the north?’ He hoped Koreldy might throw some light on Gueryn’s chances of surviving this death mission.

‘I know Cailech grows strong and more confident by the day. He will test his army. The raids will become more bold, more frequent. Mark my words.’

‘A barbarian will not take Morgravia,’ Wyl countered. ‘Even someone as deranged as Celimus will not permit it. He has an intense dislike for Cailech anyway. I’m not sure how it has grown to such a festering sore but he hates the barbarian — been telling us all for years how he’ll rid us of him once he became King.’

‘Don’t be too sure about what the Mountain King is capable of. He is far more sophisticated than you give credit,’ Romen warned.

Wyl’s voice sounded condescending. ‘You know this first hand, of course.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ Romen replied, not at all offended at his companion’s tone.

‘You’ve met him?’

The mercenary smiled again in his disarming way. ‘I fought alongside him for a while.’ Before a surprised Wyl could pursue the conversation, Romen had called the men to pick up the pace again.

And so it went. For a few hours Wyl was able to let go of the powerful grief which he felt so assaulted by, allowing Romen to talk in his carefree style about life amongst the Mountain Dwellers. He was impressed with the man’s knowledge and the sheer audacity of how he had navigated his way into Cailech’s stronghold.

‘So where is the famous rock fortress — does it even exist?’ Wyl wondered aloud.

‘Oh yes, it exists and impressive it is too. If you could ever see it, you’d be surprised by its sophistication.’ Wyl looked at him, was tempted to smirk but could see Romen meant what he said. ‘I hope you do see it, just so that you know I’m not a liar.’

‘But why were you there? I thought it was forbidden for any stranger to even get within leagues of the fortress.’

Romen hesitated and his expression darkened momentarily. ‘Oh, family business,’ he replied, not convincingly, Wyl noted, and stored it away. ‘I’m from Grenadyn, as you know. We traded with the Mountain Dwellers. Let’s just say I managed to find myself on reasonable speaking terms with Cailech.’

‘Will you tell me about him?’ Wyl was intrigued.

‘He’s an enigma.’ Romen grinned. ‘I think I recognise some of my own traits in Cailech but he is certainly someone you wouldn’t want to make a hasty judgement on.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘That he’s unpredictable.’ He shrugged. ‘Cailech is larger than life. He’s heroic and devoted to his people. That makes him dangerous if he’s crossed or senses any form of betrayal. He rewards loyalty and wins it easily from his warriors. He is at once easygoing and relaxed and in the next breath will trap you with cunning.’

‘Go on,’ Wyl urged.

‘What else can I tell you? He thinks deeply on most subjects. His decisions might appear impetuous but they are often far from it, yet his personality is spontaneous. He lives by instinct.’

Wyl blew his cheeks out. ‘You sound impressed with him.’

‘I am. Believe me. I don’t know another who can be as ruthless to his enemies as he is generous to his own. I fear for his temper, though. He can be more cruel than you can imagine if someone has crossed him or he feels threatened. But his creed is really quite simple and I admire that. Mostly I admire his subtle mind. He is intelligent enough for ten men.’

‘A Mountain Dweller,’ Wyl mocked gently.

‘Don’t be fooled, Wyl. This is no ignorant, aleswilling barbarian. This is a man born to be King.’

Wyl pondered the advice. ‘What can you tell me about the fortress itself?’

Romen laughed. ‘Plenty, but it would be a betrayal for me to tell Cailech’s enemies his secrets. He paid me well for my service. In return he enjoys my discretion.’

‘A mercenary with morals,’ Wyl jeered.

‘You’ll be surprised,’ the man replied softly. ‘Stop here, we make camp.’

Fynch and Knave caught up with the group long after the campfires had burned down to embers. The horses whinnied nervously as the huge black dog melted silently out of the darkness. Fynch had had the presence of mind to unsaddle and tether his mule some way back. She was munching happily on her oats and seemed disinterested in the dog which frightened most other animals of her ilk. The boy waited in the darkness and watched as Knave padded up to Wyl and licked his master’s face. Then the dog disappeared as silently as he had arrived, back into the shadows where Fynch crouched and they both waited.

Wyl sat up and looked about him, shocked at the arrival of his dog. Most of the mercenaries in the camp were snoring; there was no need to post lookout guards in this part of the realm.

‘What is it?’ Romen asked quietly, his eyes still closed. He was clearly a light sleeper.

‘Um … I have to go to the, er …’

The man sighed. ‘I’ll come, wait a moment.’

‘No! That is, I have to empty my bowels.’

Romen yawned. ‘All right. You know I’ll have to leave one of your hands tied behind your back … can you manage to —’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘And I’ll have to tie this other length to your ankle — I’ll keep a hold on this end here so you don’t go wandering off into the night.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, Koreldy. My sister’s life depends on me staying right here with you.’

‘Off you go then.’

‘I may be a while — I’ve got cramps.’

‘Take your time,’ the man replied, yawning again.

Wyl left the fireside, one leg trailing the long rope, the other end of which was tied to Romen’s wrist. Just over the hillock he was overjoyed to be greeted by Knave but even more surprised to see the wide-eyed gong boy waiting for him too.

Fynch put his finger to his lips before whispering: ‘Just listen.’

He told him everything he had overheard whilst hanging in the drophole and then all that had happened since, leaving out only his unsettling visions. He was brief and precise. Wyl listened grimly, his rage and bitterness settling into something cold and intractable within. Celimus would pay. Somehow, Shar help me, he thought, I will survive this and he will suffer. He surfaced from his angry thoughts and heard Fynch still whispering intensely.

‘…we can follow you and perhaps plan an escape.’

Wyl shook his head violently. ‘Your turn to listen,’ he whispered back and proceeded to tell Fynch all that had occurred this past day. He quickly realised that the little boy had not known of King Magnus’s death, being too young to understand the significance of the particular mourning bells signifying the death of the monarch. The lad looked distraught hearing of Alyd’s death and then Ylena’s plight, but Fynch was a plucky boy and pulled himself together quickly for Wyl’s sake.

‘Hurry up, Thirsk,’ Romen suddenly called from behind them.

‘Coming,’ Wyl replied. ‘You must go now,’ he whispered to Fynch. ‘Keep Knave close — and go home, back to Stoneheart. Forget about me.’

The boy bit his lip. ‘I won’t. We’ve come this far to help you.’

‘Go back, Fynch! I don’t want you near me!’ Wyl said deliberately viciously. He did not want the blood of this courageous boy on his hands, and blood, he believed, would flow soon enough. ‘You cannot help me. You are … a … a nuisance,’ he spat under his breath, hoping now to hurt Fynch, force him to leave.

Wyl watched the child’s eyes narrow in pain as he patted Knave farewell. He turned and did not look back.

‘Feel better?’ Romen asked sleepily.

‘Remind me not to eat squirrel again,’ he replied, laying his head down and recalling the strange Widow Ilyk and her caution to him about keeping Knave and his friend close.

Had she meant Fynch? How could she have known?

He pondered this as he drifted into an unsettled sleep in which he dreamed of himself being killed and yet somehow remaining alive.

There was no sign of Fynch or Knave as they entered Briavel’s western border the following midday and by late afternoon they had been met by a contingent of its soldiers who were clearly expecting them. Wyl suspected their party had been trailed anyway since the moment the first horse’s hoof set foot on Briavel’s soil. There was no possibility that a party from Morgravia could enter this realm — and vice versa — without its guard being put onto alert. The mercenaries agreed with the Briavellians’ edict, without a murmur, to make camp a few miles from the beautiful walled city of the capital, Werryl. There they would remain under a thin supervision of the Briavellian Guard. Romen had already briefed Wyl on their plan. He had foreseen them being met and taken under escort to King Valor. And Wyl knew he was trapped. So long as he was seen to be co-operating then Ylena was safe. He realised he too would remain safe until he met with Valor. He hoped Shar may smile on him and grant him a private meeting.

Werryl’s palace was indeed as breathtaking as fabled stories had it. Very few Morgravians had seen it with their own eyes but the palace lived up to the famous tales of its beauty. In stark contrast to the sombreness of Stoneheart, it was built from the palest of sandstones, so light in colour to be almost white; it sparkled on a high mound.

The city of Werryl stretched out amongst the safety of the palace’s walls. Smaller than Pearlis it was no less sophisticated and its architects clearly had a keener eye for vanity. Even the bridge leading to the portcullis was superbly constructed with statues of former Kings and Queens carved in marble and holding torches which lit the way at night.

Daylight was fading by the time Wyl and Romen arrived at the bridge and the keepers were just touching flames to those torches. Their escort led the way into the crowded city and through its pretty cobbled streets to the palace entrance on a rise. A messenger had gone ahead and various dignitaries were awaiting them.

After introductions they were politely shown to a private bath-house where they might tidy themselves after their two-day ride. It was a courteous touch.

Soaking in a tub of hot water, Wyl began to relax for the first time. After hearing Fynch’s tale, he now accepted that he would probably die on this journey but he had no intention of losing his life without saving Ylena’s. Celimus would kill her anyway, whether Wyl succeeded in his mission or not — of this Wyl was now sure. He looked at Romen who soaked in the scented waters of another tub, as still as a statue; eyes closed, long lashes touching his tanned cheeks. His long, freshly washed hair was slicked back and Wyl admired the chiselled profile.

‘Why do you watch me?’ Romen asked softly.

Wyl, in spite of his gloom, smiled. Romen was every bit the soldier he pretended not to be. Even soaking in the bath the man was alert to every movement, every nuance around him. He was impressive.

‘I was just wondering how adept you might be with the sword.’

‘My favourite weapon … although I am devastatingly good at throwing knives,’ Romen replied, still not moving.

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘Oh far away from these parts.’

‘You’re well travelled then?’

‘And bone weary from it.’

‘Why do you do it, Romen? Why sell yourself like you do?’ Wyl asked, genuinely searching for an answer.

‘Why not?’

Wyl could tell his companion preferred to remain a mystery. ‘How did Celimus find you?’

Now the man did open one eye. ‘Do you know I don’t know the answer to that. How very annoying,’ he said. ‘It was via a mutual acquaintance apparently.’

‘How much is he paying you to kill me?’

At this Romen did stir; opening both eyes, he looked at Wyl, the silvery gaze suddenly penetrating. ‘Not enough.’

‘Is there anything I can —’

‘No,’ Romen interrupted. ‘I never go back on my word. But I’ll do this for you, Wyl Thirsk. I will save your sister.’

It was Wyl’s turn to stare. The sickening pit in his stomach lurched. What could he mean? ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The King of Morgravia kills for pleasure. I don’t like that. Whatever it is between you two, I sense you have the same hate for him as he does for you. I will not take sides. However, what he did to that young woman, clearly an innocent, was unforgivable.’

‘He’s going to kill her no matter what the outcome here,’ Wyl said.

‘That’s obvious. But you can go to your death knowing I will not permit it.’

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t find your words as reassuring as they sound,’ Wyl admitted, pouring a cup of water over his short red hair.

‘You should be reassured. I am guaranteeing your sister’s life. Meanwhile, you are a soldier and death eventually comes to all who carry the blade, including myself. There isn’t a more noble death for a soldier than to die fighting.’

‘Except I won’t be fighting, will I?’

‘Yes you will. When you have done what we set out to do, I will hand you a sword, Wyl Thirsk, and we will duel. If you kill me, you are free. If I kill you, I collect my extravagant reward.’

Wyl thought about this. ‘But if I kill you, then my sister is not saved.’

‘Ah, well that is a hole in the plan but you too can save her. You have the Legion on your side. Collect your men and overturn the King. He will ruin Morgravia if you don’t.’

Why do I like this man! ‘It’s a pity we meet under these circumstances, Romen. I would love to have you on my side.’

The man smiled and sank deeper into his tub.

TWELVE

LATER WHEN VALOR’S CHANCELLOR saw Wyl and Romen he explained that the King wished to meet with General Thirsk privately. Romen said nothing initially, although his eyebrow lifted in its perpetually cynical manner.

‘I shall wait outside,’ he finally said to the man. ‘I am the General’s personal bodyguard on Briavellian soil. It is not worth my life to leave him … unsupervised,’ he added, choosing his words with care.

Wyl grinned, once again wishing he and Romen might have met in a different time, a different place.

The Chancellor, Krell, pursed his lips as though gravely affronted. ‘General Thirsk is under no threat in Briavel whilst here as a diplomatic envoy, sir. We have laid out a supper for you —’

‘No need, my friend,’ Romen said, casually resting his hand on the man’s arm. ‘I mean no offence but I have my orders, isn’t that right, General?’

Wyl adopted a contrite expression, secretly delighted he would have time alone with the King. ‘Perhaps Romen could take his supper outside, Chancellor Krell?’ He looked hopefully at the man.

‘You mean outside the chamber where you are meeting the King,’ Krell replied dryly. It was not a question.

‘Well done, you have it right,’ Romen said, now clapping the man on the back. ‘Thank you. A meal would be most welcome,’ he said and dismissed Krell by turning to Wyl. ‘I shall be right outside, sir … if you need me.’

‘Thank you,’ Wyl answered and made to follow Krell, who had already shown Romen his back.

Romen caught Wyl’s arm and muttered under his breath, ‘No tricks, eh, Thirsk? Or the deal’s off.’

Wyl nodded.

Wyl was shown into a large, splendid chamber where a table had been set up with a sumptuous cold supper near the fireplace. Awaiting him was a tall, and seemingly as wide, man. Wyl was announced and the two of them were left alone.

‘Shar’s Balls, you look like your father, boy.’

Wyl bowed deeply. ‘I shall take that as a compliment, sire.’

‘And my spies tell me you’re maturing into every bit the good man he was too.’ King Valor took Wyl warmly by the shoulders and looked at him. ‘Welcome to Briavel, son.’

It was confusing. He liked this portly sovereign immediately. This was the enemy his father and Magnus had plotted against for most of their lives and yet he felt they should have all been the greatest of friends.

‘I feel privileged, sire.’

‘So what news from Morgravia that doesn’t break any secrets in the sharing?’ Valor asked genially, pouring two cups of wine from an exquisite decanter. He held one out to Wyl. ‘Your health,’ he added, raising his glass.

Wyl followed and they both took a mouthful. It was excellent wine and, looking at the spread before him, Wyl could see no expense was being spared for the Morgravian envoy.

‘Some grave news, sire,’ Wyl said and when the King raised an enquiring eyebrow he told him of Magnus’s passing.

Valor stopped drinking, putting his cup down. This had clearly come as a shock. ‘That is a sorrow. Was Magnus not in good health?’

‘No, sire. He had been ailing for a few moons beforehand. I think it was the wasting fever.’

‘Ah, a vicious thing it is too. I am deeply sorry to hear of this, Wyl. We were enemies but I respected him enormously — as I did your father. They were very good men, despite being Morgravian.’ A small smile curled at the edges of his mouth. ‘I understand now, why news of your arrival came from Celimus. I thought it was the Prince getting more involved in royal duties. Shar strike me! I can’t imagine the old rogue’s body is even cool yet — the son wasted no time grabbing his new status.’

Wyl said nothing but his silence spoke volumes.

‘I see. Let me drink to Magnus, then,’ Valor said, raising his glass high. ‘May his soul speed to Shar’s Light.’ They both drank. ‘Now sit, Wyl Thirsk. We have business to discuss and then supper to enjoy. My daughter, I hope, will join us shortly.’

Wyl’s expression must have been one of query because the King added that his daughter had been asked to attend but no one — just at this moment — could find her. Wyl decided not to pursue it. Valentyna, in truth, was all but irrelevant to an arranged marriage if he could pull it off.

‘Sire,’ Wyl said, steeling himself, ‘did Celimus give you any indication of why I am here?’

‘The messenger merely advised me to expect a delegation from Celimus. I have to tell you, Thirsk, I am not in the habit of being told to expect anyone in my own realm, least of all a Morgravian.’ He noted Wyl nod and continued. ‘Your new King’s choice of words were a trifle condescending, to say the least, which is why I have insisted on seeing you alone. I trust it gave some offence?’

‘It did, thank you, sire,’ Wyl said, daring a grin.

Valor joined him. ‘Good. And I’ll tell you this: it’s purely on the strength of who your father is that I have even permitted entry for you and your companion.’

Wyl nodded again. ‘I think my King counted on this occurring, sire.’

‘And what else did he count on?’

‘Your majesty?’

Valor leaned forward, his silver hair a halo about him. ‘Why are you here, Wyl? What is it your King wants of Briavel, son?’

Wyl felt annoyed for giving such a dim impression of himself. He decided to be direct — the soldier’s way. ‘Your daughter, sire. He wants Valentyna.’

The King started, first at the shock of his words and then at the woman’s voice which came suddenly from a secret door behind them.

‘Who wants me?’ she said.

Wyl jumped up from his seat, also startled by the arrival of the striking woman, covered in dust and dressed in riding clothes … men’s riding clothes.

Valor sighed. ‘My dear, why do you continue to use that secret entrance into my chambers? You know it annoys me.’

‘Because it is secret, darling Father, and because it annoys you and has done since I was a little girl,’ came the amused voice. She walked across the chamber on long, lean legs and planted a dusty kiss on the old man’s cheek. ‘You must be the envoy,’ she said, turning to Wyl and eyeing him from her considerable height. ‘A bit short for a politician, aren’t you?’ she said, deliberately facetiously. ‘Aren’t they normally bred to be tall and imposing in order to intimidate?’

‘Valentyna, hush! This is Wyl Thirsk. He is no less than General of the Morgravian Legion. Do him honour please,’ the King admonished but not without some private amusement between the two of them.

Wyl felt himself blush. She appraised him again and after a simple bow, finally held out her hand for him to kiss. It smelled of leather and horse.

He bowed and as neither of the familiar scents offended him he gladly kissed her hand. ‘Your highness,’ he said, feeling unbalanced by the dark blue gaze which impaled him from high.

‘Apologies, General Thirsk, princesses will have their jests,’ she said, leaving her hand in his. ‘Forgive me. I shall clean up and then I shall remind you of the conversation you were having before I arrived.’ She grinned at Wyl from a generous mouth. ‘By the way, Father, dear old Norma birthed the most beautiful black colt this morning. I’m still delirious with happiness he is alive and suckling. He almost didn’t make it, you recall?’

Her father nodded. ‘Yes, my dear, and I suppose you were there amongst all the drama?’

She hugged him. ‘I delivered him in the early hours. I want him too — I’ve already named him because I was first to touch him. He’s called Adamant. Thank you, Father.’ She said all of this in a contrived rush to befuddle.

‘Valentyna, he is a prize stallion, you can’t —’

His daughter had strode away and closed the secret door leaving him mid-sentence.

‘I think she can, sire,’ Wyl said, gulping.

‘That girl will be the death of me,’ Valor admitted, shaking his head ruefully. ‘But she’s irresistible. Come, Wyl. She’ll be back quicker than you can imagine. Not one for taking long over her toilet or the usual primping of other women, you understand.’

Wyl nodded, not understanding at all, considering his sister took several hours to prepare even for a day without visitors. He still felt as though he needed to catch his breath from the whirl that was Valentyna but he forced himself to find his previous train of thought.

‘Celimus wishes your daughter’s hand in marriage, sire.’

‘I gather,’ Valor said, appreciating his guest’s brevity. He refreshed their glasses. ‘I imagined it was something like that. Let us not speak of this yet, then. Valentyna must hear it too.’

Wyl was surprised but was happy to relax by the fire and let the delicious wine work its own particular magic whilst they waited.

‘Tell me, Wyl, why Celimus sends you with mercenaries as escort and, more importantly, why you accept that?’

He had been ready for this. ‘Ah. Well, he believed it would be inflammatory to send any soldiers from the Legion.’

‘And you are comfortable with this?’

‘No, sire,’ he admitted. ‘I am not comfortable with it.’

‘So you are here against your will?’

‘Some might think that.’

Valor’s eyes narrowed as he considered the young General’s obviously careful choice of words. ‘Would it be truthful to say that Celimus on the throne does not please you?’ he asked, making it easy for Wyl to simply nod if need be.

‘Yes.’

‘And so you are here on a political mission under guard and you are being used because your name would open doors?’

Wyl nodded and put his finger to his lips.

‘This room has walls twice as thick as our heads, son. They may hear voices but nothing we speak of in here can be eavesdropped with any clarity.’

‘Sire. In spite of how I personally feel about Celimus, I am as loyal to Morgravia as my father was. I consider this offer to be a stroke of genius. It is how those of us who crave peace can win it bloodlessly for the two realms. More important, your majesty, is the threat of Cailech from the north. A marriage between our realms would stop our senseless warring between east and west, allowing both southern kingdoms to focus a joint effort on quelling the Mountain King’s potential to raid either of our lands. I think you’d agree, sire, that we’d all prefer the enforced company of each other to the barbarians.’

The old King smiled at the gentle jest but sighed. ‘In this you are correct. There are skirmishes on our northern border which, each year, seem to intensify. I’ve strengthened our forces up there but I worry for Valentyna when she reigns. I too wish peace for our nations — perhaps we can work together against the Mountain King. I’m not sure why we need to despise each other so much. The reasons go back centuries and Magnus and myself simply perpetuated the old hate. Young bloods do that, I suppose. We should have stopped it years ago and bound our two heirs to each other in a plight troth. I’m sure neither of us wish our youngsters to continue this senseless cycle of battle.’

‘So, am I to take away from this meeting your agreement to the marriage, your majesty?’

‘Yes, of course. However, that is not worth even a pinch of salt until Valentyna agrees to it.’ The King smiled when he saw the surprise and confusion register on Wyl’s face. ‘Valentyna is my heart’s joy, Wyl. She pleases me immensely, not just because she’s my daughter but because she has turned into the person who is everything and more I could have ever hoped she would be. She sensed from a very young age that I might have somehow failed Briavel by giving them a female heir. She worked this out for herself and she deliberately set her sights on becoming every bit as good as the son I didn’t give Briavel. She rides better than most men I know; she can shoot a deer cleanly with a single arrow and then skin that same beast faster and more adeptly than I ever could at twice her age. She has learned sword skills and battle strategy — neither of which I ever hope she needs to use.

‘There is nothing soft or sappy about this woman, Wyl, and yet she is the most beautiful person with a gentle heart and a desire to rule Briavel firmly yet with a largesse only a woman can possess. She has genuine empathy for her people’s needs. She will make a fine ruler if she’s permitted to sit on the throne. Which is why I will encourage her to make this marriage and bring peace to Briavel at last. I fear without our agreement, Celimus will choose war again?’

Wyl nodded. ‘That’s my understanding too, sire.’

Wyl felt relief flooding his body. As the King spoke, his mind returned to Ylena in the Morgravian dungeon, knowing she was now safe. He had no doubt that Romen would keep his word and rescue her from Celimus. It was Valentyna’s arrival once again which dragged him from his thoughts.

Both men stood and turned. Wyl’s breath caught in his throat. Gone were the men’s clothes, the dusty hands and the mud-smeared face. Tangled hair which had been carelessly caught under a man’s hat had been smoothed and now gleamed dark and shiny past her bare shoulders. She had attired herself in a simple gown with no adornments but its ruby colour showed off her creamy skin and raven hair to their best advantage. She wore no colouring about her face which was polished to a healthy glow from nothing more complicated than a vigorous scrubbing.

Valentyna was tall and willowy — too slim perhaps, Wyl thought, recalling the almost boyish physique in breeches. And yet she carried herself with supreme grace as she glided across the room to kiss her father once again.

‘Ah, that’s better, now you look like a Princess, my love,’ he said, smiling indulgently.

‘But I prefer how I was before,’ she said. She turned to Wyl. ‘This more glamorous attire is for your benefit alone, sir.’

Wyl, finding it hard to speak, mumbled something about how glad of it he was and then cringed at how awkward he felt and sounded.

‘Shall we eat?’ she offered brightly and the men joined her at the table.

Wyl spent the next couple of hours in a swirl of confusion. Beneath the table his body betrayed him frequently as Valentyna’s sharply swooped neckline showed off the alluring swell of her breasts every time she reached across to help herself to food. And when she turned her blue gaze upon him, giving Wyl the impression that no one else here was as important as him or what he had to say, his breath caught in his throat. He realised he could feel his own heartbeat and the drum of blood through his ears. All of it creating a dizzying and yet a pleasurable sensation as Valentyna, always animated, talked about everything from her new stallion to her plans to check the fences on the northern end of some vineyards.

‘Goats, sheep, wild horses, you name it. They just wander in and eat our fine grapes,’ she complained. ‘I’ll be gone most of the day, Father,’ she added.

He looked at Wyl with a pretend despair. ‘You see I have no control over her,’ he admitted.

‘You have come the closest, sire,’ she answered affectionately, ‘but I have to tell you that no man ever will.’

And it was at those words that Wyl knew in his heart that he must prevent the marriage of Valentyna to Celimus at all costs. She was too bright, too beautiful, too headstrong, too talented and far too much her own person to be wasted on the arrogant, cruel Celimus. They would hate one another and a new type of war would break out between the realms.

It would be as it was between Adana and Magnus; history repeating itself. Except Valentyna was neither cruel nor calculating. She would instead be smothered. He looked at the soft pulse he could see at Valentyna’s throat and he thought about Celimus touching that pale skin. It made him feel sick.

Wyl interrupted the conversation to ask whether there was a privvy he could use. Valor, wondering at the General’s sudden paleness, pointed him to a small door cunningly concealed behind a tapestry. He gathered his wits in the privacy of the privvy, dabbing his face with cool water from a pitcher and shaking his head ruefully at the position he found himself in. He was having to make a choice between Ylena and Valentyna. It occurred to him to bargain with Romen; perhaps he could still save Ylena?

‘Are you well, Wyl?’ Valentyna enquired, touching his hand as he returned to the table. Her warm touch sent a shocking thrill of pleasure through him.

‘Pardon my mentioning it but that is the widest drophole I’ve ever seen,’ he said, trying to make light of his sudden departure from the table and overcome his desire to take her hand and kiss it. They both laughed, surprised by his turn of topic. ‘Well, the dropholes in Morgravia are far narrower,’ he shrugged, embarrassed.

‘Very savoury chatter at supper, I must say,’ Valentyna quipped, her bright eyes sparkling with amusement.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, and meant it but she waved his apology away.

‘No, don’t. I much prefer that to the usual stuffy conversations I have to suffer through with Father’s friends. I like you, Wyl. I like your discomfort at being here,’ she said and he felt her smile drift over and through him like sunlight.

‘I am but a soldier, highness,’ he said truthfully. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

Valor cleared his throat. ‘Which brings us to why you are here, Wyl. Valentyna, my dear, the General has brought an offer of marriage to you from the new King of Morgravia. That’s what we were discussing earlier.’

Wyl noticed she stopped chewing but that was the only sign which gave away her startlement.

‘And what did you both decide about this?’ she asked levelly, again disguising any personal feeling.

‘Only what you’d expect us to — that such a union would bring peace to two long-warring realms, both in need of a release from the cycle of battle and death.’

Valentyna put down her fork and eyed the King. ‘I have not met him, Father — unless you count that one occasion all those years ago.’

‘Oh come now, child. You were just an infant and —’

‘Very fat, yes I know,’ she interrupted. ‘But —’

‘I was going to say … and easy to tease. You’ve come a long way since then, child. You are a most remarkable young woman and highly accomplished in ways I would never have dreamed. You make me proud and you will make a dazzling Queen for any King.’

‘Thank you.’ Her eyes softened. ‘But we don’t know him, Father.’

‘Well, here we have the perfect person at our table to tell us more. Come on, Wyl, explain to my precious girl why Celimus might make her happy.’

Wyl reached for his goblet and took a long draught. In that brief moment he asked Ylena to forgive him what he did. ‘I cannot, sire,’ he said, putting the goblet carefully back in its place.

‘I beg your pardon?’ It was the King’s turn to be startled.

Valentyna’s gaze landed with weight on Wyl’s profile. He felt the side of his face burn with its intensity and he felt his heart hammering with desire for this woman. It made his breath shorten and he felt suddenly lightheaded. Was it possible to fall in love with someone so instantaneously? His mother believed so. She had told him as much, smiling as she recounted to Wyl of her first meeting with Fergys Thirsk.

Wyl had always loved those times he spent talking with his mother in her private chamber. Like her it was beautiful. Filled with exquisite things and tastefully furnished yet none of it showy or pretentious. Living with Fergys Thirsk one could not afford to possess either of those characteristics. Fergys used to say that Helyna was his precious ornament. And at this his mother’s eyes would soften and a special glance would pass between the parents on those rare occasions when the family was actually together in Argorn.

He loved to ride with his father and Gueryn. That was when he was treated as a man and they would speak of grown-up matters, mainly warfare as well as responsibility for the estate and family name. Yet his greatest joy was curling up at his mother’s knees whilst she sewed and told him stories. And his favourite was her tale of meeting the great General at a formal occasion when the King and his army commander were passing through Ramon after business in the north.

‘I was so young, Wyl. Not quite sixteen …’ she would begin. She always endeavoured to tell the tale the same way — as he loved it — and even nearing just five years Wyl knew it by heart and would take her to task if any part of the story was overlooked or changed in even the smallest way.

‘My three sisters and I had heard such tales of King Magnus — we knew he was tall and dashing with golden looks. We could hardly contain our agitation for the two days leading up to his visit. And the food! We roasted an ox in his honour but there were also delicate fish dishes and meats, pigeon and duck. On and on the list went, Wyl. I thought the kitchen would explode from all the hysterical activity.’

And then she would sigh. ‘All of us girls wanted to attend the King, but Mother said it was appropriate that I do so, as youngest. We didn’t know, of course, that he was courting Adana by then. I think we all had starry-eyed hopes of Magnus taking one look at any one of us, falling hopelessly in love and making her his Queen.’ She would say this dramatically and Wyl would always laugh.

‘And now to Father,’ he would say, eyes shining, knowing what was coming.

‘Yes, to Fergys,’ she would reply. ‘When the royal party arrived on that bright afternoon in summer we were only permitted to watch from a distance. We could see the stories were true, though: Magnus was every bit the handsome King. That evening we dressed in all our finery and we were presented to the royal party. When my name was announced, I was so nervous that I caught my foot in the lining of my gown and stumbled.’

‘It wasn’t the King who caught you, though!’ Wyl would chime in.

Helyna would smile indulgently. ‘No. When I gathered my wits sufficiently to look up and thank him, it was not the King I saw but his stocky, red-headed General, a man with genial eyes and a smile that lit my world.’

‘And you knew, didn’t you, Mother?’ Wyl would say at the end of the story.

‘Yes, son, I knew. This was the man I would marry. My heart was already his at the first gentle sound of his lovely voice and his shy smile.’

Wyl came out of his thoughts and realised there had been an awkward silence while King Valor and Princess Valentyna awaited his response. If his mother could fall so instantly and helplessly in love with his father, then why could not he with Valentyna? She was an impossible dream but one he would permit himself.

Wyl took a steadying breath, looked first towards Valor and then at his daughter who waited expectantly. And he found the courage.

‘He is no match for you, Valentyna.’ He turned to the King with an expression of deep regret. ‘I’m so sorry, sire, I came here today to win your daughter’s hand in marriage for King Celimus but, having met her, I realise such a union would be a grave mistake.’

Wyl blinked into the initial shocked silence before being brave enough to return Valentyna’s grateful and just a little bemused gaze. Valor began to splutter his surprise.

THIRTEEN

THE BRIAVELLIAN GUARDS DIED swiftly. The attack, as violent as it was unexpected, was over as quickly as it was begun and the mercenaries were adept at killing silently. Celimus was playing a slippery game. Whilst Romen thought he was spearheading this band of soldiers, another of them — a man called Arkol — with a ransom on his head and little else to lose from murdering more people, had agreed to run a killing raid.

Promised immunity from those who hunted him, as well as an irresistible sum of money, this killer had bigger prey on his mind than General Wyl Thirsk whom Romen was hired to deal with. His orders were to murder the King of Briavel. Celimus’s evil mind had concocted a plan to leap all the obstacles he considered were presently in his way to getting precisely what he wanted. Having met the man, he judged that Koreldy would not agree to assassinate a King for little other reason than he may not agree to marrying off his daughter. Arkol lacked even fundamental scruples, it seemed, and Celimus noted this immediately, deciding he was definitely the person for his third tier of the mission.

His threefold aim was this. First he would use Thirsk to open doors in Briavel. Celimus felt convinced that Wyl’s name would win the audience, and get his men into Briavel without suspicion. He also rather hoped Wyl might win Valentyna’s hand for him — not that he cared either way. Marriage was not to his liking but it was necessary — and it was essential with this supposedly plump and fragile Princess of Briavel.

With or without Wyl Thirsk, he would get his way with marriage — of this Celimus was sure. But the second aim of the mission was to ensure Thirsk was off Morgravian soil when he was killed. It was just such a neat plot he all but hugged himself as it fell into place to use Romen Koreldy to rid Celimus of the annoying presence of Wyl Thirsk — once his task was done in winning Valor’s trust, that is.

And finally, his favourite of all the intertwined plots, was the slaying of his neighbouring King. If he could he would lay that peacetime atrocity at Thirsk’s feet, further damaging the family name. However, his main achievement would be to dispense with any necessity to deal with Valor. If the Princess did not submit immediately to his demands to marry and thus join the two realms once and for all, then he would bring the full might of Morgravia crashing down upon her inexperienced and no doubt hysterical shoulders. He would take Briavel by force and he would see to it that she died in the process.

In killing Thirsk and Valor he believed he could lay open a path of hopelessness and indeed helplessness for the young Princess of Briavel. Without her father she would be nothing but a whimpering, spoilt Princess, he imagined. And staying married to her — even if she did agree — was only ever a temporary situation; an immediate way to satisfy his burning desire to straddle the two realms. Celimus had full intention to rid himself of the cumbersome wife, most likely after a couple of years, perhaps by which he might have sired an heir to genuinely sit upon a single throne ruling both Morgravia and Briavel. The irony of its comparison to his own parents’ marriage and siring of an heir was not lost on him either.

He loved the way his own mind worked. Killing Thirsk amongst it all was his masterstroke. Being able to bring the Legion entirely under his own command was his dream. And then why stop at Briavel? With both realms under his rule, he could look to other, weaker kingdoms. Celimus already saw himself — in his daydreams — as some sort of emperor in the making. It would mean disposing of the self-proclaimed King of the Mountains, of course, but for some reason this did not impact on Celimus as being particularly troublesome. Oh, he had listened to his father flap his gums about the threat from the north but the barbarian’s capacity was unknown in truth. How could he possibly put together a raggle-taggle fighting unit which could even begin to match the well-drilled prowess of the Morgravian Legion? Celimus from early adolescence entertained himself with notions of empire which had eluded his father — the seeds of which had been planted by Adana in the bright youngster’s mind. Magnus, he thought, sneering in a way his mother would be proud of, had only ever wanted to keep Morgravia safe. It had never occurred to the old fool to look beyond her borders. Why not take Briavel? Take the north? His father could probably have achieved that in his time and right now Celimus would have taken the title of Emperor. He would just have to do the job himself.

So whilst the King of Morgravia lost himself in pleasant thoughts of killing Cailech, King of the Mountain Dwellers, Arkol in Briavel smiled as he surveyed the mercenaries’ handiwork.

‘Good work, men. Now muffle your horses’ hooves and any weapons. Get rid of anything which makes a noise — we move silently towards the palace.’

‘How do we get in?’ someone asked.

‘The messenger who arrived ahead of us is one of ours. He will kill the guards on duty at the gate and open the portcullis.’

‘That easy, eh?’

‘It’s better than easy. King Celimus has organised for another company to raid into Briavel and create a disturbance on the north-western fringe of Werryl. Those men will draw most of the Briavellian Guard whilst we storm the palace.’

‘And the others left behind?’

‘Will be drugged, if our man can pull it off. Either way, they will not be expecting a direct strike and we will only move when the night is late. We’ll catch them in their cups.’

The soldiers laughed.

‘And Koreldy?’

‘Will die by my sword,’ Arkol cautioned. ‘No one else is to take that arrogant, ever-smiling bastard. Understood?’

They nodded and got busy with their horses.

Deep in the shadows of a small, nearby copse, Fynch shuddered. Despite still hurting from Wyl’s cruel words of the previous evening, he had doggedly followed and watched with horror as the recent events unfolded. Having heard their plan he knew it was up to him alone to save more lives tonight.

‘We have to get to Wyl,’ he whispered to Knave.

They set off ahead of the soldiers, using the trees and undergrowth for cover and cutting across the fields so they could get to the palace before the killing spree began.

Wyl gambled everything. Appetites lost but glasses refreshed, he began to tell Valor and Valentyna of how he came to find himself here at their table. A shocked stillness had descended about the room as they absorbed the enormity of the General’s sickening tale of Celimus’s brutality and betrayal. When he haltingly described how his sister had been paraded amongst her new husband’s and his best friend’s blood, Valentyna took Wyl’s hands in her own and when his voice broke, telling them of how Ylena was forced to carry Alyd’s blood-soaked head back to the dungeon, she moved to hold him close and even held him to her as she wept for people she did not know.

When Wyl had finished speaking, Valor stood and paced. ‘And that man you came with, who is he to you?’

Wyl desperately wished he didn’t have to move away from Valentyna’s sweet embrace. As he pulled his emotions together, he noticed with gratitude that she did not let go of his hands.

‘My murderer,’ he said flatly.

‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is preposterous!’

He explained everything he knew about Romen and the deal they had struck regarding Ylena’s safety.

It was Valentyna’s turn to stride distractedly around the room. ‘No! There has to be another way. You will not bargain with your life.’

‘My life is all I have to give,’ Wyl admitted.

‘Father!’ she begged. ‘What do we do?’

‘Celimus is obviously certain he will win our permission for the marriage,’ Valor replied, looking to Wyl for confirmation.

Wyl nodded. ‘One way or another,’ he said, ruefully. ‘As I think about it now I realise he will win it either way — with your consent or by force, I imagine.’

‘So it’s Briavel he wants, rather than my daughter?’

Before Wyl could respond they heard a commotion coming from behind the tapestry.

‘What in Shar’s Name —’ was all Valor could get out before the privvy door burst open and a small boy, covered in something unspeakable and smelling just as unpleasant, toppled in breathlessly through the opening.

Wyl regained his wits first. ‘Fynch!’

The youngster could hardly speak he had run so hard. ‘It’s a trap, Wyl. They’re coming to kill you. Koreldy and the King also. A man called Arkol leads them!’

‘Who is this?’ Valor demanded.

Wyl swung around to Valor. ‘Someone to trust. Where is the Briavellian Guard, sire?’

‘On hand, I’ll rouse them.’

‘Too late!’ Fynch said. ‘Those who were supervising the mercenaries are all dead. And the bulk of the palace guard has already been lured away. Look out of your window if you don’t believe me.’

Valor and Wyl did just that, whilst Valentyna had the presence of mind to slide the two huge bolts into place over the main door before running out of the secret door, returning moments later with her men’s garb. She threw the bolts on that door as well, which a few in the palace knew of and might be persuaded by pain to reveal. She could hear the two men making noises of despair at the window.

The boy was telling the truth then, whoever he was.

Putting her finger to her mouth, she unbuttoned the gown, ripping it in her impatience and to Fynch’s wide-eyed surprise, stepped out of it and proceeded to pull herself into her preferred working clothes. By the time her father and the General turned back from the window, she was just fastening the buttons on her shirt.

‘Right, that gets rid of the Princess,’ she said grimly and turned towards a cupboard. Opening it with a key from a nearby drawer she took out three swords. ‘I hope you keep these blades keen, Father.’ She locked the cupboard from habit as she spoke.

‘Sharpened each moon, child.’

‘Good,’ she said, turning towards the two men. ‘We’re going to need them.’

Wyl began shaking his head. ‘Not you, highness,’ he said to her, moving quickly across the room.

‘Don’t you dare, General Thirsk,’ she cautioned, her eyes glittering with anger. ‘This is Briavel, not Morgravia. The women here do not shirk from duty. I may be a Princess but I am my father’s daughter. I fight alongside him.’

She’s magnificent, Wyl thought. He wanted to kiss her then and there and almost laughed at the realisation that he would probably have to stand on tiptoe to do it. ‘I meant,’ he said gently, ‘that we have to get you away from here, Valentyna. You are too precious to risk.’

‘He’s right,’ her father commanded. ‘My death is coming soon anyway, child. We have already discussed this.’

Telltale tears began to leak into her eyes at her father’s words but she fought them down. ‘No! We both flee if we must. I am not leaving without you, Father,’ she said.

Valor shook his head and smiled. Then his face became gravely serious. His voice cold. ‘You will do exactly as I command, Valentyna. I am your King first. Don’t forget what I have always taught: you embody all of Briavel’s hopes for its future.’

Valentyna bit back on whatever words she was about to hurl back at her father. There was no mistaking his tone. This was no longer her indulgent father talking to her. This was a sovereign speaking now.

She folded her arms defensively. ‘There is no escape, anyway. Not from this chamber. If they have the front gate …’ her words trailed off.

Fynch looked around at their beaten, resigned expressions. ‘There is a way out,’ he blurted. The trio turned back towards the small boy. ‘The same way I got in,’ he added, shrugging.

‘Of course!’ Wyl said. ‘Fynch, you are an inspiration. Quick, your highness, follow the boy. Is Knave down there?’ Fynch nodded. ‘Good, tell him to protect her with his life.’

Valentyna was still contemplating the ugly passage out when she asked, ‘Who’s Knave?’

‘My dog. Believe it or not, he will understand the message. Hurry, Valentyna, this is our only chance.’

They could now hear the fighting raging beneath them. It would not be long before the mercenaries reached this chamber. Banging had started on the door. The King looked at Wyl, wondering if it was already too late.

‘It’s Romen, ignore him,’ Wyl said grimly. ‘We’ll deal with him later.’

They stepped inside the privvy.

‘I’m not sure I can,’ Valentyna admitted, looking down and feeling disgusted by the thought of what encrusted the walls.

Wyl had no time for this. ‘He did it to save your life. Now you’ll do it, your highness, or I’ll throw you down there myself. Don’t be misled by my height — I am far stronger than you credit.’

She could tell he meant it, and she appreciated his forceful directness — in fact, she admired this Morgravian General for everything he had said and done here this night. But still she hesitated.

‘Don’t make me pick you up, Princess,’ Wyl threatened, urging her down the drophole.

‘He is damnably strong, your highness,’ Fynch echoed. ‘Please, I’ll go first and you can follow. Breathe through your mouth — it will help.’

Valentyna nodded, fighting down the urge to scream. She glanced towards her father with a pained expression as Wyl helped her to clamber into the drophole. It was more than wide enough for the Princess’s slim frame.

‘You’re next, Father,’ she warned, her eyes peeping over the edge as she gulped air, not daring to breathe through her nose.

The King nodded his encouragement at her, knowing full well his bulky body would not be able to fit the width of the opening. Wyl knew it too and diverted her attention by telling her to concentrate on the small footholds in the stone. She called down to Fynch in the shadows and he whispered his reply as she began her descent.

The banging on the door increased and now Romen was bellowing at Wyl. They ignored it still, focused only on Valentyna’s safe journey down. They could not see her once she was consumed by the darkness but they heard Fynch call up the all clear.

‘I have her. She’s safe, sire.’

‘Father, be careful, it’s slippery.’

There was a pause.

‘Father?’ Her voice travelled eerily from the dark beneath them.

‘No, my darling. I cannot.’

Before she could raise a noise, Wyl interrupted and his tone was firm. ‘Valentyna, listen to me, now. The opening is too small for the King. But I will remain with him and I swear I’ll die trying to fight him safely to freedom. You must, however, for all our sakes, follow our plan and flee. Listen to Fynch. He will guide and protect you. I am dropping a purse, Fynch — use it to hide yourself.’ The King disappeared and reappeared with a larger pouch which he warned he was dropping.

Wyl continued: ‘Princess, you must hide your hair, disguise all features which might give away who you are.’

‘How will you find us?’ her voice called harshly up from the depths.

‘Somehow, I will. Knave will find us — be assured. The mercenaries won’t remain here long. They are a raiding party — whether they succeed or not, they will not tarry. Now run!’

‘Father —’

‘Go, child. Remember who you are and that I couldn’t love you any more than I do.’

‘General,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘thank you for being honest and a friend to Briavel, despite your loyalties. Keep your promise and save him or die trying!’

Valor and Wyl thought they heard a stifled sob but it was Fynch’s voice which whispered up now. ‘Good luck, Wyl.’

‘You’re a brave lad, Fynch. I thank you … and I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean a word of it. I just wanted you to be safe.’

Fynch’s spirits lifted as he heard the words. Then he turned and took Valentyna by the hand, looking for Knave who suddenly emerged from the shadows, startling his companion.

‘Don’t be afraid of him,’ Fynch whispered. Then he spoke to Knave softly, telling the dog what had happened and their task now was to protect this woman.

The three of them began to run, heading through the orchards and on towards Crowyll north of Werryl. Valentyna was glad of the dark so none would see her tears.

The King looked at Wyl. ‘Save yourself, boy. You can. It’s your chance.’

‘Perhaps. But there is unfinished business here, sire. And I will not leave you here without fighting alongside you.’

Valor felt the swell of pride for the young General. ‘Whoever thought a Thirsk would fight on the side of Briavel, eh?’

Wyl had to smile at the irony of it but there was no way he would let this good man perish, knowing what he did about his own faithless and conniving King. He would not be able to hold his head high if he did nothing to help. Anyway, how would he ever face Valentyna?

He walked to the door. ‘Romen!’

‘It’s a trap,’ came the resigned reply.

‘How many?’

‘All ten, I think.’

‘They’re under orders to kill you. Arkol apparently,’ Wyl warned.

‘Hmm — I suspected Celimus may do something like this.’

‘And still you came?’

‘A seer once told me I would lead a dangerous life,’ Romen replied and then barked a laugh. ‘I guess this is its end, then.’

Wyl unbolted the door and dragged a surprised Romen in. ‘No. If we die, then we die honourably, fighting the enemy.’

Romen was taken off guard. He had not expected the General to permit him entry. He had already accepted his own death. He bowed to Valor. ‘Your majesty, I would not have been a part of this had I known who the real target was.’

‘But you would accept payment to murder a man just as good, just as valuable to his kingdom,’ he snarled.

‘Well, right now it looks as though we’ll all die fighting for different reasons, sire. Forgive me if I don’t enter a philosophical debate with you just now.’

‘When this is over, mercenary, if I still breathe, I’ll kill you myself.’

Romen let it be. He looked to Wyl. ‘How did you find out?’

Wyl shrugged. There was no way he would reveal Fynch.

His companion grinned his acceptance of Wyl’s reticence. ‘All right. Our deal sticks. Just so long as you understand, I never go back on my word,’ he said, taking the offered sword.

‘So you keep reminding me. Now hush!’ Wyl cautioned. ‘Here they come.’

Clutching their weapons, they faced the door. It was only a matter of time before several axes and some beefy shoulders would smash through it.

Valentyna had run until the breath burned in her lungs. She stopped, sitting down heavily against a boulder, hardly noticing her clothes’ ripe smell — a legacy of the drophole. Knave trotted back and licked her face. It was that tiny show of affection which broke her heart. The Princess buried her head in her own lap. Fynch, breathless too, tiptoed back and sat alongside her. They were both filthy but she no longer seemed to care, he noticed, about what clung to their clothes and boots.

‘Why, Fynch? Why? They’re going to die. I know it.’ She banged her fist against the ground in her anger.

‘We’re safe here for a while, your highness. You can rest.’ He did not know what else to say, had no words of comfort, for he too believed Wyl and Valor would perish.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘A gong boy. I work the royal apartments at Stoneheart.’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’ll bet you’ve never made Celimus climb down his drophole.’

‘No, but then I wouldn’t offer to save his life, highness,’ the boy replied gravely.

Valentyna considered him more intently now. ‘Wyl was just as surprised to see you as we were,’ she said and let it hang.

Fynch nodded. ‘I’d overheard the conversation between the Prince and Koreldy who accompanied Wyl. The plan had been to use Wyl’s name to win the audience with your father.’

‘And then kill both of them,’ she finished, angrily.

‘No, highness. I knew only of one planned assassination — of Wyl. I followed with Knave and managed to get word to him of the plot.’

‘And still he came here,’ she said, slightly in awe of Wyl now.

Fynch shrugged. ‘Not sure he had much choice, your highness. He was trapped really. He had to win the audience to save his sister.’

‘Yes, but what you don’t know, Fynch, is that he told us the truth. And in so doing doomed his sister.’

‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘That would have been a horrible decision to make. Wyl worships Ylena.’

‘She’s lucky to have him,’ Valentyna said softly. ‘I think I am too.’

‘Yes you are, highness,’ he answered, confused as to Wyl’s intentions but unable to be anything but direct and honest.

‘There’s a stream nearby here. It will be freezing but I’ll chance it if you will,’ she offered.

‘I’m so used to the smell, highness, but yes, let’s clean ourselves. We’ll have to rely on Knave to keep us warm.’

The three lonely figures headed towards the stream Valentyna spoke of and in the cover of darkness, stripped their clothes and washed them and their bodies. Later, shivering, damp and naked, Valentyna, who knew these lands better than any, guided them towards a tiny copse.

‘It might still be standing,’ she said.

‘What might be?’ Fynch queried.

‘One of my camps. I built it years ago. Come.’

It was still there and she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘It’s stood the test of time, highness,’ Fynch said, his approval obvious.

‘I was taught how to build it by a master,’ she said, finding a smile for her private thoughts.

‘Who was that, highness?’

‘My father,’ she replied sadly. ‘Follow me. It’s cramped but it’s dry and sheltered. We can rest safely here for a while.’

Fynch felt numb from the cold and allowed Knave to push himself in between them. His large body gave comfort as much as warmth. Even Valentyna finally laid her aching head against the dog.

‘He’s enormous, isn’t he?’ Valentyna said.

Fynch smiled, enjoying the earthy smell of the hide. ‘He terrifies everyone at Stoneheart except a few who are true to Wyl.’

‘Tell me about Wyl,’ she said, unable to think of what else the two of them had in common. She needed idle chatter to stop her feeling as if she might just fall apart.

Fynch shrugged and bringing together the items from his vast storage of information he began to impart some of that knowledge on General Wyl Thirsk from his earliest days to the present. In spite of her gloom Valentyna found herself fascinated by the story of Wyl and amazed by Fynch’s recollection of the General’s life. She was especially interested to hear that Wyl’s dislike for Celimus went so far back.

‘So he’s never liked the new King?’

‘No, Princess. He has always despised him.’

‘How can he serve a man like this?’

‘He has not had a chance, to tell the truth. King Magnus died the same day Wyl was despatched on this mission.’

‘Well that means Celimus has been plotting it for a while; his intention always to rid Morgravia of its influential General. You say Wyl controls the Legion?’

‘Completely. If he chose, he could overthrow Celimus in a blink.’

‘And this business with the witch. You actually saw his eyes change colour?’

‘One grey, one greenish. It was very alarming but it disappeared so quickly, I hardly dared believe what I saw.’

‘And Knave belonged to her?’ Valentyna asked, deliberately double checking the more curious facts of Fynch’s tale.

‘He was a pup apparently. She gave him to Wyl just moments before her death. I hope you won’t consider me loose-headed, your majesty, but it is my belief that Knave is somehow enchanted.’

‘How so?’ she asked, her interest irresistibly piqued now as she stroked the big dog’s head, though completely disbelieving of Fynch’s claim.

Fynch told her everything he could about the curiosities of Knave.

‘Well, well, you certainly have my attention now,’ she said, nodding as Knave groaned with pleasure as she scratched his ears. ‘How strange it all is,’ she admitted.

‘Do you believe in magic, your highness?’

‘I don’t. I’ve never been exposed to anything magical,’ she admitted. ‘I believe only what I see.’

‘I’m the opposite, your highness. I do believe,’ the boy shrugged. ‘I’m used to his oddities now. Knave really hates other people unless they are somehow linked favourably to Wyl. That’s why he likes you.’

She smiled at the serious little boy. ‘You are very loyal to him, Fynch. He’s fortunate to have you in his life.’

‘I am compelled, your highness. Knave chose me.’

She frowned in some bemusement at this, then grinned sadly. ‘Fynch, I’ve been thinking — I must return to the palace. I can’t believe I ran away in the first place. I have to go back and see my father.’

‘No, your highness! I promised to take you away, to keep you safe,’ her small friend implored.

‘I can’t stay in hiding. It’s cowardly, Fynch, surely you appreciate this?’ Her voice had a pleading tone as she beseeched the grave-faced child to understand.

‘I don’t, your majesty. It is not cowardly to protect yourself — the heir to the throne — against killers.’

‘Then I shall fight them — alongside my father!’ she declared.

‘And you’ll die,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll be useless to Briavel.’

‘How dare you!’ she raged, jumping to her feet. ‘Who are you to order me about?’

Fynch shook his head and she saw his despair. ‘Forgive me, your highness. I am a nobody. A gong boy who clears the sewers and not fit to so much as be in your presence. But I am charged to protect you and I would sooner die than let anyone harm you.’

It was his sincerity which broke her anger and she was on her knees in a moment, hugging him and apologising for her haughty behaviour. ‘Fynch, I didn’t mean it. You and Wyl have been true. Say you’ve forgiven me, I beg it.’

She was so distraught that Fynch could tell she was drowning in a sea of emotions, from grief to guilt. Perhaps there was a way he could alleviate her despair. ‘Your highness, what would you say if I asked you to remain here a little longer? Knave will stay with you.’

‘And where will you go?’ she asked.

‘I’ll go back to the palace and see what I can find out. It is not dangerous for me.’

‘I would thank you, Fynch, and ask you to leave immediately.’

‘You must give me your word, your highness, that you will not leave this place,’ he cautioned.

‘Not until I hear back from you.’

Fynch looked at Knave and realised the dog already understood what was required of him. He bowed to the Princess. ‘Knave will keep you safe, your highness.’

Valentyna had no doubt of it as she watched the little boy run off into the night.

The fighting was ferocious in the confined space of the chamber. Man after man had burst through the door only to be slayed by the superbly balanced and supremely skilled pair of Wyl and Romen, fighting back to back. Valor could only watch for the time being, for Wyl had cleverly blocked the entrance with his attacker so that the men coming from behind would have to wait for the outcome. So far he counted four corpses.

Romen called over his shoulder: ‘Six more.’ Then he grunted as he leapt over a fallen chair and spun on his heel to strike low and viciously with a two-handed slash. The fifth fell, one leg almost chopped through at the thigh. Romen kicked his sword away, knowing a major artery was severed. The fellow would be dead within a minute or so.

The King could not help but marvel at these two beautiful fighters. Both had contrasting styles. Wyl was dogged; a real thinker. To Valor it seemed that Wyl had interminable patience, content to parry and block, feint and twist. But now two of his opponents were dead. He was a much smarter sword fighter than them and more skilled, prepared to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Romen was far more flamboyant, preferring to be the aggressor and taking the fight to his enemy. Romen would never give ground, Valor observed. He continued to push his opponent with a barrage of scintillating cuts and thrusts where the man found himself with no option but to defend constantly. And Romen was fast: lightning speed in his strokes, which was probably the reason why his third attacker had just taken a mortal wound. Valor watched Romen kick the dying man’s sword away. Already forgotten, Romen stepped over the groaning man to engage his next opponent leaping through the door.

Except this time two came through. Valor knew his time had come. It had been too many years since he had lifted a sword in battle but he did not hesitate. With a roar he lifted his trademark sword with its intricate and beautiful carvings on its hilt. He raised it over his head and brought it down with a second roar, a battle cry this time. Sparks flew off the two swords as they met and Valor once again fought for his life. He was a match for his opponent — where the mercenary had brute strength, Valor had height — but the man who grimaced back at him was far younger.

Valor knew immediately he would have to despatch him fast if he was to survive or, more likely, if the fight continued, he reasoned as he went through a series of hard blocks and parries, that he would need one of his younger companions to finish it for him.

He did not mean to lose concentration but his thoughts helplessly fled to Valentyna. She was still so young and yet with the right people around her there would be no better sovereign for Briavel. She possessed his courage and genuinely loved her people and this land of theirs with a fierce passion. But she was headstrong, like her mother. That would need to be controlled or at least channelled in the right way. He felt sure Valentyna would be willing to lead the charge onto a battlefield if she could — if it meant one more Briavellian might be protected. But war must be avoided. He wished now — as he recalled her look of despair as she climbed into that drophole earlier — that he had counselled her about Celimus. He should have said that no matter what, the marriage should still be considered if peace was to be achieved. And yet Wyl’s advice was so alarming. He hoped he had gathered the right people around him these past few years who would advise her well, should he fail today. She would need strong counsel … shrewd counsel in the decisions ahead.

Valor felt a dazzling blaze of pain at the top of his sword arm. He yelled and winced but did not have time to look at the damage. He knew he had lost concentration or that cut would not have made it through his defence. Angry with himself and spurred on by the throbbing pain, he now used his height to beat the man back. Already, though, he knew he was in real danger. Apart from fatigue so shockingly swift in its claim over his body, his muscles in that all-important arm felt weak and a numbing tingle was edging its way towards the fingers which gripped that famous hilt. He intensified his effort. The man must fall soon or he would prevail.

Wyl realised as he killed another mercenary that the more cunning amongst them had held back. With each new opponent greater skills seemed to present themselves and this had been a clever ploy. Using the less skilled ‘hackers’, as Wyl thought of them, they had worn himself and Romen down, making them perhaps easier prey for the more talented fighters coming through. He hated that one had managed to engage the King and as he grimaced at this thought, it seemed Romen read his mind.

‘Valor has taken a serious cut. He’ll tire quickly,’ was all he had time to say.

‘Two left,’ Wyl said in reply chancing a look towards the King.

There was no doubt the King was exhausting his last reserves of stamina. Blood flowed freely and fast from a particularly nasty slash at the top of his arm. Wyl understood immediately that muscle had been severed as well, which would mean Valor would be rapidly losing all strength in that fighting arm. He wondered if the old campaigner had trained himself to use either arm. He thought not. Many had scoffed at the suggestion but the new breed of Morgravian soldiers — such as Gueryn — had insisted upon the level of skill being upped in the non-natural hand. Wyl knew no different. Although his right arm was strongest, he was certainly adept with his left.

He glanced towards Romen. ‘Can you hold them off?’

Romen grunted his reply and slashed his man across the throat. ‘Help Valor!’ he roared, kicking his opponent over and out of the way so he could see what was rushing towards them.

Just as Wyl turned to deal with the man intent on killing a King he heard the monarch cry out.

Valor staggered backwards, another, deeper sword wound evident at the top of his shoulder, slicing diagonally through major vessels, blood flowing in a torrent from it.

‘Protect our Queen, Wyl,’ was all he had time to say before he hit the floor.

Arkol, who had struck the blow, laughed and spat at the prone body of the King of Briavel. Romen had despatched his own man with a slash which nearly decapitated the mercenary. He turned around to see the wrath on Wyl’s face and the familiar figure bleeding on the fine carpet.

‘Wait, Wyl! He’s mine,’ he said. ‘There’s one more outside, probably hiding.’

As Wyl dropped back, Romen even found time to thank him and with a grim smile on his face went about pitching his skills against his would-be killer. Wyl had already been amazed at Romen’s swordplay. His own abilities aside, if he thought he had seen the best fighter in Celimus then he was wrong. Romen was indeed superior and he felt sure it would not be long before Arkol’s smile was wiped once and for all from its ugly mouth.

Wyl and his final opponent ended up fighting in the hall. The man soon discovered that despite his own high skills he was no match for the General, but he knew how to defend and so it was simply a case of wearing his man down. Wyl cleared his anger as he had been taught. He found his focus, withdrew into himself and began a flurry of attacking strikes, one finally finding its mark to sever an artery. He left the man bleeding to a swift death and returned to the King’s chamber to see Romen all but toying with a savagely wounded Arkol, struck in many damaging places, but none fatal yet.

Wyl dropped on one knee by the King and felt for a pulse, knowing it was useless. It was a momentary joy to find a faint heartbeat but good sense told him it would disappear within moments. Valentyna was about to become Queen of Briavel. He cast a silent prayer for her safety as he heard Arkol gurgle to his death, Romen’s sword thrust through his throat.

‘Help me get Valor on the settle,’ Wyl said. ‘No King should be left like this.’

Romen grinned without his usual humour. He was not even out of breath, although his face and clothes were spattered with other men’s blood. ‘Do you always do the right thing, Thirsk?’

‘I try,’ Wyl said, heaving at the old man’s body.

They carried the dying man and laid him on a couch. Wyl took his hand. ‘Sire?’

Valor opened his eyes, their sight already blurring as more of his life force leaked out onto the couch. His breath rattled through his throat as he struggled to speak. It was little more than a mumble. ‘You must protect her, son, despite your loyalties.’

Wyl nodded. ‘I will give my life for her, sire. I promise.’

‘Even better than your father,’ the King slurred and then in one last rally of strength he whispered. ‘Overthrow Celimus. Take the crown!’

Valor, King of Briavel, died holding the hand of the General of Morgravia, leaving between them a thought of such treachery that Wyl caught his breath. Valor was the second King now to urge Wyl to commit a traitorous act. But Wyl could not bring himself to think on that now. He snatched away the dampness which blurred his vision, deeply upset that he had failed to save this man’s life and his thoughts rushed towards Valentyna. Once again, as if reading his mind, Romen echoed his thoughts.

‘Where’s the daughter, by the way?’

Wyl realised Romen had not seen Valentyna enter her father’s chamber, having used the concealed internal entrance. Romen was perhaps not even aware that she had been in their company.

He told the truth. ‘I have no idea.’

‘And what did Valor say to your suggestion?’ Romen asked as he settled one of the old man’s legs which had slipped from the couch.

Wyl folded the King’s arms across his chest and then leaned down to kiss the man on both cheeks. Romen held his tongue. He watched Wyl stand up and waited for an answer to his question.

‘He agreed with my reasoning that such a union would bring peace to both realms.’ He did not lie.

‘Congratulations. Your part of the bargain is kept, then,’ Romen said, reaching for his sword. ‘Now I must keep my side of it.’ He flicked Wyl’s sword from the floor into the air and Wyl deftly caught it. ‘Unfinished business, my friend.’

‘We don’t have to do this, Romen,’ Wyl said, desperately hoping he could persuade the man not to duel.

‘We do, Thirsk. We have a deal. I have a purse to collect … and a score to settle.’

‘And if I best you?’

‘Then you must settle it for me. You hate him enough to do it.’

‘I promise,’ Wyl said, realising his hopes of them both surviving were very much in vain. One of them would die in this room alongside a King.

‘And so what can I promise in return?’ Romen asked, tapping his sword against Wyl’s.

‘Aside from your original promise to take care of Ylena?’

Romen nodded. ‘I will marry her, if I must, to give her security. It would hardly be a chore. She is very lovely.’

Wyl considered and then dropped his sword to speak solemnly. ‘I want your word that you will offer your services — your life — to Valentyna.’

Romen was amused at this. ‘To the new Queen? Why? You kiss your enemy King whilst you hate your own. Passing strange, Wyl, for someone who claims to be a loyal Morgravian.’

‘Do it, Koreldy!’

‘Or else?’ he said, the smile back.

‘I won’t fight you. You’ll have to just run me through in cold blood and somehow I know you are too honourable. Nobility runs in your veins, Romen. It is obvious.’

‘You would change your loyalties? A Thirsk wanting to protect the Briavel monarch? Oh this is rich.’

‘Swear it, Romen.’

‘Yes, yes, I swear,’ he said as if weary of a pointless conversation.

In a flash, Romen found a sword levelled at his throat, reminding him not to underestimate the prowess of the short but powerful man who stood before him. ‘Mean it!’ Wyl yelled.

Romen’s silver-grey eyes darkened. He slashed his blade across his palm and, relieved, Wyl immediately followed suit.

‘I swear it, Wyl Thirsk. I will protect the Queen of Briavel with my life,’ the mercenary said, joining his bloodied palm with Wyl’s. ‘Now fight for your life.’

Wyl kissed his blade. And Romen smiled. A new dance had begun.

FOURTEEN

WYL AND ROMEN FOUGHT in frigid silence.

Silence as the castle at Werryl grasped the shock of attack — fifteen of the palace staff were dead, another dozen were injured and the rest lay in their beds, drugged. Silence as the Briavellian Guard raced back to their King upon realising that the threat which most of them had been despatched to deal with was a hoax. Briavel was not under attack and their clash with a strange company of mercenaries was little more than a skirmish, the foreigners fleeing, having barely clashed swords or lost a single man.

And silence as both men, professional fighters, lost themselves in a battle for their lives. The only sound, in fact, was the harsh ring of their blades. Faces set with grim determination, they duelled in synchrony. Romen, Wyl realised, was indeed a superior swordsman to Celimus. He did not let his emotions get in his way and, like Wyl, he fought with cunning, although with little patience. Lots of bravado and flamboyance, yet each move was lightning fast and deadly.

Everything Wyl threw at him, every trick he had learned from Gueryn, every stroke he had taught himself, Romen countered. He was fast, agile, strong, but most of all, Romen was a strategist. He could think several strokes ahead, was planning moves in advance of where he was fighting now. If Wyl could have stopped their duel, he would like to have told his opponent how much he admired his skill, but there would be no halting now, no more sardonic banter, no more quarter given.

Romen clearly intended to kill, Wyl knew, unless he could strike the death blow first.

They fought on, both their minds blanked of thought other than the focus on their opponent’s weapon and movement. The moon had risen high and the Briavellian Guard had almost returned to the city gates. Aides would have come looking for their King if any were alive or well enough to do so. The pair of swordsmen had no witnesses to their life and death struggle.

Both were showing their fatigue; hair damp with their efforts and faces shining with sweat, they knew it would be only moments now before one made the fatal error. Tiredness prompted mistakes and, although they redoubled their concentration, their bodies were beaten and could not respond as well as they hoped. Evenly matched, neither was getting ahead. Each recognised the signs in themselves of slowing down and knowing this alone would probably cost them their lives. It was the first time in their lives either of these men had felt true fear that the other man might prevail. It showed on their grim expressions. Gone was the almost permanent amusement Romen Koreldy carried on his face and Wyl had long ago withdrawn completely into himself.

It was Wyl who ultimately made the bad decision. He knew it the second he lunged hard after feinting twice. He saw the slight opening and decided if he was fast enough, he would have Romen impaled on his blade. He made his attempt but although his mind still worked at a high speed, his body was no longer working in tandem.

Romen anticipated what was happening. It was as though he was watching Wyl come at him at a speed ten times slower than normal. His mind was playing tricks but he had heard men say that when the death blow comes, the world around you slows down. It was happening to him now. This was the stab of Wyl’s sword which would kill him. Somehow — Shar alone knew how — he managed to drag himself just enough off balance to dodge the blade so that it only skimmed his side, ripping through surface flesh. And then, as Wyl followed through, Romen struck.

Romen’s blade ran General Wyl Thirsk of the Morgravian Legion through, its fierce tip emerging on the other side of its victim’s body. Wyl’s eyes widened in shock and pain but mostly from the realisation that he had lost his fight.

It was up to Romen now to save the two women Wyl loved. ‘Keep your promise,’ he gurgled as he dropped his sword and Romen pulled his own back and out of the dying man.

Wyl slid to the floor, closed his eyes and waited for his heart to stop beating and the pain in his belly to leave him. Death felt welcome.

But a new sensation suddenly gripped his body, and without knowing it he arched his back high from the floor in the spasm of that acute pain. At first he thought this was how death must feel as it gathered him into itself but the intensity of the surge forced him to open his eyes … his two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.

Romen too was staring at him in shock, but bent double in his own agony. It was as if they were both sharing the same convulsive pain. Wyl felt himself lifting now; all of what was him was being pulled, dragged from his shell in a tearing, ripping sense of departure. If this was death, why was Romen wearing a mask of such terror and agony?

The suffering mounted towards a crescendo and just as Wyl knew his life was about to pass over to Shar’s keeping, he glimpsed what he grasped was the soul of Romen Koreldy as it too crossed over in terror and disbelief.

But Wyl was not passing to Shar. Only Romen’s soul was being given up. And Wyl himself — all that made him in mind and spirit — was actually crossing into the body of Romen Koreldy. He thought he mouthed something. Could not be sure if he had, yet he wanted to say something to Romen.

Was this death or life?

The sensation of pain and confusion continued for what felt like an eternity until Wyl suddenly became aware of himself again as being alive. He was the one who staggered backwards to clutch at the table, letting go of the sword, dragging in his breath as though he had been drowning. No longer drowning in pain, now he broke the surface and came out of his swirling agonies and confusion. Wyl looked down upon the body on the floor.

He was unaware that he stared through ill-matched eyes but he did know that he looked down upon the corpse of Wyl Thirsk.

Wyl, residing in the trembling, still-shocked body of Romen Koreldy, rubbed at those ill-matched eyes now to make sure he was not dreaming this, was not in some sort of death stupor. He held out his shaking hands. They were the long, neat fingers of Romen, not his own short fingers with the soft ginger hair just below the knuckles. And then he looked at his side where he bled. This was the near miss and testimony to how close Wyl’s blade had come.

No! His blade had come, damn it!

It was true, then. Beneath him, his own body was already cooling and with it, he believed, it had taken the soul of Romen.

Dumbfounded and disoriented, he stumbled around the room taking in the scene of death. He heard voices, men’s voices; guards were running through the corridors. In the bedlam that was his mind he realised they would hit the stairs in moments and he would be trapped. Forcing himself out of the chaos of his thoughts and not daring to think anything through further, Wyl grabbed the arms of his previous body and dragged it towards the privvy. It was his only chance.

He threw his sword down the hole and then heaved the corpse over the lip of the lavvy. He heard it land at the bottom with a sickening crunch. The voices were at the top of the stairs now — he was just moments from discovery. No time to climb down with care. Wyl clambered into the drophole and, holding his breath instinctively against the assault of its smell, he let go. He too hit the bottom of the drophole hard, having jumped from such a height. But his landing was softened by the body. His true body.

With no thought beyond the moment and working purely on instinct, he settled Wyl Thirsk’s corpse on his shoulder and set off at a laboured trot. Moving awkwardly in Romen’s body, he wondered what in Shar’s Name had happened to him.

FIFTEEN

WYL TOOK COVER IN a small grove of trees he remembered passing on the journey into Briavel. It was the first time in hours he had taken a rest.

One stroke of luck a little earlier was coming across the mercenaries’ horses and a mule which had seemingly meandered over to join them. It occurred to Wyl that this had to be Fynch’s animal. He had untethered two of the horses and slung his corpse over the back of one. He would take the other horse for himself and, not wishing to abandon the animal which had effectively saved his life, he attached the mule to the horse carrying the body and the small party set off. Food was in the saddlebags and life-giving water too. It was urgent that he get the body to Pearlis. If he could just cross onto Morgravian soil, he would feel safer. When he had spotted the grove, he had cried out with relief. His nerves were in shreds, his mind felt stewed from the shock of what had occurred, and during the journey thus far he had spent the hours keeping up a string of nonsense-talk to the animals to deliberately stop himself from thinking on the shocking events. He had resisted glancing towards the body. His body.

Wyl slid the corpse off the horse and unsaddled the animals. Exhausted but still not prepared to think on his troubles, he spent time rubbing the beasts down. He finally hobbled his companions with a generous length of rope and lay down, hoping to drift off before he was forced to face the bleak truth. The moon was fat and high in a cloudless sky, denying him the total dark he craved, and despite his exhaustion sleep refused to rescue him. And so he finally confronted his fear … the terror that was surely Myrren’s gift. Her true gift, he now realised with a deep sob.

He stared at his hands, eerie in the moonlight, and accepted that these were indeed the large, well-kept hands of Romen Koreldy, still wearing the small, elegant signet ring. Wyl tentatively reached those long fingers to the face he now wore. His touch told him the once familiar roundish features were now angular. He possessed a neat, clipped beard and moustache.

He could not help but enjoy the lustrous feel of his hair when he loosened the thong which bound it and it fell to his shoulders. He recalled admiring it when he was an orange-haired General and envious of Romen’s hair in comparison to his own, coarse thatch. Wyl knew his eyes were now a clear, silver-grey. He even allowed himself the rueful grimace that his features were no longer ordinary and forgettable but were now remarkably striking. A face to turn heads.

Romen’s smile had been bright and quick. He tested it now, daring to touch the smooth, even teeth he recalled grinning back at him from the mercenary’s generous mouth. And his legs! Now Wyl did make a sound. It was a nervous laugh but nonetheless genuine as he stared at the new length of his legs which now surely stood him as tall as Valentyna … taller than Alyd … perhaps even taller than Gueryn.

He thought of these people now and the wave of grief he had kept at bay crashed against his mind. Both the men he loved were dead, or as good as, whilst both the women he loved were living through enormous fear and loss. Ylena, he imagined, was probably still unable to come to terms with what she had witnessed in the courtyard — perhaps she never would. Valentyna, his love, was no doubt wondering whether her father still lived as life’s strange turns threw her onto a new and frightening path. The pain of loving her so immediately and with such intensity frightened Wyl but he knew his heart belonged only to her now.

He remembered how he had made Romen promise to protect her, swear that he would lay down his life for her. Romen had given that oath with blood. It would now be up to Wyl to keep it.

He considered the man he had known so briefly and yet could not help liking so much and wondered if there was anything left of him inside. He probed gingerly and was rewarded with a vague touch on memories and ideas, thoughts and inclinations. It was not easy to reach and his instincts were to pull away and yet he glimpsed that the private nuances which made the man were still there, albeit dimly. It was similar to how a woman, walking past, leaves that faint and usually tantalising waft of her scent after she has gone.

Romen’s spirit lingered like perfume.

And yet the very essence of Romen was long gone. His soul had passed to Shar. Wyl remembered it crossing to die in his shell as his own life force entered Romen’s body and became one with it. Wyl decided to seal away what was Romen for now. He was not ready to delve into his life. In this shocking time of confusion he needed to sort out his own life first. He felt the first feathery touch of sleep and yawned, welcoming its escape.

It was a cold, hard bed tonight but he was alive. And he was angry. Angry and confused. He recalled the dream he’d had about dying, and yet not being dead — it seemed now to be a premonition rather than a simple nightmare.

Wyl pushed his confused thoughts aside. He had plenty to do in this new body, not the least of which was finding Valentyna and Fynch, but first there was unfinished business back in Morgravia. As his eyes closed he whispered a final farewell to Romen who unwittingly gave his life, an assassin Wyl could not help but like … and the man he had now become.

As he gave in to sleep, he realised now what he must do. It was suddenly as clear to him as the sharpness of the moonlight that there was only one course of action he could pursue. He would take his own body back and present it triumphantly to Celimus, going through all the motions required of him. He would trick the King into believing the Crown was rid of Wyl Thirsk. And then as Romen he would collect his purse, make provision for Ylena — please Shar, let her live this long — and then depart Morgravia to formulate a plan to make Celimus pay for his sins.

Its King slain. Its heir missing. Werryl was silent and stilled with shock.

Commander Liryk sat with Krell, the dead King’s Chancellor. Krell was a man of few words but when he spoke he made sense and people paid attention. He had been in Valor’s service for more than two decades and was the former sovereign’s most trusted counsel and confidant. He tried to comfort the old soldier who sat now in his study with his head in his hands.

‘I’ve lost her,’ Liryk whispered repeatedly.

Krell had allowed the man his sorrow. They were all grieving, all shocked at the previous night’s events. It was Krell who had had the presence of mind to contain the damage within the palace walls as best he could. As soon as Liryk and the main Briavellian Guard had returned from the hoax, Krell had insisted Liryk dismiss all but his most trusted men.

Liryk, too shocked to do much more than stare down at the corpses of his slain soldiers and the neatly laid out body of his King upstairs, heard the hiss of the Chancellor in his ear.

‘It must be contained, Liryk. Tongues must not wag until we make decisions. Move!’

And move he had, coming out of his stunned stupor to issue orders. Two captains he trusted implicitly were taken upstairs. They alone knew the fate of their King as they struggled to haul his dead bulk via the secret passageways of Werryl to the chapel which was then bolted for the first time in its history. No one else was aware of the King’s death … yet.

The soldiers’ corpses were taken to the castle morgue and their passing kept quiet until plans could be fashioned between the Chancellor and head of the army — now effectively running the realm. The mercenaries’ bodies were stripped of all telltale evidence of who they were and slung onto a cart to be taken to the city’s crematorium for immediate burning.

‘I would appreciate your thoughts,’ Krell said evenly into the silence.

The soldier looked up from his hands, face puffy from helpless tears shed intermittently these past hours. Dawn was threatening and decisions needed to be made.

‘What do we have thus far?’ he replied.

‘The diversion of the Guard was deliberate, we know that now. That and the drugging of the palace staff suggests this was a well-planned raid.’

‘Which succeeded,’ the old soldier said bitterly.

Krell nodded. ‘Or did it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Others know the truth, I suspect. There were two other men here this night past, the most important of our visitors, and their bodies are not amongst those dead.’

‘Of course, Wyl Thirsk,’ Liryk admitted.

‘That’s right and his companion, although I’m unsure of their relationship. A man by the name of Romen Koreldy.’

Liryk shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.

‘Wyl Thirsk, one presumes, is a formidable warrior, as his father before him.’

‘So?’

‘Who do you think killed all the mercenaries? Hardly our King, I’d suggest.’

Liryk nodded. ‘Valor was a fine warrior in his time, but no, he could not have taken on ten men single-handedly.’

‘Exactly! I think one, possibly both of these two younger men, assisted.’

‘You think the mercenaries killed our soldiers and —’

‘And Valor, aided by Thirsk and possibly Koreldy, despatched the foreigners.’

‘Why would Thirsk travel with a mercenary?’

‘That is a mystery. I can’t imagine that he would agree to come onto Briavellian soil with anyone but his own men.’

‘A trap by the Morgravian King?’

‘Possibly. I’m thinking that if Thirsk was forced to travel with mercenaries on his mission, it would account for the thanks I read in his eyes when I separated him from what to all intents and purposes looked like his captor.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Thirsk was given a private audience with Valor. He seemed relieved that he would have this time. The other fellow had to wait outside the chambers but he insisted on doing so. There was no sense of companionship between them, although there seemed some sort of attachment. By the way, Thirsk took no weapons in with him.’

‘But there are weapons stored in Valor’s chambers.’

‘And a key was correctly used to release those. Valor would never willingly give over the key — you know that.’

‘And neither would Valentyna,’ the soldier said and frowned in thought.

‘That’s true. The doors to the case are not smashed. The key is in the lock.’

‘Suggesting it was all done with the King’s sanction. You think they fought alongside Valor.’

The Chancellor nodded. ‘I do. And I suspect they may well have helped Valentyna escape.’

This shocked Liryk. ‘Was she inside with Thirsk and the King?’

Krell smiled. It was the first reason to do so in many hours. ‘That headstrong young woman comes and goes as she pleases. She knows the secret passageways better than any. I know her father expected her to attend the supper so I suspect it’s highly likely she was present.’

‘But surely Koreldy could have smashed the door through with the other mercenaries?’

‘Yes, he could have. But there are three swords missing from the case and its door is closed neatly again, the lock turned. You don’t do that when your life is being threatened. Koreldy’s sword was not on his person.’ Krell tapped his lip. ‘No, I’m guessing the King or Valentyna furnished the men with swords — Thirsk worked with Koreldy and they both fought with the King’s agreement.’

‘Set aside their differences you mean?’

The Chancellor shrugged again. ‘I’m guessing. Perhaps the new Morgravian King is more cunning than we give credit.’

‘A double cross?’

‘On Thirsk, for sure. I don’t think for a minute that Thirsk came here to take the life of Valor.’

‘What was he here for then?’

The old man gave a slight shrug. ‘Perhaps he came for Valentyna,’ he suggested carefully.

Liryk was startled. ‘Valentyna?’

‘Think about it,’ Krell said, sitting forward as he warmed to his theory. ‘This King Celimus could well have his sights on her — and why not? It makes perfect sense. He might consider that a marriage would amount to a bloodless conquest of Briavel — something we’d all surely support. And rumour has it that the new young monarch is ambitious. Perhaps he sent Thirsk here with a proposal.’ He sat back, satisfied he had released the thought which had been gathering momentum in his mind for a few hours now.

Liryk looked stunned whilst he digested this revelation. Then he began to bluster. ‘He’d be a damn fool to think Valentyna might be coerced —’

Krell raised a finger. It was enough to stop the commander’s indignant response. ‘Yes, I know. But he doesn’t know her character,’ he said, gently this time.

Liryk nodded. ‘How can you be certain of all this?’ he asked, impressed by the Chancellor’s confidence. And watched that confidence evaporate as his companion gave a wry smile.

‘I can’t. It’s possible is all I’m saying …a theory of mine.’

Liryk dismissed Krell’s uncertainty. To him, it was not just possible but very plausible. He thought more clearly now. ‘And this mercenary, Koreldy, do you think he also was a victim of the double cross?’

‘Possibly,’ the Chancellor replied. ‘But it’s all just theory at the moment, Liryk. However, if our assumptions are correct, it would mean that Celimus worked awfully fast to put this audacious plan into action after his father’s death.’ He paused a moment and frowned. ‘Or, possibly, before Magnus died. Whichever way, I have to presume that Valor’s death was his intention all along.’

The soldier stood. ‘Plausible. And so?’

Krell shook his head. ‘Not much else. It’s all rather baffling. Thirsk and Koreldy kill the mercenaries, but let’s say the King is wounded and unable to go with them, or perhaps he died of his injuries before they could save him. The pair have no choice but to escape with Valentyna.’

Liryk rubbed his face distractedly as he paced the room. ‘But how …where?’

‘A good question amongst too many that we still have to answer.’ Krell sighed. ‘There is only one certainty here: Valentyna must be found — that is our priority. And when we find her we will convince her of the sense of a union with King Celimus.’

‘What?’ Liryk swung around on Krell. They were of an age and had both served Valor faithfully over many years. Neither felt the other had rank. ‘You mean, allow Celimus to get away with this?’ The soldier’s voice was hard, barely more than a whisper.

‘There is more to this than we know,’ Krell appealed. ‘What we can safely assume, however, is that should Briavel start a war with Morgravia right now we are lost. Our Queen is young and incapable of waging a long conflict with our neighbour. Who knows if she is even aware that her father has died, Shar rest his soul, and that she now rules in his stead. She is in no position to withstand Celimus and, frankly, neither is Briavel. The marriage will save our people. We walk a tightrope of diplomacy now.’

The old soldier nodded thoughtfully as the implication of Krell’s words sank in. ‘You play a frightening game, Chancellor. According to this theory of yours, Celimus wanted Valor dead so he couldn’t stand in his way. That’s what you’re saying isn’t it? He’s a murderer.’

Krell held the old soldier’s gaze steadily. His voice was even when he spoke. ‘Perhaps. But I also believe Valor would have sanctioned a marriage anyway.’ Finally he showed more emotion. ‘Damn this Celimus!’ he cursed. ‘We must find Valentyna before he does.’

They did not have long to wait, for at that moment a small boy was escorted through the study doors.

With the corpse slung again over the second horse and a quick glance towards the sweet-natured mule, Wyl ignored his hunger and set off towards Pearlis. They had met several curious onlookers along the way over the past two days and now as they drew into its outlying villages he gave none sufficient eye contact to invite questions on the shrouded body. It was nearing evening when he finally drew near to the magnificent stone arch which welcomed visitors to Stoneheart.

The guards eyed him suspiciously and he could hardly blame them, considering his odd company: a mule and what was obviously a corpse. Wyl felt a pang of sorrow upon recognising a couple of his own men as they held up their hands to stop his progress.

‘Ho, there. You, man, what is this?’

Wyl had to remind himself of who he was. ‘A dead body. I think you’ll recognise him if you take a look.’ He pulled back some of the shroud from the head.

The men stepped closer and Wyl read the dismay on their faces as they noted the flame-coloured hair first.

‘It can’t be,’ one spluttered. ‘No!’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Wyl said in Romen’s wry manner. But he was glad of their pain. It reassured him that his men knew nothing and were not in on Celimus’s elaborate intrigue.

Suddenly their swords were drawn and pointed at this throat.

‘Who are you?’ one of the guards demanded. Wyl saw dampness in the man’s eyes.

This is it, he told himself. Remember who you are. In that moment of hesitation, he realised he had held himself too tightly within this stranger’s body. He knew he must loosen himself and embrace it; must own it if he was ever going to avenge his own murder. Wyl opened himself up to what was left of Romen and felt all that was Wyl Thirsk flow into the lithe and graceful stature which Romen had once possessed. Now the voice, the easy style and even his mannerisms came effortlessly to Wyl.

‘I am Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn. You can see which son of Morgravia I am returning home. I think you’ll find King Celimus is expecting me,’ he said confidently.

An urgent runner was sent with a message. More soldiers had gathered, most in silent shock, just to lay their hands on the beloved General. Wyl was touched by their grief.

‘What happened?’ one asked, not at all shamed by his wet cheeks.

Wyl was ready for this question and intended to make it difficult for Celimus to squirm out of endorsing the explanation. ‘The palace at Briavel was attacked by mercenaries posing as soldiers from the Morgravian Legion.’

New shock claimed each face around him.

‘But what was he doing in Briavel!’ more than one cried.

Wyl shrugged. ‘I gather he was on business there for your King and became helplessly embroiled in the problem.’

The soldiers muttered amongst themselves, realising now where their commander had been.

‘He gave no word — he just left. It’s had the whole company baffled,’ someone said.

Wyl nodded. ‘Probably on a secret mission then, for Morgravia.’

‘How do you know they were mercenaries?’ one wily campaigner asked him.

‘There was no mistaking them,’ he said and then embellished with: ‘I was there on private business myself but when the attack occurred I found myself fighting on this man’s side. What is his name again?’

They answered as one grief-stricken chorus.

And then for good measure and a chance to escape further scrutiny he grimaced, adding, ‘I was wounded and am in need of some aid.’

Hands rushed to help.

‘My mule — well, she is not truly mine — is exhausted. The beast has run all day to keep up with the horses.’

‘We’ll take care of her, sir, don’t you worry, now,’ a kindly voice offered.

A messenger appeared. ‘Sir, the King will see you immediately.’

‘Could someone put his body on my shoulder please?’ Wyl asked. He had, in truth, not realised his own wound had re-opened until he had drawn attention to it.

‘We’ll bring him,’ a guard said, a tremor in his voice.

‘No. I’ve carried him since Briavel. I’ll deliver him to his King as I promised him just before he died,’ Wyl lied, hating himself for it.

A look of reverence crossed their faces now. The man who seemed most senior nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said and once again hands clamoured to assist.

Wyl settled the body and followed the messenger, as did several of the guards.

‘Was Captain Donal with him, may I ask, sir?’ one said.

‘A fair-haired fellow, always smiling?’

‘That’s him,’ the man said eagerly.

‘Dead,’ Wyl replied. ‘I’m sorry, I just could not bring the both of them back,’ he added, truly despising himself.

More pain and sorrow, but he needed to craft this tale perfectly. He must trap Celimus into supporting the story, and he also did not want the Legion rising up yet or doing anything rash.

Wyl could not speak any further as he laboured up the narrow stone staircase which led him to that favourite open walkway where the familiar scent of winterblossom drifted up from the garden below. It reminded him once again of his first meeting with King Magnus. He fought the memory away and waited whilst the same courtier who had sneered at him not so long ago, did the same again, this time eyeing his load with disgust.

‘Follow me,’ the man said coolly.

And Wyl did, taking a deep breath and bracing himself for Celimus. He wondered in one isolated moment of fear whether the King would see through his façade, see that this was not the hired killer but his hated enemy in a clever glamour. The notion passed as quickly as it arrived. He was Romen Koreldy and he would wield his disguise to brilliant effect. The nonchalant style of Romen was part of him now as he entered the chamber. Passing through the heavy-curtained arch he emerged fully into the familiar room and his silvery-grey eyes met the hard, disbelieving stare of King Celimus.

‘Leave us,’ the King ordered his aide. ‘I could not believe the messenger when he told me you were here,’ he said to Wyl.

No, I bet you couldn’t, Wyl thought, watching the aide bow and leave, his face pinched at being dismissed so plainly. Wyl could not enjoy it, returning his gaze to Celimus almost immediately. When he heard the door shut behind him he eased the corpse from his shoulders and dropped it to the floor.

‘I bring you the body of Wyl Thirsk, sire, as ordered.’

He waited.

Celimus did not flinch, did not look down, but held the stare. Wyl imagined the dozen or so scenarios which were flashing through the King’s mind now as he tried to work out how his carefully laid plan had gone so terribly wrong, how it came to be that Romen stood before him and not Arkol.

‘The other men you took.’ It was a statement but the question was clearly there.

‘Dead, sire, all of them,’ Wyl reported.

At this the King’s eyebrow raised slightly. He had not expected such news.

‘Including their treacherous leader, Arkol,’ Wyl reinforced, hoping the King would bite.

He did. ‘Ah, yes, what of him?’ Celimus enquired innocently but still the penetrating gaze held Wyl firmly.

‘Died screaming, your majesty, as I ran him through. It was either that or be killed myself. It was their plan, you see — or so I think I’ve worked out — that they would deliver Thirsk’s body and share the purse themselves. I cannot think of any other reason for their betrayal.’

He could see the King relax just slightly after Wyl had deliberately given Celimus the room he needed to manoeuvre himself away from all links to Arkol’s band.

‘Really?’ Celimus said. ‘Treacherous indeed, Romen. I’m glad you were able to save yourself.’

‘But not the King of Briavel, sire. Arkol murdered him.’

There was only a moment’s hesitation. ‘I had hoped as much.’ Celimus could not keep the excitement from his voice.

Wyl ignored the admission, responding flatly. ‘I saw him die.’

Celimus became suddenly conciliatory and Wyl could sense the way the King’s agile mind moved around his problem. In the end Celimus decided to use half truth. ‘I mean it sincerely, Romen, when I admit my discomfort at not sharing that intention with you. I sensed you would not be a party to it if I did.’

‘And you would be right, your majesty. I do not kill sovereigns for any amount of money. Will you be attending the state funeral?’

‘I doubt they’ll hold a public ceremony, thank Shar! The Briavellian commander, if he is wise, will not want to see the people excited to war just now, would he?’ Celimus said, clearly delighted. ‘After all, the rabble would immediately point the finger at Morgravia and start baying for blood. But the Guard is in no position to fight. Not with the Queen so young, so vulnerable. Poor child. How lonely she must be. Ripe for the plucking.’

Wyl hated his King with such fury, it took all of his control, every ounce of determination he could muster not to strike the man standing before him … kill him, bare-handed, in fact, despite the guards who could be summoned with a single call.

‘But you do not hold it against me, surely?’ Celimus queried, sensing the sudden tension.

It was an odd question. Wyl narrowed Romen’s eyes and forced the body he inhabited to relax. ‘It is your decision, sire. I do not interfere in politics or affairs of state. Arkol succeeded with your task and I’m presuming you had good reason for giving the instruction. I did not kill Arkol for that action,’ Wyl lied. ‘I despatched him for turning on me. I imagine he may have even killed more of his own men to keep a bigger share of your money.’

‘But I was paying them gold to do our bidding,’ Celimus said, all innocence and offended pride. ‘They have betrayed us both.’

Wyl appreciated how cleverly Celimus used the word ‘us’, artfully depicting them as partners.

‘Yes, sire, but men like these can rarely be trusted. I told you that when you hired them,’ Wyl said, amazed at where that piece of information had bubbled up from.

‘That you did. Hopefully I can trust you.’

‘I am a man of my word. I promised you the corpse of Wyl Thirsk.’

‘And you have delivered!’ Celimus said magnanimously, his pleasure barely concealed. ‘I am indebted to you, Romen Koreldy,’ he added, bending down now to roll over Wyl’s body and reassure himself how very dead it was. He lifted the head by its orange hair and then banged it down carelessly.

Wyl blinked back the fury. ‘What now, sire?’

‘For him? A state funeral, I suppose. Morgravia will honour her proud General and its Legion will grieve deeply. I will declare a day of public mourning in his honour. We will exalt one of our favourite sons and bury him with pride and pomp alongside his father. The people will weep and their King will shed his own special tears,’ Celimus said before sneering, ‘of joy.’

Wyl could only nod.

‘Come, Romen, sit and join me in a cup and help me celebrate what is surely one of the happiest days of my life.’

Wyl had no choice but to accept the goblet of sweet wine which the King deigned to pour from a chalice with his own hand.

‘Tell me everything,’ Celimus said, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation.

And Wyl did, carefully reconstructing the story and sticking as much to the truth as he could, leaving out Fynch’s involvement.

‘So Thirsk was supping alone with Valor?’

‘No. I learned afterwards that the daughter joined them — arrived through some sort of concealed entrance or other.’

‘Ah, I assume, though, you discovered the outcome of Thirsk’s conversation with the King?’

Wyl smiled inwardly. Celimus was falling into the trap of presuming Valentyna was a simpering Princess without a notion or opinion of her own. If only he knew.

‘I did, sire,’ he admitted, leaning back in his chair as Romen would. ‘He assured me he had won the King’s agreement. Then he tried to bargain with me for his life.’

Celimus threw back his head and showed his perfect teeth in a full-throated laugh. ‘But you killed him all the same. I like you, Koreldy. You are my man.’

‘Didn’t think twice about it,’ Wyl answered, and joined the King in his mirth, wondering what it would feel like to slash the betrayer’s throat.

‘Tell me how I can repay you for this stupendously good deed?’

Wyl’s expression turned into one of Romen’s favourites, a cynical raising of an eyebrow. ‘Apart from the promised purse you mean, sire?’ he asked dryly.

‘Of course. I am feeling generous and you are responsible for this lighthearted mood. On top of the gold, ask a boon of me and let me grant it,’ Celimus offered, sweeping his hand expansively as though nothing could be too large a favour.

‘There is something, majesty,’ Wyl said.

‘Name it!’ the King said, walking around his desk to retrieve two leather sacks, one larger than the other. He returned and banged them down on the table. They had the unmistakably heavy sound of gold. ‘They’re both for you. I am giving you all the money, including what was intended for Arkol and his men.’

‘That wasn’t the boon, sire,’ Wyl said carefully.

‘I realise. Tell me,’ Celimus commanded.

‘The sister,’ he replied.

The King looked momentarily confused and then understanding dawned. ‘Of Thirsk!’

Wyl nodded. ‘I want her.’

‘Shar’s Balls. What will you do with her, man?’

He said nothing but allowed one of Romen’s sardonic smiles to drift across his face.

Celimus began to laugh and then to clap slowly, his delight evident. ‘This is priceless. Oh it is too much fun to know Thirsk’s executioner will now bed his much beloved sister. It’s an even more perfect sentence than I could have imposed myself,’ the King admitted. ‘Take her, Romen, with my blessings. And when you’ve finished with her, you’re welcome to kill her. You’ll rid me of a problem — I’ll inform the gaoler immediately.’

‘Good,’ Wyl said, only barely holding on to his emotions now. He gripped the goblet and deliberately forced himself to raise it. ‘To secrets, sire.’

‘I’ll drink to that. You’ll be my best kept one,’ and he swallowed the contents of his own goblet in one draught. ‘I see you are hurt,’ he said.

Wyl shook his head to show it was nothing serious but took his chance to escape. ‘A legacy from Thirsk, sire, but I will take my leave if you’ll grant it and have it seen to.’

‘Of course. But tell me before you go of the Princess.’

This was a critical part of his plan now. In order to protect Valentyna, Wyl knew he must make her irresistible to Celimus. Much as it galled him, he must encourage the King’s amorous attentions and thus keep him from waging any strikes on Briavel.

He deliberately rearranged Romen’s permanently amused expression into one of seriousness. ‘She is breathtakingly beautiful, your majesty. A more exquisite woman I have never laid eyes upon nor will I.’ It was all truth.

Celimus’s attention was riveted on him now. ‘You mean this?’

‘I do, sire.’

‘Describe her for me,’ the King commanded, perplexed as he remembered only the hysterical, plump child.

Wyl brought Valentyna fully into his mind and felt the thrill once again of looking upon her.

‘She is tall, sire, like yourself. Her raven hair is glossy and falls long and wavy. She has intelligent eyes — blue as a summer sky — and her wit is bright and quick.’

Celimus was shaking his head with disbelief.

Wyl continued. ‘She is lean, your majesty, but shapely,’ he lied, remembering her almost boyishly narrow hips. ‘Her breasts are high. Her skin flawless, creamy in complexion.’

‘Stop!’ Celimus said. ‘This is surely not the same person?’

‘Sire?’

‘Oh never mind,’ he said impatiently. Celimus’s brow creased in thought.

Wyl decided to press his case.

‘Sire, far be it from me to presume anything even resembling a political stance but, if uniting these realms is your intention, not only is marriage to this woman a most feasible option but she could not fail to please your eye, your majesty. More than your eye, in fact,’ Wyl added conspiratorially.

Celimus caught the dry comment and exploded into laughter. ‘My bed would be ever warm, you mean?’ he encouraged.

Wyl shrugged slightly; it was a nonchalant gesture yet clearly one of agreement.

The King banged his hand on the table. ‘Damn you, Romen, I’d enjoy having your company around me. Can I persuade you to stay?’

‘No, sire … though it is a generous offer. I have business elsewhere to attend to.’

‘More assassinations?’ the King suggested.

Wyl shook his head. ‘Your purse is substantial enough, sire, that I will not need to pursue such employment for a long time. No, majesty, the good life beckons. I should return home and enquire after my family. It has been too long since I have enjoyed the rich meadows and lush wines of Grenadyn.’

He hoped the King would not ask him his intentions for Ylena.

Celimus had already forgotten her. ‘But you will stay for the funeral? In fact I demand you do. It will look right that the man who brought General Thirsk back to his King sees him rightfully buried.’

Wyl did not want to but he could see the set of Celimus’s jaw. It was obvious the King wished to enjoy his company just a little longer. He could also see the sense of it and it might help impress upon the men of the Legion that he was to be trusted. It could come in handy later.

‘Of course, sire. It will be my pleasure to remain until the business of Thirsk is fully behind you.’

The King nodded. ‘I will send for my physic to see to your injury.’ Celimus pulled on a cord which brought back the courtier. ‘Koreldy is to have the full generosity of Stoneheart shown to him. See to whatever he needs. And call Physic Gerd to his chambers.’ The man bowed as Celimus turned back to Wyl. ‘Until later, then.’

Wyl, putting the two sacks under one arm, took the King’s elegant hand in his. Although he hated to touch his enemy, he liked it that he was finally tall enough to look Celimus directly in the eye. He bowed but the King did not see the smile of satisfaction on Romen’s handsome face.

SIXTEEN

WYL ALLOWED THE KING’S physic to see to his wound. He was impatient, twisting under the doctor’s ministrations. The injury was uncomfortable but the slash was clean and a few sutures closed it with ease. Whatever that fellow gave him to drink to deaden the pain of his needlework was making Wyl feel like he was drifting but there was still something important he had to do. He splashed his face with water and was pleased he had been provided with a valet — albeit one still in training — to see to his needs. The youngster had carefully laid out some fresh clothes. Wyl told him he would only be needing the shirt for now and that he would require a bath later. Keen to please, the valet said he would arrange for a tub to be brought up.

Feeling only vaguely refreshed, Wyl made off for Stoneheart’s dungeons; he needed no help in finding his way down there but asked the guards for directions all the same, just in case he was being watched. As he arrived he was reminded of that day years ago when as a boy he had been tricked into coming to this place of despair. It was as though that terrible scene of torture had occurred only yesterday, so vivid was his memory of Myrren’s suffering.

They had expected his arrival but not so soon. The man on duty asked him to wait. Wyl’s thoughts sped once more back to Myrren, marvelling at her resolve not to capitulate under the most enormous pain and torment. She knew she would die, would not escape their ultimate punishment, and he wondered why she had not just admitted the sin regardless of the truth. Why suffer such immense anguish? Why indeed, if she was empowered, could she not or did she not save herself? He could not answer his own questions.

His thoughts wandered further to Knave. Myrren was determined — persistent even — to win Wyl’s assurance that he would take the pup and make it his own. Is Knave connected with the enchantment? Certainly the dog had mysterious ways. And Fynch, he thought. Where does he fit in to all of this?

Wyl recalled the Widow Ilyk’s strange words of caution. Keep the dog and its companion close, she had warned, adding that he had already met the companion she spoke of. It has to be Fynch. The lad had showed immense courage and tenacity. It would have been so easy for Fynch to return to Stoneheart and forget everything he had seen or heard. But Fynch had not. Instead he had saved Valentyna’s life and, to some extent, Wyl. Wyl was just beginning to wonder how he would ever convince the boy of the truth of whom Romen Koreldy now was, when the guard returned with the man in charge of the dungeons.

He was a good man, Wyl recalled, who took no party or pleasure in the torture of the inmates on the rare occasion it occurred. In fact he was known for showing leniency to all of his ‘guests’, as he liked to call them.

‘Sir,’ he said, nodding a brisk bow towards Wyl. ‘I’m sorry for the delay, we were not expecting you so soon.’

He dismissed his guard, leaving them alone.

‘That’s quite all right,’ Wyl said. ‘You know I am here to take Ylena Thirsk from your …’ he searched for the word, ‘care.’

The man smiled. ‘Yes, sir. And I’m glad of it. That fine young lady does not deserve this treatment. Er … do you mind if I ask what your interest in this woman is, sir — you being a stranger and all?’

It was an impertinent question and one Wyl knew he could have the man flogged for. Instead he made a promise to one day seek this man out and thank him for protecting his sister’s interests.

Right now, he returned the smile to show no offence had been taken but it died as soon as he spoke. ‘I had the misfortune to witness what they did to Lady Donal … and to her husband.’ He was glad his voice didn’t choke on the last. ‘I have offered help and been given permission to extend it.’

‘I am grateful to you, sir. If I might speak freely, it was a wretched thing they did to those two young people,’ he confided. ‘Follow me.’ As they walked, the dungeon’s keeper cautioned him. ‘She is not in a very good … um … state, I should warn, sir. This is no place for young ladies.’

He said no more but turned a large key in the cell door. It was the only prison cell with a full, thick timber door rather than bars. This prisoner was clearly not on show.

Stepping inside, Wyl was immediately assaulted by the smell. He saw her and anger warred with pity. Still wearing the same bloodied clothes, Ylena was crouched in one corner. She had soiled herself and her hair was filthy and lank; it fell across her face and she ignored it. Ylena’s once soft lips were chapped and her eyes, once so full of amusement and the joy of life, were hollow shadows of their former sparkling glory. She was expressionless and rocked to and fro on the balls of her feet, softly voicing a tuneless hum to herself.

‘Ylena?’ he whispered, knowing she would not recognise the voice of Romen.

She did not even stir. Instead she seemed to be gazing past him. He followed her stare and stumbled against the gaoler, horrified to see the remains of Alyd Donal’s head mounted high on a spike. The lids were half closed, his expression still seemingly reflecting the horror of his last moments. He held back the cry of anger which rushed towards release.

The gaoler shrugged. ‘King’s orders, sir. I’m sorry, did you know him?’

Wyl ignored the question. ‘What did they do with the rest of him?’ he barked.

‘Burned, I think. We are under strict orders down here. Not a single man of the Legion is to hear of her situation or even that Captain Donal was executed, I was told under penalty of death. It is only myself that knows who has been incarcerated and in fact, sir, it is my orders that I must shroud the lady when she leaves.’

Again all Wyl could do was nod. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Can she walk?’

‘Best I carry her, sir.’

‘Right. Follow me and bring that as well,’ he said, indicating Alyd’s head. ‘I will see it gets a proper burial.’

Wyl seethed all the way back to his chambers at the state in which he had found Ylena. His only consolation was that she lived. He farewelled the gaoler outside the door, taking Ylena from him and pressing a gold coin into his hand.

‘No need, sir,’ the man said. ‘I’m just happy she’s back where she belongs.’

‘Let me assure you it’s not here,’ Wyl replied and the man nodded at this, before leaving him.

The young valet’s eyes matched the size of his open mouth when Wyl staggered in carrying a woman.

‘Lord Koreldy, sir!’ was all the boy managed to get out.

Wyl laid the catatonic Ylena on his bed and the sack containing his friend’s stinking remains in the corner.

‘Jorn, fetch hot water. Do we have bath oils?’

The lad nodded.

‘Good. Hurry now.’

Jorn was at the door when Wyl called him back. He flipped him a gold coin, knowing the youngster would not have held such a fortune before.

‘There is nothing illegal about what we do but please don’t go wagging your tongue outside of this room. I have the King’s permission to care for this person who is the sister of the dead man I brought back to Morgravia with me this morning.’

Jorn nodded. Word of Wyl Thirsk’s death had ripped around Stoneheart like a wildfire. ‘Yes, sir. You wish me to say nothing of the lady’s presence,’ the boy replied seriously.

‘Good boy. Discretion is the highest valued ability of a valet and I will mention that special quality of yours to the King.’

Now Jorn’s eyes were sparkling with pride. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he gushed and tumbled through the door in his rush to fetch the hot water.

He was surprisingly fast. Wyl had only just drawn the curtains around the bed in time to hid Ylena before two servants arrived with Jorn, dragging buckets of water. Satisfied that they were too busy with their chores to wonder what might be behind those drapes, he dismissed them with brief thanks, then suggested Jorn go in search of some suitable clothes. He directed the lad to Ylena’s former chambers and then he set about the task of cleaning up his sister.

She seemed so entirely lost to him. Wyl wondered if he could find her again, whether he would ever see her smile again, so reminiscent of their mother’s. Softly singing an old lullaby she loved as a child, he began to wash her. Very gradually the familiar features began to emerge from beneath the filth and he saw her thin shoulders begin to relax as the warmth of the water worked its own magic. Orange and violet oil in the water smoothed her skin under the sponge he moved gently about her, and then he soaped her hair, slowly removing its tangles and dirt.

By the time Jorn returned with some garments, Ylena, now wrapped in Wyl’s huge shirt, looked like a new person. Wyl had just finished combing her still damp hair and the young lad offered him a ribbon with which to tie it back. Then he gently laid her again in his bed and covered her.

‘Thank you, Jorn,’ he said with genuine feeling. The boy had been a great help. As well as clothes and footwear, Jorn had brought toiletries and grooming implements from her rooms.

‘I also found this, sir,’ he said, handing over a box.

Wyl smiled. Jorn had brought Ylena’s jewels. They were mostly her mother’s but he was pleased to see a brooch he had given her and the pearl from the King. She had been allowed to wear her wedding ring, he noticed.

‘Argorn jewels,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve done her proud, Jorn. I think what she needs now is sleep.’

‘What happened, sir?’

Truth was best. ‘She was a guest in his majesty’s dungeon whilst he suspected Wyl Thirsk of treachery.’

‘And is it true that Thirsk was treacherous?’

‘No. As it turned out his loyalties never wavered for Morgravia — the King knows that now,’ he lied. ‘Which is why Wyl Thirsk is to be honoured with a full state funeral and his sister has been released into my care.’

‘And you, sir? You too look badly in need of rest. How about your bath?’

Wyl yawned. ‘I think what I need most is some food,’ he said, realising he had not eaten for two days. ‘And then I shall sleep. Forget the bath. Wake me early and we’ll see to it then.’

Jorn once again hurried off, this time to the kitchens where he refused to be drawn on the subject of the dashing stranger who had brought home a favourite son.

Wyl woke early from his hard bed on the floor but Jorn was ready for him with the promised bath and a very hearty breakfast. Ylena had seemingly moved only once through the night, turning to face the window from which she could see the sky, a sight lacking from the dungeon. She remained listless and silent, although Wyl sensed her eyes followed him.

He went about his ablutions and then ate hungrily in silence. When finished, he stretched and looked over at her. She was watching him, as he suspected she might have been.

‘Good morning,’ he said in Romen’s bright way.

The answer came so softly that he had to lean closer. ‘Who are you?’ she repeated.

He would have to spin his best tale yet now. ‘I am Romen Koreldy, a noble and a long way from my home in Grenadyn.’ He made his voice especially soft, so as not to disturb her. ‘I accompanied your brother on a special secret mission into Briavel.’ Wyl would have liked to have taken her hand or held her close for the next part of his tale but she had shrunk beneath her covers, only her face above the blankets. He sighed. ‘Ylena, it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you we were attacked and although he fought bravely he was cut down. Wyl died of his injuries but I’ve brought him back onto Morgravian soil … back to Stoneheart.’

Her even expression did not betray her true thoughts. ‘Wyl was the most superior swordsman of the Morgravian Legion. No man could cut him down.’

Wyl nodded, loving her deeply for her loyalty. ‘This is true, my lady. We were set upon by many and he made sure he took the last one with him to death.’

He saw her clamp her jaw hard. She was working hard at remaining calm. ‘Wyl is dead.’ Ylena fixed him with a heartbreaking gaze. Her parents, her brother, her husband. All dead now. ‘So what makes a complete stranger do this kind deed, sir … of bringing him back, I mean?’

She watched Romen Koreldy shrug.

‘I too would be dead if not for him. He gave me life. I owed him this much.’

Ylena nodded. ‘And me? What is your interest?’

‘A promise,’ Wyl said, sitting forward and now chancing to take her slender hand from beneath the covers. ‘I promised your brother as he died that I would rescue you from the dungeon.’ He steeled himself against the tears and pressed doggedly on. This needed to be said. He needed Ylena’s trust and the only way was to use her memory of Wyl. ‘He told me what happened in the courtyard,’ Wyl said, carefully avoiding mentioning that Romen had been present during Alyd’s execution. ‘He made me swear I would win your release.’

She wept quietly as the frozen memory of Alyd’s last day began to thaw. As her body began to tremble, Wyl put Romen’s arms around her and drew her close, hugging his sister.

‘Did he tell you everything?’ she mumbled against his broad chest.

‘Yes. I know about Celimus’s betrayal but I find myself in a very dangerous position, my lady. I have but one aim and that is to get you away from here and fulfil my promise to your brother. We will get you to a safe place but I am under supervision, you could say, until your brother is buried. The King promises a theatrical funeral.’

‘Wyl would hate it knowing Celimus was smiling at his tomb.’

‘I understand. May I call you Ylena?’ She nodded. ‘Well, Ylena, we must get through the funeral and then we leave. That is the only way I can guarantee our safety.’

‘I am not going. I will not watch Wyl be buried. I have suffered enough death.’

Wyl was relieved to hear it and sat her back down. ‘Right now I want you to eat and get some strength back.’

She touched his arm. ‘Romen, did you by any chance see … in my dungeon …’

‘Yes, Ylena. I have brought him.’ Now she cried again. ‘We will bury him properly.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Who is it?’ Wyl called.

‘Jorn, sir. You have a visitor.’

Wyl grimaced. He went to the door and opened it a crack to get rid of whomever it was but the door burst open and the body of Romen Koreldy was knocked to the floor and straddled by a huge, very excited, black dog.

‘Knave!’ he and Ylena both shouted as he hugged the dog.

Jorn had pulled in the dog’s companion; and now Fynch, wearing brand new clothes and a terrified expression, began to wail.

‘Murderer! Assassin!’

Wyl was on his feet in a second and clamped his hand across Fynch’s mouth. The little boy began to kick and struggle, desperately trying to scream beneath the pressure of Romen’s large palm. Chaos broke out in the room. Ylena, terrified, managed to sit up, Knave was still trying to give Wyl a welcome and Jorn was so startled he was pressed back against the wall.

‘Everyone, quiet!’ Wyl roared. ‘Do you want the whole castle in uproar?’ He glared at each. ‘Now you, Fynch, silence! I will not hurt you if you stop struggling … stop!’ he commanded in Romen’s fiercest voice. The boy went limp. Wyl breathed out with relief. ‘Jorn, be at ease. This can all be explained,’ he said, unconvinced he could explain anything. ‘Ylena, please … eat and rest. You are familiar with this beast?’ he asked, looking at Knave, bemused. The dog’s tail was thumping furiously and its front paws were leaning on Romen’s shoulders.

‘Yes, he is my brother’s dog. I … I don’t understand.’

Wyl nodded to cut her short. ‘I will leave the dog here with you. Fynch and I have things to discuss.’

‘What did this boy mean by calling you an assassin?’ she asked.

‘A mistake. I will explain later but let me talk to him first. He has been through much, my lady.’

Ylena shook her head, not understanding any of it. ‘Knave seems attached to you,’ she said with equal confusion. ‘And yet he hates everyone.’

‘I have a way with animals,’ Wyl said, hoping that would suffice for now. ‘Excuse me,’ he added and dragged Fynch from the room, his hand still over the lad’s mouth.

A chamber at the end of the hall was mercifully empty. Wyl took Fynch inside.

‘I want you to promise me you will not scream but listen. I have news you must know. I understand you were a good friend to Wyl Thirsk. Please, I know about Valentyna and your escape. Just promise you will listen.’

Fynch nodded wide-eyed from behind Romen’s hand. When Wyl released him, Fynch scuttled away, breathing hard with fright.

‘I know about you,’ he accused. ‘I know you were hired to kill General Thirsk.’

Wyl sighed. He felt it was suddenly useless to try to convince Fynch he was anyone but Romen Koreldy — for now anyway. No one, not even someone who allowed for magic, would believe him. His mind raced as to how he could persuade the lad to trust him.

‘Fynch.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘Wyl told me.’

‘Is it true … is he dead?’

Wyl nodded, hating to lie to a courageous lad. He watched Fynch fight back his inclination to weep.

‘They say you brought him back,’ he said, contempt glittering in his damp eyes.

‘I did.’

‘But you killed him.’

‘No,’ Wyl lied, knowing it was Romen’s skilled arm which killed his body. He decided he would never be able to explain and pressed on with crafting a new lie.

‘Wyl told me what you’d overheard. It is true and he and I spoke about it. After you and the Princess had escaped, he warned me not to trust Celimus. He told me everything and then when the attack came, I realised my life was dispensable too — that Celimus had almost certainly ordered my death together with Wyl’s. In the end we fought on the same side, Fynch. We both protected King Valor …’

‘Valor’s dead!’ Fynch hurled back.

‘I know. I watched him fall to the blade of a man called Arkol, who then turned on me. Wyl and I had already despatched most of the mercenaries to their gods but Wyl was cut down by two men. He took one with him at the same time as I killed Arkol. I was wounded and if not for Wyl’s courageous, last-ditch slash from the ground where he was bleeding to death, my life would be gone too. He distracted the last man long enough for me to gather my wits and finish him off.’ Fynch was crying now and Wyl hated himself deeply for the lies.

‘Wyl died in my arms but not before making me promise that I would get his sister to safety. I had already given my oath that I would protect Princess Valentyna.’

Fynch looked up, disbelief crossing his face. ‘Did you?’

Wyl nodded. ‘I gave my promise with blood.’ He showed him the wound on his palm. ‘So you see, Fynch, I am on your side. I came back for Ylena and to see that Wyl Thirsk gets the burial he deserves. I made sure the Legionnaires saw his body and knew that he had been sent on a special mission to Briavel by the King. Celimus cannot squirm out of that now. He must hail Wyl as the hero he was for Morgravia. I have deliberately seen to it that the Thirsk name is not sullied. Do you believe me?’ He just stopped short of begging.

The small lad sniffed. He considered for a long time, long enough for Wyl to feel uncomfortable in the silence. Finally Fynch spoke. ‘I will trust you for one reason only.’

‘And that is?’ Wyl asked, Romen’s eyebrow lifting in its habitual manner.

‘Because Knave does. Knave knows things that I don’t understand. He knew we had to come home. I followed him even though I would have preferred to stay in Briavel. Knave made me come back.’

‘Do you talk to him then?’ Wyl asked, a chill crawling up his spine as Myrren’s gift returned to his consciousness.

‘Not exactly but he does communicate things I don’t fully grasp. And when we got to Stoneheart, he knew where to come. I find it passing strange that he didn’t go in search of General Thirsk’s body but deliberately slipped into corridors and tiny entrances until he found these stairs. He came straight to your chamber. And I don’t understand why he was friendly towards you when three days ago he would have gladly ripped your throat out.’

Can Knave have really done this? Wyl wondered. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Other than I will trust his instincts over mine, which are to run from you.’

‘You saw Ylena. She is yet to recover from what she has been through, but she trusts me.’

‘I trust only Knave and Valentyna now,’ the boy admitted.

‘Fynch, where is the Princess?’

‘Where she belongs, sir. She is no longer Princess but Queen of Briavel. She is returned to Werryl to bury her father and …’

‘How is she?’

‘Physically fine, sir. Broken over her father’s death. She is even contemplating war against Morgravia.’

‘No!’ Wyl shouted, startling Fynch. ‘She must not, at all costs, do this.’

Fynch shrugged. ‘I am only a gong boy, sir.’

‘Much more, I fear,’ Wyl said, shaking his head. ‘Fynch, you have to go back. You must slip away from Stoneheart and return to Briavel. Give her a message from me. You and I must prevent war — there is a way.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘First, I must get Ylena to safety and away from the King’s line of vision or even thoughts. He is fickle and will forget her easily but not if she is anywhere near. I will return to Briavel, I promise. You know I have given my word to Wyl Thirsk to protect Valentyna,’ he reassured, holding up his palm so Fynch could see the blood oath scar again.

Fynch nodded. ‘I shall leave immediately.’

‘Have you a horse?’

‘Yes, Valentyna gave me one. I lost my mule in the troubles back there.’

For the first time in what felt like ages, Wyl smiled for the pure pleasure of being able to say something positive.

‘Oh, I think I found her. A gentle beast who accompanied us back to Morgravia.’

‘That’s probably her!’ Fynch said, clearly pleased. ‘I must return her to my family.’

‘Come,’ Wyl said. ‘I’ll give you money for the care of your family whilst you are gone. Then you must leave with haste. Get away from Morgravia and remain in Briavel until you hear from me.’

‘And the message for Valentyna?’

‘I will write her a letter.’

‘And Knave?’

‘You two must stick together. He will keep you safe, Fynch.’

SEVENTEEN

WYL EXPECTED TO BE fine at his own funeral but he was far from it. He had seen Fynch off in the early hours. The mule had been retrieved and Fynch was on his way back to his family’s cottage four miles from Stoneheart, his pockets bulging with coin which Wyl had insisted he take to his sister. He also carried with him a handwritten letter from Romen Koreldy to Queen Valentyna.

Wyl had explained the gist of it to him and Fynch had approved. ‘She’ll like that. But she is scared and untrusting — you’d better not leave it too long to present yourself,’ he had cautioned.

Wyl had decided in the end that by the time Fynch had met with his family and finally got on the road to Briavel, the formal part of the funeral might well be over. With this in mind, he opted to keep Knave by Ylena as protection; he had no desire for anyone to come snooping around his chambers and discover Ylena. No one would dare trespass with the black dog to negotiate with. He could then send Knave on to catch up with Fynch, who, Wyl was surprised to note, seemed confident that the dog would understand all instructions.

Jorn had been a godsend, quietly going about his business of caring for Romen and Ylena, so Wyl felt confident when he left Knave outside his chambers, guarding his sister, that he would get through the funeral formalities without a problem.

It was easier said than achieved.

A large crowd had already swelled, queuing quietly, and Wyl found it easier to join them rather than enter the cathedral via the ‘noble doors’ as they were known.

‘Why not take the faster route?’ a woman said, nodding towards the magnificently carved entrance.

‘Thirsk claimed he was a soldier before he was a noble. I pay him respect by using the common entrance,’ Wyl replied.

She smiled back, obviously pleased. ‘He was a good man. Always good to my girls he was. Such a shame.’

Wyl suddenly recognised her for one of the city’s brothel owners. She looked different without her fancy gowns and face colourings. He recalled how she had once asked for protection for the women working in the brothel and how grateful she had been when he provided the girls with a permanent guard who would escort them home when needed.

‘Did you know him?’ a much older man directly ahead of him asked.

The question made Wyl feel suddenly vulnerable. ‘I did.’

‘I knew his father. I was the great man’s runner for many years.’

‘Oh?’ Wyl said, taken aback.

‘Yes. And they say the youngster was shaping up to be every bit as good as Fergys Thirsk.’

‘I believe it would have pleased Wyl to know people thought this of him.’

‘Sticks in my craw that whole Briavel thing. What was he doing there anyway?’

‘A mission for the sovereign, I gather.’

‘Then it was a dirty mission, I presume,’ the man whispered and was hushed by someone nearby.

‘You’ll get your tongue cut out for less,’ his friend warned. ‘There are rumours about our new King.’

‘What is being said?’ Wyl asked keenly.

The man grimaced. ‘I’m not saying this is truth, mind, only what I’ve heard. There’s talk of killings in the castle — secret killings and torture. Let’s not forget who his mother was,’ he added and fell silent.

Wyl knew he would get no more from the folk around him, but he was pleased to hear they were getting an inkling that beneath Celimus’s handsome exterior lived a cruel and heartless soul.

As the group stepped across the threshold of the cathedral doors, the anticipated silence hushed all whispering.

Built by the stonemasons and craftsmen of centuries previous, the cathedral inspired awe in all who entered it. Wyl, who had stood beneath its soaring ceiling on many occasions, never failed to marvel at the beautiful carvings and exquisite stonework. Each of the thirty or so internal pillars were supported on plinths carved out of the famous grey stone of Morgravia. Each plinth was crafted to depict one of the famed mythical beasts which were believed to choose an individual at the time of birth. No one, save the Kings of Morgravia, knew to which beast they belonged until they entered the hallowed nave of Pearlis Cathedral for the first time. There, recognition would be instant and a bonding took place that would last a lifetime. It was said that the spirit within the beast would protect its own, which was why Morgravians made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at the youngest possible age.

As worshippers entered the cathedral now, the procession split into smaller groups as people moved towards their particular stone beast, to touch its head or limbs in quiet reverence for a few moments.

Wyl’s chosen creature was the winged lion. Fearsome, snarling, majestic. It had captivated his imagination at thirteen when he had first set foot in the cathedral and now he paid it just homage, waiting his turn to lay his hand on its cool, magisterial mane. He loved to touch its wings too. He did so now feeling not just overawed, as he did each time he was close to this beast, but absorbing the deep sorrow of the occasion which seemed to be reflected in the lion’s expressive eyes.

‘I wonder which creature General Thirsk chose,’ a lad whispered nearby. His mother hushed him.

Wyl could not help himself. He grinned at the youngster. ‘It was this one,’ he said softly.

The boy’s eyes widened in pleasure. ‘Truly?’

Wyl nodded, glancing towards the lad’s mother to reassure her that it was all right to whisper. He crouched to be at eye level with her son. ‘I knew General Thirsk, and you, him and myself all share the same mythical beast.’

‘That makes us brothers, then,’ the youngster said proudly.

‘It does,’ and he touched fists with the boy in the Legionnaire manner.

The woman smiled back and nodded her thanks. Wyl knew he was lingering now to avoid what he suddenly felt he did not want to confront. He had no choice, though. The flow of people was pressing forward and he could not resist that swell for much longer.

He turned and stared towards the front where a bier stood in a cleared space. Atop the bier was placed Wyl Thirsk’s corpse.

Wyl felt undone when he laid eyes on his own cooled and pale body. It was naked save for a binding of muslin about the groin and a wreath of the national flower about the head. Celimus had ordered the General’s corpse be presented in this fashion — an honour reserved for nobility held in the highest esteem by the Crown. He looked at the crimson imolda — the prettiest of all wildflowers — wryly noticing how it clashed with his hair colour.

Wyl had deliberately arrived early yet there were already many dozens of people shuffling past the corpse, paying their final respects to a young man cut down in his prime. He overheard someone mutter their observation that the last of the Thirsk men had perished. A lump formed in his throat as a blitz of sorrowful thoughts crashed into his mind and he began to feel the depth of sadness around him.

He stumbled slightly when he drew close to the body which he saw was covered lightly with gingery hair. How come I never noticed that when I owned that body? he wondered. He noted all manner of tiny detail which had not occurred to him previously. Slackened in death’s peaceful repose he saw that his face was not as ugly as he had always presumed. Plain, yes, but not ugly. He noticed that his despised freckles had all but disappeared, that his face, though pale with death, was tanned like the sunburned arms, once thick and strong. For some reason he held a vision of himself possessing a boyish face and yet now that he looked at it he could see that in the years since his arrival at Stoneheart, he had undergone a transformation.

That face was much squarer now, the jaw and brow more pronounced. He had possessed workman-like hands, something he had never taken account of, and these were now crossed over at the chest, but even so they did not hide the livid wound where Romen’s sword had penetrated. It was a warrior’s wound, one to be proud of and some people touched it in veneration. A collective sorrow had gathered itself about the line of mourners who would make a slow but steady revolution of the body. He stepped into the line finally and followed suit, resting Romen’s large, elegant hand ever so briefly on Wyl Thirsk’s wound, remembering that exquisite agony and sense of disbelief as the sword had run him through.

Upon touching his own corpse Wyl experienced a breathlessness as he felt his own emotions rising up now. His body looked small and helpless lying there; it made him think of his father’s and then Magnus’s death. It reminded him that Alyd and possibly Gueryn were dead. All he had left was Ylena to love and Valentyna to protect.

A loud fanfare of trumpets sounded, signalling the monarch’s entry into the cathedral. Celimus was earlier than expected. Wyl grimaced with Romen’s mouth. He had hoped to be in and out before the King arrived. People about him were dropping their heads and bowing low — as Celimus demanded apparently — yet Wyl could not do the same. Something hard and unforgiving prevented him from paying this treacherous bastard any homage. He could see Celimus striding down the main aisle of the cathedral, his heels clicking loudly and arrogantly on the flagstones, resounding all the way up to the magnificent arched ceiling.

The King made his way to the opposite side of the nave from where the winged lion resided. Celimus stood before the stone dragon, his alone until he died and a new King inherited the throne. Here he paused in quiet reflection, not caring that all were required to remain bowed until he had seated himself. He finally extended an arm to touch the dragon’s clawed foot, its rearing head — as befitted the king of all beasts — being too high even for one of his height to reach.

Then he turned and clicked his swaggering way back towards the stone throne at the front of the cathedral. No one was yet permitted to straighten. It was ludicrous, Wyl protested inwardly. Magnus had never asked for such a lengthy nor theatrical obeisance. What is happening to the Morgravians? And how much worse will it get, for these are such early days in the reign of Celimus?

He realised the traitor had spied and was now watching him; the King had reached his chair but was not seated yet. The olive gaze stared hard, demanding that Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn bow to the King of Morgravia.

Bow! Wyl urged himself but Romen’s body would not obey. He knew this was not Romen at work. Romen was gone. This was his own spirit rising up against the evil that looked back at him now from that devilishly beautiful face. Celimus cocked his head slightly to one side. He was asking a question of Romen now. Wyl understood he was pitching his wits against the most dangerous of opponents. All that he had planned would come undone if he threw away his one chance to escape after the funeral.

Obey him, bow to him!

It was his neighbour who broke the spell. The old soldier who had been standing in front of him in the line outside the cathedral.

‘Bow, damn you,’ he growled beneath his breath and mercifully grabbed Romen’s arm to pull him not only downwards but to his senses as well.

Wyl dropped to Romen’s knee and bowed fully to the King.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered to the soldier.

Seemingly satisfied but wearing an unreadable expression, Celimus at last sat. Soft music immediately erupted from a choir on the gallery level above. Their voices soared in the cathedral as though angels were singing. People stood straight and the line resumed its shuffle around the body, the music provoking tears now.

At the head of the corpse Wyl looked down upon the closed eyes, the ones which hid the mystery of Myrren’s gift. Ginger lashes lay like soft down against the tops of the dead man’s cheeks — his cheeks. How deeply sad he suddenly felt for himself.

Dead but not dead. Trapped as Wyl and yet free to be Romen.

Grief betrayed him now and Wyl had to recover quickly lest King Celimus notice genuine sorrow in Wyl Thirsk’s assassin. He strode away from the body, pleased to escape, throwing a glance towards the King who chose not to look his way.

Many nobles had gathered. He noticed the Duke of Felrawthy was not present, probably still shoring up defences in the north, as was his duty to the Crown. The Duke’s absence was probably a blessing in the circumstances, considering his son’s fate, although the King still desperately needed the support of the influence Jeryb Donal wielded in the north. He wondered what lies Celimus had contrived to send to the Duke regarding Alyd’s death to avoid jeopardising that relationship. Perhaps the King was beginning to regret his vengeful decision to end the young man’s life?

The service began and pulled Wyl from his musings. The holy men said all the usual things and then the King made a flowery speech lauding the virtues of Morgravia’s favourite man of the military. Music, pomp, ceremony — just as Celimus had promised. Once the body was finally shrouded, later to be laid in the family vault at Stoneheart with all the other Thirsks who had served Morgravia, the service concluded, and was followed by a funereal feast which would stretch long into the afternoon.

‘Sit next to me, Romen,’ Celimus offered as a rare generosity, obviously excited by the closing of a chapter. He was free now to dominate the Legion.

Wyl reluctantly joined him, wondering how quickly he might make his escape. He pretended to eat the food and sipped frequently from his cup yet hardly took any of the wine into his mouth. He would need a clear head later.

Celimus leaned towards him and whispered, ‘I’ve a good mind to burn the body.’

Wyl pushed away his startled expression. ‘Oh? Why?’ he asked in Romen’s casual way.

‘I hate them all grieving like that over him. I wish to rid Morgravia of its memory.’

Wyl felt ill. Would Celimus really open the tomb later and burn my body? Burning was considered unsavoury by all Morgravians. It was reserved for witches and traitors. The irony was not lost on him.

He slung his arm over his chair; a typically uninhibited pose of Romen’s. ‘I wouldn’t, sire. You may just incite trouble. Why not simply send the corpse to the family home? Where does he hail from anyway?’

‘Argorn,’ Celimus said, curling his lip. ‘A sleepy, hideously backward region of the realm which yields halfwits and ugly, red-headed ingrates like those of the Thirsk line.’

How Wyl held his temper he would never know. Bile rose in his throat and his fingers twitched near a fork which he would have gladly stabbed into the King’s throat.

He managed a derisory response, however, that even Romen would have been proud of. ‘All the more reason to send the little troll back to where he belongs. Let him lie in exile,’ he offered, twirling his cup of wine instead of his fork.

And now Celimus looked fully at him, just a tinge of gratitude in his expression. ‘Again you surprise me, Koreldy — this time with your insight.’

‘Oh, and when was the previous occasion I surprised you, sire?’ Wyl asked, knowing almost immediately it was a trap.

‘This morning, in the cathedral, when you took a sincerely long time to pay me due respect. Should I be worried about your loyalty?’

Wyl took a silent steadying breath and then grinned expansively again. ‘I have none, sire … except to gold,’ he said. Celimus did not smile back. ‘To tell the truth, your majesty, I thought I was going to pass out in the cathedral,’ Wyl said, his mind moving fast now.

‘Why is that?’

‘I’m not sure, sire. I made little of my wound yesterday but the physic said it was deeper than I thought and he sutured it. He gave me two draughts of some potion. One to take during his ministrations and another to take this morning. I fear this morning’s concoction was a little too strong, and my apologies, majesty, but it took all of my wits to stop myself from falling cold to the ground.’

‘I see. Perhaps falling to the ground would have pleased me more than what appeared to be deliberate flouting of Stoneheart’s protocol.’

Wyl shook his head vehemently. ‘No, sire, never. I am in your debt. And also to my neighbour who helped me when I asked for it. He assisted me to get to my knee.’

And as fast as Celimus’s anger looked to stoke, it passed, much to Wyl’s relief. Already the incident seemed forgotten. The King waved away the apology and asked for a refill of their cups.

‘So tell me, Romen. Have you ravished the Lady Ylena?’

Wyl coughed but masked it well. ‘Not yet, sire. She is still in some shock and behaving as much a corpse as her husband. She also smells as ripe as he.’

Celimus did laugh at this. ‘So you are showing great patience, my friend. Is that right?’

‘I’ve given her until tonight, sire. Then I shall take her — from behind if necessary — so I don’t have to look upon that terrified, filthy face.’ He had never hated Celimus as much as he did at this moment.

The King laughed again. ‘And when do you leave us?’

‘With your permission, your majesty, I thought I would enjoy your hospitality for another day,’ Wyl lied. ‘Tomorrow eve perhaps?’

Celimus nodded. ‘Good. Let’s take a ride together tomorrow at dawn. You can see my falcons at work.’

‘Excellent, sire, now you must forgive me,’ Wyl said with absolutely no intention of remaining more than another hour at Stoneheart.

‘Oh, leaving our table early, Romen?’

‘Yes, majesty. I beg your indulgence. I am still feeling a little weak. I would rest and get ready to ride with you.’

Celimus raised his cup to Romen and sipped. ‘Until tomorrow.’

‘I shall see you at dawn, sire,’ Wyl said, Romen’s disarming smile winning hearts around the table but not where it counted.

As he strode from the hall, Celimus beckoned to one of his men. He had already formed an inner circle of sorts who clustered about him as private guards. None were from the Legion.

‘Your majesty?’

‘Jerico, do you see that man leaving the hall?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘He is preparing to depart Pearlis tomorrow eve — perhaps with a woman in tow. Once he leaves the city gates, I want you to follow him with several of our own and kill him. Kill them both if she’s with him. Do you understand?’

The man nodded.

‘No trace is to be found of either, except his finger wearing the signet ring. That you will return as proof of your successful deed. He will have much gold about his person. Whatever you find, you may keep and split as you see fit.’

The man called Jerico grinned. ‘Thank you, sire.’

EIGHTEEN

WYL AND KNAVE NAVIGATED their way to a little-used courtyard with a tiny arched entrance and a direct exit beyond Stoneheart’s walls. From past experience Wyl knew it would be patrolled only minimally. It was getting on to dusk, so light was rapidly failing, and he was able to distract the single guard long enough in conversation for Knave to trot through the opening. The guard spotted the movement, however, and reacted predictably but Wyl just raised his eyebrows and said something derogatory about Stoneheart having too many dogs.

The man looked worried and then explained that he recognised it as General Thirsk’s beast and perhaps he should have stopped it.

‘Well, don’t blame yourself, lad,’ Wyl said, reassuringly. ‘It’s making its bid for freedom. It no longer belongs here, what with its master dead.’ He shrugged.

‘You’re probably right, sir. It was a fearsome mongrel anyway. So are those directions helpful, sir? Can you find your way back to your chambers now?’

‘Definitely. My thanks for your help.’

‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ the guard said and returned to his post.

Wyl had decided he would use the exit through this courtyard to get out of Stoneheart later when night would give him the shadows he needed. Another shadow, one which could move and melt easily into the darkness, was waiting outside. Knave had his instructions. He would be ready for them.

Jorn had packed their few belongings into a cloth bag. He had also tossed in some fruit, cheeses, nuts and a couple of loaves.

‘Just to tide you through, sir,’ he said and Wyl realised the lad looked sad.

‘Jorn … look.’

Wyl’s tone gave the youngster the courage he wanted. ‘Take me with you, Lord Koreldy, sir. I’ll be no problem, I promise. I can care for the Lady Ylena so you are free to do your business, sir.’

The boy looked so desperate Wyl almost relented and then he remembered all that lay ahead.

‘Jorn, you’re a good lad and you’re needed at Stoneheart. Here,’ he said, handing him a parchment. ‘I’ve written a high recommendation to the seneschal — make sure he gets it soon,’ Wyl warned, knowing the name Koreldy would be blackened shortly but the lad would hopefully be forgotten in the scheme of things. ‘I can’t take you with me. Where I’m headed I need no companion, son. I hope you understand.’

The youngster nodded but the disappointment was evident. It was Ylena who rescued Wyl. ‘When I get back to my family home, Jorn, I shall send for you. You will continue your training with us at Argorn.’

The lad brightened immediately. ‘That would be grand, my lady, thank you. Where are you headed?’

Wyl shook his head. ‘Not sure yet, Jorn. Probably north-west, somewhere very quiet. Rittylworth perhaps.’ He knew it was a mistake to have said that much. It put the lad in danger and compromised their security too.

Jorn nodded. ‘I shall wait to hear, sir.’ He bowed to Ylena. ‘My lady.’

She glanced at Romen and smiled sadly. Wyl wished he could ease her pain, just a little, by telling her that it was him, her brother, smiling back.

Once Knave heard the low command whistle from his master he put on a big show for the terrified guard, growling and barking, running towards him at an insane speed and then swerving away. The man finally mustered enough courage to pick up rocks and hurl them into the darkness to where he thought the beast might be, then, rattled, he went to get help.

In those few moments Wyl and Ylena slipped through the gate towards freedom. They were well clothed for travel on foot and their soft boots made no sound. Wyl knew Ylena would not be able to travel very far before needing rest. She was undernourished and still weak but he hoped she might at least make it to the next town where he could buy suitable horses. His aim was to walk as far as they could under cover of darkness and they did so in silence for a mile or more until Wyl felt himself relaxing as Stoneheart was put behind them.

Knave emerged from the shadows of a hedgerow, a huge dark figure. ‘Good boy,’ Wyl said, patting his head.

‘I have no idea why that dog likes you. He hates just about everyone,’ Ylena commented absently, her voice still an otherworldly monotone.

‘So I hear. I guess I have the touch.’

She remained silent.

‘Knave, now you go and find Fynch. Take him to Briavel. Keep him safe.’ He knelt down now and looked up into the large dog’s eyes. ‘Watch over her for me, boy.’ Wyl felt odd talking to the beast with such confidence, yet he felt strangely certain that the dog understood. The animal seemed to be as touched by enchantment as he was himself.

The animal lingered just long enough for Ylena to touch its great head affectionately and then it loped off into the dark, presumably to catch up with Fynch.

‘Do you think he misses Wyl?’ she asked in her faraway voice.

No point in answering. ‘Ylena, about your husband,’ Wyl said gently. ‘Where would you like us to lay him to rest?’

She did not hesitate in her reply. ‘He must go home, Romen, to Felrawthy in the north. His family must know of this outrage. The Duke will respond as he sees fit.’

Unlike his sister, Wyl did hesitate. He knew it would be unwise to incite an uprising of the nobility right now. There were too many unknowns. Who would replace Celimus? Would the nobles support such treachery — and why should they trust Romen Koreldy? And he had still to convince himself that, when it came to it, he could betray the Crown to which he had sworn unswerving allegiance. He returned his thoughts to Ylena. ‘Will you allow me to take him to his home?’

‘You would do this for me?’

‘Surely. You have suffered enough.’

She considered his offer. ‘I would appreciate it but I will need you to tell the Duke and his family that I will travel to Felrawthy as soon as I can.’ Her voice turned hard. ‘We will mourn together and then we will make plans to make Celimus pay.’

Wyl left it alone, as much as he wanted to caution her. ‘Good. Now about Argorn.’

‘Yes?’ She was all of a sudden focused. It was confusing for him.

‘I would prefer if you don’t return immediately,’ Wyl counselled, expecting a harsh reaction.

It was not forthcoming. She spoke calmly. ‘Celimus will follow … is that your suspicion?’

He nodded, impressed that she was, in spite of her weak and, he could tell, still addled state, able to follow his train his thought. ‘Once we’re discovered gone I cannot imagine he will just shrug his shoulders. Our sneaking out of Stoneheart will confirm that Romen Koreldy is a traitor to him. Now we can easily argue that you were forced to come with me but your life means nothing to him. Yes, I think he might follow the obvious trail to Argorn but it’s my intention that it will be a cold one.’

‘Where then do you suggest?’

Once again Wyl was grateful for the glimpses of Romen’s memory that remained. ‘There’s a little known monastery at Rittylworth.’

‘Ah yes, I recall you mentioned it to Jorn.’

‘Hmm, I wish I hadn’t, to tell the truth. The fewer people who know the better.’

‘For how long would I remain there?’ Ylena asked evenly. Wyl was proud of her composure.

‘Long enough for your recall of recent events to dim, little one,’ he said.

She looked up at him strangely.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

Ylena shook her head as though clearing it of a bad thought. ‘Yes … well no. That was Wyl’s pet name for me. He always called me little one.’ She smiled sadly. ‘After our father died I used to climb into Wyl’s bed and he’d hug me tight and tell me not to cry. And then he’d spin me great tales of how I would be the most beautiful maiden in all of Stoneheart with one of its towers all to myself.’ Ylena choked back a quiet sob.

Wyl wanted to bite his own tongue out. ‘The monks will be very kind to you at Rittylworth, I promise,’ he said, not that he could know this for sure. All he could pull from Romen’s mind was the name of the monastery — none of its inhabitants, though — so it was surprising this was where he felt inclined to flee. Fortunately he knew how to find Rittylworth itself. ‘Four to five moons perhaps and then we can bring you to Argorn. By then I will have organised proper protection for you as well,’ he added.

‘Your plan is wise, Romen. I will do as you suggest, thank you.’

He breathed out with relief.

‘And you?’ she said, unexpectedly. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Back to Briavel. There is unfinished business there but first I must find a seer.’

Ylena actually laughed. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, just call me superstitious. We all are in my family,’ he lied.

Ylena managed to make such good distance through the night that they reached Farnswyth in the early hours of the next day. They took a room at its least expensive inn in order to remain as anonymous as possible in the relatively small village. Wyl realised that Romen had been a man who could fit into most situations — as comfortable around royalty as he was simple folk — when he took so easily to swapping ribald jests with a pedlar who was treating himself to a night in a bed at the Ship Inn. It was not an especially clean establishment but Ylena did not make comment. She moved swiftly up to their airless room and threw open the small window; her only request was for fresh water in the jug.

They slept for several hours and, after eating heartily of a surprisingly delicious lamb and potato stew, Ylena returned upstairs to rest again whilst Wyl headed out to buy horses. His choice was limited but he was not looking for quality animals. Right now he needed two serviceable nags who would get them to Rittylworth. He stocked up on food and water too, explaining to Ylena when he returned to the inn that he had no intention of risking being seen between this village and Rittylworth. This was usually a three-day ride but probably twice that if they did indeed go across country.

‘This is where I intend that our trail goes cold,’ he told Ylena. ‘I can’t be sure that tongues will not wag in this place if they are threatened with a pair of pincers,’ he added grimly. ‘We are not so forgettable, I’m afraid.’

Ylena made no protest and Wyl felt once again proud of his sister as she resolutely climbed upon her dun-coloured horse and followed his lead.

Wyl knew he was looking for something, a landmark of some kind, and hoped his sense of Romen was leading him correctly. Several hours’ brisk trotting from Farnswyth he found a well-concealed path. It was little more than a deer track but he instinctively knew this was what he had been searching for. Once they were shielded by the undergrowth, he stopped the horses and returned to the main road. Using a thin branch of leaves, he deliberately moved back a hundred paces or so, sweeping away their prints. Whatever new hoof prints came down that road would now predictably continue on to the next major town of Renkyn and lead any followers astray, whilst they would now swing north-west. He even took the precaution of bending a pair of saplings in front of the tiny pathway. It would not fool an experienced tracker but in poor light it was a reasonably effective concealment.

As it turned out, they spent six uneventful and tranquil days travelling mostly across country, avoiding humanity as much as possible. It was a blessing for Ylena who was not easily re-emerging from the darkness of her mind into the sunlight of Morgravia’s spring. She certainly smiled more often and conversations lengthened but then Wyl knew how much she used to smile and talk. The old Ylena was lost on that terrible day of blood and death. She did not seem to feel awkward on the fourth night, however, when a chill descended and Wyl suggested she sleep close to him. Snuggling up against Romen she felt safe, she told him. They ate sparingly but well, supplementing their supplies with whatever nuts and wild fruits they could gather.

Wyl realised one late afternoon that Romen was in fact as deadly with a knife as he had been warned when the mercenary was alive. He found the knife in the bottom of their sack and once again thanked the lucky stars which had guided Jorn to them. A rabbit was soon roasting over their campfire after a swift and accurate flick of the blade.

On the seventh afternoon Wyl trusted what was left to him of Romen and re-emerged onto a road. This was not so frequently used as the road to Renkyn but he felt instantly familiar with it. They followed it for another four miles or so and as they crested a small hill they looked down into a picturesque valley in which nestled a series of squat stone buildings set some distance apart from what appeared to be a village. Ylena squinted to get a better look at the small houses dotted here and there.

‘That’s Rittylworth,’ he said, relieved.

‘It is a serene place,’ Ylena admitted.

‘Somewhere for you to enjoy some peace, my lady.’

She nodded and they moved on. Monks busy tending the gardens around the monastery straightened their backs from their toil. Someone waved and one, they noticed, yelled something and then disappeared into the building. He returned dragging an older man, and a broad smile stretched across Romen’s face.

‘Someone you know?’ Ylena asked.

‘Er … yes,’ Wyl replied, confused. Romen obviously knew and liked this man but he could not dig the old monk’s name from his host’s memory.

The monk grinned back, clearly pleased when they walked their horses into the compound. ‘I knew you would return one day, Romen Koreldy.’

Romen jumped down and the men embraced. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he said carefully.

‘Brother Jakub promised we’d not seen the last of you, Romen,’ a breathless young man said.

Jakub! Wyl thought, wanting to hug the enthusiastic young monk for giving him the name he sought. ‘Jakub, I want you to meet someone very precious to me.’ He helped Ylena down from her horse. ‘This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk of Argorn.’ Wyl deliberately said nothing of her being Lady Donal just yet. Ylena either did not notice or she trusted him to make whatever decisions were required.

‘Welcome, my lady,’ Brother Jakub said, bowing along with all the other monks.

Ylena curtsied. ‘Thank you, brothers.’

The young monk who had first spotted them offered to take their horses. ‘I see they haven’t shaved your pate yet then,’ Wyl said, desperately trying to uncover names and why these people were special to Romen. It was of no use. Romen’s memory was too clouded now.

‘Not long now,’ the young man grinned. ‘I’m counting the days.’

‘Pil will be ordained in four months. He deserves it,’ Jakub said gently with an indulgent smile that Wyl seemed to recognise now.

‘Come, let us offer you some refreshment,’ Jakub said, taking Ylena’s arm.

‘I think what my lady would appreciate most of all is a bath,’ Romen suggested.

‘Of course!’ Jakub looked chastened that he hadn’t thought of that when they clearly had dust on their faces from days on the road. He introduced Ylena to a young lad, asking that she follow him and assuring her of privacy. ‘We will freshen your travelling clothes, my lady, and then perhaps later you may care to join us for a hearty meal.’

Ylena could not help herself. She kissed the older man’s cheek and her thanks were sincere.

Wyl grinned at her. ‘Enjoy. See you very soon, little one.’

‘Thank you for this, Romen … for all that you’ve done.’ She kissed him too and Wyl had to stop himself from hugging her back.

Ylena left with the eager Pil trailing her and the youngster, and Wyl turned to Jakub. ‘I need your help,’ was all he said. Directness was best here, he figured.

‘I suspected as much. Come, let’s walk.’

Wyl found himself guided to a beautiful herb garden arranged in concentric circles with a sun dial at its heart. As he and Jakub settled themselves on a bench beneath a huge old lemon tree, a tray with jug and mugs was delivered. Its bearer left without a word.

‘Our latest vintage is superb, Romen. See for yourself,’ Jakub said, handing Wyl a cup.

They drank in companionable silence for a few moments and Wyl appreciated not only the delicious wine but the chance to gather his thoughts, although his nerves were on edge. He prayed to Shar to guide him now. What was left of Romen’s recall was yielding little to him of this place, except its intense familiarity.

‘She has the look of one who has suffered terribly,’ Jakub finally said.

He heard Romen sigh. ‘Too much and too recently,’ Wyl admitted.

‘At whose hands?’

‘At his majesty’s pleasure. The new King.’

‘I see. And how are you involved with him?’

‘A long story, Jakub. Suffice to say if we meet again, we’ll be holding blades at each other’s throats.’

‘Ah. And how is the Lady Ylena involved in this intrigue?’

‘She is the sister of someone who begged me to help her as he died. He is a man I respected.’

The family name of Ylena suddenly fell into place in Jakub’s mind.

‘This is the sister of Wyl Thirsk?’ He spoke with some awe.

Wyl nodded sadly. ‘Fergys Thirsk would turn in his grave if he knew of what she has suffered at the hands of the Morgravian Crown.’

‘And you can’t tell me more?’

Wyl decided to trust the old monk. ‘Only that we carry a sack and in it is the head of Ylena’s recent husband, Captain Alyd Donal.’

‘Of Felrawthy?’ he said, eyes wide.

Again Wyl nodded. ‘I need you to keep it for me. Have it preserved. One day I’ll come back and claim it … do the right thing. You must never reveal to Ylena that the head is still here. She believes I’m taking it directly to his ancestral home. I can’t, of course, the Duke will immediately rise up. I cannot risk this … not yet.’

‘Romen, what has occurred?’ Jakub whispered.

Wyl felt suddenly guilty for bringing his troubles to this peaceful place. Already he had told Jakub enough to incriminate him should Celimus trace them to Rittylworth. He hoped he had covered their tracks well enough. ‘Murder, deceit, betrayal. Celimus will throw Morgravia into perilous times. He chases the crown of Briavel, pays lip service to marriage with Queen Valentyna, but a toad has more sincerity than this newly crowned King.’ Wyl stopped for fear of saying too much.

‘And you and Ylena?’

Wyl looked at Jakub, surprised, and then he understood. ‘Friends only. My bond is with the brother.’

‘A brother and sister. Are you seeking redemption, Romen?’

‘No!’ Wyl said, far too abruptly, wondering at his own vehemence and what was couched in Jakub’s words.

‘You protest too strongly. There is no shame in it, my son. Shar will bless you for it.’

Wyl was too confused to pursue this conversation which suggested secrets from Romen’s past. He should find out more but in trying he might also reveal himself to be an impostor. It was too dangerous. ‘I gave a blood promise, Jakub. She is in mortal danger.’

‘What is it you wish of us?’ the older man asked, sensibly leaving alone whatever topic underpinned his previous comments.

‘Your protection. No one knows we are here — well, only one but he is a mere valet. I have covered our tracks well. Our trail goes cold at Farnswyth and none of the villagers of Rittylworth have seen us.’

‘We offer it gladly to the Lady Ylena. Does she know?’

‘That she will remain here for a while? Yes. I know she will be happy and she does understand the danger of returning to Argorn. I have already counselled her on this. She needs time to recover from the atrocities she has experienced. Beware, Jakub, there are moments when she strikes me as unstable. Travelling with her, I saw flashes of more than just anger at what she has been through.’ He could hardly say he was so familiar with this woman that he could tell something had changed deep at her core. Instead he had to rely on Jakub accepting his friend’s sensitive intuition. ‘I sense she could unravel entirely if she suffers further shock. She needs to be protected — from all stresses not just the King.’

The old man nodded as if to say it would be done. ‘And you, Romen. Where now for you?’

‘I am chasing down an old woman I met recently at Pearlis, a fairground fortune teller. I have a message for her from her family,’ Wyl lied. He did not want to share his plan to travel to Briavel; the old monk would not approve. He moved on hurriedly, hating himself for being so unfaithful to this good man. ‘Then Felrawthy to return Captain Donal to his family — although I cannot predict when that will be.’

Jakub’s rheumy eyes studied Romen’s and Wyl squirmed under the scrutiny. If only he knew more of Romen’s background. Instead he just nodded. ‘I will send word.’

‘As you wish,’ Jakub said. ‘Just remember, my boy, you cannot outrun your demons. They will catch you. Best face them.’

Wyl was astounded by this comment and could do little more than reach for his cup and swallow a deep draught.

‘What’s different about you?’ Jakub wondered aloud.

‘Beats me,’ Wyl offered, just a little too quickly.

The old man sensibly held his tongue, though his eyes, expressive as always, said plenty. ‘We will preserve and keep the head in the secret grotto beneath the monastery which I’m sure you remember,’ he said and winked. Wyl had no idea what the innuendo meant. ‘It will be safe.’

NINETEEN

FYNCH AND KNAVE MADE it back to Briavel on foot, after several days of travelling. The horse had gone lame not far from Sharptyn across the border. Fynch had left the majority of the money Romen had given him with his sister, but the small portion he carried with him allowed him to pay the stableman at the village to take care of the horse until he could return for it. Fynch had no idea when that might be but he was not prepared to sell the beast for it had been a gift from Valentyna. To avoid any questions about why a commonfolk child should be riding a horse and carrying a purse, Fynch told the stableman that he was taking the beast back to Briavel for a merchant and the coin had been provided for the horse’s care. The man had shrugged, uninterested, merely handing over the bronze disk he would need to reclaim the horse.

A family of tinkers gave the boy and his dog a ride out of Sharptyn, but Fynch could tell that Knave made his hosts nervous and after half a day’s ride he had thanked them and struck out on foot into open country.

The morning they arrived, Valentyna was on the battlements and speaking with Liryk, head of the Briavel Guard — a good man, loyal to her father. The soldier inwardly marvelled at the Queen’s composure and once again considered how unlike most women she was. It did not seem to matter to her that at this moment her hair was being torn from whatever clasp was supposed to hold it back and was now whipping about her face as though loving the freedom in this brisk breeze. He recalled his fears for her, which he now realised were unfounded. Valentyna was self-assured and comfortable in her role. He had to remind himself that she had been roaming around the palace battlements since she was old enough to talk and, since the incident in Tallinor when Magnus’s son had broken her doll, had preferred the games of men rather than the more genteel pursuits expected of women.

He was not alone in his admiration. All of the Guard were in awe of how well she masked her grief. Everyone, not just in the castle, but in Briavel itself knew how Valor had doted on his daughter … and likewise how she had revered her father. She was every bit a worthy successor despite not being a son. In fact most people forgot she was a woman until she attended some special formal event and was forced to take on a more gracious appearance. Then she became breathtaking — a far cry from the tomboy they were used to. And now she was their Queen and Liryk wondered whose duty it might be to remind her that the sovereign was to be protected at all costs. She would no longer enjoy the freedom of riding the moors, disappearing on hunting trips, spending nights in the woods.

He heard the cry go up from the watchtower and waited for news. The runner came soon enough. Liryk excused himself from the Queen.

Returning, he smiled. ‘The boy and his dog are back, your majesty.’

‘Fynch!’ she exclaimed and turned to leave. ‘Excuse me, Liryk. Perhaps we could finish our discussion later?’

He bowed his agreement and Valentyna departed, issuing orders that the visitors were to be brought to her immediately at the Bridge — a small walkway between two of Werryl’s shorter towers. It was one of Valentyna’s favourite haunts as a child because there she could hide from her nursemaids and later her tutors, as well as anyone else who would attempt to force womanly pastimes upon her. It was still a special place for her now. A haven where she could cast her thoughts aloud to the wind.

‘Your majesty!’ said a familiar voice and she saw Fynch coming towards her, although Knave was faster and at her heels within a bound or two, stretching up to lick her gleefully.

‘You wretch, Knave,’ she said, laughing and wiping away his salutation.

Fynch was more reserved in his greeting but Valentyna was having none of it — they had been through much together. As soon as he was done bowing, she scooped the little boy into her arms and hugged him fiercely.

‘I didn’t know if you’d return to me. I’ve been so worried for you.’

‘No need. Not with Knave close by, your majesty. Did it all go all right?’ he ventured awkwardly.

Valentyna knew he referred to her father’s burial. ‘I coped. It was very private for good reason, which helped.’ She took his hand. ‘Sit with me at this bench and tell me everything.’

His face became serious. ‘No good news, majesty.’

‘Nevertheless, I must know all that you do.’

He told her everything, watching her become crestfallen and then anxious as his story drew to a close.

‘So you were right, he did not betray us and now he’s dead,’ she said, looking out across the moors.

Fynch shook his head. ‘I never doubted it, majesty. Wyl Thirsk stayed true to the end. He and the mercenary, Romen Koreldy, fought side by side to protect your father.’

Her eyes watered at the mention but she refused to cry any more over her situation. The King was dead. No tears would bring him back. She was now the Queen and had been groomed for this for all of her life. She would not let Briavel down. Crying had no place in her life.

‘And you trust this Koreldy?’

Fynch shrugged. ‘I … I don’t know what to think, your majesty. I am trying to work only with the facts. He carried Wyl’s body back to Morgravia in what was clearly open defiance of Celimus. I have no doubt he walked back into direct danger by returning to Morgravia and I can only wonder at how he survived. He assured me he told enough of the Legion his story so that Thirsk’s name could not be darkened by any of Celimus’s lies. I saw Wyl’s sister with my own eyes. She was willingly in the care of Romen.’ He paused and then added carefully, ‘But more than anything, your majesty, I trust Knave.’

She turned from looking out towards the moors to stare at the boy beside her. Her brow creased in query.

Fynch continued. ‘You know how I’ve told you about Knave’s strange behaviour towards others.’

She nodded.

He took a deep breath. ‘Well, I now truly believe that this dog only trusts those who are true to Wyl.’

Valentyna wanted to smile; she felt the urge to ruffle the lad’s hair and tell him all would be fine, as one did a child. But something stopped her. Something about Fynch forced her to pay attention and treat him as one should an adult. His ability to gather and interpret information had astounded her in their brief time together. And it was Fynch who had kept her from falling apart in those early hours. He had acted with a maturity beyond his years, standing up to her to make her realise the danger should she rush back to the palace before her safety could be assured. This little boy, a Morgravian no less, had gone to the palace alone to discover whether it was safe for her to return, and had found the courage to face her men — who, no doubt, had been disbelieving and perhaps even derisive of his claim that he had Valentyna in a secure place. She recalled now how he had found her again, this time with her guards in tow, and urged her to come out of hiding. He had held her hand as she — Queen now — emerged to face her Commander, Liryk, and counselled her to remain strong despite her grief. ‘Briavel needs to see its Queen as a tower, even though she might feel like crumbling,’ he had whispered. She had not forgotten those brief yet inspirational words of encouragement.

Everything about him was brave and, yes, serious. One could hardly treat him as the child he surely was when faced with the knowledge of all that he had personally done to help Wyl and then herself. No, she would not ruffle his hair or speak down to him.

She noticed he was watching her reaction. ‘Go on, Fynch.’

He shrugged again. ‘It’s hard to explain, your majesty.’

‘Try,’ she encouraged.

‘Knave is possessed of magic — I no longer suspect it, I know it!’ he blurted. ‘That’s my way of explaining it.’ She had not expected this and fought to hide the look of surprise on her face. He continued. ‘I told you once how Wyl’s eyes changed colour at the witch-burning.’

She nodded. Valentyna could still hardly imagine it, for Briavel had outlawed witch-burnings so long ago.

‘I saw it occur,’ he said gravely. ‘And so did one other person but he is probably dead, according to Romen. I am the only living witness.’

‘So what are you telling me?’ Valentyna felt frustrated by the mystery.

‘From the moment of Myrren’s death when she closed her ill-matched eyes and Wyl opened his to reveal the same, I believe Knave became connected to Wyl and those he loved in a way that is powerful … far more than friendship.’

She did not even want to think beyond hearing the word magic spoken. It just sounded too far fetched. Magic did not exist in Valentyna’s world. ‘And how do you relate this to Koreldy?’

‘I don’t. I’m baffled by it because Knave treated Romen in the same way he would Wyl. In fact — and I know you’ll think I am imagining this — but Romen greeted Knave using the same mannerisms that Wyl used to.’

She made a deprecating sound. ‘I think you may be stretching now, Fynch.’ Valentyna could not help her scepticism, but when she glanced towards Knave, the dog gazed back with such unnerving intensity it made her look away.

‘Possibly,’ Fynch said a little sadly. ‘But I can’t explain why or how Romen Koreldy — a stranger, a mercenary, a man hired to murder the General — would know Wyl’s dog.’ Fynch began to tick things off aloud now as his mind began to organise the facts. ‘When we entered the room, he yelled out the dog’s name. How would he know it? He had never seen Knave before. And, more to the point, if Knave is hostile to anyone who Wyl did not care about, then why would Knave even tolerate someone who might threaten his life, let alone lick him and roll over for him? The truth is, your majesty, I have witnessed Knave growl at people who are known and not necessarily disliked by Wyl.’

He looked up, questions written on his serious little face, but Valentyna had no answers for him. In fact she felt disturbed that he was asking her to base all trust, from here on, on the notions of a dog.

‘Fynch …’

‘No listen to me, your majesty,’ he said, not intending to be rude. She let it pass, caught up in what he might say next. ‘There is something strange going on here. I can’t put my finger on it but every bit of me senses that a curiosity has occurred — something that defies logic and all that we know. I can’t give you a proper reason but I sincerely believe we must trust Romen Koreldy and I know that he will not do you harm. He made a blood promise to Wyl Thirsk to protect you. I feel Romen has somehow …’ Fynch rubbed his hands through his hair distractedly as he tried to search for the right words, ‘that he has somehow taken on Wyl’s duties … desires … I don’t know, your majesty. It’s as though Wyl Thirsk is still with us.’

There, it was said.

Valentyna was lost for words. She looked back at Knave and once again it was as though the dog was seeing through her, into her, touching her thoughts. She felt riveted by its intense gaze and somehow knew it would not release her until she agreed.

Finally she nodded. ‘All right, Fynch. I know you mean me no harm — so I trust you. I trusted Wyl and I know Knave somehow protects us both. I can’t explain it either. Shar help us, but we will put our trust in Romen Koreldy.’

Valentyna saw the brave little boy’s body relax and at that moment Knave suddenly stepped up, placed his paws on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. Then it was down on all fours and sniffing around like any other dog, as though nothing had passed between them.

‘That dog is very strange.’

‘He knows more than we do, majesty. Trust him.’

‘Anything else you need to tell me?’ she said, wanting to move on from this disturbing conversation.

‘Yes,’ he said, delving into a small bag. ‘Romen sent you this letter. He said it would help explain a few things.’

She took it, happy to have something tangible from the mysterious Koreldy. She would read it later in private. ‘And what will you do now?’ she asked, hoping to hear that he would stay.

‘I am not going back to Morgravia, your majesty, unless duty to you calls for it. If you will accept me, I will serve you in any way you see fit.’

She hugged him. ‘Fynch, I wouldn’t part with you for anything. You are an honorary Briavellian from today.’

He beamed, a rare grin on his face.

‘In fact I must grant a special role to you. I shall make you Queen’s spy,’ she said, arching her eyebrows, hoping to hang on to that so infrequent smile of his.

Fynch liked the sound of this. ‘No more dropholes then, majesty.’

‘No more cleaning them, anyway,’ she replied conspiratorially. ‘Now, whenever my heart feels this glad I like to feast. Come, let’s get you refreshed and then we shall share a meal together and I can tell you all that has been happening since you left. If you are to be Queen’s spy, you must have all the facts.’

It was several hours later that the two of them, followed by Knave, stretched their legs by going out to visit another of Valentyna’s newborn foals. Over some of the best food he had ever been presented with, Fynch had learned the true depth of his Queen’s grief at her father being murdered and how after a hasty and private coronation ceremony she had ridden alone through the streets of Werryl so her people could share her sorrow and understand that she was so very alone now and needed their support.

It was an inspired decision by Valentyna to do this against her various advisors’ wishes. And as a result, a new sense of patriotism was burning fiercely in Briavel. They would stand behind their Queen and seek revenge for the outrage of their King’s death.

Valentyna had also deliberately fired and then fanned the rumour that the killers were mercenaries only posing as Morgravian. She had decided to play Celimus at his own game. Although going to war had been her initial reaction, she had changed her mind when her blood rage at her father’s death had calmed and she had begun to think clearly. The blame for Valor’s death had been deflected from Morgravia, so her own people would not expect her to seek vengeance on the neighbouring realm. She had encouraged her people’s sense of patriotism and now she hoped to direct it towards supporting her. A Queen had never ruled in Briavel. She needed them to trust her, to support her claim to the throne and her right to rule. All of this aside, her army was not yet strong enough to fight, and she herself not experienced enough … but that time would come. No, war would not be her first choice — but cunning was.

Much later that night she remembered the letter from Romen Koreldy. Sitting by a small fire in her chambers, she broke the seal. Valentyna permitted herself some tears as Romen Koreldy spoke of the final minutes of her father’s life and how he and Wyl Thirsk had fended off the attackers to protect Valor.

He told her how bravely her father had died, his last words for her, and that just before Wyl had succumbed to his wounds, he had wrung a blood oath from Romen to swear fealty to Briavel and protect its Queen against Celimus. Romen assured Valentyna that he would come but that she was to burn this missive in the meantime. He promised his help … and his blade. And in the firmest of language he implored her to keep Fynch and Knave by her side.

There it was again. This curiosity about the black dog. Well, Knave was nothing if not protective of her, she thought, looking down by her feet where he now lay. He opened an eye to look at her as though sensing her scrutiny. She would do as Romen asked and she would also wait for him. He asked her to make no direct moves and show no aggression. She was pleased to note they were of the same mind.

… Don’t play into the hands of Celimus by responding — fend off any attempts at contact with the message that you are grieving. Let your father’s body cool in peace and his memory fade slightly whilst you build your loyalties about you. I will come soon — I am yours to command, my Queen. My loyalty to you will never waver. In the meantime I give you a special gift. I give you the dog, Knave, who will be true to you. Trust him alone and his faithful companion, Fynch. They will protect you.

Be brave, beautiful Valentyna. Yours, Romen Koreldy.

She was shocked at his final words. How could he know what she looked like? They had not met. She dismissed her query as pure vanity on her part — no doubt Fynch had been overly descriptive of her to this Koreldy fellow. Well, she could do the same. She would rely on Fynch’s brilliant skills of observation to describe him to her tomorrow.

That aside, she felt comforted by his letter — the tone was courteous but there was strength in it. This was surely a leader of men conspiring with her. Valentyna threw the letter into the fire as instructed, then drifted into a doze as she watching the parchment burn, her hopes surging in tandem with the bright glow of the flames.

By the time she woke, Knave had disappeared.

TWENTY

FOR THE FIRST TIME in many days Wyl felt his spirits lift. Saying farewell to Ylena had not been as difficult as he had imagined. She seemed peaceful at the monastery and Brother Jakub had seen to it that her accommodation was cosy if not elegant and in an especially quiet wing. Her rooms, although small, were airy and Jakub had deliberately chosen those which overlooked the orchard and the hills in the distance. She had not cried when Wyl said goodbye but she had hugged Romen hard and told him to hurry back. Ylena had pressed her brooch, the one Wyl had given her as a present, into his hand.

‘It will bring you luck,’ she had said.

As he rode away he tried to put aside the nagging thought that the youngster, Jorn, might yet undo his plans by revealing Ylena’s whereabouts. He worried at the possible repercussions, not only for his sister but for these good men who cared for her. And still he knew he had made a sound decision in bringing her here first where she might recover amongst kind strangers who understood to keep a distance. Too much familiarity, Jakub had agreed, could bring her back to herself too quickly and the memory of her suffering may be too vivid.

‘Burying the reality is her way of defending herself against the pain. We can’t all be heroic like you and ride off into more danger after such adversity,’ Jakub had said carefully.

Wyl did not understand what was couched in that final statement but he was determined to get to the bottom of whatever it was that sat between him and Jakub. He suspected it had something to do with the reason why Romen Koreldy had left Grenadyn and turned to the dangerous life of a mercenary but there were no clues left for him within Romen.

Jakub had insisted on swapping the nag for a decent horse — a lovely roan — and, despite his hot protestations, the old man had finally agreed to accept some money from his friend, which he insisted could only be taken as a donation. Wyl had readily agreed and loved the feel of this horse beneath him. It seemed an age since he had ridden an animal of such quality and yet he realised that it had only really been a matter of days. How quickly one’s life can change, he thought, and how strange his had become in that short time.

He had searched his mind long and hard for any clues to the old woman’s whereabouts and it had only come to him very recently that she had mentioned hailing from the north. Even if it turned out that she had not returned home, it was worth trying; he could comb the towns and villages of the region for they were few and far between that close to the Razor Mountains.

He urged the horse into a steady canter and once again headed across country to avoid being sighted. Wyl was well stocked and his intention was to travel for several days keeping the woods to his left and then come out into a town called Orkyld, known for its specific talent for crafting swords and knives. Master craftsmen from around the realm considered it the high altar of their trade and only the very best were picked to do their apprenticeships at Orkyld itself. It took him almost four days and in the end he had to carefully walk the horse into Orkyld as it had taken a stone into its shoe two miles back.

He paid for a room at the Old Yew Inn and was grateful that this part of the realm was used to strangers. No one paid him a second glance and the roan was cared for immediately. He treated himself to a jug of ale and several roasted pigeon before finding the local baths where he gave himself a second treat of a leisurely dip. For those who could afford such luxury, a ‘smoothing’ could be enjoyed for just a few more royals. He was sorely tempted because his muscles protested from being in the saddle so much. Wyl promised Romen’s body that luxury soon enough.

Right now he needed weaponry and a new pair of stout boots. The boots came first and as an afterthought he added a warm shirt and cloak to his list. The north could be very cold even at this time of the year.

Wyl’s enquiries led him to a master craftsman called Wevyr who was supposedly one of the three most talented artisans in Orkyld. He recalled his father mentioning this man’s name but had never met him. At Wevyr’s workrooms twenty or so young men were diligently applying their skills to blades of all shapes and sizes. One stopped his work and moved to the counter.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I’d like to buy a sword,’ Wyl replied.

‘I shall fetch Master Lerd for you, sir. May I give him your name please?’

‘It’s Koreldy,’ Wyl replied.

He waited whilst the youngster disappeared into a set of rooms beyond the main workroom. Another man reappeared as the first fellow returned to his seat.

‘Are you Romen Koreldy, sir?’ this one asked.

‘I am.’

‘In that case, follow me, please,’ he said, turning.

‘Why?’ Wyl asked in Romen’s casual way. It amazed him how Koreldy could do this without giving offence.

‘It’s Master Wevyr, sir, he prefers to take care of his clients in his private room.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, impressed, and followed.

The man took him into a small, yet light-filled room where a very old man was inspecting various weapons.

‘Hello, Romen,’ he greeted, not looking up from his work.

Wyl nodded even though it wouldn’t be noticed. ‘Wevyr.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve lost them?’

‘Er … no,’ Wyl said, carefully. He presumed they were talking about weapons. He took the risk. ‘I had to give them up at a round of cards.’

‘Shar’s Balls, man. You paid a fortune for those!’ the master exclaimed, looking up through one huge eyeglass attached to a band around his head.

Wyl shrugged. ‘It was for high stakes.’

‘You’re a fool!’

He could see this man was not impressed by Romen’s noble rank nor purse. ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘No, it won’t, because you’re not getting any of my precious weapons again.’

‘Oh come on, Wevyr. Yours are the only blades which kill neatly,’ he said, grinning.

It did not work for him. The old man seemed genuinely miffed. ‘I have crafted blades all of my life for the likes of the Thirsks of Argorn. Armyn Thirsk killed three hundred and seventy Briavellians in his time with one of my swords and Fergys Thirsk admitted the sword I made him thirty years ago needed sharpening only twice in its lifetime.’ He coughed after his angry outburst.

Wyl was stunned by the mention of his family name. He had admired his father’s sword on countless occasions and, as was the Thirsk way, the Generals were buried with their blades. When he had lost his father he was too young to know important things like where to get the best swords crafted. Gueryn had held all of that information. Hearing his father’s name spoken aloud moved him, as did thinking of Gueryn, and he began to consider how he might be able to find out about his friend’s fate in the Razors.

He came out of his sorrowful thoughts. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, are you all right, Koreldy?’

Wyl took a breath. ‘Yes, apologies. You mentioning Thirsk made me think of the loss to the kingdom.’

The old man sighed and his voice softened. ‘Indeed, a great loss it is. I hear a rumour that the son is dead to us too. Is this true?’

Wyl nodded. ‘I was in Pearlis for the funeral.’

‘A very sad business. The son should never have followed his father to the grave so soon. I did not even have a chance to forge a blade for him. Did you learn how it happened?’

‘Treachery, I’m told.’ Wyl could not help himself.

‘Oh? Whose?’

‘They say Celimus was jealous of him … wanted him dead.’

Wevyr looked horror-struck. ‘Hush, man! Walls have ears even in this remote town.’

‘Sorry. It’s what I heard.’

‘I don’t want to know any more,’ Wevyr said, holding up his hand. ‘I am too old for intrigues. What is it you require?’

Wyl grinned. ‘A sword and two knives?’

‘Come with me.’

The old man took off his eyepiece and walked around his work table to a display cabinet. He slowly unlocked it before reverently picking up a sword which had unique markings engraved on the blade itself as well as the hilt. It was magnificent.

‘My finest ever,’ he said, presenting it.

‘And you’d let me have it?’ Wyl said, incredulous.

The man pulled a face. ‘There are very few swordsmen I’d allow to even hold this beautiful weapon, Romen.’ Then he scowled, voice scathing. ‘You are fortunate that you wield a blade with such exquisite finesse that you deserve something as fine as this.’ He poked Romen Koreldy in the chest for good measure and his humour was not improved by the wide grin which greeted his efforts.

‘Thank you.’ Wyl took the handsome blade and weighted it. The balance was perfect. It was as if the sword had its own momentum. ‘May I?’ he asked, gesturing towards the open door which led to a courtyard.

‘Of course. There are matching knives.’

‘Bring them,’ Wyl said, marvelling at the sword’s lightness and grace in his grip.

Outside he went through some of his old practice routines and felt Romen’s skills intruding, guiding his hand to new movements, and through it all the blade glided effortlessly through the air. As the sunlight hit the sword, it glinted blue, which in itself Wyl found fascinating.

‘Did you make this especially for someone?’ he asked Wevyr who had arrived carrying the pair of knives.

‘Yes. For me. It is the sum of my training and experience … my life’s work, you could say.’

‘You know I want it,’ Wyl admitted.

‘It is yours. The price is exorbitant, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Wyl said, amused. He exchanged the sword for the pair of knives.

Wevyr looked towards a hessian dummy hanging fifteen or so paces ahead of them. ‘Try them,’ he said.

Before he even threw, Wyl knew they would land true. Romen’s skill with throwing blades was already obvious to him but the knives themselves were as perfect as their larger counterpart and they moved sweetly through the air, one landing in the dummy’s face, the other in the gut. He had not even taken aim but spun on a heel and thrown from instinct.

‘If you lose these, Romen Koreldy, don’t ever come to Orkyld again.’

With his purse significantly lighter, Wyl felt renewed at the feel of the sword by his thigh. He had purchased a special crossover body belt recommended by Wevyr for the knives. The clever part of this soft, malleable belt was that it was designed to be worn inside the shirt so the knives could be concealed. He could lift the blades from their holder in the blink of an eye and, although Wyl knew he probably did not need to, he was looking forward to practising with them in the woods behind Orkyld.

Changed into his new shirt and getting used to the feel of the belt next to his skin, something nagged at him through the evening which he spent leisurely in the common room of the Old Yew Inn. He knew the thought was there. His keen soldier’s sense combined with Romen’s naturally suspicious nature tried to make him sit up and take notice of it. The trouble was he was feeling especially relaxed on this night as a half-decent musician sang a lament in one corner and the kitchen served up his favourite dish of steamed fish. The vague notion of danger dissipated instantly when a particularly good-looking woman strode up and slapped him hard around the face.

‘Romen Koreldy, you dare to sit at this table!’

Wyl rubbed the stinging mark of her hand and, with his mouth wide open, watched her flounce off, magnificent in her anger.

Other patrons laughed, enjoying the spectacle and his embarrassment.

Another girl sidled up to clear his table. ‘Arlyn is really cross this time, Romen,’ she warned.

‘So I can see,’ he said, wondering what Romen could have done, although he could probably guess.

‘Can I make it up to her?’

‘I don’t know … how do you make it up to a woman who was preparing for her wedding?’ asked the girl.

It was worse than Wyl had first guessed. ‘I can explain,’ he offered, feeling helpless.

‘Not to me, Romen, to her!’

‘Where can I find Arlyn later?’

The woman rested his dishes against her hip and said with no little exasperation, ‘Forgotten already?’

He sighed. ‘Life’s been a bit hard for me lately — I just thought she might have … er …’

‘No, nothing’s changed. You’ll still find her working her hands to the bone out the back.’

Wyl nodded and thanked her, although it did him little good. He needed to sober up and so decided to take some fresh air. Perhaps I might find somewhere to buy Arlyn a gift as a peace offering.

On the rare occasion his parents had cross words, his father had always made the first move to reconciliation, usually with some beautiful item which he knew would please his wife and hopefully soften her towards his spoken apology. Wyl felt helpless at being held responsible for Romen’s fault — all he could do was try to remedy the slight by making Arlyn a Thirsk-style apology. Also at the back of his mind was the notion that this excuse to meet with Arlyn and make his peace offering might give him an opportunity to learn more about the man whose body he walked in.

Wyl left the inn and strolled into Orkyld’s main street. It was a busy enough town. Apart from its fame as a place to source weaponry, it seemed to be a busy hub for people moving into the north. Walking without clear direction he began to consider how to make amends with Arlyn without finding himself trapped.

‘Marriage! Shar’s Wrath!’ he murmured. It was the last complication he needed.

They had been careful. Jerico was not a man to take chances and following Koreldy had been challenging. The mercenary’s trail had disappeared at Farnswyth and, although Jerico hated to do it, he split the men up into four groups. They were handpicked by him; all trusted cutthroats who would slit the jugulars of their own grandmothers if it paid enough coin.

At Farnswyth he had briefed them all with care and then sent them off in different directions. He and two other men had travelled north. His only reason for this direction had been the small item of information he had gleaned from a conversation he had overheard between the King, who was then still a Prince, and Koreldy.

When the Prince’s spies had first noted Koreldy arriving in Morgravia, he was requested to meet with Celimus. It just happened that Jerico was attached to a network of spies which Celimus paid handsomely for information and, although Koreldy had not seen him, he had been present during their first meeting. Celimus had asked the mercenary directly about what he was doing in the realm. Koreldy had been guarded, had tried to laugh it off and hold on to the mystery, but the Prince had persisted and finally the mercenary had admitted he was escaping the clutch of a woman determined to marry him. Jerico recalled how Celimus had laughed at this.

It could have been a ruse but Koreldy’s sour tone suggested otherwise. And so, with no other ideas to follow, he and his murderous companion had headed to Orkyld where Koreldy had mentioned the scorned woman lived. Jerico’s intense joy at spotting the mercenary walking into Orkyld with a lame horse held no bounds. He had even let out an inadvertent whoop of surprise before cupping his hands over his mouth. Koreldy had looked his way but the glance had understandably slid over him. They had never met, fortunately. A large part of Jerico’s success in his trade was the fact that he was so ordinary-looking and thus forgettable. Not a single feature of his person would ever win comment. He was neither thin nor fat, tall nor short. His hair was sandy-coloured and his face hardly handsome but then it was not especially ugly. His voice was low and unremarkable. But his mind was quick and he had no qualms about killing.

He had given over the day to observing Koreldy. A room at the Old Yew and a hearty meal of pigeon. Following him to the baths was easy enough and then to purchase garments. Jerico had then expertly shadowed him to the famous blademaker, Wevyr, but, although he saw him enter the man’s workrooms, he did not see him leave and after waiting what he considered was long enough, he made his furious way back to the inn, hoping he had not lost his prey.

The killer had been rewarded with the information that the man had recently returned. He had waited, toying with a jug of ale. His companion meanwhile kept a watch outside in case Koreldy decided again to take a back door out of the inn this time. Later Jerico surmised that obviously their quarry was not suspicious for he had descended the stairs into the common room in the evening wearing a wide grin for the serving girls and a fine new sword. Jerico’s companion had returned to sit beside him.

Jerico had admired the sword from a distance and promised himself the fine weapon as a special prize after killing Koreldy.

‘He’d better not have spent too much of his gold on that sword,’ his companion had murmured, his back deliberately turned towards Jerico so they were not taken as friends.

Jerico had sniggered. ‘I couldn’t agree more, but remember there’s only the three of us now to split the spoils.’

‘Shame we can’t split that sword into three,’ the man grumbled.

Jerico smiled to himself; he had decided against mentioning to his companions that the King had offered to double the figure on Jerico’s return to Pearlis, should he be successful in ridding Celimus of Koreldy. ‘I’ll tell you what, you can take a bigger share of the gold he’s carrying as I have need of that sword.’

The man had nodded. Jerico had returned to his ale and his observation of the mercenary. He spent the time considering whether to cut off Koreldy’s ring finger whilst he was still alive so they could enjoy the screams or whether to do it after he was despatched and silent. Jerico favoured live torture and thus had begun to hatch his plan for capture when a voluptuous woman had appeared from the back of the inn and belted Koreldy hard enough that everyone heard the slap. He had noticed the angry words she muttered before her departure and then the low conversation between Koreldy and the other serving woman. Jerico had downed his cup of ale as Koreldy had stood and righted his sword, and then he followed his prey out of the inn, giving a low whistle to the other of his companions.

They watched Koreldy now as he strolled off but were in no hurry. Jerico, ever cautious, heeded the fact that he had been present at the funeral feast for Wyl Thirsk. Just in case Koreldy had seen him, he suggested to his companion to go ahead of their victim whilst he brought up the rear.

‘Any plan?’ one of them asked.

‘Play it by ear, although your talents might come in handy as a distraction. We’re looking to catch him unawares in one of the side streets or better still an alley. And listen!’ he warned. ‘It won’t be done here. The woods will give us the cover … and privacy we need,’ he added.

His partner smiled grimly and set off, digging into his pockets for the distraction his companion had referred to.

Wyl was lost in his thoughts. He looked up and saw a man juggling wooden balls — at least seven of them — and the juggling was skilled enough to stop Wyl in his tracks to admire the performance.

He watched for a while and laughed when the man performed a small jig whilst still not disturbing the rhythm of the balls. It occurred to him that this fellow might know where the sideshow alley performers might be in the realm.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know where the fairground traders are right now?’ Wyl asked. As he continued to juggle, the man screwed up his face in thought. Wyl pressed. ‘It’s just that I met someone at the Morgravian royal tournament and have a message for her.’

‘Can’t say I do, sir. I’m just a wandering performer. I follow my own path.’

‘Well, thanks anyway,’ Wyl said, tossing him a coin. He made to move on and then turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, where can I buy a nice trinket for a very angry lady at this time of night?’

The juggler expertly gathered in the wooden balls and a few passers-by clapped as they walked on. He grinned at Wyl’s dilemma. ‘I believe I might know just the place, sir. If you’re prepared to pay a very small fee, I can take you there.’

‘Oh? What sort of place?’

‘Would a silversmith suit, sir? My cousin crafts very pretty stuff at his shop just down the back here. He’ll give you a good price too — I’ll see to it.’

Wyl was tired. He felt unsettled about Arlyn but was it really that important to settle Romen’s old scores? He decided it was, now that he was to all intents and purposes Romen Koreldy. Tongues wagged and if he was going to wear this body, this face, for the rest of his life, then he certainly did not want women around the kingdom hating him. He sighed.

‘Yes, why not. Is it far?’

‘Not at all,’ the juggler said with no little glee. ‘Just a minute or two. My, that’s a fine sword, sir, that you carry …’

Jerico smirked as he overheard the juggler making trivial conversation, leading their prey like an innocent animal to slaughter.

The world went dark for Wyl soon after.

Wyl came back to consciousness abruptly but he was badly disoriented. It took him several moments to realise he was hanging upside down from a length of rope tied to a tree and that he had been beaten very effectively. He pained everywhere. The mournful hoot from an owl told him few sensible people would be abroad in these woods at night. The burning sensation on his face led him to believe his captors had emptied their bladders in an attempt to revive him.

Obviously it had worked. He shook his head, noted that at least his arms were free, and tried to get a bearing on his surrounds. Not far away lay his scabbard and the blue sword. Damn them! They’re not getting that! He felt at his chest and realised with a tingle of relief that they had not yet discovered the concealed knives. He marvelled again at Wevyr’s work — these knives were so slim and flat that he was not surprised they had not noticed them. He surreptitiously undid a button of his shirt so he could reach them.

The men turned.

‘Time for some fun,’ the juggler said.

Jerico walked up closer.

‘I presume you already have my purse and I see you’ve claimed my sword,’ Wyl said in Romen’s calm manner. ‘Is my life that important to you?’

‘Not to us,’ Jerico replied.

Wyl felt a chill settle about him. So this was not about theft then. ‘To whom?’

Jerico grinned. ‘Far higher-ranked individuals. We’re just the means to the end.’

‘Well then, whatever he is paying you I will triple,’ Wyl offered.

‘No, Koreldy,’ Jerico said firmly. ‘I have made a point of doing business with care. I never double cross a client I have made a bargain with. This policy has kept me alive.’

‘But not necessarily rich,’ Wyl answered, playing for time as his mind raced. Romen’s instincts told him he had to get the three men a bit closer to him and to each other before he could risk a strike. But then even what was left of Romen reminded him that at best he could only cut himself down and take one of them out. At worst he could possibly injure or even kill one but he might still be hanging like a pig on a rope waiting for its throat to be slit.

The juggler laughed and walked forward. ‘How would you know, mercenary, what we are worth?’

‘I don’t,’ Wyl admitted.

‘Well now,’ Jerico said, taking a dagger from his own belt. ‘There is this ugly business of having to cut off one of your fingers.’

‘Why?’

‘The man who is paying for your death requires it.’

‘Well, I suppose it keeps you lowlifes honest.’

Jerico stepped forward. ‘From one assassin to another, I take offence at the word lowlife.’

The men were in range. He would go for the leader. No more time to think — at least he would die taking one of them with him.

The men were standing close enough that even dizzied and upside down he felt confident of hitting one of them. In a smooth movement Wyl crossed his arms and lifted the two knives from their belt and, using the same momentum, hurled one towards the man he considered leader. At that same moment, out of the darkness, leapt a huge shadow which enveloped the juggler who went down screaming with terror.

Shocked, Wyl held his second knife close to his chest, ready for what might attack next. The gurgling sound of a man dying was blotted out by the deep, guttural sound of a beast ripping at flesh. He spun around again on the rope and could see Jerico was lying still on the ground whilst his companion writhed in agony. And then he too went still very quickly. The beast gave chase after the third man who senselessly ran deeper into the woods and certain death.

Wyl heard a muffled scream before the woods became silent again.

‘Knave?’ Wyl asked into the dark fearfully and he flinched as the dog appeared at his side, its warm breath smelling of blood.

Wyl struggled upwards, bending himself double to reach the rope which bound him and slashed with the knife. His body fell in a heap and Knave loomed over him. For an instant he felt a thrill of alarm. This dog had just mauled two men to death. It could do the same to him, his still-jumbled mind thought. Instead Knave licked Wyl and sat down, a gentle whine of pleasure escaping from the dog’s throat.

Wyl was trembling. He looked over at the dead bodies and back at the dog. Knave had saved his life, there was no question about this. But where had he come from and how did he know where to find me? He tried to stand and promptly fell over again. There were broken ribs he realised. It added up that his attackers had enjoyed some fun with him — not that he could remember much.

Knave was rooting about in the undergrowth and returned now carrying a flask. Wyl had seen the treacherous juggler sipping from it and gratefully took a draught of what turned out to be strong liquor. He felt it burn all the way down his throat before its comforting warmth hit.

Knave regarded him intently.

‘I gather Fynch is not with you,’ he commented and the dog lay down, putting its head on its paws. ‘Hmm, thought not. I have to presume he at least has obeyed instructions and remained with Valentyna, which is where you are going back to right now.’

The dog growled and moved closer to his side.

Wyl searched the bodies in an attempt to discover who these men were. There were no clues, but he recognised one of them: Celimus’s man! He was sure of it. His mind was not playing tricks. It was at the funeral feast for his own true body that he remembered catching sight of him.

And that probably explained the vague feeling of threat he had felt all day. He remembered now; he had sighted the killer this morning as he walked into Orkyld. A noise — a man yelping — had caught his attention but only for a moment.

That was it. Celimus had sent the killer after him. It was the King who wanted his finger. He looked down at his hands in reflex and noted his signet ring. It and the finger it sat on was probably what was required as proof of his death. Wyl growled to himself now, anger overtaking his fatigue. He would give Celimus something to consider.

Hauling himself to his feet, he reclaimed his sword and, ignoring the intense pain, in one powerful hack lopped off the head of Jerico, its tongue lolling out of the mouth. He pulled off the dead man’s shirt and wrapped the head in it several times, hoping the blood would not show through too soon. Fortunately it was a black shirt and would hide the seepage for a while.

With disgust now he rolled the bodies into the bushes. Wolves or other scavengers would find them soon enough and that was fitting. He cared not. Wyl staggered from the woods carrying Jerico’s head, which he had already decided would have special ironic significance for Celimus. He spent an hour trying to find a suitable container amongst the rubbish of the town and, when satisfied, he hid the box and its vile contents to be despatched as soon as he could arrange it.

Then only did he collapse.

TWENTY-ONE

THIS TIME WHEN WYL regained his senses he was lying in a bed. At first he thought he was dreaming as memories of an ugly night returned. He touched the feather coverlet and it was real enough to convince him he was not imagining these comfy surrounds, and the spicy fragrance which lingered around him definitely smacked of a woman. Its owner, familiar to him, suddenly leaned over.

‘Don’t hit me again, Arlyn,’ he croaked and smiled crookedly.

She gave a full-throated laugh this time. ‘I’m tempted, Romen. What in Shar’s Name happened to you last night?’

‘Long story. Would you believe me if I told you it all happened because of you?’

‘No, because you are a liar, a cheat and a low, good-for-nothing scoundrel whom I shall toss from my bed just as soon as your body can stand it.’

He winced. ‘How bad?’

‘The physic says you can’t move for a couple of days at least.’

‘Then I am at your mercy,’ Wyl said, surprising himself. He liked women a lot yet he felt tongue-tied amongst them. He thought of Valentyna; the thrill of her touch and how his throat had closed up when she had turned her attention fully to him. And yet here he was in this woman’s bed, acting the roguish flatterer using Romen’s confidence.

‘Penny for those thoughts?’ Arlyn said, squeezing out a rag into a small bowl of water. She smoothed the linen gently over his face, her expression suddenly tender.

‘I was just contemplating how sorry I am,’ he said softly.

Arlyn paused in her ministrations and fixed him with her green gaze. ‘You hurt me so much.’

Wyl reached over with Romen’s large hand and cupped hers to his chest. ‘I know. I have a lot to explain.’

‘But not yet,’ she said, reaching for a cup and handing it to him. ‘Rest and heal are the doctor’s orders. Drink this.’

He did so and pulled an expression of the worst sort of disgust.

‘Sleep now,’ she said, a smile passing across her face.

‘Arlyn,’ he said drowsily. ‘How did I get here?’

‘A huge black dog dragged you to my doorstep,’ she said indignantly.

He started to laugh as he drifted away. ‘His name’s Knave.’

‘It could be King Celimus for all I care,’ he heard her say as he lost his grip on the bright morning. ‘I’ve told him he stays out of this bedroom. He’s outside.’

‘Thank you,’ he said and slept.

Two fierce needs woke Wyl. It was dusk now. He was starving but even more pressing than the desire of his belly was the desperation of his bladder. He would have to move fast or make a fool of himself in front of Arlyn. He scanned the room desperately looking for the chamber pot and, after eyeing it, dragged himself out of the bed. Arlyn must have heard him moving because she entered the room just as he finished.

‘You shouldn’t be up,’ she scolded.

He looked around. ‘It was urgent,’ he admitted sheepishly.

‘Let me feed you and then we’ll talk.’

Arlyn’s food was delicious and as Wyl ate he wanted to ask her questions but he knew he could not for fear of showing his ignorance. He had decided that Romen must have got himself trapped and no doubt did flee Arlyn’s arms rather coldheartedly. The man’s manner, his whole ease amongst people, suggested he was a womaniser. Wyl was the opposite sort of character. He needed to try to right the wrong, at least in her eyes.

After helping him to eat, Arlyn brought a bowl of scented water for him to wash his hands and face. Then she took a seat on the bed near to him.

‘So, Romen. Will you tell me what went wrong?’

Wyl had already given the situation much thought and decided to tell a lie of such extravagance that she could never blame herself for being abandoned so callously.

He took a deep breath. ‘I am a marked man, Arlyn. When I left here it was not because I did not want to marry you but because I had to flee for my life.’

Whatever excuse Arlyn had expected, this was so far away from it. She remained silent despite the obvious questions in her expression and Wyl pressed on.

‘King Celimus wants me dead,’ he said. ‘I suspect it has to do with a friendship I had with his former General, Wyl Thirsk.’

‘Former General?’

‘He’s dead. Murdered by assassins sent on the express wishes of the King.’

She was going to say something but thought better of it.

‘But here’s the worst of it,’ Wyl continued. ‘What happened last night was one of a series of attacks. The first occurred after I ran from you. They tracked me down and left me for dead but in fact they had knocked me unconscious. When I came to I had lost my memory.’

It was thin but he had been convincing. He watched Arlyn’s hand move to her throat. The story was working. He hated himself for lying but he would be damned if he would risk hurting her again. This at least gave her the dignity she deserved.

‘I did not even recall my name.’ He had to be careful here. ‘How long have I been gone?’ he asked casually as though trying to search for the answer from himself.

She readily gave him the answer, not realising the subtlety of his ruse.

Wyl had to stop himself from looking at her in alarm. What a bastard Romen had been. ‘Is it really that long?’ he muttered instead. ‘I spent a good part of that time in a monastery convalescing from the stabbing injuries but mostly trying to find myself again.’ He thought she might cry but she soldiered on.

‘And your memory?’

‘I still have not recovered much of it, which is why I must ask your forgiveness if I appear vague.’ He liked the neat excuse which might permit him to make errors.

‘Oh, Romen, this is shocking news and there I was thinking … oh never mind. And last night it happened again?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve been safe for a while and perhaps I got too confident coming back here but I was drawn to Orkyld. I was drawn to you, Arlyn, but I can’t remember anything of what happened between us. I’m so ashamed. So sorry to have hurt you.’

His sincerity melted her and Wyl despised himself. He would stop now.

‘What happened to the men who attacked you last night?’

‘They ran away when Knave joined in the fray,’ he lied. His last lie, he promised himself. ‘If not for him, I would surely be dead. Where is he anyway?’

‘Terrifying people.’

He smiled, knowing he needed to press home the point now. ‘I am a fugitive. I will be until Celimus succeeds in killing me. Already I have tarried too long and I must get myself away from here. By staying here I put you in danger.’

‘They would kill me too?’

He shrugged and it hurt to do so. ‘They are ruthless. The King uses common cutthroats — unscrupulous bastards. No honour.’

‘Where can you go?’

Wyl shook his head this time. ‘I intend to keep moving. Perhaps I’ll go across the seas. This is why I cannot marry you, my love. I don’t know when I might next see you, if at all.’

‘Romen, let me be honest now. I don’t believe, after all this time, we could find that special affection we had before. It’s been too long.’ This was music to Wyl’s ears. ‘But can we not hide you here?’ she said, taking his hand.

‘No. Too dangerous. They are on my trail now. I must lose them again. As soon as I can walk, I’m leaving. Forgive me.’

‘Never mind how we feel now, I hated seeing you so hurt yesterday.’

‘Next time they won’t fail,’ Wyl said, hoping it was the last nail to drive into this wretched coffin of their relationship.

She rallied. ‘How can I help? Money?’

‘I have money. I want you to forget about me. Wipe all trace of my stay here after I leave and tell anyone who knows you have me here to keep their wits about them and not answer any questions.’

She nodded. ‘No one saw you come to my house.’

‘Good. I’ll leave tomorrow at nightfall.’

‘So soon?’

‘Would you be kind enough to hand me my pouch?’ he asked. It was a small leather bag with a long strap designed to be worn across the body. She gave it to him and he delved inside, bringing out Ylena’s brooch. She would not miss it and it was going to a worthy person who had brought him the good luck his sister had wished for him.

‘This is for you. I do remember choosing it but not where or when,’ he said, smiling regretfully, as he put it into her palm.

‘Oh, Romen, it’s beautiful.’

‘Then it will do justice to its owner,’ he said, this time with sincerity. ‘Keep it as a reminder of what we shared once.’

She kissed his hand which was still entwined with hers and could not help but feel a surge of desire for the handsome rake who lay near naked in her bed. ‘Then I must return the gift.’

Wyl felt compelled to shrink from any mention of a gift from a woman. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘The only one I have at hand,’ she said, unbuttoning her shirt.

The next day Romen’s arms held Arlyn close but it was Wyl who, with great fondness, kissed her goodbye. Her tender attentions had allowed him to forget himself for a brief time. Lying beside her, loving the incomparable sensation of her flesh against his, he lost his senses in a glut of affection. Although hampered by his injuries, this did not prevent their lovemaking and it helped immeasurably towards disguising his inexperience. If he had been healthy she would have known he was not Romen, or at least not the Romen she had once known.

Wyl Thirsk had not bedded a woman in quite some time. The last memorable occasion was with a young soapmaker in Pearlis who supplied her produce to Stoneheart. It was a brief fling between two young people with little experience. He had seen her a few times around the castle and had once been nearby when a horse shied towards her and she had spilled her basket of soaps in fright. Wyl had called for two pages to help her pick them up and then he had graciously apologised for the skittish horse. The girl had a sweet smile and had accepted his apology shyly.

She had not been so bashful the next time he had come across her in one of the better taverns in the city where she was making another delivery. On this occasion she had invited him back to the tiny, airless room where she lived with her father above their shop and undressed herself. It had been quick but nonetheless memorable; Wyl groaning as he reached his height of pleasure and she enjoying his look of ecstasy more than experiencing much of her own.

He had thanked her and pressed some coin into her pocket to buy herself some new fabric for a dress or ribbons for her hair. He thought he might see her again but their paths had not crossed. A half dozen other joyless, mainly urgent couplings — more from necessity than anything else — he had chosen to put out of his mind. That was the sum of his sexual experiences in recent years.

But Arlyn, he would always remember her …

‘I can’t come back,’ he whispered as he hugged her, being careful not to crush his body against hers too hard.

She nodded, long resigned to Romen not being in her life. ‘I know. Be safe.’

And with one last warning for secrecy, Wyl left. Like him, his horse was glad to be out of its confines and on the dusty road again. They did not linger and he did not look back, although he suspected she may still be watching him.

‘One more errand,’ he promised the beast as they rounded a bend and mercifully fell out of her sight.

As he expected — though he did not know why he should be so confident — he found Knave waiting for him in the undergrowth at the spot where they had hidden the box containing the assassin’s head. They sat together for a few moments, Wyl stroking the dog and weighing up his thoughts about the animal’s enchantment. It seemed futile to pretend Knave was not part of Myrren’s magical world and yet if he tried to explain it to a stranger, they would probably laugh at his reckonings.

Finally he spoke, glad that it no longer felt odd giving Knave instructions. The dog always seemed to understand anyway. ‘Now you know you must return,’ he said sternly. ‘Go back to Fynch. Keep Valentyna safe until I come,’ he added, hoping that his instincts were true. The Widow Ilyk had cautioned him to keep Fynch and Knave close, yet he had sent both away.

Knave fixed him with his intense stare. Then he gave a single bark. Wyl had no idea what it meant but when his dog licked him and then bounded off, turning once only as if in farewell, Wyl had to assume the dog knew its duty. He felt a twinge of sadness at its leaving. Something about Knave made him feel incredibly safe, invincible even. But that was every reason why the dog had to return to Valentyna. Perhaps Knave would offer the same comfort to her?

He rode back into town where the coaches left for the south. The driver he approached agreed, for a price, to deliver the box, which Wyl had now carefully wrapped in several hessian sacks, to Pearlis.

‘Where can I leave it?’ the man asked.

‘At the palace.’

‘Who for?’

‘Just leave it with the guards at the main gate. They’re already expecting it.’

‘No message?’

‘There’s one inside,’ he lied. ‘It’s for a very high-ranking noble. Don’t touch it please — he will scream hell and high murder if it is tampered with.’

‘Shar! What’s in here, man?’ the coachman asked.

Wyl knew it might be tempting for the fellow to take a peep if he did not give him a better reason to leave well alone. ‘It’s a witch’s talisman,’ he explained and appreciated the look of alarm which spread across the man’s face. Good. It seemed the fear of witch curses was still rife in the north, even though the Zerque influence had faded. ‘If it’s looked upon by any but the true recipient, the intruder is blinded.’ Thank the stars that what was left of Romen in him found it very easy to embellish all truths, he thought, amazed at how such falsehoods came to him.

The man looked ready to toss the box off his coach.

‘Look here, I will give an extra gold piece for your trouble. I appreciate your help with this and I too don’t care much for the contents. I didn’t look either — I’m simply the courier to this point,’ Wyl added and the money seemed to soothe the man’s concern. ‘How long?’

‘About four days, sir.’

‘Safe travels,’ Wyl called as the coach drew out.

The weather became decidedly cooler as Wyl began to ascend into the higher northern counties of the realm. He was glad of the cloak. They moved at a steady pace to keep the uneven terrain from jarring Romen’s injured body more than necessary. Wyl was grateful to Arlyn for packing some of the strong-tasting potion. It was even harder to take as pure medicine than the brew she had plied him with at his bedside. Nevertheless he sipped it morning and night, grateful for the relief it brought. He travelled for two and a half days through increasingly barren land as the terrain became more rocky. He recalled that the villages were scattered and there were no major towns in this part of the north. Wyl was not interested in any of them for now. His attention was firmly focused on reaching Yentro, where the Widow Ilyk hailed from; it would be a small place, he imagined, of little note.

Half a day’s ride later and he was stunned to enter what was clearly a bustling frontier town.

Wyl stopped the horse in no little amazement. This was a major trading town, he could tell, and business was brisk. First stop was the stables. Then he went in search of a decent inn. There were far too many people around for him to worry about being noticed and the population was so varied that Wyl felt sure he would appear to be just another journeyman.

He was wrong.

‘It’s him, I swear it,’ the man said, deferentially.

The person he had addressed was eating. He ate with care, reflecting his careful, neat thoughts as he chewed and considered the information he had just learned. His men were reliable, especially his friend and counsel, Lothryn, who spoke with him now. He scratched at the newly grown beard he used for disguise.

So, Romen Koreldy had returned. Why?

Green, unreadable eyes looked back at Lothryn. ‘Why now?’

Lothryn shrugged. It made no sense for Koreldy to be back in the north. ‘Spying?’ he offered, instinctively.

‘My inclination lingers there too. Spying for Celimus perhaps. The Morgravian brat is hungry for more Mountain blood, then,’ he mused. ‘We foiled their recent incursion attempt with that team of useless spies — Haldor help the Morgravian King if they’re the kind of dullards we’re up against! Only the leader was worth his salt as a soldier. We’ll kill them all, Lothryn. And we’ll spread the Mountain Kingdom beyond the Razors, mark my words.’

Lothryn said nothing, waiting for his superior to make the inevitable decision. It came swiftly. The strapping, golden-haired man pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. He stood to his full, intimidating height and looked towards his loyal deputy, his friend for more than thirty years. ‘Take Myrt and one other. Follow him for a few hours. Let’s find out what he’s up to. Then take him. I’ll see you back at the Cave.’

Lothryn nodded. ‘It will be done, my lord.’

Lothryn watched from the shadows as Romen Koreldy entered the Scarlet Feather and, according to the innkeeper, was fortunate to buy the last room in the house. It was expensive but Wyl was looking forward to some comfort and a chance to recuperate after days in the saddle. He desperately needed to give his ribs a chance to heal further. He was still sporting a bruised eye which drew another comment from the nosy man behind the counter.

‘A lady didn’t take too kindly to catching me kissing her best friend,’ Wyl remarked easily and winked, not aware that he had been trailed since entering Yentro.

The man laughed. ‘She’s got a good punching arm then, sir. I’d avoid that one again.’

‘I don’t believe she’d have me again,’ Wyl said archly, adding, ‘though it would be worth another shiner.’ This time they both enjoyed the jest. ‘I could use a smooth. Are there some chambers nearby?’

‘Yes, sir. When you’ve settled in your room I’ll give directions. It’s attached to the bath-house.’

Wyl nodded. He took the stairs slowly, having already been warned there were four flights to his room. These were mercifully short but he still collapsed on his bed, glad of his small sack of luggage. He undid his scabbard, took off his shirt and undid the hidden belt and knives. Such relief. He leaned back and immediately began to doze. Rousing himself, he realised he had actually fallen asleep, which would not do. He needed to establish quickly whether the Widow Ilyk was in Yentro. Time worked against him. He had to get back to Briavel to meet with the Queen, then keep his promise to his sister and convey Alyd’s remains from Rittylworth to Felrawthy. He hoped to escort Ylena back to the safety of Argorn and her own people as well. And still the question of treachery niggled. Would he try and overthrow the Crown? He had to stop thinking about all that was still ahead or he would be overwhelmed. He recalled Gueryn’s advice to deal with one issue at a time. His mentor had trained him to clear his mind and concentrate on the most important demand. Prioritise! He could hear Gueryn’s voice now. The priority was to find the widow. Everything else came after that.

Yawning and stretching carefully, he hid his weapons in the bed linen and, after dressing, locked the door and headed downstairs where the innkeeper was giving instructions to a brace of serving girls and boys.

He noticed Wyl watching. ‘Very busy, today, sir.’

‘Is there something going on?’

‘It’s our annual trading fair. I thought you might be here for it. No one actually passes through Yentro without a reason.’ Wyl heard the curiosity in the man’s voice.

‘Ah well, perhaps you can help me. I’m actually in Yentro to pass on a message to the Widow Ilyk. Would you know of her — she’s rather old and is a local?’

‘I can’t say I do but then I’m fairly new here myself, sir. Bought the Feather only a few moons ago.’

Wyl gave a casual wave of his hand as though it was of no importance. ‘I can make enquiries, thank you. Now those directions?’

The innkeeper busied himself with a detailed account of how to find the bath-house and Wyl was glad to escape the man’s watchful gaze. The directions were accurate and, looking forward to the intense pleasure which only an expert smoothing could bring, Wyl was once again oblivious to the dark-haired stranger who followed at a safe distance.

He was soon luxuriating in fragranced, steaming water. He paid for a private room, preferring not to share his bruises with the rest of the men enjoying their dip. After soaping his hair, he rang a bell and a young woman came in and poured fresh warm water over his head. The rinse was scented with gardenia which sharply brought back a distant memory for Wyl, although the nature of it was blurred. He searched his own thoughts and understood the recall was not his.

Someone in Romen’s life had obviously used the scent.

He stored that thought away, realising that the woman who waited on him stood patiently holding drying linens. Wyl forced himself not to be self-conscious of his nakedness. Romen would stand and probably even stretch for her, he thought, and found the courage to be still as she rubbed the fabric around his body.

‘I cannot help but notice that you are hurt, sir?’ she enquired, large eyes darting towards the worst bruises.

‘Yes,’ he said, elaborating no further. ‘I shall have to ask you to be extremely gentle with the smoothing around my ribs.’

She nodded seriously before gesturing towards the table where she invited him to stretch out. He did so with difficulty. Lighting several scented candles, she burned oil above them and when heated she poured some into her palms and with great care smoothed the warmed oil over his body. Wyl felt his body relax under her touch. Working silently, she avoided his mid section and concentrated instead on his sore buttocks, legs and shoulders. Her fingers were strong and skilled.

Wyl finally broke from his relaxed stupor and spoke to her. ‘I’m trying to find someone called the Widow Ilyk … would you know of her?’

‘No, sir.’

The response was too quick, he thought. ‘That’s a pity. I have a message from the south for her. I promised a lady by the name of Thirsk that I would deliver it.’ Wyl figured that if she did know the old girl then the name Thirsk would be memorable and the seer might give her consent to see him.

There was a pause as though she was considering. ‘I’m sorry I cannot help you, sir.’

He left it alone, now sure that the Widow Ilyk was known to people in Yentro. He hoped his instincts were right about the girl, and soon found out they were. He took his time finishing up. After the smoothing he took a plunge in a tepid, salted pool attached to his private room. It roused him from the drowsy state he had fallen into. He dressed and left the building, already noticing that the young woman who had done his smoothing was following him. She waited until they had rounded a corner before stopping him.

‘I do know the Widow Ilyk’s niece, sir,’ she called to him.

‘Go on.’

‘I sent a message. Widow Ilyk will see you today.’

He hid his elation. ‘Thank you,’ he said, giving her a silver duke, grateful for her involvement. She had clearly not held that much money before for her eyes shone. ‘How will I find her?’ he asked.

‘My friend … her niece, Elspyth, will meet you at this corner shortly. I have described you to her.’

Romen’s heartbreaking smile broke like sunlight. ‘I hope you told her how handsome I am?’

She laughed despite her serious nature. ‘I did. Farewell, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, adding, ‘you have excellent hands.’

The smoother hurried away but he caught the flush at her cheeks.

Lothryn was close enough to catch the blush of the woman. He also saw the flash of silver. She was the smoother. He knew this already. No smoother was paid so highly for her services, not unless she belonged to a brothel which offered some very special additional comforts. The Mountain man watched as she fingered the coin. A lot of money for a girl like this. His eyes narrowed in concentration.

‘What information have you just paid for, Koreldy?’ he whispered, noticing that after the girl hurried off, his quarry was in no rush himself to leave the breezy, cold corner where he now stood. ‘And so we wait,’ Lothryn murmured.

He turned to where his companions sat discreetly mulling over their ale. Lothryn gave a sign which they understood to mean that they would be waiting now. He nodded, turned away from Lothryn.

The three men of the mountains who now stalked Romen Koreldy blended into their surrounds. They would not normally. If dressed in their preferred garb, they would be conspicuous, but Cailech’s men had taken the precaution of equipping themselves with appropriate clothes which did not attract that sort of attention. Lothryn did not fool himself into believing the northern Morgravians did not recognise him or his compatriots for who they were but the simple disguise just made it easier for them to be accepted as traders — albeit illegal ones — from the mountains rather than barbarian warriors.

This had been a successful trading week, he reflected. The King would be pleased and in his usual way he would plough the gold from the sale of the prized horses bred in the Razors back into seed especially and goods for the Mountain People. Paper and stylos were high on the King’s shopping list this time — he was determined the children would write with the correct equipment from now on. His plans for the future were lofty indeed, but why not? Lothryn argued to himself. Cailech had a vision for their harsh Mountain Kingdom, and if anyone could realise it, this man could.

Lothryn had grown up loving Cailech and, although he rarely dwelled on it, he knew he could flatter himself in saying that the feeling was mutual. They had played side by side since they were old enough to walk and had been inseparable since. And now Cailech ruled. A self-proclaimed, magnificent King; Lothryn his unfailingly loyal second. Lothryn smiled. Life was good — almost perfect in fact, if not for the increasing upheavals with the new King of Morgravia.

Celimus had already made what was surely a challenge to war by sending a team of spies into the Mountain King’s territory. And Lothryn was quietly worried that Cailech’s well-known temper might lead them into deeper waters. He was already talking up the notion that his people deserved the plentiful southern lands for themselves, to grow their crops and raise their children. It was an audacious dream and one that Lothryn did not agree with. He had suggested time and again that their people should keep to the safety and obscurity of the Razors. Their arable land was small but rich; their animals fat and healthy; the people themselves happy. But he knew Cailech wanted more. Cailech always wanted more — even as a youngster he had dreamed big. And now he wanted to teach the new sovereign of Morgravia a lesson in kingship. Lothryn shook his head. In truth, if they were going to attempt to take the south then Lothryn believed they should attack weaker Briavel first, thus effectively encircling Morgravia.

He shook his head clear of thoughts of war. All he wanted right now was to be gone from Morgravia, to head back into the mountains to where his child was preparing to be born.

He watched Koreldy pace in the cold and smiled at his discomfort. The man had obviously softened in his time south. A young woman was approaching him. Lothryn had not seen her before in Yentro but that was not necessarily surprising. She’s lovely, he thought, small but a lovely handful. And he grinned to himself.

‘Here we go,’ he muttered to himself, as the young woman paused to speak with Romen. Lothryn looked behind, caught the gaze of his companions and nodded. It was time to follow their prey.

TWENTY-TWO

ELSPYTH CAME UP BEHIND the man who had been described to her. She had been watching him for a brief while, wondering what his true interest was with her ageing aunt. His story was a ruse, she was sure of it, but her gifted aunt had recognised the name Thirsk, had been startled to hear it in fact, but had immediately given her agreement to meet with him. Why she herself felt so wary she could not say.

Her aunt had only just made the long trek home; she was weak and fragile and Elspyth was tired. Tired of the fairgrounds and weary of life on the road. She loved the rugged north and Yentro seemed to have swelled to twice the size even in the time they had been away. She was not sure the south knew how this place was flourishing and Elspyth wanted to be here to enjoy it. She liked their cottage at the foothills and for the most part did not mind the lonely life, although she dreamed of one day having a family.

Why do I think this stranger will bring us trouble? she thought as she approached him. ‘Koreldy?’ she said.

He turned, looking down at her from his height. Her friend told no lie with her description either. Elspyth could sense this was a man who enjoyed the company of women.

‘You are the niece?’ he said, affably.

She nodded.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said and bowed.

Elspyth was not going to let him work his charms on her. ‘Follow me.’

‘Is it far?’ he called to her back, for she had already turned and left.

‘Why? Are you lame?’ She did not mean to be rude but his easy smile clashed with her mood.

He did not take offence — laughed in fact. ‘No. No, I’m not but I am hurt.’

She turned, her expression a question.

‘I took a beating from some bandits. It’s my ribs,’ he said in explanation.

‘Our cottage is in the foothills.’

It gave Wyl no more information than before. He protested no further. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

They walked heading north out of Yentro and then veered east. Wyl regretted not wearing his knives at least, having had no idea he would be leaving the main town. The woman called Elspyth strode ahead but he had gradually made up the ground with Romen’s long stride, admiring her shapely backside and the way it swayed as she walked. He finally drew level with her.

‘Another mile,’ she warned.

‘When did you get home?’ he asked, mainly to make conversation but realised it was an error.

She glared at him. ‘How did you know we’ve been away?’

Yes, how could Romen know this? Fool! ‘Er … I saw your aunt at the Morgravian tournament.’

‘Oh?’

‘She met with a friend of mine,’ he added, hoping that was enough information.

‘My aunt took unwell on the night of the tourney. We started the long journey home the next day.’

‘Well, it is wonderful countryside,’ Wyl said, trying to turn the conversation away from that particular day. ‘I can understand why you would want to be home here.’

‘Can you?’

He nodded. ‘I don’t care much for cities myself.’ It felt like this was his first truth in days.

Elspyth went quiet after this and Wyl soon began to labour. The pain was back.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, returning to where he had stopped at the roadside to tip something from a bottle into his mouth.

‘Something to ease the pain.’ He grimaced as the vile-tasting stuff slid down his throat.

Her brow creased at his expression. ‘That bad?’ He nodded. ‘May I?’ she said holding her hand out.

Wyl gave her the tiny bottle and she smelled its contents. ‘Powerful stuff. I have something else, less harsh on your belly, which you may care to try.’

He nodded his thanks as his eyes picked out the thatched roof of a cottage, partly hidden behind a mound and some trees. It seemed Shar was smiling on him. They were here. Elspyth led him out of the sharp sunlight, which seemed peculiar to the north, Wyl decided, and into the darkness of the small cottage.

‘I’ll not be long,’ she said, gesturing towards a scrubbed table and chairs. The young woman disappeared into the back of the cottage and reappeared a few moments later.

‘My aunt will see you now.’

Wyl had not realised he was holding his breath with tension. He followed Elspyth into the back chamber which was darker still, and the familiar odour of burning sticks took him back to the seer’s tent at the fairground.

‘Welcome,’ the old woman’s voice croaked.

Wyl bowed to the Widow Ilyk out of courtesy even though she was blind. Somehow he felt she would sense his good manners anyway.

‘Elspyth, my dear. Would you fetch us some wine?’

Her niece glanced towards Wyl as she departed. He suspected her glare was to warn him not to tire the old girl. Be quick, in other words. Meanwhile the wine was obviously her aunt’s manner of requesting privacy.

‘It is good of you to see me, Widow,’ Wyl said.

The old woman swayed slightly as her whitish eyes stared over his shoulder. ‘Your name is unknown to me, Romen Koreldy, but I am familiar with Wyl Thirsk. That one had an aura about him.’

Wyl felt a chill settle across him. She was definitely no trickster.

‘No aura about me?’

‘Not that I can detect,’ she said and a small smile snatched at her mouth. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Grenadyn, madam,’ he replied. ‘Originally,’ he added for truth.

‘Yes, I hear its soft lilt in your voice. A nice voice, belonging to a handsome man, I’m told,’ she said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled.

‘That depends only on the opinion of the beholder, madam,’ Wyl replied.

‘You’ve obviously come a long way to find me. How can I help?’

‘Take my hands,’ Wyl suggested.

‘Why?’

‘Isn’t that what you do?’

‘Sometimes. Other times I just listen.’

‘To what?’

‘Oh, the voices around you, the aura surrounding your person. I might add you are closed to me.’

‘Please, take my hands,’ he asked.

‘If it pleases you,’ she agreed, reaching forward. ‘I imagine —’ At his touch she instantly swallowed what she was about to say. Instead what came out was a terrified gasp.

‘Widow?’

Now she trembled. He could feel her fright beneath his fingers, could see her garments shaking against her frail body. Her lips began to move but no sound came out.

‘Widow!’ Wyl repeated, worried.

‘It is you.’ She spoke hardly above a whisper. ‘It has happened, Wyl Thirsk.’

Relief flooded through him. ‘You remember.’ There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

‘I can never forget you. When?’

Wyl told her what had occurred.

‘A curse or a gift, Wyl Thirsk?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not sure. It saved my life but it took another.’

‘He would have taken yours in any event.’

‘This is true. He was, I suspect, a good man.’

‘You will make him better,’ she comforted, sensing his sorrow. ‘You’ve tracked me down because you have questions.’

‘Yes.’

‘I will answer as best I can, though I warn, I know little.’

He nodded. ‘Are you a witch?’

She chuckled at this. ‘No, son. I have no magics. Only the Sight.’

‘But you deliberately masquerade as a trickster.’

The old woman shrugged. ‘I cannot risk the truth. You have witnessed first hand the suffering of those they suspect as empowered. Those dark times are behind us now, thank Shar’s mercy, but still I find it easier to hide my talent than flaunt it. If people suspected I could really see into their lives, I think they would fear me for what I might tell them. They prefer the notion that fortune-telling is just some harmless fun.’

Wyl understood. ‘Tell me what the Quickening is.’

The widow sighed and sat back into her chair, releasing her hold on his hands. ‘That’s not as easy to explain. I cannot answer it as you wish. All I can tell you is that it has no remorse, no empathy … and you have no control over it.’

‘Can I rid myself of it?’

‘No.’ She had nothing to add.

‘So I will remain Romen Koreldy for the rest of my life,’ he murmured. It was not a question. He felt grief and yet in his soul he had expected nothing less.

‘I have no knowledge to confirm or deny it,’ she said sadly.

Wyl stood and paced the tiny chamber. He did not trust himself to speak for a few moments.

‘Elspyth!’ the widow called and her niece appeared around the door, answering softly. ‘Bring the wine, my love.’

The young woman came into the room with a tray. After setting down its contents she withdrew silently.

‘Drink!’ the seer ordered. ‘It will help.’

Wyl did, gulping down the sweet wine, needing to feel its sugary warmth within him. She was right, it steadied him.

‘Why did Myrren do this to me?’

‘I imagine she saw something in you, Wyl. A need perhaps? A burning desire? Who knows? It could even be that she wanted something of you … something she wants you to achieve.’

‘All because of a sip of water,’ he said, laughing sadly to himself.

‘There would be more to it than that but what that is, I cannot guess.’

Wyl took another couple of swallows of the wine. Mixed with the potion, it was making him feel lightheaded. He sat again.

‘Tell me about the dog.’

She made a small circle of her mouth as though they had stepped onto a hallowed topic. ‘A very powerful one, that.’

‘He’s enchanted?’ he asked, trying to make it sound like the most reasonable assumption.

‘Not in himself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He is a channel for magic.’

Wyl did not understand but pushed on. ‘What else?’

‘Keep him close. I told you that before. I meant it then as I do now.’

‘And the boy?’

‘Strange.’

‘He is strange?’ Wyl wondered aloud.

‘No. Strange that I cannot read him. A complex child with an adept mind. He is very susceptible to magic, although he does not know it. That’s why the black dog chose him. Trust the boy. He begins to understand Knave … and you.’

She sounded as though she was falling into a trance but Wyl pressed on. He was frightened but determined to wring every last ounce of information he could.

‘My sister, she —’

‘Is in grave danger. You think you have her hidden but he will find her.’

Wyl was astounded. How could she know these things? He felt suddenly violent, wanted to hurl something at the wall, at her, at the stupid cottage they stood in. Ylena was safe … safe with Brother Jakub.

Now the woman’s voice sounded dreamy. ‘Jakub cannot protect her, nor himself,’ she droned. ‘And the other woman — the Queen. She is strong but her realm is weak. It makes her vulnerable.’

This was not a revelation to Wyl but it still terrified him to hear her say it out loud.

‘You must never speak of this to anyone,’ Wyl warned.

‘I am only a sideshow alley trader,’ the woman said, more focused now. ‘No one takes me seriously.’

‘Is there anyone who can help me?’ he asked desperately.

‘Seek Myrren’s father!’ Her voice was hard. It sounded deeper all of a sudden.

‘The physician?’

‘No! He was not her real father,’ the low voice said angrily. ‘Seek the manwitch.’

Wyl felt his world tip on its axis. This was too much. He was about to demand more about the father when she suddenly screamed out, ‘Wyl! Beware the barbarian! He knows you. He’s coming … coming for you … coming for you …’ her voice trailed to a whisper and then she seemed to pass out.

‘Elspyth!’ Wyl yelled.

The woman ran into the chamber and bent down by her aunt, lifting the closed lids before rubbing the old woman’s chilled hands. ‘She forbids me to witness these meets but look what it does to her. Saps her strength. I swear it will kill her. Quick, help me with that blanket … she’s freezing.’

Wyl did as asked and together they wrapped the birdlike frame of the old woman in a thick woollen shawl.

‘Will she be all right?’

‘I hope so. She went too far that time. Tried to see too much. She’ll sleep now for many hours,’ Elspyth answered matter of factly. ‘She will give nothing more to you,’ she added and it sounded like a challenge.

Wyl swallowed. The widow had already told him plenty and none of it pleasing.

‘She’s the real thing, a seer,’ he said, nodding and just a little awed by the tiny woman wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

‘And if you ever mention it outside of this room, I’ll come after you, Koreldy,’ Elspyth whispered. ‘Remember, it was you who pursued her.’

He felt suddenly dizzy. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk that wine on the medicine,’ he said, reaching to steady himself on something.

Elspyth grabbed him. ‘Let’s get you some air,’ she suggested, eager for him to be gone.

As they stepped outside beneath a darkening afternoon sky, Wyl’s world went painfully blank for the second time in a few days. The club hit him so hard, he did not even have time to react … did not even hear Elspyth scream. It mattered little, for her cry was cut off as quickly as it arrived in her throat. The man’s punch clipped her jaw so hard, she was unconscious before she hit the ground next to the prone body of Romen Koreldy.

‘Take them both,’ Lothryn said, regretting his companion’s blow to the woman. ‘We ride immediately for the fortress.’

TWENTY-THREE

CELIMUS WAS BORED OF the woman and her fawning manner, as well as her parents’ smiles and knowing looks. Did they think he might make their daughter a permanent arrangement in his life? Fools! She was nothing more than an amusement. And now the novelty had dissipated for him.

He pushed her aside. ‘Leave me,’ he commanded and ignored her pout. ‘Now!’ he yelled when she did not move immediately and it gave him pleasure to see the fright flit across her face as she gathered her clothes and fled.

Soon enough, Jessom arrived — a man Celimus had appointed to the newly created position of Chancellor. The middle-aged man had appeared at Stoneheart a few weeks previous, presenting his credentials for employment to the King. Celimus cared nothing for Jessom’s background — which was suspect — only for his willingness to serve, and he had already proved himself to have a slippery mind with a propensity for intrigue. He was perfect for Celimus.

‘Shall I have her things sent back to her family home, sire?’ Jessom asked, laying down a tray of sweet pastries and the King’s favourite juice of the parillion fruit. It was chilled, just as he liked it. ‘I took the liberty of telling the servant I’d bring your breakfast,’ he said by way of explanation, now busying himself with tying back the curtains on the King’s bed.

Celimus was flattered that Jessom had so quickly understood his needs so well. ‘Please. She is tedious and is no longer permitted visitation rights.’

‘As you wish, sire. I will see you shortly in your study, majesty,’ the Chancellor said, walking towards the door.

‘No wait. Tell me, what news from Briavel?’ Celimus asked, expecting none. He rose and pulled on a robe which Jessom held out for him.

‘No change, your majesty. Our second messenger has returned with the same courteous words. Her majesty, Queen Valentyna, graciously thanks his majesty, King Celimus … la la la.’

Celimus almost laughed. Jessom really did have his measure. He knew when he could take liberties and at other times when to play the grovelling courtier.

‘What is her plan, do you think, Jessom?’

‘My opinion only, sire, is that she wishes to hold you at bay.’

‘Are my advances that distasteful?’

‘Yes, sire,’ he said, handing his King a cup of the juice.

Celimus walked towards the window and sipped thoughtfully. ‘Why? She has met me only once and she was merely an infant.’

‘It is my guess that the dearly departed General might have something to do with her attitude, sire.’

‘No, I don’t believe so. According to my sources, Thirsk won her father’s permission.’

‘But he did not win hers, your majesty,’ Jessom cautioned.

‘Because he did not discuss it with her,’ Celimus countered.

‘Perhaps he should have, sire,’ Jessom said, bowing politely and offering the King a plate of the treats.

Celimus waved them away for now. ‘True. But that is not relevant, surely?’ The man shrugged and Celimus noted Jessom clearly had more to say but was holding his tongue. ‘Speak freely.’

‘Well, this young woman is now a Queen, sire … and there is no King or husband to advise her. No parent to demand things of her. She is the highest ranking decision-maker in the realm. I would suggest that Valentyna may well make up her own mind about whom she entertains as a suitor.’

‘But she does not know me,’ Celimus bleated.

‘Ah, there you have it, my King,’ Jessom said.

It was a deliberately cryptic statement and the man idly adjusted something on the mantelpiece, waiting for the obvious response.

Celimus knew his servant waited. He considered this sudden appreciation of the older man’s views, wishing he felt less dependent on them. ‘Explain what you mean by this, Jessom.’

‘Only this, sire. Perhaps you should no longer rely on third parties. Go to Briavel, my lord. Let her see you for herself. A woman needs to be wooed, your majesty. Make her feel special … desired … loved.’

Jessom had warmed to his subject; suddenly he was the teacher guiding the student. ‘This is no bedmate, your majesty. This is an equal. She is the reigning monarch of the land you want to rule. You need to make a very direct approach yourself. I dare a woman to ignore your looks or your charm, sire. Use them well. If you want Valentyna to marry you, ask her yourself. Tempt her with your honeyed words and your dazzling gifts. Bring all the pomp and ceremony of Morgravia to Briavel. Allow her to see your strength and how her own realm can only benefit from the sacred union of marriage between these two great nations.’ He paused only long enough to take a breath. ‘She wants peace, your majesty. Be sure of it. I suspect Valentyna is already well advised that there is only one way to secure it. But she is playing the coquettish virgin, sire. You must woo this woman properly.’

Celimus was stunned. He regarded the man carefully. Jessom was right. It was no longer time for missives and messengers. He, King of Morgravia, must take direct action.

Jessom pressed his point. ‘Word from the north, sire, is that the Mountain Dwellers are getting more bold. I suggest Cailech is flexing his muscles for his first raid out of the Razors.’

‘You really believe this?’

The man nodded. Celimus knew it was likely. Apart from the reports back from his northern guard led by the Duke of Felrawthy, his own father had warned him of the dire need to shore up defences on the northern border. Weeks before his death Magnus had firmly counselled his son that Briavel should no longer be the Morgravian focus. ‘A new threat emerges,’ he had warned. ‘Cailech grows restless in his mountain fortress.’

Celimus had already known this, of course, but it had suited him to have his father believe he had no idea of the politics of Morgravia and beyond. In truth, it enraged him that to think that Cailech might have delusions of building an empire. A barbarian! What next?!

Furthermore, the ease with which Cailech and his Mountain men scuttled into and out of Morgravia infuriated him. Part of Gueryn’s mission had been to discover the paths they were using — a dangerous task with a high probability of failure. It had been Celimus’s intention all along that Gueryn’s party be caught. In fact, his recent order to the Duke of Felrawthy to kill any Mountain folk found on the wrong side of the border — including those who might have stumbled across accidentally — had been a deliberate ploy to increase the ire of the Mountain King. Felrawthy and the Legion had baulked at killing innocent women and children, so Celimus had hired mercenaries to carry out the public executions.

After learning of the cruelty inflicted on his people, Celimus was sure Cailech would retaliate equally brutally should any Morgravian be discovered in the Razors. All had gone to plan and Celimus had been thrilled to receive a rumour that Gueryn and his spies had indeed been captured and were almost certainly meat for the mountain wolves by now. He was also captivated by the idea that if Cailech’s fury could be so manipulated by something as simple as killing off some of his Mountain sluts and brats, how easy it might be to provoke the hot-tempered King into waging war on Morgravia — or, better still, Briavel.

His cunning mind began to wrap itself around this notion. If such a thing could be achieved, he could contrive for Morgravia to come to Briavel’s rescue, causing Briavel to be hugely indebted to its neighbour. Celimus had no doubt that not only was his Legion more than capable of successfully punishing any army Cailech cared to bring across the border but also of crushing Briavel in its current weakened state. And he would have demolished two monarchs in one clever plan, removing the need for marriage at all. However, there was no harm in a contingency plan and he would be wise to keep the union with Briavel and its subsequent takeover foremost in his mind.

The sound of Jessom clearing his throat drew the King from his plotting. ‘I shall make a state visit to Briavel,’ he said firmly, ‘but I will not take the Legion. Let’s keep it more informal. We don’t want to terrify the Queen. Instead we must further bolster the supervision of the northern border.’

Jessom nodded and Celimus hated himself for feeling pride at the man’s acknowledgement. ‘You make a wise judgement, sire,’ Jessom said. ‘Would you like me to make preparations for Briavel?’

Celimus was glad to be back in charge. ‘Yes, go ahead. Keep me posted. I wish to be on our way as soon as possible.’

‘I shall need a few days, sire.’

‘As you see fit,’ the King said, waving his hand casually as though it were of no further consequence to him.

As Jessom bowed to take his leave, there was a knock at the door. It was one of the King’s many secretaries. He whispered something to Jessom who closed the door.

‘The front gate has a delivery for you, sire.’

‘So? Send it up?’

‘I gather it is somewhat grisly, my King. They preferred me to seek your permission on this.’

‘Grisly?’

‘A box carrying a head, sire, I gather,’ Jessom replied as easily as someone else might have said a box of pastries.

‘Whose?’ Celimus was pulling off his robe and grabbing for clothes.

‘That I can’t tell you, your majesty.’

Celimus shook his head absently. His mind was racing. ‘I wish to see this head.’

‘As you command, my King. I shall come with you.’

The box was brought to the King’s private garden which Magnus had previously cared for so passionately. Celimus rarely bothered with it but, knowing the value of doing what was seen to be right, he commanded a team of gardeners take care of the old King’s handiwork.

The box was placed down in front of him by an embarrassed senior member of the guard.

‘Who?’ Celimus demanded.

The man licked his lips. ‘Sire, my apologies. I do not know this man.’

‘Is there any correspondence with this delivery?’ Jessom asked, enunciating his words as though speaking to an imbecile.

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ the guard said, deliberately addressing his King rather than the newcomer most already despised. ‘We thought it best not to tamper with the package once we realised what it contained.’

‘Very good,’ Celimus said, no longer caring. ‘Let me see this head, then.’

The sacks were opened and the man gingerly reached in. He lifted out the head of Jerico.

Celimus felt his stomach twist with a knife of hate. Romen had escaped, then. He would be a dangerous foe out there, now that he knew of Celimus’s betrayal. He realised all eyes were upon him and was glad he had kept Jerico’s presence as much his secret as possible. He suspected Jessom was not as ignorant as he pretended, though.

‘Check again for any note,’ Jessom ordered.

The man looked inside the box. There was nothing else.

Celimus forced himself to shrug very casually. ‘And no one has any idea who this is?’ he demanded.

The two other members of the guard who had accompanied the box shook their heads fearfully.

‘Well, this unfortunate fellow is not known to our King. I suggest this is a prank. Get rid of it. Burn it,’ Jessom ordered. ‘Your majesty, I shall personally make enquiries about this insult.’

Celimus had already turned to walk away, anger rising, his parillion juice curdling in his stomach. Out of earshot he stopped as they crossed a courtyard.

‘Jessom. That was the head of an assassin I sent off to deal with a renegade — a dangerous one. The renegade’s name is Romen Koreldy.’

Jessom had suspected the King knew very well whose head he had just clapped eyes on, although he himself did not recognise the man. That was annoying but he was glad Celimus was conspiring with him now. ‘You have mentioned Koreldy to me before, sire.’

‘Yes, he departed just before you joined us. I want Koreldy dead, Jessom. I am making you personally responsible for this special task. Hire who you need, pay what you will. Just kill him and do it quickly. Are you up to this duty?’

The servant made a gesture indicating it was of little trouble for him. ‘Of course, sire. I will see to it. Um … may I make a suggestion, my lord?’

Celimus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go ahead.’

Jessom looked around furtively. ‘I know of someone. A spy of such talent that this person can go unnoticed in this capacity in any circle. I think what Morgravia needs, sire … what you need, is someone reporting back to you on the comings and goings in Briavel. Then with that flow of information, you can safely turn away and focus on the north as well as matters — such as this Koreldy — closer to home.’

‘Who is this person you speak of?’

The servant put his finger to his lips. ‘Best not shared, your majesty. The less involved you are, the less damage can be done to the Crown. Allow me to see to this for you. You know nothing of it and can claim that truly.’

Celimus could appreciate the sense of this. ‘And can this person track down Romen Koreldy should I ask it?’

‘If we assume the renegade is likely to return to Briavel, to stir up trouble for us during this time of delicate negotiation, then the moment he sets foot in that realm, our spy will know of it.’

‘Can this spy also kill?’

‘Better than any man alive, sire.’

‘Have it done! Pay whatever he asks,’ Celimus commanded, before stalking away.

Jessom smiled to himself. It was perfect that the King assumed the spy was a man. Well, she would enjoy hearing of this and especially of her new commission.

TWENTY-FOUR

ELSPYTH REGAINED HER WITS first.

She awoke to find herself on a horse and tied securely to the man who rode it. It was a clear night and so chill that she knew immediately she was nowhere near home. Only in the mountains would it be this cool. She had not seen the men who hit her, had no idea what she was doing here, but somehow she did know it was nothing to do with her. This was all about the stranger from the south. Romen Koreldy was the reason she was freezing on the back of a horse, tied to a man and heading higher and deeper into the forbidding Razors. Elspyth had sensed Koreldy would bring trouble. Her thoughts fled to her aunt. It came back to her now. She remembered the old woman had fallen into one of her trance-like stupors or so she hoped … there had not been sufficient time to check how bad it was this time. The old girl would sleep deeply, probably all night and possibly most of the next day. She would rouse and feel so weak she may not be able to support herself. She would be thirsty rather than hungry, exhausted and unable to move easily. Elspyth felt her grief snap to anger.

How dare they! How dare they come onto her land and strike her out cold and then cart her off like some animal. She tried to piece it all together. Why had they stepped outside? Ah, that’s right. The stranger felt lightheaded. She had thought he might collapse and did not feel like moving his dead weight around her cottage. She had suggested going outside more as an excuse to get him out and off the property. If he fell over inside, then she would have had to care for him and she did not want to be involved with Koreldy.

Elspyth had been so starved of male companionship she often wondered if she would ever have the joy of living and laying with a man. Marriage was not so important to her. But family was. She was alone except for her aunt. When the old girl died, that was it. Just her and the cottage. But to share it with a family — that would be her idea of an idyllic life.

Her smoothing friend had breathlessly described her client to Elspyth. But no, not Koreldy, even though his eyes had looked over her with appreciation; she would not risk her heart being broken by a flirtatious man such as him. She tried to look around surreptitiously for where he might be. Ah, over there on the spare horse. He was trussed to its back. She wondered if he too had regained consciousness — possibly not with the blow he’d taken.

‘If you’re awake, you can stop leaning on me,’ the man in front of her growled.

She immediately sat back. ‘Who are you?’

‘The name’s Lothryn.’

‘That means nothing to me.’

‘Nor should it,’ he said. Then he spoke briefly to his horse, encouraging it to take the higher of two paths they were approaching.

‘Why am I here with you?’ she demanded.

‘Why not?’

‘I mean why have you brought me here against my wishes? We have no argument.’

‘Unless you keep bleating on.’

‘Answer me!’ she said, furious.

‘I didn’t think we needed to leave behind a witness.’

‘Well you left behind my aunt!’

‘I didn’t think she’d care for the ride into the mountains.’

‘Well, neither do I.’

He laughed and said nothing more. She saw that he had two other companions. They were strong-looking men, all of them. The odds were stacked against escape. But they wanted Koreldy, not her.

She tried a more placatory approach. ‘Why not let me go? It’s him you want.’

He remained silent.

‘I have no goods, no money. I have nothing of any use to you.’

At this Lothryn chuckled deeply. ‘Myrt over there may well argue that,’ he replied.

It was Elspyth’s turn to become silent. She had not considered such a turn of events. How stupid was she? Three lonely men, Mountain Dwellers too. Why not? Who would even care? Suddenly Romen Koreldy was the only friend she had.

Lothryn seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry. No one will lay a finger on you. Not yet anyway.’

‘Until what?’ she dared ask.

‘Until … and only if Cailech sanctions it.’

Elspyth became still. Cailech! King of the Mountain Horde. She wanted to believe he was the stuff of legend. So many stories swirled around this man. No one in Yentro had ever seen him but then how would they know if they had? Increasingly more members of his race were ignoring the Legionnaires and finding ways into the border towns. She herself had seen them brazenly coming into and out of Yentro. They kept themselves to themselves, caused no bother and so people of the north began to relax around these men. Trust was not the right word but their gold was as good as any in the taverns and other merchant outlets. Their interest, of course, was trade; selling their skins and furs, utensils and jewellery.

For all she knew, Cailech could unobtrusively slip into and out of the border towns without anyone knowing who he was. How right she was in this assumption.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, a little intrigued despite her perilous situation. ‘I didn’t believe he was real.’

Lothryn snorted. ‘Trust me.’

Wyl was heartily sick of being knocked unconscious. This time he deliberately kept the fact that he had regained his wits to himself. It was night, very cold and he was lying on the ground; mercifully he was near a small fire but his hands and legs were bound. He could see Elspyth was sipping something. She was lost in her own thoughts, staring into the flames. Nearby he could hear, but not see, men speaking in low voices. He wondered how many there were.

Realising he could get no further information from this prone position, he shifted his body around.

Elspyth looked over. ‘At last.’

‘My head hurts horribly,’ he admitted, after which he felt the blade at the back of his neck. ‘I don’t have the strength to do much more than lie here,’ Wyl said and the pressure of the sword was removed.

He was hauled into a sitting position, and his mind swam with dizziness.

‘Drink this,’ Elspyth said, handing him a cup. ‘This is Lothryn, by the way.’

Wyl blinked the blurriness away and looked across at a large, barrel-chested man who grinned at him. The man was familiar.

‘Sorry about the club. Didn’t think you’d come willingly,’ he said.

‘You might have tried asking first,’ Wyl suggested.

Lothryn nodded. ‘Aye, I might have.’

‘Why did you bring the girl?’

‘He didn’t want witnesses apparently,’ Elspyth chimed in.

Wyl thought of the widow, knew Elspyth would be worried. ‘Let her go.’

‘I can’t now,’ Lothryn admitted. ‘No spare horse, too far to walk, too dangerous — can’t have you dying on the mountain, can we?’

‘Only in the fortress, I suppose,’ Wyl countered and won a smile from the big man.

‘Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Romen,’ Lothryn said.

‘You know him?’ Elspyth exclaimed at her captor.

‘We go back,’ he admitted.

‘How nice for you both!’ she snapped and was infuriated at the way the big man grinned at her waspish response.

Wyl racked his mind for any detail from Romen’s memory. None came. There was a sense of familiarity about the man but no information bubbled to the surface. There was also a sense of foreboding at the suggestion of the fortress. Wyl could not put his finger on why he felt so suddenly fearful. Romen had given him the distinct impression that he and Cailech had been on reasonably good terms.

Elspyth’s expression was as fiery as the flames that lit it. ‘Neither of you care about me anyway, so let me go — I’ll worry about my own survival, thank you. The mountains don’t frighten me.’

‘They should,’ the man replied. ‘They kill without remorse.’

She was not to be deterred. ‘You want him!’ she said, jutting her chin towards Wyl. ‘Not me. I have to get home to help my aunt.’

Lothryn shook his head sadly. ‘Myrt checked on her. She was dying then. Is probably already dead.’

The words hit like a slap. ‘You lie!’ she spat.

He said nothing. Just stared at her with dark eyes. She hated that she sensed compassion in them. Elspyth threw the contents of her cup into the fire and left the warm spot. She would not gratify them with her tears. Myrt followed her like an obedient dog.

‘Why am I here?’ Wyl said.

Lothryn glanced at him in surprise. ‘Did you think he’d allow us to sight you again and not bring you in? You were stupid to return to the north, Romen.’

Wyl felt the twist of fear again. What was it? It had to be Cailech whom this fellow spoke of. ‘So Cailech ordered my capture?’ he confirmed, hating feeling so lost for information.

Lothryn nodded.

‘And how far have we come?’

‘You’ve been out for the best part of two days. Sorry, we kept you drugged. We reach the Cave tomorrow. Now eat, we saved you a share.’

Two days. Combined with the couple of days’ travelling to Yentro, Wyl assumed the box containing the severed head had been delivered to Celimus by now. He smiled to himself, although there was little satisfaction in it. This diversion into the mountains could cost Valentyna her realm. He needed to escape … and fast. They untied a hand so he could eat, relieve himself and then, still feeling the effects of the blow which had left a lump the size of an egg near his ear, he drifted again into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Elspyth hardly uttered more than two words from the time they stirred and broke camp. She was deep amongst her unhappy thoughts and Wyl decided it was best to leave it that way. He too had plenty to consider, not the least of which was learning from his captors as much as he could about Cailech, the man who had ordered his capture.

The scenery about him was achingly familiar and Wyl found himself holding his breath. He sensed the darkness of Romen’s past was in the process of being brought into the light. The Razors were forcing it back to the surface, as though with each step closer to Cailech’s mountain home, another fragile bond holding that mystery in place was being broken.

Jessom waited patiently. The Old Plough at Sheryngham was a popular tavern with the merchants who plied their goods between Morgravia and Briavel. It was always busy, usually filled with strangers and the ideal spot for him to meet her. He ate, not bothering to stay alert for his guest. She would hardly announce herself anyway. She would just arrive, as was her way. The medley of roasted meats and buttery, mashed parsnip was excellent tonight and he ordered a second helping to satisfy a ravenous hunger.

She had been watching the thin, wiry man for a while now, knew he would not bother to look out for her, but still she liked to observe. Knowing people’s habits down to their eating and sleeping preferences was a practice most in her profession would scoff at. But she was thorough in her work, studying her clients as much as her victims.

Jessom’s message had been curt. He preferred to deliver the instructions in person, which suggested to her that he planned to have someone killed rather than simply observed. So be it. As long as he brought gold with him, she had no qualms about her role. She could not help but marvel at the amount of food such a lean man was tucking into. After the second order was delivered and half eaten she decided it was time to make herself known. Surreptitiously touching the fake hair around her face to check it had adhered securely she sucked on the foul-smelling pipe which hung from her lip and shuffled over to his table to sit down.

He looked up, unperturbed by what faced him. ‘Can I get you an ale?’

She nodded.

‘The disguise is impressive. I noticed the old man,’ he said, his voice very approving of her talent, ‘but thought it too obvious to be you. I would enjoy knowing what you really look like.’

‘Let’s talk business,’ she croaked in a low voice, smiling and revealing blackened teeth.

He blinked, dabbed at his mouth with a square of linen he habitually carried, and pushed his food aside.

The ale was delivered and they raised their mugs to each other.

‘To success,’ he said.

She put her mug down and licked the froth from her lips, careful not to disturb the carefully applied beard which she had had made and shipped from Rostrovo. ‘What is the job and who orders it?’

Jessom steepled his hands and rested his narrow, clean-shaven chin on them. ‘Highest possible source.’

‘I see. And the money?’

‘Left in the usual spot. Three bags this time which I think might more than cover your fee.’ He grinned and it struck her that he looked like a vulture.

She did not return it. ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ she said in her affected voice. ‘Who is it?’

Jessom became business-like. He briefed her. ‘A noble from Grenadyn but who in recent times has adopted mercenary status. Be warned, he is good. His name is Romen Koreldy; a skilled swordsman and canny soldier.’

‘And how has he offended?’

‘He carries dangerous information in his head, the sort which could damage the Crown. He also killed Morgravia’s commander of the Legion, General Wyl Thirsk.’

At this she lifted her eyebrows. ‘I’d heard he died in dubious circumstances.’

‘Koreldy also stole a ward of the Crown. Thirsk’s sister has disappeared with him.’

She did not pursue this, considered it irrelevant. ‘And my instructions?’

‘We believe he is likely to come into Briavel to make contact with Queen Valentyna. I want you to watch for his arrival. When the opportunity presents itself, you are to kill him.’

‘I will need time,’ she said, sipping her ale again. ‘If he is as skilled as you say, a more elaborate disguise is essential. You will require patience.’

‘You have it. I have never questioned your methods before.’

‘You have never ordered someone’s death on behalf of a third party before.’

‘True. Will you do it?’

‘Describe him to me.’

Jessom did so. He too was an accomplished observer of people and before he applied to the King for the position he now held he had spent some time watching the comings and goings of Pearlis, most especially what was happening in and around Stoneheart. He had witnessed Romen’s arrival and subsequent departure with Wyl, although none, not even the King knew this.

‘You would make a good spy with that talent for description.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

She sucked on the pipe and then blew a long thin stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. He almost smiled at the audacity of this woman. Her affectation as an old codger was perfect.

‘The payment,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘It is not enough. Triple it.’

‘Shar’s Wrath! Are you mad?’

‘No. He can afford it and I suspect there is no limit on the price.’

Jessom regarded the old man with the young woman’s eyes looking out from behind bushy, grey eyebrows. She was the best. Her price was worth it. ‘I’ll arrange it.’

‘Don’t try to make contact with me again,’ she warned. ‘I’ll be disappearing for a while.’

‘How will we know of your success?’

‘You will know when it is done,’ she said, lifting herself slowly as an old man might from his chair, breaking wind loudly as she did so. Only one person who was eating very nearby took offence but she ignored his curses. She did not look back as she limped from the tavern.

As they rode in single file — Elspyth now in front of Lothryn on the horse — they passed through the narrowest of openings in the rocks. Suddenly a flood of emotion assaulted Wyl. He could not attach it to any memory of any particular event but once again he felt twisted inside. It was fear. But it mingled with despair and guilt. This time the sensation did not dissipate but instead intensified with each step his horse took closer to the mountain fortress.

The mostly silent Myrt made the sound of an animal and this echoed cleverly up the close walls where presumably lookouts passed on who had arrived.

The four exited the pass and came face to face with the unforgiving sheer rock face frontage of Cailech’s fortress. It was known as the Cave to its dwellers but was in fact a breathtaking stone building, fashioned from the surrounding rock, which appeared to cling to the cliff edge they found themselves on.

Elspyth, no longer silent in worry, was in awe of where she found herself. The two Mountain men were used to its effect and were simply pleased to be back with their people. Wyl, however, inexplicably leaned over from his horse and in a state of utter bewilderment retched as the weight of Romen’s secret overwhelmed him. Still the truth evaded him.

A swirl of vague notions came to him: unpleasant notions of ugly deaths. Then they breezed away as fast as they had arrived, leaving him grasping helplessly after nothing. He delved hard in his despair but came up wanting — Romen’s memories yielded no answers this time. It was terrifying. How would he be able to keep up this pretence with so little knowledge of the man’s past and in the company of others who presumably knew it well? He retched again, this time in fear, he was sure. If he could not carry off this pretence, then Ylena and Valentyna were as good as dead and all that he treasured would be destroyed by the madman masquerading as the King of Morgravia.

‘Romen!’ Elspyth called, shocked by his actions.

‘Leave him,’ Lothryn said quietly. ‘This place, particularly the vineyards at Racklaryon, holds dark memories.’

She twisted to look at her captor. He was a man of few words and yet she sensed the kindness he worked hard to conceal with his gruff manner. It was there in his eyes now and he looked first at Romen, then at her and finally away.

‘Will you tell me?’ she asked out of earshot of Romen and was surprised when the Mountain man responded.

‘There were needless deaths here in the Razors. He holds himself responsible.’

‘And is he?’

‘Yes,’ Lothryn replied and she knew she would get nothing more from him on the subject.

‘So this is his first time back — is that why he sickens?’

‘I imagine so.’

There was no point in pursuing Romen’s past but now that she had Lothryn talking, Elspyth was not prepared to give up too easily. ‘Do you have family?’

‘I do.’

‘A wife?’ she wondered.

‘I am married. Our child should have come by now. He is late.’

‘He?’

‘She … I don’t mind.’

‘You sound worried — are you?’

‘No.’

And again the tone was final. She was impressed she had coaxed this much from him. Were they so different really? Here he is following his chief’s orders but deep down fretting over his family. Legend had it that the Mountain People ate children. As huge and imposing as Lothryn was, she guessed he would probably be the most tender of fathers.

He waved at the guard who began to raise the massive portcullis to permit entry.

‘One way out only?’ she said.

‘Only one way in, no way out,’ Lothryn replied.

The huge iron gate squealed as its chains rolled to lift it up. The horses moved through and entered a bailey. The size of this fortress was awesome. Men came towards them; some to take horses, others to escort the prisoners.

‘I will leave you now,’ Lothryn said to them once Wyl, pale and embarrassed, had caught up. Myrt had already disappeared. ‘These men will take you to chambers where you can freshen yourselves.’

Wyl nodded, said nothing.

‘I hope your wife and child are both safe,’ Elspyth called after their captor but he did not look back. Wyl looked at her with a query but she shook her head. ‘I trust you’ve got a plan to get us out of this?’ she said.

The guards were not so interested in his response and pushed them forward, deeper into Cailech’s clutch.

TWENTY-FIVE

THEY WERE SHOWN TO separate guarded chambers. The rooms were warmed by hollow clay pots, standing half as high as a man, in which small fires burned; their smoke exhausted via cunningly concealed flues. Painted frescoes adorned the whitewashed interior walls; even the ceilings were painted with vines and intricate border designs. Animal skins were laid on the floors and carved beds were decorated by woven spreads, simple and beautiful in their bright colouring. In such a forbidding place, beauty abounded and this was a surprise.

Wyl dozed briefly and woke to make full use of the fresh water and fatty soap which had been left for him. With Romen’s hair washed and neatly tied back, he scratched his new beard, wishing he could shave as well. There was not much he could do about his clothes, he decided, and so fetched a chair to the window which afforded him a breathtaking view of the pretty meadows beyond the lake. Intuition — only Romen could give him this — told him that those meadows led towards a cove with a sandy beach. Why was this significant to him? He settled back in the chair, cleared his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do in readiness for a sword fight and allowed any random thoughts or information to flow in. He cast a prayer that Shar might guide the truth to him of Romen’s dark past.

He sat for a while without any thought. Still and unfocused he stared out towards something he knew was significant. It was beyond the meadows but before the sea. It evaded him, although he sensed it was tantalisingly close to revealing itself. Wyl heard a noise from below which disturbed his clutching search into Romen’s history. He leaned out of the window to see a team of men rolling wine barrels. He sat back down hard on his seat, his pulse suddenly quickened. Wine! What was it that Lothryn had said earlier? It was subtle but it was loaded with meaning and it was connected with wine. A place called Racklaryon — that was it and he had suggested that’s why Romen’s physical reaction to seeing the fortress again had been so strong. Wyl remembered now how some trace of Romen had unwillingly stirred at the naming of that place. Why was that?

Racklaryon. The name was painfully familiar but he could not say why. He leapt from his chair and summoned the guard from outside his chamber.

‘Where is Racklaryon?’ he enquired.

The guard nodded. ‘The plains are after the meadows,’ he replied abruptly.

‘Before the sea,’ Wyl added.

‘The vineyards eventually lead down to the sea, yes.’

Wyl felt his heart leap. Vineyards. He was close. ‘Am I permitted to go there?’

‘I will check,’ the man replied and left Wyl standing in his doorway. The guard then muttered quietly to another man who was passing by. ‘We wait,’ he called back to Wyl.

Wyl returned to his room to wait and soon enough the guard knocked on his door.

‘You are permitted,’ he said. ‘Then you will meet with the King.’

Wyl nodded. He needed someone to show him the way and presumed he would not be allowed to roam free. ‘Will you accompany me?’

‘Yes. I will arrange horses.’

Leading the horses away from the fortress, Wyl gave up trying to be chatty with his companion. The man’s stern countenance and monosyllabic answers to polite questions were sufficient to warn him off. So now they cantered in silence, two more men bringing up the rear.

‘I have no intention of riding away anywhere,’ Wyl reassured.

‘Orders,’ his captor said.

The ride was pleasant enough and lifted Wyl’s spirits for a while, which was perhaps why the shock was even more intense when he caught his first glimpse through some trees of the picturesque vineyards of Racklaryon.

He galloped towards it, skirting the trees, his escort following just as fast. Finally seeing the rows of resplendent vines, rolling down the plains to a sandy cove was too much even for Romen’s buried memories. The force of the sight’s terrible impact smashed through whatever thin veil had kept Romen’s recall of this time so remote from Wyl and the full tragic event exploded into his consciousness as though he was watching the horrific scene unfold once again.

Wyl jumped from his horse, all but falling to the rich earth of Racklaryon, and here, on his knees, his arms uplifted to the heavens and screaming his despair, the truth of his host’s mysterious background unleashed itself on its guest.

It felt like an age before he could compose himself and he was grateful that his escort had finally dragged him from the vineyards, forced him back on his horse and returned him to his chamber where he remained, numb, until they came for him. The men spoke only the words necessary to ask him to come with them and he appreciated that they used his own language to communicate. Their own was a guttural, bastardised version of an ancient language from lands to the north-east from where the Mountain Dwellers’ ancestors originally came. He suspected Romen knew this language but he no longer wanted to delve into Romen’s past. What he had learned today he wished he could give back.

This new escort, like the first one, wore nothing warmer than shirts and sleeveless leather jerkins over woollen baggy pants tucked into sturdy boots, whilst he was glad of the several layers he had donned back in Yentro. He tidied himself quickly once again until he was neat and presentable for the King.

There were no stairs in this part of the fortress but gently swooping circular ramps, smoothed from the stone, ran between the floors. Wyl noted sconces burned at frequent intervals on the walls. He presumed they must remain lit constantly as only very little daylight would seep through into this vast place of cavernous halls. He soon lost his bearings. The men escorted Wyl through a wide, dark passage which ended at a great oak door. Guards were posted down this corridor and two burly men stepped aside as Wyl’s entourage arrived. One banged on the oak door and it was opened from the inside.

Cailech was obviously a cautious leader.

Inside, the large room lost all the austerity of what had gone before. Massive windows allowed maximum light and overlooked a picturesque scene of the lake which was home to thousands of water birds. Snowcapped mountains in the background stepped jaggedly down towards the valley and its pastures over which the fortress hung.

Huge pines lined the slopes. Spring flowers were bursting into bloom everywhere. Wyl found himself entranced by the spectacular panorama and was tempted to squint against the blaze of light and colour as he emerged from the dark of the corridor.

The chamber he stood in was enormous.

A familiar voice greeted him now from one of its many nooks. ‘Romen Koreldy. Tsk, tsk. I told you what I’d do to you if you ever set foot on my path again.’

Wyl turned to his right where Cailech, King of the Mountain Dwellers, stood relaxed by a huge open fire, its stone mantelpiece intricately carved with beasts and birds. A bare hint of a grin played around the man’s mouth. The King’s light-coloured hair was long and loose, carelessly held back from his oblong face by a leather thong tied around his head. He wore no beard but Wyl imagined he could grow one with ease. He did not bother with a shirt but wore only his leather jerkin over his skin which was burnished from sun and wind. His arms were thickly muscled ending in large, blunt hands.

The King held one out now, palm down, in the mountain way.

Wyl stepped forward and intuitively placed his own, palm up, against the calloused hand which dwarfed his. As he did so, he bent over that large hand to show his respect for this self-proclaimed royal.

‘To tell the truth, my lord Cailech, I did not deliberately set foot on your path. You had me stolen from Morgravia.’

Hard, unreadable pale-green eyes held Wyl as he straightened. For a moment he worried that the man may see him for the impostor he was.

‘Why were you so far north, Romen?’ The voice was pleasant enough but the question was pointed. Cailech knew no other way.

Romen had warned Wyl not to trifle with this man. He gambled. ‘That’s a rather long story.’

‘Share it with me. I’m in no hurry and you are certainly going nowhere.’ Cailech glanced towards his men who then withdrew, although Wyl noted they remained in the chamber itself.

They sat. Wine was immediately served.

‘Hungry?’ his host asked.

Wyl shook his head, recalling how violently he had emptied himself earlier. ‘But I will gladly take wine with you, my lord.’ He slipped into a topic he was familiar with and which came naturally to him. He had seen the wine barrels, noticed the vine designs in his chamber and on various items — Wyl felt he could risk this conversation as a polite opener. ‘Has the harvest been generous?’

‘Bountiful last year and this year shaping up to be just as good. This is some of our finest from the plains of Racklaryon.’

Wyl flinched at the naming of this place. He looked over the rim of his goblet at the strong features which regarded him. His father had cautioned so many times about the threat from the north and how Morgravia should never underestimate its King. Wyl could appreciate that now, staring into the face set in an expression that seemed carved from the same granite as the mountains he called home.

Wyl sensed he must not show any further proof that the word disturbed him. ‘How old are you anyway, Cailech?’ he asked, falling back on Romen’s nonchalance which had saved Koreldy so many times.

‘Odd question,’ the man replied, showing a smile which Wyl noted touched his eyes and changed his demeanour into one of pure amusement. ‘I would hazard that you and I are around the same age.’

Wyl nodded, estimating much the same of thirty-five or so summers. ‘You have achieved so much for one still relatively young.’

Cailech snorted. ‘I don’t feel young.’

‘Tell me how it all came about … how you united the tribes.’

‘I thought we were discussing you. Anyway you would have heard it from others during your last stay, I’m sure.’

‘I’d like to hear it from you,’ Wyl said carefully.

‘Why?’

‘You said you were in no hurry and you have never told me much about yourself,’ Wyl gambled again, all but holding his breath.

Cailech sipped, watchful, obviously carefully considering Wyl’s question.

‘There really isn’t much to tell,’ the King finally said. ‘We were a rabble. A horde of scavengers who would just as soon fight over a neighbour’s goat than look to the bigger prey of neighbouring kingdoms and fight over something worth winning.’

‘Such as?’

‘Land, horses, wealth.’

‘Go on.’

‘We were never going to amount to anything more than vandals whose best success might be raiding another tribe’s region. I suppose I had a vision.’

‘How old were you when you had this vision?’

The King tapped his goblet in thought now. ‘I could see it clearly from childhood. As soon as I was considered old enough to wield weapons and join the raiding parties, I began preaching that vision. At every opportunity I’d beg my father, the leader of our tribe, to call talks. After a raid, whether we were successful or not, he would sit with his counterpart and they would discuss what I suppose could be called terms of war. It became infectious and my father and I would travel into different tribes as the mediators for such talks. As my voice deepened into a man’s, I think they began to pay more attention to me. For this, you see, was only the beginning of my vision. My plan was always to unite the tribes into one race, one leader, one aim.’ He realised he sounded like he was preaching the vision and shrugged suddenly. ‘All history. This fortress took almost two decades of my life to build.’

‘I was impressed all those years ago, your majesty. I’m even more astounded by its simple beauty now.’

‘Thank you,’ the King said. ‘And Racklaryon? How was your ride?’

This time he did not hesitate. ‘Painful.’

‘I expect it was,’ Cailech replied carefully, then switched topics as smoothly as his wine slipped down Wyl’s throat. ‘We are wondering why Morgravia would use you to spy on us.’

Wyl baulked and the surprise showed on his face. ‘I am not spying for Morgravia, your majesty. I would sooner join you in cutting its King’s throat.’

It was Cailech’s turn to be surprised. ‘Is that so?’

‘He has done me many wrongs. That’s why I was in the north.’

Cailech raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Well, Romen. It’s your turn. I shall have your story about this trip so close to our border.’

Wyl took a careful breath of relief. This was something he could speak about without fear of error.

After an opportunity to wash and neaten her appearance, Elspyth enjoyed a most acceptable meal of warm bread and a thinly sliced meat she did not recognise. As she finished off the light but nonetheless deliciously buttery wine, there was a knock at the door. She took a deep breath and crossed the room, brushing crumbs from her clothes. She was pleased to see it was Lothryn who had come for her.

‘How is your wife?’ she asked before he said anything.

Lothryn’s expression did not change but she would never know how much her gentle mannered enquiry meant to him. ‘As well as can be expected. She began her pains before our arrival. She’s still going.’

Elspyth could sense the anxiety which he did his best to disguise. ‘Not long then before you can celebrate your son’s arrival,’ she said brightly.

‘Haldor willing,’ he replied softly, calling on the Mountain god.

‘Have I been summoned?’

‘Not yet. I thought you should see how barbaric we really are.’

She frowned, not sure what this meant.

‘Shall we take a walk?’ he offered.

This took her by surprise but she quickly rearranged her expression to a smile. ‘Oh, I’d like that.’ Elspyth was relieved his comments meant nothing more sinister.

He showed her through sections of the fortress and Elspyth admitted to being delighted by the beautiful decoration on the walls and ceilings, on the timbers and in their fabrics.

‘You are a most artistic people,’ she observed and meant it. ‘More talented than us Morgravians,’ she lamented.

‘Skills passed down through generations over centuries,’ he explained, not showing it but pleased by her compliment. Outside he guided her past the busy kitchens.

‘There’s a feast in the making,’ he added, which explained the frenetic activity.

They continued beyond the stables and into the orchards and vegetable gardens. These were vast and a small army of people were busy tending to them. Lothryn left her momentarily to pick some late apples. He returned munching on a red one and offered her a green one. ‘I don’t care for the green fruit. They give me bellyache,’ he grinned. Elspyth smiled and took the apple. They strolled in silence as they ate.

‘Tell me about Koreldy,’ Elspyth suddenly blurted.

‘I can’t imagine there’s anything I can tell you about him which you don’t already know,’ he responded cautiously.

‘Please, Lothryn. He’s a stranger. I’m having enough trouble working out what I’m doing here. Perhaps if I knew more, I could help with what you want,’ she offered.

The man paused a while as if measuring whether she was trying to hoodwink him.

‘We want to see if Koreldy is a threat to our people.’

‘But you know him already, surely? And how can a single man be a threat?’

‘We knew him a long time ago. Cailech would like to know what he’s doing in Morgravia.’

‘Well, I can tell you that,’ she said, puzzled. ‘He’s somehow connected to that General who recently died.’

‘Thirsk?’

‘Yes.’

Lothryn shook his head. ‘He was an old man, bound to eventually die on the battlefield. Connection or not, I suspect this is not what my King pursues.’

‘No. I’m talking about the son. His name was Wyl.’

‘Wyl Thirsk is dead?’

It clearly came as a shock to him she realised. ‘Well, yes. My aunt and I heard about his state funeral on our travels back to Yentro from Pearlis. I remember her saying we haven’t heard the last from that one but I don’t know what she meant by that.’

Now she had Lothryn’s interest piqued. ‘And what is Koreldy’s connection with Thirsk?’

‘I have no idea but my aunt may have known. She agreed to meet Romen only because he mentioned the name Thirsk.’

‘Then what are your aunt’s dealings with the former General?’

‘Very little. She did a “speak” for him when we were in Pearlis for the tournament.’

‘A “speak”?’

‘That’s her talent. She’s a seer. She speaks about what she sees in people, although I would not admit that on Morgravian soil.’

‘Do they still burn people?’

‘Not for several years now, but the old suspicions die hard in the south. In the north we believe in empowerment, we always have.’

He grunted. ‘We too.’ Lothryn tossed his apple core aside. ‘So what did she see in Thirsk?’

‘Truly, I don’t know. I wasn’t present. It wasn’t anything serious — just a bit of fun fortune-telling to earn a few pennies.’

Lothryn nodded thoughtfully. ‘What else do you know?’

‘That’s it. We arrived home and not long after Koreldy appeared in Yentro asking after the Widow Ilyk, my aunt.’

‘Perhaps we should have grabbed the old girl,’ Lothryn muttered ruefully.

She took advantage of his mood. ‘All you had to do was ask me — I would have given you this information willingly. You didn’t have to knock me unconscious and drag me up here to learn it.’

He did not respond, although she sensed his amusement. They continued walking.

Elspyth tried again. ‘So what is Romen’s secret?’

Lothryn looked at her with no understanding and she returned it with an expression of exasperation. ‘It’s clear he hides something which you know about. You two greeted each other amicably; how come a Mountain Dweller knows a Grenadyn noble?’

‘Grenadyn is but a short boat trip away.’

Elspyth shook her head. ‘You’re avoiding my question,’ she admonished.

‘Perhaps you should let him tell you his past.’

‘Oh come on, Lothryn! You didn’t bring me out here for the fresh air. I suspect Cailech asked you to find out what I know. I’ve told you what information I have. I also suspect the walk helps take your mind off your labouring wife. First child? I’d say you have hours to go. We’re in no rush. Talk to me — I’ll keep you company but only if you’re honest. I’ve told you the truth.’

She was easy to like, this one. Lothryn found her fiery nature attractive. He hoped Cailech would not order her defilement as some sort of example to the Morgravians, although he was more than capable of something that brutal, especially now the young Morgravian King had showed himself to be more aggressive than his father. Magnus had left it to General Fergys Thirsk to ensure the Legion’s presence at the border was a sufficient deterrent, but Fergys had never become heavy-handed with that weapon. In contrast Celimus had, and his recent act of slaughtering innocents who had inadvertently stumbled across the border had plunged Cailech into an unpredictable mood. It might have been eased had Celimus sent immediate apology but the silence from the south was both deafening and damning.

Lothryn hoped his influence might count for something when he met with the King later — perhaps he might help avoid some brewing trouble. He came out of his musings, realising Elspyth was staring at him, waiting for his response.

‘All right. I’m sure it can’t hurt,’ he said. ‘Sit here.’ Lothryn gestured towards a low wall which led into some rockier pastures where the fortress’s goats were grazing.

‘He is from Grenadyn. He belongs to a wealthy noble’s family — I mean real riches. There were three children. An eldest son — the heir — and then twins, Romen and his sister. I gather that Romen was the wild one of the three and always leading his sister into trouble. His antics became more reckless as he grew up and it was the brother who saved Romen’s lot countless times.’

Elspyth smiled. She had never had any siblings to know that kind of love. ‘They were close then.’

He nodded.

‘I sense from your expression that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.’

‘No,’ Lothryn admitted. ‘Grenadyn’s south island is really not that far from our mainland. Cailech passed a law forbidding any visitors beyond our borders without prior permission being sought. He really meant it against the Morgravians and Briavellians who treated us Mountain Dwellers as nothing more than barbarians.’

‘If only they knew,’ she said, trying to ease his obvious wrath for the rich southern realms.

‘I don’t think he really worried about Grenadyn. They had no argument with us; never sought our lands, never gave cause for us to regard them as anything but friendly neighbours.’

‘Until?’

‘Until some of our people mistakenly got themselves washed up on a Grenadyn beach. Some panic-stricken idiot sent out the word that the barbarians were raiding. It was a ludicrous claim considering our people were in a smallish rowboat but it was night and the thugs the alarmist called were drunk. I presume they decided to take matters into their own hands. Our people fought back as bravely as they could without many weapons but they were slaughtered. The children too who were hiding in the boat. One of those children was the King’s cousin. He loved her very much.’

Lothryn threw a stone into the distance. He stayed quiet for a few moments and Elspyth wondered if he would continue with the story.

‘Cailech did not respond as predicted — he took us by surprise, to be honest, and I imagine the Grenadynes held their collective breath waiting for the onslaught which never came. Instead he simply issued a warning. His instructions were clear. If anyone from Grenadyn was ever sighted on our land they were to be killed with the same speed and lack of sympathy as had been shown our people.’

Elspyth did not need to hear any more. She could guess the outcome but Lothryn’s tongue was loosened now and he seemed compelled to tell it all.

‘We sent word to Grenadyn of his decision. Everyone sensibly heeded the warning — except Romen Koreldy. Arrogant and possessing that sense of invincibility which all young braves have in abundance, he devised a dare for the young folk of the south island. Bring back a bunch of Cailech’s prized grapes from his vineyards of Racklaryon and you won what he called the “dare gold”.’

‘You don’t need to go on,’ she said, touching his arm gently.

Whether he noticed the gesture or not, he ignored it. ‘Several took him up on the dare but were unsuccessful. Thankfully that channel of water which divides us is usually perilous. But I gather from Romen that he goaded his sister unfairly, for this girl was not scared of anything, as I understand it — very much in his mould … a worthy twin, you could say. She was every bit the adventurer Romen was and always trying to prove her match to him.

‘The short of it is that Lily — that was her name — took the dare. And Romen, delighted and filled with bravado, said he’d join her. They rowed across the channel. It really isn’t that far and fate calmed the waters on this particular day. When the elder brother found out their folly he was understandably furious and rowed after them.’ Lothryn put his head in his hands. ‘You know she almost made it, that brave girl. She had the grapes in her hand when she was discovered. The elder brother had the presence of mind to bring his sword and he wielded it gallantly. I was there, I witnessed him fighting for their lives.’

‘And Romen?’ Elspyth enquired.

‘Ah, that’s the crux of this dark tale. He lost his nerve. Cringing in a copse near the vineyard, he shielded himself and watched us take his brother and sister. Cailech ordered their deaths instantly. Our King made the right decision — the only decision he could under the circumstances — but it made me feel we earned our title of barbarians that day. We crucified those two young people in the Racklaryon vineyard for nothing more than a bunch of grapes.

‘It was a bright, clear day and the Grenadynes could probably see the two crosses and their victims through an eyeglass. The brother died first but she lingered throughout the day and night, punishing us all. She called to Romen. Begged him to save her. Poor, tragic Lily. She fought death all the way to her last gasp and he would have heard every groan, would have watched every moment of her suffering.’

Elspyth was rigid with tension now, both sickened and despairing of this sad story. ‘What happened?’

‘The next morning their stiff bodies were cut down and burned; their ashes scattered on the waters which brought them to us. Romen watched it all and when it was over, his fighting spirit, it seemed, made a return.’

‘What do you mean?

‘He tried to kill Cailech.’

‘What?’

‘It’s true. He’s a deadeye marksman with knives, did you know that?’ She shook her head. ‘Cailech was at the burning, or so people thought. Knives hit him clean in the chest and killed him outright … or would have if the man had been Cailech.’

‘I’m not following you now,’ Elspyth admitted.

‘Cailech had his Stones read the night before by Rashlyn, the King’s practitioner, and they told of an attempt on his life that next day. He is very mindful of any advice given through the Stones and took precaution. From a distance, any big man with long hair of similar colour could fool an intruder such as Romen. He threw true, killed his man and when captured was obviously stunned to learn the truth.’

‘How has he survived to this day, then?’

‘A miracle, I would suggest. Perhaps Cailech had had enough of the killing. He can be ruthless, don’t be fooled, but he is a deep thinker. My feeling is he admired the fact that the brother had finally found the courage to do what was right. They were of an age and he spared Romen, allowed him to live and work amongst us for a while and tried to help him come to terms with his loss. He never did, I might add. When he was ready to leave, he was given back his weapons and escorted to the southern border. He promised never to return to Grenadyn. Cailech told him that if he ever set foot near the Razors again, then he would die.’

Elspyth ran her hands through her hair. ‘How long has it been?’

‘Has to be ten summers or so.’

‘And still you recognised him?’

‘A man as distinctive as Romen is not easily forgettable.’

She nodded; he was right, of course. ‘And will Cailech kill him?’

‘That I can’t answer but now come, we must return. He will wish to see you.’

‘You expect me to believe that, although you were working for the Morgravian King, you have no loyalties to him?’

‘I do,’ Wyl answered carefully. ‘If I told you I could unite Briavel and your people against Morgravia, would you believe me?’ he challenged.

‘No,’ the King answered. ‘I would not trust them anyway. And I don’t trust you. Your tale is too far fetched.’

‘What can you not believe?’

Cailech sat back in his chair, twirling his wine glass, highly amused. ‘You were hired by Celimus to assassinate Wyl Thirsk which you claim you have done. Then you took his body back to Pearlis to ensure the General’s name was cleared of wrong doing because you suspected Celimus would spread lies about Thirsk’s involvement with the Briavellians … can you hear how unbelievable this all sounds, Romen?’ Cailech scratched his head theatrically before continuing. ‘You witness the funeral … ah, no wait, another intrigue. First you rescue Wyl Thirsk’s sister from the dungeon where Celimus is keeping her. You spin him some story about wanting to shame the Thirsk name further by lying with her.’

Wyl nodded grimly. It did sound far fetched when spoken aloud like this — how sad then that it was the truth.

‘But here comes the good bit. Then you escape from Stoneheart because you know Celimus would never keep his word — would most likely make another attempt at your life. And, of course, you’re right, but you escape death even though trained assassins follow you.’

Wyl had mentioned nothing of Knave’s involvement. That really would be pushing Cailech’s indulgence.

The King sipped his wine and smiled. ‘You kill them and then despatch the head of one to Celimus … why? Why would you let him know anything of your escape? But let’s move on to the most intriguing part of all.’ Cailech was enjoying himself, Wyl realised. ‘Your actual intention is to track down a seer who did this “speak” on you because you want more information.’

‘Correct,’ Wyl said, terrified by all the holes in the story he had related.

Cailech exploded into laughter, getting up from his seat to return to the mantelpiece. ‘Priceless! But I’m afraid it’s too thin, Romen. You’re going to have to come up with something more plausible if you want your life spared.’

A servant stepped up quietly and at the King’s permission whispered something.

‘Bring her,’ he said and the servant departed.

Moments later Lothryn appeared with Elspyth who went down on one knee to the sovereign.

‘My lord Cailech,’ she whispered in no little awe.

The King glanced towards Lothryn and Wyl was quick enough to catch the surreptitious nod from the man. What it meant he could not guess.

‘You are the seer’s daughter, is this right?’ Cailech asked.

Elspyth remained bowed. ‘No, my lord. I am her niece, Elspyth.’

‘Ah, that’s right. Now tell me, Elspyth, what did your aunt say to Romen here the first time she met him? Please stand.’

She did so, looking up at the mountain of a man before her. He was taller than Lothryn. A fierce intelligence lurked behind those shrouded eyes and they saw the puzzlement on her face.

‘My lord?’

‘Would you like me to repeat the question?’

Wyl felt the hairs on his arms lift. This was dangerous. Think fast! He opened his mouth to say something but the King was quick. He held up his finger to his mouth to stop Wyl.

Elspyth glanced nervously between both. ‘No, sire. I … I just don’t understand it. My aunt has only met Romen once.’

Cailech glanced towards Wyl slyly but he spoke to Elspyth. ‘Ah! And I presume this occurred at your cottage … in the foothills?’

‘Yes, my lord. A few days ago.’

‘And to your knowledge your aunt has met this man only once.’

‘I speak the truth. She told me she didn’t know him, did not know his name.’

Wyl knew Cailech would turn that hard gaze of his towards him now and whatever Romen said next would have to be convincing.

He had no choice and adopted a tone of soft offence. ‘Well, she has lied to you, Elspyth. I’m sorry.’

Elspyth turned on Wyl and glared. ‘How dare you! Why would she?’

He shrugged, palms turned upwards in a show of helplessness. ‘How can I possibly know her reasonings? She and I met briefly at Pearlis. It was early afternoon on the day of the royal tournament — the main break had just been called for the midday meal and there were plenty of people milling through the side stalls. You were definitely not around, though, or I would have recalled you.’ Wyl watched her anger stoke as he pressed on. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, I did see Thirsk with a companion, a man about his own age I knew to be Captain Alyd Donal. I don’t think they went into your aunt’s tent because I overheard them saying something about coming later, if all went well or something.’

Fury turned to slow understanding on Elspyth’s face. She suddenly looked down, embarrassed. Lothryn felt sorry for her when he noticed her blush.

‘Sire, perhaps this is my mistake. Romen speaks true. My aunt mentioned that Thirsk came with a companion called Captain Donal and she also told me they had been at her tent earlier that day — she mentioned it only because she was surprised they did not visit her then and that she knew they would return.’

‘Where were you?’ Cailech asked.

‘I was at the tournament.’

Trying to be helpful, Elspyth recounted for Cailech the Prince re-introducing the old rite of Virgin Blood.

‘And they call us barbarians,’ Lothryn muttered under his breath.

Cailech’s wry smile was evident too. ‘Please go on,’ he encouraged, fascinated.

‘I was close enough to hear what followed the Prince’s victory,’ she continued, looking towards Romen whilst Wyl inwardly flinched at having to hear the torrid account again. ‘The General, I gather, thwarted the Prince’s plans by marrying off his sister the previous day. It was obvious the Prince wanted to bed her, not because he loved her I don’t think, sire. She is a beautiful woman, of course. But he loves only himself, my aunt says.’

The King nodded. ‘So Celimus had good reason for hating Thirsk. Humiliation is a wonderful weapon, isn’t it, Lothryn?’

The big man returned the nod.

Wyl grasped the shift in thought and pushed the point harder. ‘Their hate for each other went back to childhood, I hear. It festered for a decade or more and was complicated — the fathers were blood brothers and old King Magnus was fond of Wyl whilst never enjoying much of a relationship with his son. There’s more to it but Celimus did not enlighten me.’

‘All right, let’s say I do accept most of what you’ve told me today, I still don’t understand your trip north.’

‘Cailech, you’re reading more into it than there is,’ Wyl said, reaching for the familiarity he sensed Romen once had with the King. ‘The seer told me my life would become entwined with a Queen. And that I must pledge my life to her cause. It meant nothing at the time — there was no Queen in any of the realms I knew. And then I went to Briavel for Celimus and met Valentyna,’ he lied. ‘All the events I spoke to you about then unfolded and I knew, at her father’s death, this was the Queen the seer spoke of.’

‘So you came here to learn more about the vision she saw for you?’

‘It’s as simple as that. I didn’t get a chance to learn much because Widow Ilyk kept calling out that the barbarian was coming. If only I’d paid attention.’

Both the men before him smirked.

‘Plus he was unwell from the potion he was taking for his pain and I served wine and we thought he might pass out and that’s why we were outside,’ Elspyth concluded in a rush of words.

All eyes turned to Cailech. He swallowed what was left in his goblet, not at all perturbed by the audience’s held breath or the awkward pause which he further pressed by turning to Lothryn. ‘How is your woman?’

‘I might check on her if we’re finished here, my lord,’ Lothryn replied, undisturbed by the sudden twist in conversation.

Cailech nodded and his man left.

The King switched his topic back, once again surprising Wyl with his quick mind. ‘Why do you care about Thirsk, Briavel … any of it?’ Cailech sounded exasperated now.

‘Because Wyl Thirsk, as I discovered, was honest. I’m an outsider and I’m telling you Thirsk was true to Morgravia — as true to his King Magnus as Lothryn is to you. Now you admire loyalty and so if you had known him you would have admired Wyl Thirsk for that quality alone. Furthermore, he abhorred torture of any kind,’ Wyl said, warming now to his own pet subjects. ‘If he had had the chance to go to battle, he would have spared death wherever he could. This was not a warmongerer. He was not so dissimilar to you, in fact. Your vision was to parley, to settle squabbles with talk not bloodshed.’

‘You seem to know a great deal about him — you must have got close swiftly?’ Cailech watched Romen blink as though taken aback momentarily, then he saw him shake his head wearily.

‘We spent a few days tied together, then we fought alongside each other to save a monarch under attack, then we fought each other because even he understood that only one of us could escape from Briavel alive. He died valiantly and he won my oath, as I’ve explained, to protect Valentyna.’

‘I ask again, why do you care?’

Wyl had no more answers. He cared because he was in love with her and that love was as ferocious as his hate for Celimus who betrayed him.

Cailech sighed as though admonishing a child. ‘This is that nobility thing again with you, isn’t it, Koreldy?’

‘It runs in my veins,’ Wyl answered with sincerity, glad for the excuse. ‘And I made a pact with him. We mixed our bloods. It is binding, Cailech, and I must admit my loyalties are far easier given to Briavel than Morgravia,’ Wyl said, lying now. He felt suddenly tired and confused. He hated to think that he was no longer loyal to his homeland.

Cailech missed very little and could see the spirit, the fight that was there previously had suddenly evaporated from the man he rather liked in spite of himself.

‘We shall talk later. I need to think upon what you have told me. You two are free to enjoy our hospitality. Please don’t try and leave the fortress grounds or our archers will use you for target practice. My guards are on orders to kill either or both of you on sight if you are anywhere you shouldn’t be. Understand?’

They both nodded.

‘Tonight I am holding a feast. There may be a special dish on the menu which I’m sure will amuse you, Romen … not so you, my dear,’ he said to Elspyth. ‘I will ask you both to join us for some interesting festivities.’

TWENTY-SIX

WYL TOOK ADVANTAGE OF the afternoon to sleep. His dreams were filled with nightmares of a young woman hanging from a timber crossbeam begging him to save her. It became even more disturbing when the young woman’s face dissolved from one he vaguely recognised from borrowed memories to one which was achingly familiar. Ylena hung now, beseeching Wyl, wondering how he could have failed to protect her.

He woke with a start, his bed linen drenched. I have to escape these mountains! The widow had warned him of the danger to his sister and now his dreams echoed that warning. To calm his anguish he lingered over his toilet, pleased to note that some kind soul had left him a fresh shirt. Washed and refreshed he was able to put aside his fears for the time being and concentrate on getting through this celebration of Cailech’s. Perhaps if the King was in a good mood tonight, he might negotiate his own release.

Unable to sleep, Elspyth wandered the fortress aimlessly but felt her presence was unwelcome and all eyes watchful. The sense of alienation prompted her pleasure at seeing a familiar, albeit hostile, face as Myrt lumbered past her at one point.

‘Good day, Myrt.’

He did little more than grunt but at least he paused.

She wiped her palms nervously on her skirt. ‘Um … would you know where I might find Lothryn? He, er … he went to check on his wife’s progress.’

The man mumbled directions which she hoped she could remember. According to Myrt, Lothryn had private lodgings amongst the fortress buildings. She had already gathered Lothryn was far more than a foot soldier for Cailech — it was obvious now that he was some sort of deputy. On her way she picked a bunch of wildflowers, hoping to please the new mother.

She lost her way several times but worked up the courage to ask directions of other even less communicative souls than Myrt and retraced her steps. Finally she found the alleyway they spoke of which opened into a small central courtyard with several stone houses built around it. At one doorway a group of people had gathered and she presumed this might well be the welcoming party for the new babe. As Elspyth approached she sensed, however, that the atmosphere was far from celebratory. If anything it was grim. They noticed her standing back and she was embarrassed by their stares and mutterings.

Elspyth called out carefully, introducing herself and asking after the family, having decided it was probably best not to trespass on what might be considered a private gathering.

An older woman, perhaps she was family — Elspyth could not tell — looked angrily at her and yelled, ‘Go away, Morgravian scum!’ Then she spat towards Elspyth who was too stunned to avoid the spittle which landed on her skirt. ‘You’ve brought the barshi!’

Barshi? She had no idea what it meant but found the mettle to ask where Lothryn was.

The old woman hurled a string of words at her in a language Elspyth could not follow. So she turned away from her and addressed a girl with red eyes, sore from her tears.

‘I have a message for Lothryn,’ she lied.

‘The Mourning Stone,’ the girl answered.

Elspyth began moving away. ‘Where are they?’ She did not wish to antagonise the group any further.

Someone pointed towards a hill. She fled; her own fears and anguish welled as she ran towards someone she hardly knew yet she somehow felt connected with because he had shared a secret with her. She found him finally after falling twice and grazing her palms and elbows in her efforts to climb the steep incline.

Elspyth found him kneeling on a flat boulder of granite facing out to sea. He keened and the sound of his anguish cut through her. His cries intensified with the wind and were carried seaward.

Elspyth felt herself trembling for his pain and it was only after a few minutes that she noticed a tiny bundle in his arms. The shock of realising the baby was present forced her to her feet and she stumbled forward again, risking his wrath, wanting to share his grief. It mattered not to her suddenly whether he acknowledged her presence or chose otherwise but Elspyth moved onto the Mourning Stone and put her arms about him and cried in unison with the stranger who had captured her. Elspyth so badly wanted family of her own that she could more than empathise with this family’s loss of a life.

He did not recoil at her touch. Instead he rocked all three of them in his keening, clutching the bundle so close Elspyth could not even see the baby’s face. She assumed the worst, that new life had been snatched away by Haldor, the god in whom Lothryn had placed his faith. She lost track of time, realising the flood of tears she herself had cried were not just for this Mountain Dweller’s loss but for her aunt. Also for Romen and the horrible death of his family.

The wind gradually died down and she caught the unmistakable sound of a gentle whimpering of an infant.

She pushed back on her heels. The baby lived! Fresh tears. Don’t let him see them. Elspyth stepped around Lothryn and reached tentatively towards the baby.

‘Lothryn, it’s Elspyth. I mean no harm. May I?’

He turned eyes of such intense sorrow on her that her courage almost failed and she would have left him if not for the gentle way in which the huge man held out his newborn baby. She took the child, feeling a fresh wave of grief. Holding this precious infant highlighted her own plight, her own lack of family and belonging. Elspyth cradled the softly moaning baby and without thinking put the tip of her small finger in the child’s mouth. It immediately began to suck.

‘Your baby needs feeding,’ she said.

His words came back hard. ‘His mother is dead. She fought hard to stay with us but she bled so much. They couldn’t stop it.’

Elspyth swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She said no more, fearful of using the wrong words. Instead she simply laid her hand on his arm. Perhaps through touch she could convey her despair at his loss.

He surprised her by covering her small hand with his own. ‘Thank you.’

Then Lothryn, deputy chieftain of the Mountain People, took his newborn son from her and strode away, leaving Elspyth empty and shattered on the Mourning Stone where he had cast his wife’s spirit to the seas.

Later, exhausted and back in her chamber, Elspyth glanced out of her window towards the meadows. She saw two riders. One was Lothryn. The other, unmistakably was his King. Elspyth hoped Cailech would offer more comfort to his friend than she had.

‘She gave a son to our people, Loth. We must celebrate her contribution rather than mourn her death,’ Cailech said, staring out across the pastures he loved.

‘You have good reason to celebrate the boy’s birth,’ Lothryn replied more pointedly than he had intended.

Cailech now looked towards his closest friend and companion, the man he trusted above all others and remained silent. The look exchanged carried much weight. Both knew that whatever stood between them on this subject best remained unsaid. The King nodded in deference towards his deputy before they walked their horses on.

‘She didn’t love me at the end, Cailech, it’s all right,’ Lothryn finally said with a sigh. ‘I grieve for the unhappiness I gave her and the fact that the boy has no mother.’

‘We will care for him better than any other.’

‘I know.’

The men guided their horses towards the lake. Cailech liked to skirt the water’s edge. It was peaceful here … and especially private.

In his typical way he changed subjects. ‘I want to talk to you about the Morgravian prisoners we captured.’

‘Oh? I’ve been waiting to hear your decision on them.’

‘I’ve waited, Loth. Waited for my wrath to calm.’

The big man spoke gently. ‘Cailech, our people should not have been there.’

‘That is as may be. But they were lost. I’m sure they explained this to their murderers before they died.’

‘If we overreact it could mean war between us and Morgravia.’

‘Overreact? A dozen innocents were mindlessly slaughtered, mostly our young.’

Lothryn stayed quiet. He recognised the dangerous sign of his King’s anger stoking. He appreciated how Cailech admired and encouraged the young members of their race. It was through his efforts that so many now lived into older age and did not kill each other in pointless tribal war. It was Cailech who had turned the young’s energies into animal husbandry and farming on a more intensive scale. His people now fed themselves easily. Their harvests were plentiful and storage for less bountiful times more concerted and well organised. It was Cailech who had insisted from the moment that he had pronounced himself King that the young would now be taught letters and history of their people rather than how to kill a man. Cailech encouraged music, singing, dance. He always had time for the youngsters. It hurt his very soul when one died, let alone a dozen or so being brutally cut down.

Lothryn knew, better than any, that Cailech would exact a price for their lives. He held little hope, in truth, for the unfortunate Morgravians they had captured but still he would try.

Cailech pointed towards a small stand of trees. ‘Race me, Loth.’

Their horses, especially bred to be fast and hardy in this terrain and climate, were spurred into a flat-out gallop. Predictably, the King won on his beautiful mare.

‘Isn’t she spectacular?’ he said, laughing, breathing hard from the exhilaration of the ride.

‘She’s magnificent,’ Lothryn answered, just as breathlessly, stroking his own mount who had chased well. ‘What is your decision, my King?’ he added, determined not to let the subject be left.

His friend since childhood became serious again. ‘I’m going to make an example of them.’

‘Please, Cailech, think it through.’

‘I have. Whilst you were capturing Koreldy, I gave my attention to nothing else but this topic. I do not reach this decision lightly.’

‘These prisoners in our dungeons are innocents too. They have suffered enough. Must we react in the same fashion as our southern foe?’

‘They are soldiers, not innocents!’

‘Only one is a hardened soldier, my King. The others strike me as peasants who wouldn’t know anything about killing, other than their beasts for meat.’

‘What would you have me do?’ the King suddenly roared.

Lothryn took his time answering, waiting for his friend’s anger to die back.

‘Release them. Be lenient, be better than the Morgravian King.’

Cailech shook his head angrily. ‘It is his doing! His father would never have condoned such killing of our people. The son is a madman. You know all our spies report that even the Morgravians increasingly despise him. No, I cannot turn away from this, Loth. I want vengeance this time. Celimus will know my fury, he will know not to sleep too deeply. One day I will come for his lands.’

His deputy sighed. This was the old mantra. For all his brilliance as a philanthropic ruler, Cailech still possessed the spirit of the conqueror. He remained a warrior and his desire to broaden the scope of his rule and his people’s lands burned bright and deep within their mercurial King. It would be his undoing one day, Lothryn feared; had said as much on previous occasions. This was not the time to repeat it.

His sorrow at the King’s decision was evident in the weary way he spoke. ‘What do you have in mind, my lord?’

And the King told him. There was no joy in it. Cailech spoke briefly, grimly and refused to justify his planned actions. Lothryn had never felt more hollow, could not have imagined that Cailech would take his people to such a low place.

He could not help himself. ‘This is insane!’ he said, risking offence.

‘I will —’

‘Cailech! It’s madness, I say. Do you want to give our enemies the right to retaliate?’

‘We are ready!’ the King growled.

‘For more of our people to die? Are you sure? Is this what you want, for war will come here, my King? Have you lost your mind with this plan?’

‘Be careful, Loth.’

The King’s friend heeded the soft warning. ‘Cailech, we’ve known each other since the cradle. I have followed you through all the trials to becoming King and I have never once shirked my duty to you. There is no one more loyal to you.’

‘I know this,’ the King snapped.

‘But I don’t support this idea. It lessens you in my estimation,’ he risked. Then his voice became beseeching. ‘My King, this is not at all like you. You are so much better than this.’

Cailech’s expression twisted in discomfort. ‘I want to teach them a lesson they won’t forget. The Morgravians murdered our children, Loth. Now I will respond in the only way they’ll understand. It’s horrific, I agree, but I am not going to let my people be bullied by this new and arrogant southern King. If I don’t retaliate now and in equal measure, he will think me soft — vulnerable even.’

‘What does it matter if he does? He is nothing to us.’

‘It matters!’

‘Could you live with yourself after this?’

‘You know me well enough.’

And then it dawned on Lothryn. ‘This wasn’t your idea was it? Your mind doesn’t work this way.’

Cailech gave a small shrug. ‘So what if Rashlyn devised it — he is right!’

Lothryn grimaced. Rashlyn was the King’s barshi. People of the Mountains had always embraced the notion of magic. For a sovereign to have his own barshi or sorcerer was considered a blessing, for these practitioners were rare. But Lothryn had ever disliked Rashlyn since he had first come to the Razors and ingratiated himself into Cailech’s inner sanctum.

Rashlyn had shown patience too. Years of quiet counsel and waiting, playing on the King’s superstitious tendencies until he had won Cailech’s trust. Now he considered himself untouchable; he knew Lothryn despised him but was confident of the King’s protection. His sway with Cailech was becoming more pronounced with each year; this latest idea an abomination.

Lothryn pressed the point, running his hand through his thick hair, the colour of wet sand. ‘They will brand us barbarians.’

The King gave a bitter bark of a laugh. ‘Morgravians and Briavellians, you mean? They already do! I no longer care.’

‘And this will give them good reason to believe it, my lord. You belittle your people in this and still you will do it, won’t you, knowing they will blindly follow like sheep … as you do Rashlyn?’ He had well and truly overstepped his mark. Lothryn anticipated an explosion of wrath.

Instead the gaze was as cold as a mountain spring in winter. Cailech’s words splintered like ice through the heat of Lothryn’s despair. ‘Leave me, Loth, before you say something else we’ll both regret. Fret not for our people’s reaction either. Rashlyn will doctor tonight’s wine and our people will feverishly celebrate with me.’

Lothryn did not utter another word, did not trust himself to speak further to his sovereign, a man he loved fiercely. He would die for Cailech without hesitation but he had never been more horrified at a plan or more disappointed in his friend than at this moment. Something would have to be done about Rashlyn. Lothryn had never trusted the man’s intentions. Now Lothryn had good reason to wish the man of dark magics dead.

‘Make sure Koreldy and the girl are present at the feast tonight,’ the King’s voice carried to his turned back. Lothryn’s cheeks burned with his own anger as he heard the words and the threat couched within.

TWENTY-SEVEN

THEY GATHERED IN THE hall, a vast cave over which the fortress itself had been built and which gave it its name. This was the heart of the stronghold and right now it was in festive mood. Flaming torches lit the path down to the main arena where many dozens of trestle style tables had been set up. There was no central fireplace; instead several score of the clay ovens with their cunning flues burned small fires around the edge of the hall, keeping its guests warmed. Countless numbers of the exquisite lantern flower, peculiar to the north, had been cut and strung across the hall, high above the heads of the gathered. In the bell of each flower a tiny candle had been lit and the flames made the lanterns’ pink cups glow magnificently, scenting the air as they warmed and released their fragrant vapours. It was a truly beautiful and majestic setting. The more self-important southern realms had much to learn from these ‘barbarians’, Wyl mused yet again.

The centre of the hall had been left vacant and right now it was filled with dancers performing a traditional reel. It was energetic and lighthearted; the music was loud, bouncing strongly off the walls and intensifying the atmosphere of the party. Dressed in brightly dyed garments, the dancers moved through their complex, fast-footed steps in time with the rhythmic beat of the great mountain drum attended by two burly tribe members.

Cailech, seated on a dais, was resplendent in a charcoal-coloured outfit which set off his height and contrasted with his light, golden looks. He wore a linen shirt beneath his short jacket for tonight and a thin silver circlet replaced the leather thong around his head. In the elegant simplicity of his presentation he looked every inch a King. The gentleness of the lantern-light softened his angular features and permitted Wyl to glimpse an echo of the young idealist whom Romen had known previously. The King looked proud this evening and oozed the strength and charisma which made him such a persuasive leader. Cailech was in high spirits too, singing along with the music and loudly enjoying the festivity and happiness of his people.

Wyl was seated at his right — as one might expect an honoured guest — yet he knew himself to be little more than the Mountain King’s prisoner. He noticed Elspyth, pale and quiet, further down on another table. She acknowledged his arrival with a nod but said nothing and hardly smiled. She was seated near Myrt. Lothryn was nowhere to be seen.

The music died and the applause went wild, led by Cailech. A troupe of children filed in. They were to sing for their lord King and needed help arranging themselves so he could see all of their sweet faces. Wyl took the moment to enquire after Lothryn.

‘Ah. Sad it is. His wife died today birthing their child,’ Cailech whispered back, whilst still smiling for the children. Then he looked at Wyl. ‘It is a son, though — strong and proud — another warrior to wage war on the south.’ He grinned just for Wyl and there was something extra in that smile, something secretive, but Wyl had no intention of pursuing it. ‘I expect Lothryn will join us soon enough,’ the King added.

‘How can you sound so callous over his loss?’

‘No loss,’ Cailech replied abruptly. ‘They were a bad match, those two. Never suited and destined to be unhappy. I told him that before he took vows with her but she was with child and he was determined to be father to it. The child died days after birth, as did the next one. She never recovered her smile — going through life as though each day was a trial for her. Loth hoped this third child might bring some joy into her life — me too for she came from excellent stock. Her father and his father before him were tribal leaders.’

‘So her death is a blessing, you mean?’

‘I didn’t say that, Koreldy. He will feel it no doubt, for he loved her in his own way. Lothryn will recover. I must help him find a mother for the boy.’

Wyl shook his head. ‘And you, Cailech. No woman has ever touched your heart?’

Something passed across the King’s face at this question. For a moment the man’s eyes seemed to darken …and then it disappeared.

‘I don’t want Loth to miss tonight’s special event,’ was the King’s only response.

Wyl left it. It made no difference to him whether Cailech’s heart ever warmed enough to love someone. ‘What special event?’

‘Hush, the children are ready,’ Cailech said, turning back to the arena.

The youngsters sang sweetly — it was a moving ballad of the plight of the Mountain People from the early ages when tribe waged war on tribe. Wyl did not pay much attention although he noticed that Cailech was rapt with the words as well as the performance; the King clearly enjoyed the young members of his people. Instead Wyl turned his focus to what lay ahead for him and how he might argue his release. He had to win Cailech’s trust again and the only way to do that was to somehow assure him that they shared the same dislike for Morgravians. The children had finished their song and were taking their applause. Cailech was on his feet and clapping loudly.

There was a feverish quality to the crowd’s festivity, Wyl sensed. It was Romen’s sharpness which picked this up, noted the glazed look in people’s eyes, the laughter so quick and too loud. He dismissed the query as the King sat down again and looked towards him.

Wine was poured and a course of steamed fish was served as a group of musicians struck up.

‘I hope you’re up to a long night of feasting … two in fact,’ Cailech said. ‘It continues on tomorrow. These fish were caught in my rivers today. Enjoy.’

Wyl figured it was best to go along with the King’s happy mood. After the fish, a delicious press of combined meats was served, their simple flavours enlivened with herbs and spices.

Now he decided it was time to make his first attempt. ‘Are you satisfied that I am no spy for Celimus?’

Cailech sipped his wine, again unperturbed by a sudden question. ‘Do you have more to tell which might convince me?’

‘There is no love lost between Celimus and myself … this I promise you on my own life.’

‘And yet you worked for him, joined his ugly schemes —’

‘Yes! For gold, Cailech — nothing more complicated than money.’ Wyl had to lower his voice for fear of attracting attention.

Cailech said nothing, although his gaze made Wyl feel uncomfortable as the big man weighed him up.

‘What do you want?’ Wyl tried a new approach. ‘How can I prove that I have no loyalties to anyone but myself?’

‘Oh, I believe you have gripes against Celimus. We all do,’ he said. ‘But what about you and the Queen of Briavel?’

‘If I can destabilise Celimus by helping her, I will,’ he answered.

‘Why bother at all, Romen, if money is what drives you these days?’

‘Getting even,’ he replied.

‘Why do you care?’

Wyl sighed. ‘Celimus goes beyond craving power. I understand that. It is in a man’s nature to want more land, more wealth, more power.’ Cailech nodded but said nothing. Wyl continued. ‘If someone doesn’t help Valentyna, then Celimus will invade Briavel. The Legion is strong and she has no experience with battle. I may be a Grenadyne but after his betrayals I would hate for him to get another yard of land, another piece of gold to add to his coffers.’

The King considered this before speaking. ‘It would be folly for Celimus to underestimate this new Queen, however inexperienced she may be. Sometimes all it takes is passion.’

Wyl agreed with the sage comment, particularly recalling how stubborn and determined Valentyna appeared to him. If any young Queen could lead an army, he reckoned, she was most likely the one to do it. ‘Still,’ he countered, keen to take the conversation away from Valentyna, ‘if my service can assist her against Celimus, I give it gladly, although my prices are higher these days.’ He added the last deliberately to keep up the pretence that deep down he cared little for either realm.

‘So that’s where you’re headed, Koreldy? Back to Briavel? To offer your expensive blade at high cost to the young Queen?’

‘Yes,’ Wyl answered, hoping this was the response the Mountain King wanted. He noticed that someone had just signalled a message to Cailech. Romen’s ever alert eyes missed little.

‘I see. Then all of that stored hate for Morgravia will ensure you enjoy my surprise.’ The King gave Wyl no further opportunity for discussion. Instead he rose and banged his mug loudly on the table. ‘Good people,’ he hushed them. ‘My people,’ he emphasised in a more patrician manner. ‘I have a surprise for you tonight. To honour our dead … those who had their innocent lives taken by the southerners last moon, I have asked our kitchen to prepare a special dish in commemoration.’

He paused dramatically. Wyl felt a twinge of fear knife through him, unsure why. Perhaps because he knew this King to be unpredictable.

Cailech continued, his smile not touching his eyes this time. ‘Enjoy something very new and different on our menu tonight.’ He banged his mug again and encouraged his people to follow suit.

They did. The mountain drum was sounded mournfully and the crowd fell in time with its beat. Wyl had no idea what was happening and nothing from Romen’s memory yielded what this ceremony may signify. He imagined it was to present the King with a fabulous dish — someone had mentioned swan was on the menu, which in Morgravia was served only for high-ranking dignitaries and royalty. Could it be that?

The haunting mountain horn sounded over the drums.

‘Watch over there,’ Cailech whispered, a savage bleakness in his voice. ‘They come.’

Wyl followed the King’s avid stare and encountered a sight so powerfully shocking he felt immediately unsteady. He immediately looked towards Elspyth, whose hands covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

Wheeled in on special presentation tables were people, still alive, but prepared as though they were dead animals ready for the coals. There were five of them Wyl counted slowly; four men and a woman — all naked. The woman was spread eagled on the table, hands nailed to keep them in place, feet bound and with seasonings laid over her. All but one of the men were trussed like pigs, hands and feet together and hung from poles carried in by the burliest of barbarians. The final man, his head hung low, was chained around his neck, hands and feet. He shuffled behind, a pathetic figure, a sorrowful finale to this disturbing array.

Wyl’s chest felt suddenly heavy; he could not drag in sufficient air to breathe easily. ‘Cailech?’ he croaked but the King ignored him.

‘Behold!’ Cailech yelled to his people. ‘Morgravian meat for your bellies!’

The people, whom Wyl had admired as creators of such sophisticated beauty now began to chant and hurl abuse at the victims. He then took full measure of the atmosphere in the hall. If he did not know better he would assume that the people had been drugged. His attention was caught by a man in dark robes. Small eyes, black almost, they seemed to Wyl, watched the proceedings with a hunger. His hands were clasped before him and a wild beard hid the shape of his mouth, whilst equally untamed hair swirled about the face. The man’s eyes darted between the prisoners and Cailech. Wyl saw him nod and then heard the King give the order.

‘Oil them up!’ Cailech roared. ‘Fan the flames!’ He swallowed the contents of his mug, banging it down and wiping his mouth, his eyes now burning with a passion Wyl could not read. ‘Take them and wait for my signal,’ the King commanded. ‘All but the chained one. He remains. Tie him at the back of my hall so I can gloat before him.’

Wyl searched for the strange, dark man but he was already gone. However, Wyl was sure he had been orchestrating events here tonight. Who is he? Why would Cailech do his bidding?

The tables were wheeled out and the single man, whose long, greasy hair streaked with grey covered his grimy face, was pulled roughly by his chains to the wall where he was restrained as one might a dog.

‘Music!’ Cailech called and a happy jig started up. He turned and then conversationally said to Wyl, ‘Swan is next. It’s our specialty, you may recall, Romen.’ The King smiled grimly, seating himself again.

People began to talk loudly and laugh with one another as though what had just occurred was a perfectly normal interlude to any mountain feast. But Wyl’s original curious thought — that these folk were drugged — took on high possibility for him. Just watching them dance the jig, it struck him that their energies were too frantic, too out of kilter with one another.

Wyl, still unable to talk coherently, looked over to find Lothryn had finally joined Elspyth and Myrt. Obviously he had not missed the proceedings, for his face was a mask of undisguised contempt. Meanwhile, the shock of what she had just witnessed was etched on Elspyth’s face.

Wyl cleared his throat, his nerves still betraying him. ‘Cailech,’ he said softly, ‘who are those people?’

‘Morgravians. You should be rejoicing with me rather than preparing to hurl up your fish.’

Wyl had to clench his fists beneath the table to remain calm. Morgravians! The horror of it.

He had to know more, forced his voice to be steady. ‘Soldiers?’

Cailech nodded, chewing on bread. ‘The woman is their whore.’

‘How did you …’

‘Fergys Thirsk was always shoring up the border patrols and now Celimus takes the offensive, sending in parties of spies, perhaps with the intention of becoming raiding parties.’ He scoffed. ‘They think they know the mountains … they know nothing! The fools we captured were peasants, not even soldiers. We can infiltrate their borders in numbers any time I care to give the command.’

‘And will you?’

‘Perhaps. Who knows the whims of the barbarians who eat the flesh of their own kind,’ he said, loathing in his voice.

Wyl knew Cailech was referring to the stories which surrounded the Mountain People. He had heard that same one himself … and believed it all those years ago. Now, being amongst them it was plainly obvious these were not the always-fornicating, cannibalistic, aggressive and essentially backward people such popular myth would have Morgravians believe.

‘Why are you doing this? To prove a point?’

‘Precisely!’ Cailech said low and angry. ‘Celimus has ordered the killing of any Mountain People on sight. He is not choosy about whether they are children either. They slaughtered a dozen innocents not so long ago. At least I restrict my capture to soldiers!’

Wyl had not heard of this new law from Celimus but it rang true; nothing should really surprise him. ‘Cailech, most people in the southern, more populated regions of Morgravia would not even know what a Mountain Dweller looked like, or even that you personally exist,’ he tried to reason.

‘Well, Morgravia’s King seems to be taking us seriously enough. I have lost almost a score of lives since he took the throne, too many of them children, Romen, who accidentally crossed an invisible line. Children!’ He was just short of shouting now and his people began to look up and wonder what might be making their King so anxious.

Wyl moved quickly. He could not risk Cailech’s blood boiling up. Romen’s memories told him the man became unpredictably dangerous if his temper was stirred. ‘Hush, my lord. You will make your people anxious. This is a celebration, is it not?’

The King gulped his wine, forced himself to remain silent as he calmed down.

Wyl filled the pause amongst the swirling noise of the festivities. ‘Truly, you don’t mean to eat those folk.’

The King remained silent.

‘Cailech, you said yourself these people are peasants, not soldiers! You cannot punish them thus — even in war there are protocols to be observed. It is Celimus who is guilty; these people are innocents!’ Wyl noticed there was pleading in his voice … and so did the King who turned his intimidating gaze upon him now.

‘And the people I lost were not?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It is implied.’

‘I beg forgiveness. It was not my intent. Soldiers at least deserve an honourable death. The woman doesn’t deserve to lose her life at all.’

‘For a Grenadyne you seem very concerned about Morgravian lives.’

‘As I grow older, I am concerned for all life.’ A woman with a lovely voice began to sing a soft, haunting ballad and Wyl was relieved that it seemed to calm the listeners.

‘But I thought you killed without remorse, for money?’ Cailech asked, looking back towards the woman.

‘I don’t have to like it, though,’ Wyl replied, and at this the King finally smiled, genuinely amused. Wyl felt relief.

‘You never fail to surprise me, Romen. It’s probably why I let you go on living.’

‘I am grateful for your indulgence, my lord,’ Wyl said gravely, lifting his cup to the King. ‘May I speak with the prisoner?’ He was relieved that Cailech had not answered his question about eating the prisoners. Perhaps it was all plain theatre — something to stir the blood of his people.

‘Go ahead. He’s tough that one. We’ve tried breaking him but his spirit is strong.’

‘Who is he?’

Cailech shrugged. ‘Who cares. Someone of rank by the way he spoke up on behalf of the others … and accepted their pain.’

It was a cryptic statement. Wyl left it. ‘What is your plan for him?’ he asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.

‘Rashlyn suggests we cook him bit by bit. We’ll cut off his hands and feet first and slice off fresh bits of meat from his sorry carcass each day. And perhaps I can take a leaf from your book, Koreldy. I shall send his head — baked, of course — to Celimus, so he can no longer perpetrate a lie that we eat our enemies. He will know it as truth!’

Wyl ignored the rhetoric. ‘Who is Rashlyn?’

‘My barshi. He advises, you could say.’

The word barshi meant nothing to Wyl. He stored it away to check with Lothryn, though, and he had a very good idea whom the barshi was. ‘Was tonight his idea?’

Cailech ignored him. Wyl had no doubt that Cailech was a ruthless ruler but he sensed he was too intelligent to lower himself to this horrific deed without being influenced in some way. Obviously this Rashlyn fellow wielded some power with the King. He turned away from the table, bowing to Cailech as a stuffed, roasted and artfully re-feathered swan was presented at the royal table to much applause. Trying to regain some composure as he left, Wyl paused by Lothryn to offer his condolences on the loss of his wife.

The Mountain man only nodded before moving on to the matter at hand. ‘I’m sorry you bore witness to this dark deed tonight.’

‘You don’t agree obviously.’

‘I don’t believe the King is even speaking to me after I had my say about it.’

Wyl nodded. ‘Was that man with the beard and long hair Rashlyn?’

‘Yes. He’s very dangerous.’

‘I gather this is his doing.’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Where’s Elspyth?’ Wyl asked noticing she was not present.

‘I think Cailech’s surprise was too much for her.’

‘His course of action is unwise,’ Wyl said, knowing Lothryn to be a reasonable man.

‘I don’t like it any more than you, but I have said all I can on the subject. He is determined to retaliate in this contemptuous manner. You know what Cailech is like. We have lost many lives recently and, in spite of anything I advise, he is immovable. He is also wrong, of course. This will simply provoke more killing of our own people but he is proud and he is hurting over the children who died. They killed them for sport, you know … Mountain Dwellers are less than animals in Morgravian eyes.’

Wyl sighed. It seemed impossible that men under his command would perpetrate such horror. Except they aren’t under my command, he reminded himself. Madness reigns in the mountains and madness reigns in Morgravia — he could only imagine the handpicked officers in charge of the north. He looked towards the pathetic, chained figure squatting naked against the wall. Something was nagging at his mind; something he knew he should pay attention to but his thoughts were too fractured.

‘Would you keep an eye on Elspyth? She truly doesn’t deserve to be a part of all this.’

Lothryn nodded, suddenly silent again and Wyl thanked him, walking now towards the Morgravian, whose head was hung between his knees. He was a tall man, Wyl could tell. Slim and hard-muscled, the man was clearly one who had trained hard. As he drew close, again Wyl felt the nudge against his mind. What is it? What are my thoughts trying to provoke?

Now he could smell the grimy, unwashed soldier. It reminded him of how he had found Ylena and anger surged. He wondered how much punishment this man had taken upon himself to protect the others. Wyl made to bend down to talk with the man but a guard prevented him.

‘It’s all right, Borc,’ a voice came from behind. It was Lothryn.

‘Cailech’s leaving nothing to chance, then,’ Wyl said, a hard edge to his voice at being trailed by Lothryn.

‘He never does, Romen. You should know that.’

Wyl nodded, his fury mingling with despair and a small surge of wisdom advising him against responding to that comment. He ignored the guard and squatted. The overpowering smell of the soldier almost made him stand up again but he reached out his hand and lifted the head to look into the ruined face of a man he knew all too well.

‘Gueryn!’

‘Is that you, my boy? Is it you, Wyl?’ the man croaked, clearly in some sort of stupor and blind because his eyelids had been sewn together.

‘You know him?’ Lothryn asked, surprise evident.

Wyl had no ability to respond to either Lothryn or, more importantly, Gueryn. He had called him Wyl. He could not bear to see the state of his mentor — this brave man of Argorn — so loyal to Morgravia, so dedicated to the Thirsk family.

‘Wyl?’ the battered man asked again and then hung his head into its same cowed position.

‘He’s always asking for someone called Wyl. Must be his son,’ the guard commented. ‘Wish we’d got him too.’

His malicious laugh was poorly timed. Wyl moved fast. In a blink the guard’s throat was beneath the large hands of Romen Koreldy and being crushed. The man’s flailing limbs managed to send one server’s tray of roast swan high into the air before it came crashing down onto the stone floor making quite a commotion. Wyl was grabbed from behind and a more powerful strength than he owned fortunately prevented him from doing any further damage.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Lothryn exclaimed, pinioning Wyl’s arms.

It was too late. Cailech had leapt from the dais and arrived quickly at the scene. ‘By Haldor’s hairy arse! What happens here?’ he roared.

The cavernous hall had become silent, save the sound of the serving woman moaning over her tray of swan meat which she diligently picked up from the ground. Lothryn suggested to her she move on.

‘Koreldy!’ Cailech yelled, forcing Wyl to look at him. ‘You would assault one of my men in my own fortress?’

‘I took offence at something he said, my lord,’ Wyl replied, his mind racing, knowing he would need a watertight reason for this latest act.

‘He knows the prisoner,’ Borc croaked.

Cailech’s jaw was working furiously. ‘Out!’ he said and Wyl was manhandled by Lothryn, away from earshot of curious bystanders.

They left Borc coughing and massaging his bruised throat.

‘Who is he?’ the King demanded.

‘His name is Gueryn le Gant,’ Wyl said, glad to be away from his old friend as he began to wield Romen’s inimitable skill at spinning a web of lies. ‘He is originally from Grenadyn. I grew up with him.’ Gueryn was only about ten years older than Koreldy, Wyl realised. He would have to be careful.

‘Then what in Haldor’s Name was he doing wearing Morgravian colours?’

Wyl’s gaze flicked to Lothryn who stood expressionless behind his King. There would be no help from that quarter. He played for time instead. ‘I can’t answer that until I’ve spoken with him. I haven’t seen him in years,’ he lied.

‘Fetch him,’ Cailech said over his shoulder and Lothryn obeyed.

Wyl realised that Romen’s normally easy smile failed him now. And Cailech knew it too as he took a threatening step forward.

‘If I find out you’re lying, Koreldy, it will be for the last time. You will suffer the same fate as your naked friend here.’

Gueryn was dragged shivering before the King. Perhaps he anticipated more beatings, Wyl supposed, as the brighter torchlight showed up livid bruising over most of his body. Lothryn’s expression showed that he did not agree with his sovereign’s brutal taste for revenge. Wyl assumed the sewn eyelids was Rashlyn at work again.

Wyl turned at a disturbance behind them: Elspyth was trying to break through the guards. When Cailech enquired with a single glance, Lothryn whispered something brief.

‘Allow it. She can help.’

Elspyth was permitted to join them. She averted her gaze from the prisoner and glared at Cailech instead.

‘Ah, Elspyth. I did warn you tonight’s festivities may not be to your liking. Now you can assist us please. Would you address this wretch here and ask him a question on my behalf? It occurs to me he may respond to a woman’s voice — we should have thought of that before, Loth, eh?’ He grinned but his deputy did not respond.

Elspyth turned and caught a strange expression on Romen’s face. There was pain there and she was not sure what he wanted from her in this moment.

‘Talk to him softly,’ Cailech guided. ‘Ask him who Romen Koreldy is?’ he added, looking slyly towards Wyl. There was both menace and warning in his glance.

She looked towards the trembling man. It was not fear that made him shake. As far as she could tell he was sickening and little wonder looking at his battered body. Elspyth’s heart ached for this brave soldier who had obviously kept his secrets to himself. If he stood to his full height he would be a tall man and no doubt proud, she thought. Tears welled to see his eyelids so cruelly sewn shut. They had bled and the blood had crusted. Sores had erupted around the punctured skin. Death might be a kinder blow. She pushed that thought aside, realising the three men were watching her.

‘What is his name?’ she asked, turning to Wyl.

Cailech did not permit Romen to answer, which she considered strange. They had seemed friendly enough an hour before — now suddenly there was a cloying tension between the pair.

‘His name is Gueryn,’ Lothryn answered, directing a ghost of a smile towards her from which she took courage.

‘Gueryn, can you hear me?’ she asked.

Immediately Gueryn turned sightless eyes towards Elspyth. He nodded.

Cailech’s expression turned into one of grim pleasure. At last, the man would reveal something … all it needed was a woman’s touch.

‘My name is Elspyth, Gueryn. I am Morgravian, from the town of Yentro.’

A single tear oozed between the stitches of his lids as he recognised the lilt of her accent and Wyl’s heart broke. It was just too much for him to bear. ‘As one, Gueryn!’ He yelled the Thirsk family motto with all of his heart.

He should have anticipated it but he was so intent on reaching Gueryn’s blurry mind that Cailech’s fist connected unimpeded with Romen’s fragile ribs, which fractured again under such direct pressure. Wyl doubled and then fell over on his knees, pain engulfing him in a haze of sharp, fragmented lights. He slumped in a corner, breathing with difficulty, desperately hoping nothing was punctured. He did notice that Gueryn stood just a little straighter, a fraction taller; his mouth had found that firm line he remembered seeing as a child when Gueryn was displeased with him. Screaming out the family motto had achieved something far more important than a smashed rib.

It had happened so fast, Elspyth had not even the chance to scream.

‘Make a sound, young woman, and I will do the same to you,’ Cailech whispered.

‘It’s all you’re good for then, my lord,’ Elspyth rounded on him. ‘Hurting women. Torturing people. You had me fooled for a while but I see you are a barbarian in the truest sense of the word. You have no compassion, no empathy for your fellow man. Kill me if you must. I will not do your dirty work. I am Morgravian and proud of it. I will not bow to the Mountain race. I would sooner die than forsake my fellow countryman. Trust me when I say that I distrust my King but I love my people. I wish you and your tribe no harm but I will not allow you to torment me or my people any further. I will not join you in persecuting this man or humbling the mercenary. You can find out for yourself in your own barbaric way what you want to know.’

Elspyth’s long speech took everyone by surprise, which was probably why she was allowed to have her full say. Her eyes blazed with passion and fury; her chest rose high with her heavy breathing. If Wyl had had the strength he would have cheered for Elspyth’s fiery monologue. He felt sure the King would strike her too after such high insult.

Instead Cailech sneered. ‘Take all three to the dungeon, Loth. They can share the same fate over the roasting coals. We shall have to do it tomorrow. Frankly, I’ve lost my appetite for tonight.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

AN OBSERVER MIGHT BE forgiven for assuming that the King of the Mountains was alone, brooding by a fire he neither needed nor appreciated for its comfort or light. Beside him a cup of warmed wine stood untouched.

Cailech was angry. In fact still angry from Lothryn questioning his actions prior to the feast. He loved Lothryn. He would never have a more loyal subject nor as close a friend. But it seemed they no longer shared the same vision. Lothryn was content with what had been achieved. Cailech knew his friend’s advice would be to just live life happily now and reign well. Look after the people. Flourish amongst the mountains of their homeland. He could almost hear Lothryn saying it.

But Cailech wanted more. He was ambitious still. Although he was now in his fourth decade, none of the fire in his belly had dimmed. Without knowing they shared a similar dream, he and Celimus could imagine a sprawling empire beyond their own realm’s borders. Cailech’s would ideally have stretched from the north throughout the south of the continent spreading east and west to encompass the pompous Morgravians and the naive Briavellians, who paid scant attention to their northern border. Neither realm had ever been more vulnerable. Both had young heirs recently taken to their thrones. It was good sense that Celimus would make an offer of marriage to Valentyna and she would accept, binding their nations, combining their armies’ strengths.

Rashlyn was right. If Cailech wanted to claim some of the fertile, easy-to-farm lands south of the Razors and if he wanted some of his people to migrate towards an easier lifestyle in a softer climate, then he must make his move swiftly. Do I want this? he asked himself. Do I really want our people to soften? If he was honest — which he was not on this occasion — then he would admit what he truly wanted was to humiliate and dominate the new King of Morgravia. Celimus was a menace to everyone’s peace and prosperity and Cailech knew that if this southern King got his way and married Valentyna then he would not be content until he had tamed the people of the far north. Celimus too was ambitious by all reports and not a coward. Inexperienced but certainly avaricious and of a mind to build his own empire; have his own son sit across not just the southern realms but perhaps the Mountain throne as well.

Into his ruminations came Koreldy, who had made such a curiosity of himself, beseeching indulgence on behalf of the Morgravian prisoners. These were the people he could not give a fig about supposedly. And then the business of offering his services to Valentyna.

‘All very generous and righteous,’ the King muttered to himself. ‘But what are you hiding, Koreldy?’

Cailech was convinced Koreldy was not telling him the truth. The man struck him as different. He granted many years had passed since they had seen each other but there were very real inconsistencies in this new Koreldy — not subtle at all. The old Romen was selfish to the point of distraction and tremendously self-assured. The death of his sister had exacted its toll but the character remained the same. The Romen he now met was far less arrogant. The swaggering personality was there but there was a hesitancy now, even a remoteness which Cailech could not fathom. Besides — and this was the greatest curiosity of all — Koreldy had not even challenged him to a game of agrolo and no amount of maturity would change that competitive streak between the two for this game of skill played on a board with stones for pieces. When they were younger men Cailech had taught Romen the game and he had embraced it with a fierce passion. It took high concentration and an inclination to take risks — only those prepared to lose everything they wagered stood the true chance of winning.

Romen was a man who liked to win at everything and he would not have forgotten their last encounter when Cailech had trounced him. Won his whole purse, damn it, even his lands back home in Grenadyn! Not that they were ever claimed.

No, the King mused. Koreldy had either undergone some extraordinary change in character or they were dealing with an impostor. He had not realised he had voiced this thought aloud.

‘Not an impostor, my King,’ a voice spoke from the shadows. ‘I have searched him. This is Koreldy.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘How can it be otherwise? Are you suggesting a glamour?’

‘Is it possible?’

‘No. A glamour requires immense skill, Cailech,’ the voice said, no longer quite so subservient. ‘Who do you imagine could wield such talent?’

The King shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’

‘An impossible one. There is only one other person I know who might possess such ability and he is dead.’

‘Elysius.’

A dark shape melted out of the shadows now and Rashlyn’s face was lit from the glow of the fire. ‘Who else,’ he said with finality. ‘And you forget that I am as familiar with Koreldy as you.’

‘You never really knew him, though, did you?’

‘No. I observed him from a distance. I would know if this was not the same man in the flesh.’

‘Is it the same man, Rashlyn? I agree with you that I too would know him if he was outwardly different. There is something else, though. But I do not possess your sentience — I cannot determine it,’ he said, frustrated.

‘I sense nothing except that he will bring trouble, my King.’

‘He can do nothing. He is locked in my dungeon.’

‘And Lothryn, Cailech? Can you trust him?’

Cailech looked at his barshi for the first time since they had spoken. It was a fierce glare and said much.

‘Forgive, my lord,’ the sorcerer said and bowed contritely to take his leave.

They were locked into the same cell. It was large but with nothing in it save a bucket. A vent offered vague but nonetheless welcome air and the walls dripped with a slimy damp. A single candle had been lit by Lothryn as a small mercy; he had said nothing, refused to answer Elspyth’s pleas, but Wyl could sense the big man was deeply unhappy at the turn of events.

Guards had bound their hands and, although Lothryn had left the two men tied, he had undone the rope around Elspyth’s wrists, even lingering just long enough to rub them. Then he had left, but not before a final glance towards Koreldy which, for all his intuition and experience, Wyl could not fathom.

The heavy oaken door had slammed with a chilling finality.

‘Untie me,’ he said to Elspyth, then looked anxiously over at Gueryn.

She began worrying at the knots. ‘I suppose your rib has broken again?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll cope.’

‘That was particularly stupid of you to incense the King. What was in your head?’

‘Love, loyalty, friendship,’ he replied.

She heard the sadness in his voice. ‘Love! For whom?’

‘Him.’ His hands came free and he put a finger to his lips to ask Elspyth to keep silent. ‘Gueryn?’ he whispered.

The man did not flinch. Wyl tried again but with no success.

Elspyth, never one to remain silent for long, decided to intervene. ‘It’s Elspyth here, Gueryn. We’re alone for now. The man speaking to you is —’

She was not permitted to finish. ‘It’s me, Gueryn. It’s Wyl.’

Elspyth sat back astonished. Romen ignored her. He was intent on watching Gueryn’s reaction which was immediate. The man turned his swollen face towards the voice.

‘Wyl?’

‘I’m here.’

‘When … how … your voice … it is —’

‘I know. I have much to explain but you must trust me now.’

‘How can I?’

Wyl thought hard. ‘You gave Ylena a white kitten when my father died but you gave me a long hug of comfort in my father’s study which I have never forgotten. You hated not being with my father in the field but you loved our family … loved me enough to give up your career when he asked you to in order to raise me and train me in his absence. I have loved you for it. I think you might have admired my mother, just a little more than duty required, and I think she knew this. She —’

‘Stop!’ Gueryn said. ‘Enough … enough,’ he added in a voice which hurt Wyl more than the old soldier could know. ‘Did he injure you?’

‘Not nearly as much as you, old friend.’

Gueryn, amazingly, croaked a laugh. ‘Wyl … my boy … I never thought I would see you again.’

‘And I was told you were as good as dead.’

‘Celimus?’

‘Yes.’

‘It figures.’ He began coughing.

‘Cover him with your jacket. He is sick,’ Elspyth admonished in a stiff whisper, still trying to fathom this conversation.

‘No escape, Wyl. I’ve tried. It’s secure,’ Gueryn warned as he felt the comforting touch of Wyl’s jacket.

Wyl ignored that fact for now. ‘Why did they sew your eyes shut?’

‘Because Cailech didn’t like the way I looked at him. He said he could see nothing but contempt in them. He was right.’

‘I suppose you’re fortunate he didn’t have them poked out,’ Wyl offered glumly.

‘He’s saving that for tomorrow night. He will do only one apparently. Says I should not miss out on watching myself being eaten.’ He rocked back and forth. ‘What have we come too, Wyl? Fodder for the barbarians.’

‘Tell me everything,’ Wyl asked.

Gueryn began his tale from the moment the hated Celimus ordered him north to his capture. ‘I was set up for it. Celimus intended for this to happen.’

Wyl nodded knowingly.

‘By Shar’s Name, I swear it. He deliberately had me ordered to lead a reconnaissance into Razors territory with men I was not familiar with. Felrawthy was furious but it was all done behind his back. We all know you only send the very best trackers and experienced soldiers on such a dangerous mission. These men were clearly expendable, with little soldiering experience. Fresh from the fields, I’d say. They made so much noise and were useless at coping with the mountain terrain. It was not a case of whether we would be picked up but simply when. I realised as much as soon as the orders were given. The woman was probably a special sweetener from Celimus. I learned she was paid to follow us.’

Wyl squeezed Gueryn’s shoulder in sympathy and his friend reached up to cover his hand with his own. It was an emotional moment for both of them as they realised how low Celimus was forcing his proud Legion. Bound to the King, they had no choice but to do his ugly bidding.

‘And Elspyth with the lovely voice … who are you, my dear?’

‘Entangled in your friend, Koreldy’s web, I’m afraid,’ she answered. ‘Not that I know who he is these days.’

‘Have you taken a guise, Wyl?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, glad to use that excuse.

‘What about your story? Are you going to enlighten me?’

‘In good time, Gueryn. Right now you must rest. Your breath comes hard. Please, sleep.’

‘He’s right,’ Elspyth echoed to the older man. ‘You’re shivering with fever, sir.’

‘Good. I hope I have plague and make fine eating for tomorrow — infecting all of the Mountain scum.’

Wyl had pretended to sleep. He did not feel much like talking or, more to the point, explaining himself to Elspyth. She left him alone, although he could feel her disgruntled stare for some time until she too realised that rest was a good idea. It seemed many hours had already passed since the door had closed on them.

Then came the sound.

A soft thud. Wyl listened intently. There it was again, this time louder and accompanied by a grunt. He heard the jangle of keys and then in the thin, dying candlelight noticed the ring handle on the door move. He was on his feet now, looking around for something with which to hit whatever head came around that piece of oak. Barring his own fist for a weapon, he could only see the bucket, which was mercifully empty. He grabbed it, blew out the candle and stood behind the door as the key turned in the lock.

A large shape, outlined in ghostly light from the torch in the corridor, entered the room as the door swung back. It was such a wide door that Wyl had to step out and around it and he thanked the reach of Romen’s long arms as he swung the bucket towards the head. The weapon connected and shattered, accompanied by loud swearing. Elspyth screamed.

‘Haldor’s Balls, Koreldy! Did you have to do that?’ Lothryn whispered angrily, rubbing at his head.

‘What did you expect me to do?’ Wyl replied, unprepared for the familiar voice. ‘Walk meekly to the ovens without a fight?’

‘Well before you hit me again, consider why I’m whispering.’

Elspyth had already worked it out, leaping to her feet and into Lothryn’s arms.

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me perish,’ she said.

‘How could I?’ he said, voice suddenly gentle.

‘Lothryn, this is all very touching but what in Shar’s Name is going on?’ Wyl hissed.

‘I’m getting you out,’ the man whispered. ‘Hurry, rouse your friend. I’ve brought warm clothes.’

Wyl wanted to shake his head and think it through. Lothryn, betrayer of Cailech! Surely not?

The Mountain man seemed to guess what he was thinking. ‘I don’t agree with Cailech. I grieve too for our dead but butchering our enemies to make a point is heading back to our darkest days.’

Wyl gently shook Gueryn who now awoke bewildered and groggy, the fever still claiming his body. ‘Loth, it’s suicide for you to do this.’

‘I know. Here’s a key to unshackle him. Now help him dress; you need to climb into these clothes to look like we’re all from the tribes, and hurry. I’ve drugged the guards but you never know how luck will hold.’

‘Who is the man who helps us?’ Gueryn wondered aloud.

‘Lothryn,’ Elspyth answered, just a little too proudly, Wyl thought.

She too was climbing into the men’s clothing which Lothryn had brought.

‘You were the one who tried to break me?’ Gueryn said.

‘And I failed, I’m glad to say. Your loyalty is stronger than mine,’ Lothryn replied.

‘I bow to you all the same for your courage.’

‘You can thank me later if we still have our lives,’ he said grimly.

‘Can we help the others?’ Gueryn asked, teeth rattling.

‘It is too late. We would risk everyone’s lives to save them.’

‘We can’t let him eat them!’

Lothryn sighed. ‘In truth, I don’t think he will. Tonight he was fired up, angry. You’ve seen him like that before, Koreldy.’ Wyl nodded. ‘But he will end their lives. Escape with me is your only hope. Is everyone ready?’

His companions nodded, although Gueryn was definitely confused now, knowing full well that Wyl had never met Cailech before.

‘Weapons?’ Wyl asked.

‘None, other than mine. There will be no killing. We either get out without harm to any of my people or we die in the process. Here is your pack.’

Wyl could only nod. ‘Then we’re ready.’

‘Did you bring my cloth bag?’ Elspyth enquired of their rescuer. Wyl laughed. What a typically womanly thing to ask. Elspyth understood his smirk. ‘It occurs to me, Romen Koreldy — or whoever in hell you are — that you may need pain relief. Feel free to go without, though. I will lose no sleep.’

Wyl meekly muttered an apology, which she chose to ignore as Lothryn, who had indeed brought her bag, tossed it towards her.

‘Here,’ she said, roughly pushing the small bottle into Wyl’s hand. ‘It’s all yours.’

He took several sips and felt the numbing sensation begin to ease the pain. He made Gueryn take a few sips as well. It would not touch the fever but it would ease the pain of his other hurts.

‘Silence,’ Lothryn cautioned as he and Wyl virtually carried Gueryn between them.

The early hour worked in their favour. The castle was only lightly guarded, such was Cailech’s faith in his fortress’s impregnablity. Very few Morgravians even knew of its existence save what the old stories told and even fewer would know how to reach it. Most would die with an arrow through their throat anyway, for Cailech posted keen-eyed lookouts throughout the passes which gave access to the fortress.

For now the small group tiptoed by several fallen guards, presumably sleeping off the same drug Lothryn had used on the dungeon guards.

‘I’ve tipped off the gatekeeper that I will be leaving with three other of our men. Remain silent. I will do the talking. Elspyth, keep your hair under that hood and your face covered. We are all dead if they suspect anything.’

Wyl whispered to Gueryn, ‘You’d better keep your head covered too.’

Lothryn had planned well. They wore the special hooded cloak favoured by the Mountain Dwellers for travel in the higher parts. That hood would serve them brilliantly now, they all hoped.

‘Are we trying to do this on foot?’ Wyl whispered.

‘No. Horses have been readied. Can he ride, do you think?’

‘Don’t talk around me as though I’m senile. I can ride. Ride the breeches off both of you — even without sight!’ Gueryn growled as they both shushed him.

Lothryn led them to stables where a young lad was rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘Very late for you to be heading out, Loth,’ the boy said.

‘Secret mission, lad. I told you. Now you must keep that quiet, remember. Tell no one, all right?’

‘Not even the King, Loth?’ the boy joked.

‘He’ll know,’ Lothryn replied and they all imagined the cold touch of Cailech’s wrath reaching out to them already.

Lothryn kept the nosy stableboy distracted with a request to adjust his horse’s saddle straps while the others mounted. Somehow Gueryn managed to clamber onto his horse himself, slumping into the saddle. Elspyth’s foot slipped in the stirrup but fear made her quick to scramble up, while Wyl managed easily enough with no pain to hamper his movements. He had little doubt, however, that his rib would be aching again before sunrise.

Lothryn whispered some final parting words to the lad and then waved a silent farewell. The boy responded in kind and then yawned, heading back into the stable.

‘That was the easy bit,’ Lothryn muttered to Wyl. ‘Just follow my lead now.’

Walking the horses softly out of the stables complex, Lothryn led them towards the gatehouse. They pulled their hoods even deeper over their faces as they approached.

‘Ho!’ Lothryn called to the man whose sleepy head poked out of the window.

‘What do you call this then?’ the guard asked.

‘Apologies, Dorl, for the late hour. We are on the King’s business.’

‘Oh yes, and what might that be, Lothryn?’

‘Never you mind that nose of yours, Dorl. It will get you into trouble one of these days,’ Lothryn replied, amusement in his voice.

Dorl responded in kind. ‘It’s my job to be nosy.’

‘Yes, but not on Cailech’s private business.’

‘All right, all right. Give me a moment. I’m off for my supper, just waiting for the relief.’

‘Who takes over?’

‘I think Borc is on his way down,’ Dorl called as he cranked the wheel which would open the gate. Wyl and Lothryn threw each other a meaningful glance. Borc would be a problem. ‘Although I heard there was some problem at the feast. That he had been hurt or something?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Lothryn lied. ‘Come on, Dorl. Put your back into it!’

They heard him make some deprecating noise at Lothryn’s comment and the gate slowly began to ascend, protesting with creaks.

Lothryn was not prepared to risk waiting any longer and clicked his horse to move on. The animal was reluctant until the gate opened fully but the rider insisted and the beast obeyed, ducking its head. Elspyth was next and was relieved her mount simply followed the lead horse.

‘Haldor’s Wrath, but you’re in a hurry,’ Dorl called out.

‘King’s business can rarely wait,’ Lothryn called back, hoping Gueryn would take the hint and follow next.

He did so and Wyl brought up the rear, lifting his hand in thanks to the gatekeeper.

‘Haldor guide you,’ he hailed at their backs.

Lothryn replied in similar fashion and felt relief flood through himself as the gate began a quicker descent.

‘Ride!’ he said over his shoulder to his companions and they broke into a canter over the rocky ground and through the first pass. ‘Don’t look down, Elspyth,’ he cautioned.

‘I won’t,’ she called grimly, holding the reins and staring at the back of the Mountain man she realised had won her heart without even trying.

‘Do you think they’ll follow?’ Wyl called to Lothryn.

‘Of course they will. Cailech will track us for ever now.’

It was probably fifteen or so minutes later that Wyl heard hooves behind them. He yelled to Lothryn, grateful he could see some flatter, open ground for a while. ‘Run for it!’

No one needed to be told again. The four horses were spurred into a gallop, Wyl calling guidance to Gueryn who seemed fearless despite his blindness. His horse obediently followed the lead horses and, as the companions’ hoods blew off and their identities were revealed beneath a full moon, they heard the roar of anger behind them as Borc tried to shorten their lead. He was brandishing a sword and Lothryn had no choice but to pull his own from its scabbard and turn back to meet the howling man head on.

Wyl turned back too but felt helpless without a weapon. The others slowed their horses and Elspyth took Gueryn off to the relative safety of a craggy overhang. Wyl yelled to Lothryn to give him the sword.

‘Don’t fight your own man. Let me. I’ve reason to kill him. You don’t.’

‘I have no intention of killing,’ Lothryn yelled back.

‘I understand. Let me,’ Wyl begged, mindful of how hard this betrayal was for Lothryn.

Lothryn finally tossed the sword to Wyl who grabbed it effortlessly from the air and then jumped from his horse. He had only a moment to gather his wits before Borc was upon his fellow tribesman, determined to slay him. He swung at Lothryn’s head with his sword, only just missing, and if not for the distraction of Wyl running at him with a weapon, might have finished the attempt with a second swing. Instead, he jumped to the ground to face Wyl.

‘You traitor!’ Borc yelled at Lothryn as he circled his new opponent. ‘How could you betray us?’

‘Because Cailech is wrong.’

‘Wrong to kill the enemy?’

‘Wrong to murder innocents.’

‘Since when have you cared about a Morgravian soul?’

Wyl allowed them this time. As Borc continued to circle him, Wyl could already see that his opponent was clumsy by comparison to his own silky skills. Borc, he felt, would simply rush at him. Wyl had no fear of this warrior.

‘Since now, Borc,’ Lothryn replied.

‘Just fuck her, Loth, and be done. I’ll help you do it, man. You know there will be no forgiveness from Cailech.’

‘Not another word about her, Borc,’ Lothryn cautioned, ‘or I will take the sword and finish you.’

‘And you think I’m afraid of you?’ he countered.

‘No,’ Wyl chimed in, tiring of the conversation. ‘But you should be very afraid of me, Borc, because I still carry insult from you. How is your throat anyway?’

Borc narrowed his eyes at Wyl. ‘When this is finished,’ he called back to Lothryn, ‘I shall do her in front of you,’ he warned.

Wyl made the sound of a parent scolding a child. ‘Very ugly talk, Borc. Let’s see if you fight as dirty as you speak.’

A whir of sword thrusts left Borc groaning on the ground, holding his leg, with blood pouring from a wound which had cut through tendon and muscle and another on his arm.

‘That should slow him down,’ Wyl said to Lothryn who looked on with awe.

‘I knew you were skilled, Koreldy, but not that good.’

‘I’ve learned some tricks from a new friend,’ Wyl replied. ‘I gather you want him left alive?’

Lothryn nodded. ‘Leave him some water.’

They did so and rode off immediately, Borc howling curses after their backs. Once out of sight of the guard, Lothryn stopped the group’s progress.

‘What’s wrong?’ Wyl asked.

‘We must use what’s left of the dark to get as far as possible,’ Lothryn cautioned. ‘Once Borc set off after us, Dorl will not have wasted any time in running to the King. In any case, the guards have probably already woken and raised the alarm that you three have escaped. Cailech won’t wait — he’ll have sent a tracking party by now.’

Elspyth felt a new fear. ‘What are you saying?’

‘He’s saying we’ll have to escape the hard way, am I right?’ Gueryn croaked.

Lothryn nodded, looking at Wyl.

‘So leave me!’ Gueryn ordered. ‘I will hamper progress.’

‘Stop!’ Wyl ordered. ‘There’ll be no talk of anyone left behind. Lothryn … tell me the worst.’

‘We’ll have to go over the mountains. The horses can only take us so far. It will be on foot for the most part. Very dangerous.’

‘Lookouts?’

‘No,’ he said sombrely, ‘they’re the easier of our problems. Our greatest threat is from the ekons.’

‘You mean they’re real?’ Elspyth said.

Wyl had not heard of them. ‘Ekons … another tribe?’

Lothryn gave a harsh laugh. ‘Another species. I hope you never have to see them, let alone fight them. Here,’ he said, lifting a bundle wrapped in sacking from beneath his pack. ‘You’ll be needing these.’

Wyl heard the comforting clank of metal. ‘My weapons?’

The barbarian nodded. ‘I took them from your room at the inn in Yentro. I had high hopes of keeping them, to be honest, but they’re somehow too elegant for the Mountain style of combat,’ Lothryn admitted.

‘Are the knives sharp?’ It was a strange question from Gueryn.

‘Very!’ Wyl assured him.

‘Good. Then you can release these stitches from my eyes.’

His three companions looked between each other. It was no polite request from the old soldier.

‘Do it!’ he commanded with a strength Wyl remembered all too well.

‘I will,’ Elspyth offered. ‘I have a steady hand.’

Wyl gingerly gave her one of the daggers.

‘I can’t see very well by moonlight,’ she admitted to her patient.

‘Well that makes two of us,’ he replied gruffly. ‘Do what you can.’

Lying him on his back, she quietly thanked Shar for his full moon this night. It hurt Gueryn badly for the stitches were dried. She did her best to moisten and soften them with water but the delicate task was still seriously hampered by the conditions. Wevyr’s brilliantly fashioned blade was the only blessing. One touch and the black thread was cut through cleanly. Gradually, painfully, his swollen lids were released.

‘They’re not perfect,’ she admitted, looking at the stray threads still embedded in his lids.

‘It is to me. Thank you, my dear, and you are every bit as pretty as I imagined you might be with that lovely voice.’

She smiled at his compliment. Gueryn now looked for the man who claimed to be his beloved Wyl Thirsk and saw only a tall stranger.

‘You’re not Wyl.’ Bitter disappointment gutted the older soldier.

‘Gueryn — there is much to say and yet no time.’

Understanding dawned on Gueryn le Gant. ‘Save those words for another time. Thank you for helping me — I presume you are the Romen Koreldy whom Cailech was so interested in me identifying. If you hadn’t called out the Thirsk motto or pretended you were Wyl back in the dungeon, I might have just given up my fight against him, against the fever, against the pain.’ He found a shaky smile. ‘You know you look nothing like Wyl Thirsk and yet somehow you do remind me so strongly of him.’

Wyl could only shake his head. He so badly wanted to confide in Gueryn and tell him everything about this bewildering life he now led but he knew that right now his old friend would not believe him. It would need careful telling and time.

Gueryn’s gaze had already moved on to Lothryn. ‘Our eyes meet again,’ he said in his dry manner. ‘If I was strong enough I would offer to fight you.’

The big man smiled, offered his hand to help Gueryn to his feet.

Wyl was anxious at how weak Gueryn really was. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we’ll take our chances over the mountains, then.’

Lothryn nodded. ‘He will not expect it. He will follow the most logical trail, anticipating we will go for speed.’

Elspyth groaned. ‘He’ll just send out two sets of trackers, surely?’

Lothryn flicked a glance towards Wyl. Elspyth was right but he did not want to dishearten them any further. Their chance of escape via the more treacherous and mountainous route was slim at best against Cailech’s men and the ekons but it was infinitely better than the more straightforward route winding down the Razors.

‘Cailech will not send two sets of trackers if he’s following four horses on one clear track,’ Gueryn said firmly, trying hard not to cough or reveal how badly he sickened.

‘I don’t understand,’ Wyl said.

‘Koreldy, your chances, I am gathering, are lessening by the moment. If we give them a clear set of tracks and no reason to question it, they will follow that trail blindly, no jest intended.’

‘No!’ Wyl said, suddenly understanding where this was headed.

‘Yes!’ Gueryn replied just as adamantly. ‘You three go off on foot across the mountains. They will not suspect it if you cover your early tracks well. I will take the horses and lead them down and away from you. You will win a day, perhaps even two if you move quickly and you’ll move faster without me.’

‘Gueryn, I can’t permit this,’ Wyl said.

‘Why? I am not answerable to you, Grenadyne. We have no loyalties to each other but I can do this for you because I want to. Get yourselves to safety and warn the Legion of Cailech’s threat to spare no prisoners. The Legion must not be sent in recklessly — perhaps you can persuade Celimus to do that much.’

There was so much to say; so much to tell him. Wyl felt the bleakness grab him again. ‘You will die! It will be for nought.’

Gueryn smiled in a way which reminded Wyl of all the reasons he loved this man. ‘I’d far rather die outwitting these bastards — forgive me, Lothryn — than be roasted over their coals. I’ll make them kill me, son, and I’ll die laughing in their faces. Please, go. Let me do this for you as my thanks for getting me out of that dungeon.’

Lothryn felt for Koreldy’s pain. ‘It’s a good plan, Romen.’

Wyl looked back towards his old friend and mentor, fighting back the emotion, demanding that the tears he felt welling did not show themselves for he could not explain them anyway. He nodded. ‘So be it.’

Gueryn held out his hand to Wyl. ‘I will take the horses as far as my ailing body can get them and still further. You obviously knew someone very special to me called Wyl Thirsk. Looking forward to hearing his story and how he fares will encourage me to live. Perhaps we might meet again, Koreldy … if not in this life, then the next.’

TWENTY-NINE

GUERYN LEFT HIS COMPANIONS, trailing their horses behind him. Wyl’s last view of him was seeing his friend take a sip from the small bottle he had pressed into the old soldier’s hand. Gueryn had taken it gratefully to numb the pain and win him a little strength. No one admitted that the fever would most likely kill him before those giving chase could, but they all thought it.

Wyl, however, preferred not to dwell on this. Instead he emptied his mind and walked in a grim silence, bringing up the rear behind Lothryn and Elspyth. Each of them deliberately stepped in the next one’s footsteps and Wyl brushed a fir branch in their wake to disguise any tracks as best he could. He ignored the pain in his rib and the whip of the wind which was picking up. He focused only on counting his steps, putting as many between him and Cailech’s fortress as possible.

As the first light of the spring dawn glowed gently, Lothryn halted.

‘We should rest for a couple of hours. There is a cave not far from here where we can lie down for a short while.’

‘Can we risk it?’ Wyl wondered aloud.

‘We must if we are going to conserve energy for the thinner air and harder terrain. This is nothing.’

‘Really easy,’ Elspyth said in a tone which belied the words.

They undid the packs and found some dried food Lothryn had the foresight to include. None were hungry but the Mountain man insisted.

‘Forget hunger. Your body needs the sustenance even if your head tells you otherwise. Force it down,’ he said to them and they did, chewing on dried meat, dried fruit and a small knuckle of bread each.

They drank thirstily, knowing there was plenty of fresh water along the way to replenish what they used.

‘So rest. Two hours only,’ Lothryn cautioned.

Wyl turned his back as Elspyth shamelessly curled up in Lothryn’s arms. She felt safe in his embrace, but she also knew she somehow belonged there. Sleep claimed all of them almost instantly.

He dreamed. It was a familiar chamber; the smell of sweat and fear, of faeces and urine … and curiously the smell of desire. Wyl was himself again; red-headed, young and frightened as they hoisted Myrren up in the hideous contraption known as the strappado. He heard the pop of her shoulder sockets as they yielded their oh so fragile hold on her arms but she did not scream. She did not even groan — not even when her elbows dislocated. The audience made all the noise as they shuddered and cringed, imagining her pain even if she would not share it.

She was naked, of course. Necessary to please the all-male chamber, he reckoned. He could see the gleam in their eyes but she did not seem to care. Myrren looked at no one but Wyl. For the most part of her traumatic time under torture she kept her eyes firmly closed but when, now and then, they flickered open for just a moment, her faraway gaze rested only on his. He had not noticed previously how her lips kept moving in a constant stream of silent words. Words presumably only she knew. Witch words he suddenly realised with new clarity in this dreamlike state.

Wyl heard the terrible command ‘Drop!’ uttered by Lymbert and then, as if she were falling a hundred times slower than in reality, he witnessed Myrren descending. And he grimaced again in his dream, for he knew what was coming, knew they would hurt her terribly. Suddenly she lurched to a sickening halt mid-air and her lips pulled back in her excruciating agony as the limbs, muscles and tendons tore and wrenched.

It was then that a new dimension invaded the dream. The torture chamber seemed to still. Myrren’s bloodshot eyes flew open and she spoke to him alone.

‘Find my father!’ she commanded.

Wyl woke, trembling in Romen Koreldy’s body.

They had slept for less than two hours but it was enough. Again Lothryn paused long enough to make them eat a little cheese and more nuts washed down with a skin of water. Carefully covering up any clues to their visit, they pressed on. Elspyth openly held Lothryn’s hand now — that was probably the reason for her higher spirits — not that it interested Wyl much beyond acknowledgement. His thoughts were with Gueryn and whether they really would see each other again.

Gueryn pressed doggedly on. It was warmer in these lower reaches but his fever had gained its foothold and would now run rampant through his shivering, aching body. He swigged again from the bottle, knowing it would not alleviate the effects of the fever. He cared not. His single notion was to stay upright and keep the horses moving forward. Every yard gained was another minute of life for his friends whom he hoped were far away now. And anyway, any moment he expected an arrow through his throat. He was surprised he had made it this far.

To take his mind off death he considered Koreldy.

A strange one he was. Why did the Grenadyne look at him with so much compassion? No, not compassion. That was too mild a word. It was love. Koreldy was connected to him in some very special way and yet Gueryn could not figure it. And the man’s pretence at being Wyl was clever; he would give him that much.

Koreldy had saved him the indignity of being eaten by Cailech. Just thinking about it brought bile to his throat. What an end. Now, because of Romen and the courageous Lothryn, he would at least die honourably, outwitting the enemy, and perhaps when all hope was lost he would turn and fight, dying bravely as any soldier of the Legion should. The Grenadyne had told him nothing, not that he had had much chance to say more than he did, Gueryn admitted. There was obviously much on the man’s mind and plenty he wanted to say — Gueryn could see it in the sad grey eyes. How could that be?

And then it hit him. Was Wyl dead? Is that what it was? He was misreading Koreldy’s compassion; the man was simply reluctant to pass on news which he knew would bring Gueryn such grief it might encourage him to give up his tenuous hold on life.

Wyl dead? No!

Gueryn slumped in the saddle. What else could it be? If Celimus was prepared to organise his death then his real target had to be Wyl. Gueryn was not important enough to warrant such attention. His clouded mind began to clear and anger began to gather. The new King of Morgravia, when still a Prince, had deliberately separated him from Wyl and then set about destroying both their lives.

The more he chewed at it, the more it made sense. How would Celimus have contrived Wyl’s end? It could not have been achieved on Morgravian soil — too much loyalty from the Legion. An uprising would erupt if the army even caught a whiff of such heinous betrayal. But Celimus was too clever for that. So he would have organised for Wyl to be beyond the realm’s borders and he would have commissioned outsiders — foreigners, no doubt — to do his dirty work. Mercenaries were easy enough to hire for the right amount of gold.

Mercenaries! Gueryn’s grip on the reins slackened. Had not Elspyth called Koreldy a mercenary during the confrontation with Cailech? Yes! Gueryn ran back over the scene in his mind. Elspyth had said something along the lines of refusing to humble the mercenary further. Romen Koreldy, who clearly knew Wyl enough to call out the Thirsk battle cry, was a mercenary. Gueryn was aware that he was making huge leaps and possibly landing in the wrong spot but the temptation to believe that Romen held critical information on Wyl was too strong. He must stay alive. He must know what has happened to his precious boy … and what about Ylena? Beautiful girl; she too would be in danger, although he hoped Alyd had the wits to get her away from Stoneheart at least. Yes, her husband was sensible and capable; his wits his best asset. He would not risk her life being threatened.

As his feverish mind raced, the arrow he had dreaded finally came thumping into his back and knocked him with ease off his horse. Gueryn dropped like a stone, his head hitting the frosty mountain ground hard enough to send all notions of Wyl into darkness.

Wyl was leading — no need to brush their tracks now — as they ascended a challenging climb and so the others all but stumbled into his back when he suddenly stopped walking.

‘Romen, what’s wrong?’ Lothryn asked.

Wyl was listening. Not to an outside sound but to an inside voice. Something called to him. But it was gone as suddenly as it came, replaced by a wave of sadness he could not explain.

‘Gueryn’s dead,’ he said in a flat voice, believing it.

Elspyth took his hand. ‘You can’t know this.’

Lothryn tried to echo her reassurance. ‘His chances were grim, I’ll grant you. But he had a good lead on them.’

Wyl looked at his friends, Romen’s eyes darkening. ‘You are not me, you cannot know what I feel … you don’t even know who I am!’

He read their sideways glances as a suggestion that they leave him alone. He knew he made no sense.

‘I’ll lead,’ Lothryn said, pushing past.

‘They’re coming now,’ Wyl warned and fell silent, following once again in the other man’s footsteps, deeper into the forbidding Razors.

‘If he’s dead, I’ll have you strung up by your balls, man!’ Cailech boomed, pointing at the archer. He leapt from his horse. ‘Check him!’ he called to the man nearest to the felled soldier.

They waited, the archer holding his breath.

‘He’s alive, my lord. Just.’

‘Get him back to the fortress. Bring in the herbalists and find Rashlyn for me. Now!’

Men rushed off in all directions. Gueryn was wrapped in blankets; they were careful not to disturb the ugly arrow which protruded from the lower part of his shoulder. He was laid across a horse and immediately led back the way he had fought so hard to escape. The man leading him swallowed hard, casting a silent prayer to Haldor to help him get this prisoner back to the fortress alive and into the hands of the herbalists for he did not doubt the King would carry out his threat if this man lost his life in his care.

Cailech turned to one of his trusted; it pained him more deeply than he cared to admit right now that it was not Lothryn.

‘So they tricked us. Where would they go?’

The man was not used to being asked for his opinion. He was loyal to Cailech and a faithful member of the tribe but he would prefer it was calm Lothryn under the King’s scrutiny. Lothryn knew how to handle the King and his moods. He himself was a follower … a doer, not a decision-maker. The King’s green eyes continued to regard him and he cleared his throat.

‘My lord King, if Lothryn is with them —’

‘He is with them! Traitor!’ the King raged.

The man tried again. ‘That being the case, my lord, I would suggest he might take them via the higher pass.’

‘Why not the Dog Leg?’

He did not mean to shrug at his King and was grateful Cailech had not noticed. ‘Lothryn knows the mountains like no other, my lord. If I was him, I’d take the most treacherous route because it might give me a better chance. He knows Haldor’s Pass.’

After several moments of consideration, in which everyone else held their breath yet again, Cailech nodded. ‘I agree with you, Myrt. It is wise counsel.’

Myrt sighed silently with relief. His expression betrayed nothing, however, as he waited for orders, which came quickly.

‘You take your men and follow Haldor’s Pass. May he preserve you. If you find them you may kill Koreldy and the woman however you please. I want Lothryn brought to me. He will face my personal justice.’

Cailech pointed at another of his men. ‘You, Drec. Take another ten and go via the Dog Leg, just in case.’

The man gave a short bow and the men he pointed to began to remount.

‘Report back to the fortress by nightfall,’ Cailech ordered. ‘Have you brought birds?’ They nodded. ‘Use them, keep me informed. Send birds to the lookouts. They no longer have to preserve any life other than Loth’s, understand?’

Cailech did not wait for a response. He turned his horse and galloped back towards his stronghold. He would have answers from this Gueryn le Gant.

Shielded by a snow-covered overhang of craggy rock, they rested. Lothryn gave them an hour despite their protests to keep going. He assured them it was necessary. A hard afternoon’s climb was ahead. Each of them sensed that Gueryn probably had reached as far as he could go. Cailech’s men, if not the King himself, would most likely have him by now … dead or alive … it mattered not. His life was over but he had won them some precious time and they would use it wisely.

Elspyth thought Romen looked haggard with his pent up anger and grief. Perhaps she should relieve it. ‘What did you mean by us not knowing who you are?’ she blurted.

He looked up from the ground where he had been staring. ‘Forget I said it,’ he replied.

Elspyth was cold, frightened and above all angry. She snapped. ‘No! Romen, my life has been turned upside down because of you and now … I might even die, and horribly. I’m not going to forget you said it just because you tell me to. I am not yours to order. You’ve been strange since I met you. My aunt only agreed to see you because you threw around the Thirsk name. And then you claim you are Wyl Thirsk to poor Gueryn who believed you — until he could see again, of course, then he knew you for the pretender you are. There are secrets upon secrets within you. Why don’t you tell us the truth?’

Lothryn tried to interject in his calm way but she shook off his gentle, restraining hand, her eyes blazing at him. ‘He is nothing but lies. He might betray us in a blink! We are risking our lives for him.’

‘Then don’t,’ Wyl said as harshly as he could.

‘What choice have we got, Koreldy?’ She was shouting now. ‘Lothryn has given up everything.’

‘Hush, you’ll bring the snow down upon us,’ Lothryn said in a soft jibe.

She was going to say more, meant to rail at Koreldy a bit longer, but the sob escaped her throat and it was as if the floodgates had opened.

Wyl felt immediately ashamed of himself. His own anger ebbed as he heard her break down. Lothryn said nothing — he did not have to — but rebuke was in his eyes when he regarded Wyl.

‘Elspyth, you wouldn’t believe me anyway,’ Wyl said, turning his hands, palms up and shrugging.

‘Why don’t you try?’ she dared, her voice tearful but now muffled by Lothryn’s embrace.

He so badly wanted to share this strange and frightening story that suddenly it sounded like the right thing to do. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he cautioned as he began the tale of Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy becoming one.

When Wyl had finished speaking, the only sound amongst the still mountains was the eerie call of a great eagle flying high above them. Elspyth was staring at her boots but Wyl noticed Lothryn regarded him with a hard, penetrating gaze.

‘Magic! Pah!’ Wyl said as though he was tired of his own hard-luck story.

‘I knew you weren’t the Koreldy I remembered,’ Lothryn suddenly admitted, his voice low and serious. Wyl waited. ‘I just put it down to there being so many years since we had last known you but somehow deep down it was more than that. You were different.’ Lothryn shrugged, letting out his breath as though he had held it for a long time. ‘Cailech sensed it first, you know. The face was the same, just older and more handsome than you deserve to be; the voice was the same and the mannerisms all Romen Koreldy. But the person inside had changed. He knew it.’

‘How so?’ Elspyth asked, intrigued.

‘The Romen I knew was witty, gregarious and above all, self-centred. The Romen before us is … complicated,’ he said, having struggled for the right word. ‘What I mean is, this Romen cares. The other one didn’t. This Romen isn’t looking for attention and, Elspyth, the Romen I once knew would have had you naked between the sheets as quick as one of his knives passes through the air.’

She looked horrified. ‘That good eh?’

‘Women, not even the more cynical Mountain women, could turn him down but, more to the point, he couldn’t resist any woman. It was like he needed to conquer them. He did not love them; he did not feel much at all for them. It’s probably why Cailech liked Romen so much — they are birds of a feather.’

Wyl frowned. ‘I like women,’ he said defensively.

‘But you never made any remark to me along those lines,’ Elspyth admitted, arching her eyebrows. ‘Am I not pretty enough?’

‘That’s my point,’ Lothryn said. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered to Romen. He would make the remark come what may. He was a flirt just for the pure amusement of toying with a woman’s feelings, winning her trust. You did not make any approach to anyone in Yentro, or here, and it would have been so easy with Elspyth.’

‘I’ll speak for myself, thank you,’ she said, glaring at Lothryn. ‘I’m not easy but I understand what you’re saying.’

‘There’s more,’ Lothryn said, warming to his subject now. ‘Romen was brilliant with his throwing knives — no one could hold a candle to him. He was a skilled swordsman but nothing close to what I witnessed back there with Borc.’

Wyl shrugged. ‘That man was clumsy at best.’ He liked that Lothryn returned the grin.

‘And back in the mountains, no mention of agrolo,’ the big man admitted. ‘Cailech is sharp. He picked it all up.’

‘What’s agrolo?’ Wyl queried and saw the answer on his companion’s face.

‘There you have it,’ Lothryn said.

‘Is that why you came to see my aunt?’

Wyl nodded. ‘I don’t know why I am Romen Koreldy or what I’m doing in this body. I should have died — my soul gone to Shar — back in Briavel’s palace. I hoped your aunt would tell me more.’

‘And did she?’ Elspyth asked.

‘No. She knew I wasn’t Koreldy, though. She knew exactly who I was when she touched me.’ He rubbed his hands through his long hair, still not used to the sensation of its smooth texture in comparison to the coarse red hair he had lived with for most of his life. ‘She told me to find Myrren’s father. I had a dream or perhaps it was a nightmare whilst we rested in the cave. It was Myrren. She spoke to me and ordered the same thing — to find her father.’

‘And where is he?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea, nor do I know his name. I have no lead to follow,’ Wyl replied, wishing his voice did not betray so clearly how desperate he felt.

A look of concern passed between his two companions. ‘So what now?’ Lothryn asked, trying to keep his tone encouraging.

‘Escape here. Get my sister to safety. Go back to Briavel and protect Valentyna. All sounds simple enough, don’t you think?’ he said.

Elspyth’s mind fled back to the old soldier. ‘And so Gueryn is truly your former friend and mentor?’

He nodded. ‘He is … was a father to me.’

‘I’m sorry, I should never have agreed with him … to let him go on alone,’ Lothryn admitted.

‘Don’t, Lothryn. This is not your fault. Without you, we’d all be feeding the tribe tonight.’ He forced a smile. ‘So you both believe me? How incredible.’

‘My aunt believes you … and I believe in her skills. How could I not accept what you say?’ Elspyth said. ‘We accept magic in the far north even if we don’t admit to it.’

Lothryn nodded. ‘There are forces more powerful at work in our world than Kings and Queens and petty squabbles over lands. Haldor spoke to me by finally giving me my son. He was a gift from the gods. Yes, I believe in the gods and their magics. This witch you speak of, Myrren, she is a channel for the gods and what they want done in the world.’

‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, glad he had finally told someone the truth and more grateful than either would know that his friends believed him without hesitation. ‘I only wish I knew what was expected of me with regard to this gift.’

‘Trust your instincts,’ Lothryn replied sagely.

‘And what of Rashlyn — is he truly empowered?’

Lothryn nodded. ‘He is a sorcerer, for sure. But his influence is all bad on Cailech.’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘No one knows — if Cailech does, he has not shared it with me. And Rashlyn is incredibly secretive about everything,’ Lothryn replied and nodded assurance when Wyl raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘But he knew of Koreldy. The fact that he did not detect the witch magic in you is surprising. Cailech would certainly have shared with me any suspicion of Rashlyn’s that you were an imposter.’

Wyl shrugged. ‘I don’t understand any of it.’

‘What shall we call you?’ Elspyth wondered.

‘Until we’re safe, I’d suggest you call me Romen,’ Wyl said, picking up his pack.

‘Come!’ Lothryn said, helping Elspyth with her pack. ‘No more talking. Save your strength — we’re all going to need it for Haldor’s Pass.’

THIRTY

GUERYN MOVED INTO AND out of his dreamlike state, never lingering long enough in consciousness to react to his surrounds. Soft light eased across his senses now and then, together with hushed voices. Pain accompanied his brief waking moments and that in itself would send him fleeing back to the dark … to safety.

Gradually the periods of awareness began to lengthen until the voices belonged to murky faces which were joined by probing hands. The light which filtered through his fluttering lids he gleaned came from candles. The pain itself was all encompassing but increasingly he could bear it for longer without having to run from it.

He became aware that he was on his belly, his face turned sideways, and the muttering people worked at his back. Slowly, very slowly, like blood seeping through thick fabric, memory returned. He had been struck by an arrow — had expected as much and had fully accepted death as a result.

What am I doing alive? Where am I?

‘Drink,’ a distant voice said.

He was rolled onto his side, flashes of pain arcing through him. An artfully cut reed served as a clever method of allowing him to sip easily from the proffered cup.

‘What?’ he groaned. It was all he could force his voice to say.

His mumblings made sense for the man answered: ‘Poppy.’

And then oblivion claimed him, the pain drifting in the opposite direction to where he felt he was headed. At regular intervals this blissful state was interrupted, much to his annoyance. And the familiar fingers would unwrap dressings and push deep into his angry wound. He knew they were looking for infection, waiting for the telltale odour which would confirm its arrival into his body at the site where the arrow had struck. Seemingly it had chosen to be absent on this occasion, which he regretted. Death, he knew, was his friend. The poppy seed liquor he so gratefully swallowed was all too quickly diluted until he could hardly taste its bitter presence. They were bringing him fully to his wits now so he could face his healers, deal with his pain … recover.

On one of these occasions he realised he was fully awake and staring into the leathery face of a man — not especially old but then not particularly young, ageless, in fact — whose single most daunting feature was the amount of dark hair about him. On his chin, around his face. Wild it was.

‘Good morning,’ the man said.

Gueryn tried to speak but coughed instead, a fresh spasm of pain gleefully taking over from his cough, leaving him panting and perspiring.

‘Don’t speak. I am Rashlyn, healer to King Cailech … amongst other things,’ he said.

Gueryn groaned. Cailech! He was back in the mountain fortress.

‘You must have a strong will to live, my friend. All the early signs told me you were for Haldor’s arms.’

Haldor be damned! Gueryn thought, wishing he could say it aloud but he was too weak.

Rashlyn corrected himself. ‘Ah, but my apologies. You would be a man of Shar, no doubt. Well, let’s just say you would not have lived but for an extraordinary desire to hold onto life.’ He smiled sadly but the words which followed did not match the smile — they sounded cruel. ‘A pity. I fear death might have been easier.’

‘Then kill me now,’ Gueryn managed to utter.

The healer was amused. ‘I like my own life too much to do that,’ he said before becoming more serious. ‘Cailech is to be informed that you have woken. Be brave, Morgravian. He respects courage.’

Gueryn gratefully looked away from Cailech’s man as he was rolled onto his belly.

‘This poultice must stay on for the day,’ Rashlyn warned.

Gueryn said nothing. In fact he had every intention of ripping off the healing herbs as soon as he was able, hoping to encourage an infection to breed quickly in his wound.

As though he fully understood Gueryn’s mindset, Rashlyn added: ‘You will be bound, I’m sorry … just in case you have a mind to discourage your recovery. Cailech would not be pleased.’

The man clapped and others arrived to tie Gueryn, belly down, to his pallet. They were thorough. He would not be escaping these bonds with any ease. He had no choice but to lie there and wait, fully conscious now, with plenty of time to wonder at what Cailech had in store for him.

He waited many hours in this position; the once hot, uncomfortable poultice cooling sufficiently to feel cold and clammy against his skin. He had even dozed, waking numb and alarmed to realise the sun had moved from high overhead and was now dipping behind the mountains, casting a pink glow across the sky.

As dusk fell Cailech arrived. He came alone, which for Gueryn made his presence seem even more ominous than when surrounded by his henchmen.

Cailech did not stand on any ceremony. ‘We meet again, soldier.’

‘Sadly,’ Gueryn replied, his voice thankfully stronger and clear. He was determined his courage would not fail him now, although his neck, after being twisted for so long, ached badly enough for him to crave more poppy liquor.

‘Your companions are dead,’ the King offered abruptly.

A thrill of fear initially passed through Gueryn but he halted it, controlled it and pushed it back out at Cailech whom he believed was bluffing.

‘I sense a ruse.’

‘Why is that?’ The King sounded genuinely interested … and amused, which Gueryn found more irritating. The King’s smile all but admitted he had lied.

‘Why am I kept alive with such powerful healings if the others — surely more important to you — are dead?’

‘You are too hard on yourself, le Gant. You are important to me.’

‘How so? Not long ago — forgive me for losing track of time — you were preparing to roast me over the coals.’

‘That’s before I was aware of your interest to Romen Koreldy,’ the King replied more slyly now.

Gueryn knew he was being toyed with. ‘What is it you want from me? I have nothing to offer you but the glee of my death.’

‘Death is too easy now, soldier. You are far more valuable to me alive.’

‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘I’ve already told you.’

‘Why is Koreldy so important to you?’

‘He has betrayed my trust.’ Amusement was gone. A simmering fury replaced it. Even from his prone position, Gueryn could see the anger glittering in the Mountain King’s eyes.

‘I cannot help you,’ he replied flatly. If he could have turned his head away, he would have.

‘Tell me of Koreldy,’ Cailech asked.

‘That’s the best part, my lord. I know this man you speak of with less familiarity than you, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, tell me what you know.’

How he mustered the laugh, Gueryn would never know. He saw how it infuriated the King, wished he had the strength to do it again — louder, longer. ‘I know nothing. He is a stranger to me.’

‘You lie! I saw how he recognised you. Even a fool could not be aware of his concern for you … and I am no fool, le Gant.’

‘Then you have me as baffled as he does, my lord King. I have never heard the name Romen Koreldy until he spoke with me on the night of the feast. I was blinded as you recall, sire, so I could not claim him to be a stranger to me until the stitches were removed. I can assure you, I have never set eyes on this man until that moment. In truth,’ he paused before adding, ‘I thought he was someone else until my eyes saw him.’

Gueryn watched the King’s confusion at this last comment melt into fascination as obviously some new thought struck him. He noticed the man’s lips purse, go white. The King was struggling to remain calm. He fully expected Cailech to hit him. He could not care if he did, especially now that his wound was aching again.

‘Riddles! I will have the truth, Gueryn le Gant,’ Cailech said.

‘I have spoken it. Romen Koreldy is unknown to me. Why he finds me so fascinating I could not tell you. Why he went to such trouble on my behalf is a mystery. And why one of your most loyal men would help me to escape is even more of a conundrum.’ Gueryn could hardly believe that he was just short of smirking. He enjoyed using Lothryn’s treachery as a weapon against this man.

Cailech grimaced. His fists clenched. Ah, that one hit the mark, Gueryn thought, pleased with his efforts. The King made a sign towards the door which Gueryn was not able to see. He could hear footsteps arriving and suddenly he was being untied and hauled to his feet between two huge guards. He was too weak to even struggle, too numb to support himself and the nausea from being stood suddenly upright threatened to render him unconscious. It was only the arrival of a terrified and painfully familiar woman which caught his attention, held it and did not permit him to relinquish its grip on her.

It was Elspyth. Bruised and ragged. She was sobbing.

‘Behold another proud Morgravian whom I’ve allowed some of my men to … well, soften up, shall we say,’ Cailech said, turning back to watch Gueryn closely. ‘I have Lothryn too … he is a guest of my dungeon for the time being. It’s true Koreldy eludes me.’

Gueryn ignored him. ‘Elspyth,’ he muttered, all hopes dashed, but the woman did not respond.

Elspyth appeared vague and disoriented. He could see nasty welts across her face and a cut in her hairline which had bled down the side of her face and now dried. She looked abused and distant, frightened. Her mouth was shockingly swollen and bruised.

‘We have cut her tongue out, le Gant. I’m sorry she cannot talk back to you,’ Cailech said, motioning towards a guard who held her. The man pulled open her jaw to reveal a black and bloodied mass which was formerly her pretty mouth. Teeth had been broken in the process.

Gueryn felt waves of fury now. He could feel his despair pounding at the site of his wound, his blood pumping angrily towards it. Gueryn wanted to wreak violence on this heinous man who could perpetrate such horror on a woman … on any innocent.

‘Shar will see you rot for this and your name be spat upon and ultimately forgotten,’ he raged, ignoring the pain.

‘I do not fear your god, le Gant. But you should fear me.’

‘What do you wish to hear?’ Gueryn yelled, feeling the wound burst open again and a trickle of something warm ooze down his naked back.

‘I wish to know your connection to Romen Koreldy,’ Cailech replied in a soft tone, deliberately giving the impression he was bored as he lifted a huge dagger from his belt. He stared at it for a moment and then back at Gueryn, his eyebrow arched in a question.

Gueryn looked from the pathetic, bleeding figure of Elspyth back towards the man whom it appeared would be her executioner. Nothing in Cailech’s expression told Gueryn that he was bluffing this time. The evil-looking blade was resting loosely in the man’s large hand and it was clear he would not hesitate to use it on this lovely woman who had shown Gueryn such tenderness and whose grimy cheeks now showed rivulets of tears as if she understood what was being bargained for here … what Gueryn’s failure to satisfy might mean.

Gueryn was shaking his head in silent disbelief. He was helpless. He could no more save this woman’s life than his own. All the years of training, all the skills and talent at his fingertips, all the arrogance of being from a noble line and attached to a family of such prestige and power was suddenly worthless. He could not help her. She would die because he was so helpless … so worthless … so pointless.

He lifted his eyes back to the searing gaze of his keeper, King Cailech. ‘I beseech you, lord King. Let her be.’

‘I have run out of patience with you, Gueryn le Gant. She is Morgravian. She is little more than worthless scum to me.’

The words cut as sharply as the blade the King held. Rage returned to Gueryn le Gant. ‘Romen Koreldy knew a man called Wyl Thirsk whose family I worked for. That is our only connection. I have never seen Koreldy before — I can tell you no more … nor would I if I could!’

He regretted his tone and his harsh words the instant they fell out of his mouth. Anger — normally something he had in control — betrayed him and the woman. He watched with horror as Cailech calmly turned away from him and punched the blade into Elspyth’s belly. As she doubled up, the King stepped away momentarily to ensure Gueryn could see him wiping at the spattering of blood which had hit his jerkin.

‘Let him watch,’ he said and the guards held her upright as Cailech ripped the blade, still embedded in her, across her abdomen.

Her face became waxy white, a terrible sound issued from her throat which turned to gurgling as blood welled up and spewed from her ragged mouth. Cailech calmly removed the gutting blade, wiping it on the woman’s garments as her head slumped forward. The guards and their King made a show of avoiding the spume of blood and turned their heads from the smell of ripped bowel. Gueryn could not tear his eyes from the horrific scene. He watched her lifeblood creep slowly yet inexorably towards his boots in a thick line and then curl around one of them, moulding itself to his feet … for ever marking him with her death.

For ever reminding him that he killed Elspyth.

She shuddered and groaned once more before mercifully letting out her last wretched breath. Fiery Elspyth with the kind voice and tender, steady hands was dead.

‘Take her away. Throw her to the wolves. We need to give them a taste for fresh Morgravian meat.’

As she was dragged away, Gueryn took his guards by surprise as he hurled himself towards the King. It was the young woman’s blood which undid him; he slipped and, before he could make any impact on Cailech, he was falling heavily on his face, his legs flipping under him. The ravaging pain newly erupting at his wound was sufficient enough to throw him into a dark place. When he woke he found he lived an even bleaker existence.

Cailech had imprisoned him again in the dungeon. There would be no escape this time.

Cailech sat brooding over a spiced wine. In the shadows of his great chamber overlooking the lake, Rashlyn waited patiently. They had been like this for some time. It was a familiar scene for both. The King finally hurled his clay goblet at the fireplace where it shattered loudly, breaking the silence, klaxoning his fury.

Rashlyn spoke quickly. ‘The glamour was effective, my lord. The likeness was extraordinary,’ the man of many magics said.

‘But it didn’t work, Rashlyn! He still didn’t break.’

‘Perhaps it was too effective?’ the sorceror said.

Cailech turned on his man. ‘What do you mean?’

Rashlyn shrugged. ‘Only that I imagine for him there was no point in co-operating beyond her death. Perhaps he never thought you would do it, my lord?’

‘Trust me, he knew. And he allowed her to die. You’re right, the likeness of your glamour was extraordinary — he could never guess it was not her. Who was it, by the way?’

‘The Morgravian whore we captured him with.’

Cailech nodded. ‘Why is he protecting Koreldy!’ This time the King kicked over a small wooden seat in his frustration.

‘Calm, my lord,’ Rashlyn soothed. ‘Send out more men. The Stones tell me they have followed Haldor’s Pass. In the meantime we must think hard on this. It will come to us … we will find a solution.’

Hours later — Gueryn had no idea of day or night — the door swung back and Cailech was outlined menacingly in the archway. Gueryn pretended he was asleep but the King ignored this fact. He knew full well the Morgravian would hear him and he was filled with energy at having resolved his dilemma. Rashlyn’s advice was sound. Keep him alive. If he was so important to Koreldy, use him as bait.

‘I hope you like it here, soldier, for this is your home now. Make yourself familiar with these granite walls, welcome the damp and embrace the darkness. There is no light for you, no warmth … very little sustenance will I offer, save what will keep you alive.’

‘Why bother? Koreldy’s escaped your clutch. He won’t be back,’ Gueryn said, not even turning towards the King. It was the only way he could show the Morgravian spirit remained strong in him.

‘Because as long as you’re alive I know Romen Koreldy will find my fortress irresistible.’

‘I don’t know him!’ Gueryn roared with the little strength he possessed.

‘Ah, but he knows you, le Gant and he has saved you once — he will do it again.’

The door slammed with finality.

Gueryn wept. Rashlyn was right. Death would have been much kinder.

THIRTY-ONE

THE THREE OF THEM trudged higher. Lothryn had been right to warn them of Haldor’s Pass. This was its earliest stages and already the going was treacherous. The air was thin enough to discourage any conversation other than odd grunts and noises to check on each other. Wyl’s thoughts rested with Gueryn. As much as Lothryn believed Cailech would kill him, Wyl did not share this notion. The subtlety of Romen’s thoughts — what tiny residue was left of them — reassured him that Cailech would not kill any man who may have some value down the track.

Cailech is too shrewd, he reminded himself. Why save Gueryn? Because up until Wyl declared his knowledge of him, Gueryn was a stranger to Cailech … nothing more than a Morgravian soldier of rank, and worth the satisfaction of killing. Now, Wyl reasoned, Cailech may view him as worth saving, if just to taunt Koreldy.

All of this was hypothetical, of course. Wyl had had a premonition that his mentor was dead. None of them had any idea whether Gueryn survived the descent. The likelihood of him surviving his rampaging fever was slim enough. Still, Wyl clung to his notion that Gueryn’s spirit was stronger than his body and Cailech’s shrewdness would overcome his desire to slake his thirst for revenge. Wyl reasoned that Cailech might spare Gueryn even just to find out what he knew of where his companions had headed. At the heart of it Wyl accepted that Cailech’s real thirst was for Koreldy and, no doubt, Lothryn. Gueryn was of negligible interest against such tempting prey but if his being kept alive could help trap them, Cailech would not hesitate to use him.

He came out of his tangled private thoughts only because Elspyth had signalled a stop. She was breathing hard, ignoring the advice of Lothryn to take shallow breaths. The Mountain man walked back to where she had slumped on a rock.

‘I need a few moments,’ she begged.

Lothryn nodded. It clearly was not to his liking but he refused to waste precious breath and strength arguing. He pointed to a small circle of boulders which would offer minimal shelter but a break nonetheless from the icy wind. He helped Elspyth back to her feet and the three of them gratefully collapsed amongst the circle of stones.

‘If you tell me to eat anything, I am going to be sick,’ she haltingly cautioned, eyeing Lothryn.

‘No eating. Drinking is important, though. That’s what our bodies need.’

She took small sips from the skin he offered.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Wyl said, glad to be out of the wind momentarily, ‘does Cailech have an actual healer he trusts?’

Lothryn nodded. ‘More than a healer. It’s Rashlyn.’

‘Ah, of course. Tell me what you know of him.’

The big man sighed. ‘He is dangerous, as I’ve said. In ancient times, when we were separate tribes, each had their own barshimon. The barshi, as he is known, was called upon for everything from blessing a birth to cursing an enemy. He does readings, he interprets visions, reads the Stones, he performs enchantments … and he heals.’

‘You say only in ancient times.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps the magics were more genuine in ancient times or, more likely, most were pretenders. In the last few centuries we’ve discovered that true sorcerers are a rarity … most people could move through a lifetime and never meet someone with the true gift of magic.’

‘And Rashlyn?’ Wyl asked.

‘As I said, he’s the real thing. And he’s ambitious.’

‘You think he’s using Cailech.’

Lothryn nodded. ‘I know it and none of it towards good.’

Elspyth joined in. ‘I heard one of the women use the word barshi against me when I came looking for you at the time of your son’s birth.’ She instantly regretted mentioning his baby.

Lothryn smiled sadly. ‘Yes, barshi can also be used as a way of calling down darkness … bad things,’ he said, shrugging. ‘They needed something to blame for my wife’s death. You were an easy target … and a stranger.’

‘So Rashlyn is barshi to Cailech?’ Wyl reasoned.

‘He is barshi to the united Mountain Kingdom,’ Lothryn admitted.

‘You don’t sound approving,’ Wyl risked, already knowing it to be true.

‘I hate him. He has no soul. I have wished all too often that Cailech had not aligned himself with a man of such darkness.’

Wyl nodded. He would store away this knowledge. ‘But he is a healer?’

‘Yes. I can see where you’re headed with this conversation, Koreldy. You believe Cailech will spare Gueryn’s life … save it, in fact, with powerful healings of the barshi?’

‘You read my thoughts well!’

‘You are as easy to read as a book when you’re being this person, Wyl Thirsk. If you are to outwit Cailech you need to be Romen through and through,’ Lothryn counselled.

‘He’s right,’ Elspyth admitted. She smiled. ‘Now that Loth mentions it, you do flit between personalities. I can believe there are two of you. As Wyl you seem naked, too honest.’

Wyl considered what they said. ‘Wise words. I must learn from them.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Rashlyn has the power to save Gueryn if Cailech permits it. But what he is being saved for he may prefer to escape through death,’ Lothryn added. ‘Cailech will go this way only if he can benefit.’

‘He can,’ Wyl said. ‘He can lure me back.’

‘Romen, no!’ Elspyth shouted. ‘Gueryn chose. He gave his life to save you. The two of us aside, he wanted you to get away. You make his sacrifice worthless if you consider returning.’

‘I don’t mean to turn back now,’ Wyl reassured. ‘I just have a strange feeling that Gueryn will be preserved for the one reason that it might bring Koreldy back to Cailech’s fortress. I was so transparent at the feast. It was obvious I knew Gueryn well and cared for him. Cailech’s too shrewd to not notice such things.’

Lothryn nodded. ‘He misses nothing.’

‘Then if Gueryn is alive — and I choose to believe he is — I think he will remain a prisoner of Cailech for no other task than to entice Cailech’s enemy back.’

‘If you believe this, then you must not fall for such a plan,’ Elspyth reasoned.

‘I won’t, I promise,’ Wyl said but his glance towards Lothryn said differently.

‘We must press on,’ Lothryn cautioned and wearily they hauled themselves back to their feet and stepped out into the biting wind. ‘Use your hood tails,’ Lothryn shouted against the howl. ‘Wrap them about your mouths. You must keep the icy air from entering as best you can.’ They followed his lead. ‘One more thing,’ he cautioned. ‘We’re entering ekon territory. We must be wary.’

The first indication that one or more of the beasts were near came some time later when Lothryn, becoming suddenly rigid, stopped and smelled the air swirling about them.

‘What?’ Wyl mouthed, careful not to make a sound.

‘Ekon,’ Lothryn replied in the same manner.

Elspyth’s expression queried how he could know this.

‘The stench,’ he whispered. ‘Can you smell it?’

They both lifted their noses and inhaled. A vague waft of something musty and unpleasant crossed their senses and they nodded.

‘Not close enough to threaten yet. But if we can smell him, trust me that he can smell us. He will stalk us.’

‘What can we do?’ Elspyth asked.

‘Distance is all we have,’ Lothryn admitted. ‘But if he signals any others …’

He opted to say no more.

‘Let’s go,’ Wyl said and took the lead, setting a rattling pace.

Cailech’s tracking group had made good ground on horseback but the terrain was fast becoming too precarious for their precious animals. They did not know it yet but they were getting close to their prey who had been labouring for a much longer distance at a slower pace.

‘They’ve passed this way — and recently,’ the leader called back to his second-in-command. He scrutinised the footprints and broken stems of nearby bushes where the trio had rested in the circle of boulders just a short while ago. ‘Send a bird,’ he said. ‘Let the King know they’re on Haldor’s Pass and we’re following.’

The man he spoke to nodded. ‘Immediately.’

Myrt, close friend of Lothryn, turned back and squinted into the snowcapped Razors. He despised leading this mission, knowing how it must end. But he hated more Lothryn’s betrayal and the fact that his own loyalty was now being called into question. It was no coincidence that Cailech specifically picked him out for this task. The King was testing Myrt’s faithfulness to the tribe. Cailech would determine through Myrt’s behaviour how deeply friendship ran in opposition to commitment to the Crown.

Myrt grimaced at the thought. ‘Hobble the horses, we’re on foot from here,’ he ordered.

Wyl and Lothryn were just hauling Elspyth up a slippery series of rocks when they heard a sound that made Lothryn almost let go of her hand.

‘That’s our ekon. He’s calling in another. They often hunt in pairs.’

‘How close?’ Wyl asked, dragging Elspyth up onto the flatter ground.

‘Too close. No longer any use fleeing, they’re much faster and sure-footed than us.’

‘Can we hide?’ Elspyth gasped, still out of breath.

‘No point,’ was the terse reply.

‘Right then,’ Wyl said, shedding his pack and dragging out the blue sword from the sheath he now wore across his back. Instinctively he touched the knives at his chest. ‘So we stand and fight.’

Lothryn dropped his pack onto the ground and brought out a crossbow.

‘I’ve been wondering what you carried in there,’ Wyl admitted.

‘This might be more effective than your beautiful weapon,’ Lothryn said.

The men shared a knowing smile, one shared universally by soldiers needing the bravado to go into battle.

‘What was that thing you called out to Gueryn?’ Lothryn asked.

‘As one … Thirsk family motto and warcry,’ Wyl said proudly.

‘As one, then, Wyl Thirsk,’ Lothryn said and they stood back to back, watchful. ‘He won’t strike immediately. If there’s two, they’ll watch us for a while.’

‘Elspyth, you hide,’ Wyl ordered.

‘No point apparently. Give me a blade!’ she replied.

‘No!’ Lothryn was determined. ‘We’re enough to satisfy them. You hide for now and then you run the moment you get your chance. Don’t you dare cross me on this.’

Lothryn’s glare was enough to dissuade her arguing further. She grabbed their sacks and backed into a depression in the rockface.

And so the two men found themselves alone on a freezing plateau, awaiting sure death.

‘I’ve been meaning to say something about your son, Lothryn. I’m sorry you’ve had to leave him.’

‘He’s in good hands.’

Wyl should have left it at that but, embarrassed by his inept first attempt at raising the subject, he pressed on. ‘I fear we’ve forced you into making the most damning of all choices. Blood should come before duty.’

There was a difficult silence before Lothryn spoke again. ‘He’s not blood,’ the man said in a soft voice.

The words hit Wyl like a blow and he was glad they stood with their backs to each other, eyes roaming the rocks for any sign of the beasts. His pause gave Lothryn the opportunity to fill it.

‘He’s not my son. My wife birthed him as ours but he was sired by another. Duty came ahead of blood,’ the man of the mountains admitted.

Wyl was confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I regret it but I permitted my wife to be used in this fashion. Perhaps I am making amends now for bad judgement.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Wyl said.

‘He is from Cailech’s seed.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never told anyone. I hate myself for being so weak and allowing Cailech his way. You shared your secret with me. I will do the same with you. Cailech made me promise I would swear it was the death of our first two babes which soured our marriage but it was nothing of the kind. If anything after such tragedy we felt closer than ever, more committed to each other. Ertyl saw my capitulation to Cailech as betrayal. She accused me of many things, the most hurtful, I suppose, was the most truthful — that I was his puppet. She said I had no mind of my own. And that made me less of a man in her eyes.’

‘Why would you permit such a thing?’ Wyl knew he should not ask it of Lothryn but the words tumbled out.

‘My King demanded it for the line. Ertyl’s father was the strongest of the tribal leaders before Cailech united them. He believes in lineage. His family blood and Ertyl’s family blood would make a powerful mix.’

‘Cailech strikes me as too … I don’t know, intelligent, respectful, loyal even to ask such a thing.’

This time Lothryn grunted, although Wyl could not see the twisted set of his face. ‘It wasn’t his idea, of course.’

‘Shar’s Wrath!’ Wyl cursed, understanding dawning. ‘Rashlyn?’

‘He advised — he had a vision — and Cailech followed it.’

‘So the boy is where?’

‘He was taken from me. Cailech wants him raised away from my influence. He will keep the child close — be his father. I would have loved him as my own, because he came from Ertyl. When he was taken from me on the day of his birth something snapped … and then the feast and the events surrounding it gave me the excuse I needed, I suppose.’

‘To strike back, you mean?’

‘Well … to let him know I am my own man. He took too much from me — my wife died because of him. And my son is now motherless.’

‘What is the child’s name?’

‘He is called Aydrech … golden warrior.’

‘We shall stay alive, Lothryn, and we shall see the boy grown, I promise.’

The Mountain man grunted but before he could say what he intended they were spotted by Myrt and others, who were climbing up the escarpment to where they stood.

‘Lothryn!’ Myrt cried. ‘Traitor!’

‘Run, Elspyth!’ Lothryn screamed. ‘You too, Wyl, it’s our only chance.’

They heard Elspyth take fright like a startled deer and leap from her hiding spot, crashing down the ridge into the undergrowth below.

Wyl refused. ‘We face this together.’

At that moment, the ekons leapt down from their vantage point above the plateau and pandemonium broke out.

It was a bloodbath. The ekons’ long and agile bodies landed the jump with the greatest of ease. Their white coats were striped in a dark brown, a brilliant camouflage in this environment. Yellow eyes sat above vast snarling mouths; their paws were huge and their spines strong enough to support them on two legs if need be. The daunting razor-like teeth were intimidating enough, but a barb on the tip of their strong, swishing tails which could inject a fast-acting paralysing poison completed what was arguably the most effective killing beast Wyl could imagine.

If they had wings, they’d be perfection, he marvelled to himself.

Momentarily stunned by their arrival, he could only watch as the duo instantly killed two of the men with teeth and barb. Another two who rushed towards them with swords met a similar fate.

‘They should know better,’ Lothryn said almost conversationally as he slowly went about the business of loading his crossbow with a mean-looking bolt. ‘Myrt!’ he called calmly. ‘Use bows!’

Myrt nodded and began barking orders, rallying the remaining men as another went to his gods.

‘Romen,’ Lothryn spoke softly; Wyl could hardly tear his eyes from the carnage. ‘You must go. Fight another day. Take Elspyth. You’ll come out at a place we call Straplyn — a narrow deer track leading into your realm. Get into Morgravia to safety.’

‘Lothryn, I can kill these men now! I can give us a fighting chance.’

‘No! This is the right way. No killing of my people. Go — before they even realise you’ve gone. Save her for me. They won’t kill me. Cailech will want that pleasure for himself. I’m not afraid.’

Myrt looked back. ‘Hurry, Loth, loose that bow!’

Men screaming, animals ripping flesh and carrion birds already hovering was the ghoulish scene as Lothryn’s words sunk in.

‘He will torture you!’

‘He has nothing to get from me. No. He won’t torture. But he will make me pay somehow. Please, Wyl … escape, for all of us. Make this count.’

It was the big man calling him Wyl which broke the spell. Lothryn saw his words get through and took the opportunity. He pushed Wyl away and ran towards his friend Myrt. Side by side once again they fired death bolts towards the animals as men died about them. Wyl finally turned and ran, hating himself. No one noticed him leave the wind-riddled escarpment … no one cared right now. Except Wyl. He made a promise that he would return. Return one day to claim back Gueryn and Lothryn if they were alive and if not, he would seek terrible revenge on the King of the Mountains.

Eighteen men died that day on the escarpment. The ekons were riddled with bolts before they too fell. Only four of the Mountain Dwellers could now claim to have outlived an ekon attack.

Myrt finally turned to Lothryn. ‘We are to bring you back alive.’

‘I thought as much.’

‘You let him go, of course.’

‘Yes. I’m glad I got him this far.’

‘Why, Loth?’ Lothryn knew Myrt was not referring to Koreldy’s escape.

‘Oh, it’s complicated, my friend. Don’t immerse yourself in the web. Stay pure. Stay true to the tribe.’ Lothryn offered his wrists and Myrt reluctantly nodded towards one of the others to bind them. ‘Did the Morgravian soldier live?’

‘Cailech spared him for reasons he keeps to himself.’

Lothryn felt a twinge of satisfaction that Wyl had been right. ‘And me? Is there a plan?’

‘I’m not sure any of us would want to know it, Loth,’ his friend admitted sadly.

THIRTY-TWO

WYL WORRIED AT NOT finding Elspyth. By nightfall his anxiety had tripled yet he dare not risk a fire which might attract Cailech’s scouts or worse, a curious ekon. He hoped Elspyth would have the same sense. He decided he would need to find shelter quickly before darkness closed in completely. One blessing was that he was already in the lower levels of the Razors so the air was far milder and breathing was normal again.

His fighter’s hearing and instincts combined to sense danger before he saw it. The noise came from behind and his sword was out of its scabbard and pointing at Elspyth’s throat in a blink.

‘Shar’s Wrath. You’ve cut me,’ she complained, although the wild look in her eyes suggested she had intended far worse for him with the thick branch she was carrying. ‘I thought you were one of the scouts. Thank the stars you’re safe.’

He slid the sword back. ‘Let me see how bad it is.’

‘It’s fine, really,’ she said and he could see it would stop bleeding very quickly. She looked as weary as he felt. ‘Where’s Lothryn — is he coming?’

This would not be easy. ‘No.’

Elspyth dropped the branch and balled her fists instinctively. ‘Dead?’ she asked, her face without any expression.

He shook his head.

Now she just looked beaten. ‘He made you leave, didn’t he, like he made me run?’

‘Lothryn is too brave for his own good. We had a chance at escape but he wouldn’t agree to my killing any of his people. He chose to face Cailech.’

Her shoulders slumped and she sat on the leafy ground amid the small grove of trees they found themselves in. She wept quietly, her wound already forgotten.

Wyl knelt and put his arms around her. ‘I know you were fond of each other.’

‘Cailech will execute him,’ she muttered through her tears.

‘I don’t believe so somehow, Elspyth. I can’t promise you that but, as I sense with Gueryn, I think Lothryn might be more useful to the King alive … if he can get past his rage, that is.’

‘He will hurt him, though,’ she muttered.

‘Perhaps, but he is strong. He will survive. I know it.’

She wiped her face, trying to gather herself. ‘So we just leave?’ she said flatly.

‘For now,’ he offered as gently as he could. ‘But I give you my oath. I am coming back for them.’

She turned to him now, her wet eyes searching his for any sign of guile. ‘Swear it!’

‘I do swear, on everything I consider precious to me. I will return, I promise.’

‘With other men, you mean?’

‘With a plan and when I am equipped to deal with Cailech.’

‘And so what happens between now and then?’

Wyl had not thought beyond escape. Now that freedom seemed very real for them he considered his options. Elspyth waited whilst he thought, digging in her pack absently to fill the silence. It was Lothryn’s pack. She had mistakenly grabbed it in her flight. In it Elspyth found a little food. She was no longer hungry. She offered it to Wyl.

He had no appetite either but obliged, chewing as he spoke, tasting nothing but knowing his body needed it. ‘All right. This is my plan for us now. As soon as we enter Morgravia we split up. You must not go home, Elspyth. It’s too dangerous right now. They know where your cottage is —’

‘But my aunt,’ she protested.

‘They have no quarrel with her. If she is dead …’ he saw how the words cut her. ‘Forgive me but it must be said. She may be dead. And if not, she is safe. You are not.’

‘So where do I go?’

‘Travel to a place called Rittylworth.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it. There’s a monastery there, is that right?’

‘Yes. Good. That’s where you need to go. Brother Jakub will help you. But you mustn’t linger. Promise me.’

‘I promise,’ she said, confused. ‘So then what?’

‘My sister, Ylena Thirsk, is at the monastery. You must take her with you. Tell her and Jakub that Romen Koreldy insists. Mention nothing of Wyl Thirsk. Do you understand what I say?’

She bridled. ‘You’re speaking our language so of course I do.’

‘Apologies. I am worried for Ylena as much as I am for you. Travel north-east. Under no circumstances allow her to return to the Thirsk family home in Argorn. You need to get to Felrawthy. I will tell you what to say to the Duke when you get there. It is important you give him some information — I’ll write it all down in a letter for him. He will offer the protection you both require for different reasons.’

‘I’m confused.’

‘Just trust me.’

‘And where are you headed, may I ask?’

‘Into Briavel. I made a promise to its Queen which I must fulfil.’

She crossed her arms and eyed him suspiciously. But he was offering no further information.

‘I need you to keep my secret, Elspyth. No one is to know that Romen Koreldy is really Wyl Thirsk, especially Ylena. No one will accept or even try to understand — the fact that you do is some sort of miracle. You will be safe and anonymous at Felrawthy so long as you keep our secret. I will send word as soon as I can and I will not break my oath to you. I need you to be patient.’

It was towards dusk of the next day that they found themselves at Straplyn as Lothryn had predicted. The path, as he had said, was little more than a deer track, which by Wyl’s estimation cunningly entered Morgravia in the northwest. Energised by their success at getting this far, neither felt tired enough to sleep and they agreed to press on through the night until they could establish exactly where in Morgravia they were. It was a clear moonlit evening and very mild in comparison to the chill of the mountains.

‘It even smells like home,’ Elspyth commented absently.

‘Will you be all right?’ Wyl finally asked the question.

‘Yes, you’re not to worry about me. I have been alone, save for my aunt, for most of my life. Lothryn and I never did get the chance to speak of how we felt but we felt it all the same. If Shar decrees we be together, we will be.’

‘You’re wonderful, Elspyth, do you know that?’

She stole a glance and grinned, obviously flattered by his words.

‘No truly,’ he said. ‘You’re courageous and honest, you’re resilient and loyal. You and Lothryn share many qualities and you deserve each other.’ He reached out to take her hand as they walked. ‘I won’t let you down. If he lives, I’ll get him back for you.’

Elspyth squeezed his hand, finding his touch comforting and filled with friendship.

‘And you’re very handsome, Romen Koreldy, but I prefer the man inside … Wyl Thirsk.’

It was Wyl’s turn to be coy. ‘Romen helps me be all that I can’t, though,’ he admitted.

‘I’d like to have met Wyl, the man. I saw you fight at the tourney. You are a magnificent swordsman.’

‘I was a bit short, though, eh?’ he said, as ever unable to handle a compliment from a woman as Romen might.

She laughed. ‘Oh well, don’t be too hard on yourself. They say there’s someone out there for each of us,’ she said. ‘After all, look at Lothryn and myself. What an odd match we are — him so huge and me so tiny.’

‘I believe in love at first sight.’

‘Is there anyone you love, Wyl?’

‘Yes.’ He could not help being honest. Now that he was free, getting back to Valentyna meant everything to him. ‘But she is untouchable. Way above my station. An impossible relationship … and probably one which exists only in mind,’ he said. ‘Doomed to be an unrequited love,’ Wyl added with a dramatic flourish of his hand, hoping to turn his comments into something more lighthearted.

‘Ah, the Queen,’ she said intuitively.

He looked at Elspyth, shocked to admit she had learned his other secret.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ she said, tapping her nose. ‘A woman can guess these things. Does she know?’

It was a loaded question. He shook his head gloomily. ‘No and no. She knew me as Wyl and thinks he is dead but she has never met Romen Koreldy.’

‘Wyl … may I call you that?’

‘Of course.’ It was refreshing to hear his own name spoken.

‘Can I suggest you take a look in a mirror sometime. At the risk of understatement, the body you live in is very pleasing on the eye. You have no idea right now how she may view you.’

‘I don’t know about that but what I do sense is that the Queen is in terrible danger. I must get back to Briavel.’

‘I understand your motives better now. Thank you for telling me.’ She pointed to a milestone ahead. ‘There, Wyl! Now we can see where we are.’

‘Sharp eyes,’ he admitted and they hurried to the small stone pillar. ‘D four miles,’ he read out. ‘Where’s D, would you know?’

‘Has to be Deakyn, which means we’re about twenty miles from Yentro.’

‘And several days from Rittylworth for you. Can we get horses at Deakyn?’

‘Yes, I should think so. It’s only a village but it’s on a main road which feeds south. It has an inn called the Penny Whistle and I imagine horses should not be a problem.’

‘Our problem, of course, is paying for them. They took my purse when Cailech had us imprisoned. Damn!’

‘But they didn’t take mine,’ she said reaching beneath her skirts.

Wyl could not help but hug her. It was good for them both to hear each other laugh.

‘Right, I’m happy to keep going,’ he said and saw her nod.

‘You can spend the time telling me all about Wyl and how he turned into Romen. I must know the whole story … in detail this time.’

They had hidden their cloaks to rid themselves of all links with the Mountain People. The travellers standing before the innkeeper were dusty and dishevelled but thankfully the man did not so much as bat his sleepy lids when they arrived at the Penny Whistle in the early hours of the next day. It was still dark outside and he was too burdened with yawns to be even mildly curious. They had coin to pay and that was enough. Wyl and Elspyth shared a room to avoid drawing attention to themselves, and there they slept.

After cleaning and tidying themselves later in the day, they enjoyed a hearty midday meal, having missed breakfast. Elspyth then used all of her money on purchasing a horse for Wyl’s long journey.

‘Thank you for this,’ he said, after she turned from paying the stableman. ‘Ylena has money. Use it. Remember what I said about how fragile she is — she may not be ready to care properly for herself anyway and your companionship will be a blessing.’

Elspyth had slept only lightly. Wyl’s story had left her mind reeling with possibilities and no little terror. Ylena’s story touched her heart. She wanted to believe that Lothryn would survive his ordeal but to hear of Ylena’s husband so brutally murdered made her shudder.

‘Now, have you got that letter for the Duke?’

She tapped her skirt pocket. ‘I could hardly forget it having watched you labour over it this morning.’

Wyl grinned. ‘I’m better with the sword.’

‘Are you leaving now, then?’ she asked. She did not mean for it to sound so sad.

He nodded. ‘I must.’

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you!’ Elspyth suddenly said, reddening at her oversight. ‘I overheard some travellers in the inn this morning. They were from Pearlis. Apparently the King is preparing to make a state visit to Briavel.’

Wyl looked mortified. ‘When?’ he said, grabbing her tiny shoulders.

‘I don’t know. I got the impression it was imminent, if not already happening. They seemed excited, talking up a possible union between the realms and peace at last.’

‘I have to go,’ he said, his mind racing. ‘Do your best to travel with people. If you get the opportunity just link up with others headed south. A woman travelling alone is vulnerable.’

‘Wyl, I’ll be all right. Just send word as you promised. I have no money to give you for your journey.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, his thoughts already in Briavel. He leaned down and kissed her and was delighted when she suddenly hugged him fiercely.

‘Be safe, Wyl.’

‘You keep yourself and Ylena out of trouble. Just get to Felrawthy. I’ll meet you there.’

She nodded and let him go, mustering a brave smile as she waved.

THIRTY-THREE

WYL PUSHED HIS HORSE hard. Once again he relied on intuition to guide him over the terrain and was grateful that the spirit of Koreldy lived on, albeit vaguely. He rode diagonally across the counties for two days in a south-easterly route until he hit the border between Morgravia and Briavel. Sleeping rough did not bother Wyl, although he imagined he looked quite a sight when the Briavellian Guard finally picked him up less than half a day’s ride into Valentyna’s realm. It reassured him that the security in place was at least working.

His worn and dusty appearance seemed to belie his story that the Queen was expecting him. However, Koreldy’s high-mannered tone and clipped accent reinforced his claim of noble status and discouraged the Guard from ignoring him. He knew his luck was holding when a man called Liryk recognised his name; even better, the man had been briefed by Valentyna that should Koreldy make application he was to be brought to Werryl immediately.

With Liryk’s sanction he was permitted to join this party of guards heading back to the city with taxes and missives from various counties. It was an uneventful couple of days during which Wyl could eat well and sleep without worry of ambush by bandits or the like. In truth he rather enjoyed being amongst the company of soldiers again. He deliberately did not foist Romen’s large personality onto them and was quick to share the general workload of making and breaking camp, keeping company with the foot soldiers. Mostly he kept himself to himself.

Wyl only discovered towards the end of the journey that Liryk was not just a senior member of the military but in fact Commander of the Briavellian Guard. He gleaned this information over a meal at an inn obviously quite used to the comings and goings of soldiers, for the serving girls smiled and joked with the men.

‘You’re rather lofty in status to be doing this sort of task,’ Wyl commented, tucking into his roast chicken.

Liryk had chosen the pie and was neatly shovelling in forkfuls of beef and gravy. He saved the pastry for last and Wyl smiled. It was an identical trait of Ylena’s. He wondered how she fared and prayed to Shar that she was well enough in her mind to welcome Elspyth into her life. He realised Liryk was talking.

‘…I thrive on it, though. Hate being cooped at the palace. I take these duties whenever it is feasible, although increasingly I think they will become fewer. I need to be around her majesty.’

Wyl nodded. He already liked his man very much and was glad that Valentyna had his years and wisdom to draw on.

‘Besides,’ Liryk continued, ‘it’s a nightmare organising so many men to return to Werryl. I have been personally rounding them up because I want as many as we can spare back in the city for this state visit by the Morgravian King.’

‘You don’t trust him?’

‘Apart from the fact that we are sworn enemies, you mean?’ Both men laughed. Liryk waved his fork at Wyl. ‘You peaceful Grenadynes could never understand the animosity between our realms. Suddenly we have to act courteously and be diplomatic when only a few years ago they slaughtered us on the battlefield. I was there — I witnessed hundreds of our young bloods die — and for what? So Morgravia can say they won this time! Pah! I may not care much for the young King but I support the notion of this marriage because it means peace.’

Wyl put down his chicken leg. ‘How advanced are negotiations?’

Liryk pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry, Koreldy, I can’t discuss that matter with you but suffice to say that most of our people would welcome the union for all the right reasons.’

Wyl nodded. ‘I understand. When do we get there?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘And the King?’

‘Expecting his arrival in a week or thereabouts. Apparently he’s slowing his journey deliberately to call in on towns along the way.’

‘So they can all fawn over the man they hate,’ Wyl said, wishing he had not.

Liryk eyed him. ‘We’ll be making our last stop at Crowyll. It’s a major town about ten miles north of the city. Has the best brothel in Briavel, by the way. You should visit, Koreldy … get rid of that bile on your liver,’ he said.

Liryk was as good as his word. Wyl had not visited many brothels in his day but he soon realised that the elegant stone building at Crowyll with a sign which read Forbidden Fruit enclosed one of the most salubrious establishments of its kind in any realm. It seemed to him that the Briavellians were not as tight-laced about sex as their more powerful neighbour. These were people who made a point of enjoying all of life’s pleasures and he was taken aback at how Liryk encouraged his men, many of them married, to spend a few hours with a desirable woman.

Wyl commented on this and Liryk shrugged. ‘These men have been on the road for many weeks. They need to relax before they head back to the strict duties imposed because of the royal visit. Normally they would get some time off but not on this occasion. I just think they deserve a night of, er … relaxation. Then they will work hard for me.’

Wyl felt his own strict upbringing coming to the fore. ‘I wonder if their wives feel the same way.’

Liryk laughed. ‘I’m surprised at you, Koreldy. You look like a man of the world. What the women don’t know cannot hurt them.’

‘And you? Do you intend to partake of the, er … relaxation on offer?’ Wyl asked, casting a general gaze around the Welcome Chamber, as it was called. Here the men were invited to enjoy a few ales or wines, some songs from the women and then move on to more intimate activities. In Briavel, as in Morgravia, these activities normally began with a soak to be followed by an oil and smoothing.

‘Of course, but then I’m not married and so do not suffer even the slightest guilt,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my heart set on that rather interesting creature in the corner … she looks like she’d be good value, although I fear she has eyes only for you, Koreldy.’

Wyl grunted a dismissal but looked towards her anyway. She was intriguing. Not traditionally beautiful in the way that Ylena could turn heads, this woman was striking by her sheer force of presence as much as handsome looks. She was watching him as she entertained a small group of men, tilting her head as she laughed at their jests and flicking her shoulder-length hair coquettishly. Most Briavellian women preferred to wear their hair long. Still, hers was attractive enough and somehow it suited her tall, strong build.

He continued to stare, fascinated by her feline manner. There was no other way to describe her liquid movement. He sensed she could move fast even though she gave the impression of being unhurried. As she fetched drinks for her guests, he noticed she moved as lightly and lithely as a dancer … or even as one trained in what was known as the Simple Art. Gueryn had never had much time for a style of fighting without weaponry — the hands and feet were used to inflict injury — or indeed any protection, relying instead on speed and strength. Consequently Wyl had never learned the techniques — although he had intended to some day. Many of the younger soldiers coming up through the ranks had studied the Simple Arts and Wyl had seen for himself the damage such skills could cause to an enemy during a fighting exhibition in Pearlis. He had promised himself that he would acquire the techniques — once the royal tourney was over. He felt sad now to think that he no longer possessed that young, agile body and would probably never learn those skills.

The woman’s limbs were long and angular. Wyl could see a sculpting of muscle on her bare arms and her belly was flat and tight. Here was someone who perhaps took care to keep herself trim, supple and strong. He looked away, embarrassed, when she caught him staring. Romen would not look away, he admonished himself. Romen would meet her gaze and return it with lust.

Wyl was disappointed with himself as once again a nagging thought nudged at his mind. The longer he lived inside Romen, the less of Romen there was. When he first moved across, everything that was Wyl felt tightly screwed in a ball and he had depended on the Grenadyne’s personality and character to carry him. Increasingly, it was Wyl who was shining through and it was becoming harder, sometimes impossible, to find Koreldy within. Did this mean that Romen was finally lost? Had what had been left just evaporated over time?

Answers would come only from Myrren’s father, the manwitch, as Widow Ilyk had cautioned.

Someone accidentally elbowed him as they walked by and it brought him out of his thoughts. He found his gaze once again drawn helplessly towards the woman. He noticed her eyes were a soft murky brown, and with the darkly golden hair, it was an enticing mix. None of her features were particularly beautiful either he had to admit. It was more her vivaciousness and mannerisms which were so appealing. Confidence was not lacking either and she held her audience rapt with what Wyl assumed was witty conversation. Her companions seemed to be laughing a great deal.

Men around the chamber finally began to drift away with chosen partners. The woman deliberately excused herself from the attentions of several men and found a reason to approach Wyl.

‘You don’t look like you belong in this group,’ she said. She had a low voice, oozing appeal. ‘But you are most welcome. It’s a treat to have someone so attractive visit us.’

Wyl had no retort for such directness and desperately wished Romen would surface to save him. His command was ignored and he watched a slow grin move across her face.

‘Where are you from, stranger?’

He was glad to be on safe ground with a question he could answer by rote. ‘Er, Grenadyn.’

‘Then you are a long way from home. Do you have a name?’

‘Koreldy!’ someone answered for him. It was Liryk, who appeared to be in a suddenly expansive mood. Wyl felt sure the older man was nothing like this back at the palace. ‘Don’t worry with him, my dear. Us older men are much more fun.’ He winked.

But she did not see it. Her gaze had not moved from Wyl and he felt compelled to answer a question he was not sure had been asked. ‘Look you two go right ahead. I’m happy savouring this rather superb Alsava. I haven’t tasted such a good wine in many months,’ he lied, instantly regretting such a lame remark.

‘There, you see,’ Liryk said and beamed at the woman. ‘Now what’s your name, my lovely?’

‘I’m called Hildyth,’ she replied, still watching Wyl with narrowed, searching eyes.

Liryk wasted no further time in conversation. ‘Come, Hildyth, we have only a few hours.’ And he led the way.

She turned back. ‘Pity,’ she said to Wyl. ‘I think we might have enjoyed each other.’

‘Next time, perhaps,’ he said, regaining some composure.

‘I hope that’s a promise.’ Her voice made him feel hot in places he preferred not to.

He nodded and again the wry smile hinted at her mouth as she turned and left him with his wine.

Wyl felt out of sorts after his meeting with Hildyth. He did not feel like going back to the inn where Liryk had organised for them to stay. Instead he made the lonely walk back a few miles to the field where some of the foot soldiers had made camp, far preferring the company of these men right now to a whore or his own troubled thoughts.

The next morning, when the small company had reunited, Wyl was astonished to see Liryk — normally so neat and tidy — looking much the worse for wear after his night in Crowyll.

The elder soldier spotted him. ‘Shar’s Mercy, man, you’re safe!’

‘Of course. What’s happened?’

‘There was an incident at the inn where we were staying. Where were you anyway?’

‘I came back here. I didn’t feel like sharing my own company last night.’

‘Good job you did too. There was a fire. I thought we’d lost you.’

Wyl frowned. ‘We saw some smoke — is everyone safe?’

Liryk sighed. ‘Yes, our boys were vigilant. Even on these occasions I post lookouts and so the fire was noticed early. Lucky for you that you stayed at camp.’

‘Oh?’ Wyl asked.

‘The fire broke out right near your room. There’s nothing left of that wing of the inn. Your room was gutted and collapsed first.’

‘How did it start?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘No one seems to know. An oil lamp left unattended, someone said, but it’s just a thought. There’s no proof. Anyway, we leave now.’

Wyl thought no more about the incident, his spirits lifting at the thought of seeing Valentyna again.

The assassin stood alongside the rest of the onlookers, making similar noises of despair and disgust that Crowyll’s Old Oak inn had suffered such a blow. They were all waiting with morbid interest to see the charred remains of whichever poor sods had been trapped by the fire. The innkeeper stood with them, assuring the townsfolk that the inn was relatively empty the previous night — just a few soldiers staying. He rubbed at his eyes, exhausted from a night of fighting the blaze. Fortunately for him, the section of the building damaged was separated by a walkway to the main inn.

‘We did a check this morning. Every guest bar one is accounted for,’ he said.

‘Who?’ someone asked.

‘Commander Liryk said it was a stranger, not a soldier. He was travelling with them. A person from Grenadyn — goes by the name of Koreldy,’ he answered, eager to allay fears that one of their own may have perished.

It would be tragic for business if word got out that he was careless with his lamps. The innkeeper could not understand it. He had checked everything before turning in for the night. It was ritual for him to walk the length of each floor, trimming wicks, blowing out candles mistakenly left in corridors by guests. Even more baffling for him was the fact that he only kept a few oil lamps burning at any one time and he did not remember lighting one that previous evening. Perhaps one of the girls had but why would it have been burning near that particular room? He had to accept he had been tired and not thinking altogether clearly but he could not even remember seeing the distinctive stranger return to his room that night.

One of his own people trotted up. ‘Innkeeper Jon.’

He came out of his grim thoughts and looked up. ‘Any news?’

‘None. We’ve picked through the wreckage. We can’t salvage anything, sir.’

‘I reckoned as much. What about the …’ he hesitated, ‘body,’ he finally said, mindful of those listening.

‘No sign of that. If the Grenadyne was in the room, he’s gone up in smoke with it.’

The carefully eavesdropping assassin frowned and turned away. It had been risky but worth it to ignite oil at the door of Koreldy’s room and again just beneath his room in the empty chamber below. The added precaution of beginning a fire on the bottom floor beneath his window was inspired. He had no easy means of escape. Hopefully all signs of Romen Koreldy had gone up in flames, as the lad had said. However, this assassin was too thorough for presumptions.

She wanted her other half of the gold which could be collected from Jessom when he came into Briavel any day now with King Celimus for what everyone anticipated would be a betrothal visit. She wanted to believe her victim was nothing more than ash but deep down her instincts told her otherwise. She left the gawking audience to return to her rooms feeling unsettled.

On the way, alert to her inner voice of caution — for she never took chances with her prey — she concluded that it would be prudent to remain in this town until she had gleaned word that Koreldy was definitely dead.

THIRTY-FOUR

FYNCH BURIED HIS SMALL hand into the ruff of fur encircling Knave’s neck. The dog turned and looked at him — deep brown eyes all knowing. It was as though the animal sensed his moods, his thoughts. Even more astonishing was the fact that increasingly Knave seemed to be able to assist with Fynch’s decision-making. As the boy pondered his problems, he felt that Knave could tap into his feelings … press thoughts and notions into his mind.

He did not know when this began to occur and he could not explain himself, so he did not try, although he had admitted as much to Valentyna. To tell any others would be to bring down much ridicule upon himself. It would be a ludicrous claim anyway amongst people who no longer believed in magic. Magic was the stuff of myth. Tales to scare little ones and give the bards something with which to spice their lyrics.

But magic must have existed in the world at some time, Fynch reasoned, for superstitious people still walked around puddles in case their soul was reflected there. Or, said a special warding if they found their butter had soured, their milk had curdled or salt had been spilled. His favourite superstition was the wearing of something violet the day before the night of a full moon.

Fynch’s mother had been especially ‘connected’ — as she had claimed — to the spiritual world and she had recognised something in her eldest son — she never told him what — which made him vulnerable to unearthly matters.

‘They can talk to you,’ she would caution.

Many people had called his mother lary, which Fynch came to realise was a kind alternative for being called mad. He knew she was not. It was simply her ‘connection’ which made her appear odd. She had heard voices, experienced visions but had never spoken of them to anyone, including his father, and only by chance once confided in Fynch, her favourite. Oh yes, he was one of the few Morgravians who firmly believed in the presence of magic.

Valentyna, perhaps not as cynical as most, had agreed to go along with his notion that Wyl was present amongst them and that his connection to Romen Koreldy was far less obvious than the Grenadyne was leading them to believe. Fynch could not be sure whether she was simply humouring a child but he chose to believe she honoured his reasoning, even if she did not believe. Their discussion of Wyl’s link with Romen had been left behind on the Bridge that first morning of his return to Briavel and not referred to again.

Knave, however, was considered in a different light.

‘He’s definitely touched,’ she had admitted recently, though she would never use the term sorcery or enchantment.

The word ‘touched’ summed it up perfectly for the Queen; its very ordinary terminology helped her to cope with what she was acknowledging and she felt it unnecessary to explain herself further.

‘He belonged to a witch,’ Fynch had replied, leaving it at that.

‘There are occasions,’ she confided on one of their many long walks together, ‘when Knave makes me feel transparent to him. Does that sound stupid?’

He had shaken his head. Fynch had known precisely what she meant.

To Fynch it was enough. Valentyna, in her own rigid way, was acknowledging the possibility of magic — for witchcraft was the only way he could describe Knave’s ongoing strangeness. The animal’s behaviour had become less predictable over the past weeks. The dog had disappeared soon after their arrival back in Werryl. He had gone missing the next morning, in fact, having spent the night with Valentyna, or so she claimed when she woke Fynch, anxious at the loss of the dog. Fynch had been inconsolable for the next few days. And then on the fourth day, Knave had reappeared at the palace.

After the initial flurry of excitement and tears of relief, Fynch had scolded the huge dog. He had waited until they were alone.

‘Where have you been?’ he had exclaimed, holding the dog’s huge face in his small hands.

Knave had looked at him strangely. There was something in the dog’s stare which had frightened him and then he had felt suddenly dizzy. He shuddered even now remembering it … seeing the blood as Romen had hacked off someone’s head. The mercenary too was hurt. Then he saw Knave dragging Romen, unconscious, lifeless — he knew not where. The vision had faded and he was staring once more into the eyes of the dog.

‘You’ve been with Romen! He’s injured. Where is he?’

A voice, distant and soft, had then echoed across his thoughts. ‘Safe for now,’ it said and then it was gone. He shook his head. He had imagined the voice, surely? Fynch believed he had even made it up just to reassure himself after the unsettling vision.

Knave had given one of his loud barks. He did that to get Fynch’s attention. It was as though he was dragging Fynch back to the present. After that the dog had fallen back into its familiar pattern of traipsing around with him. There were moments during this time when Fynch could believe he was just being fanciful at believing Knave was anything but a lively, buffoonish dog.

Valentyna liked to keep Fynch close. She often used him as a runner for her personal errands and this day was no different, beginning with running some important messages for the Queen. She, however, had felt restless and unable to concentrate on her regal duties and she had suggested a canter through the beautiful woodlands of Werryl.

‘I’m determined that you learn to handle a full-sized horse,’ she had said early in their relationship and she had taken it upon herself to teach him. And so rides together occurred relatively often — the Queen needed little encouragement to leap onto the back of a horse. These days they were always trailed, of course, by half a dozen other riders but their escort was discreet and there were moments when Valentyna felt the thrill of freedom from duty.

Her relationship with Fynch had strengthened to the extent that she felt he was the brother she had never had; had always wanted. Young as he was, Fynch’s serious nature and quick mind melded neatly with her intelligence and she loved him around her, using him to sound ideas off and work through problems to find solutions. They were rarely matters of state — she had many councillors to advise her on such things. No, Fynch was a soulmate for her. He was her closest friend, her most loyal subject.

Together they shared discussions on life, love, hopes for Briavel, horse-breeding, gardens, and especially how next they could tease her rather stiff and starchy head of house. On this particular day, they hardly noticed the escort insisted upon by Commander Liryk. The woodland around Werryl was breathtaking at this time of year; it was her favourite place to ride, although she could not break into the empowering gallop she preferred. Instead they rode more sedately, Valentyna correcting Fynch’s seat and his grip on the reins from time to time, both enjoying the freedom and peace.

Later, leaning against their horses whilst their animals drank thirstily from the woodland’s fast-moving stream, Fynch began telling her a funny story about his former days as a gong boy at Stoneheart. She was laughing hard and reached across to touch his arm in an affectionate way when she felt his body suddenly go rigid.

Her smile froze. ‘Fynch?’

He was silent. She noticed his hand was clutching Knave — this was not unusual, for the pair of them were rarely separated — but her attention was caught by how Knave was looking back at her. There it was again, that disturbing gaze of the dog’s which seemed to see right through her. They were connected — her touching Fynch and he gripping Knave with the dog’s eyes locked on her. She tore her own stare away from the compelling hold of Knave’s and saw that Fynch’s mouth was slack, his eyes had a faraway look in them but she could still feel the tension in the muscles in his arm. He was trembling slightly.

She took him by the shoulders this time. ‘Fynch!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Valentyna. Please, Fynch, talk to me.’

His small body slumped against hers and, if she had not caught him, he would have fallen. She picked him up — he was so light it was no effort — and walked towards the soft grasses in the shade of one of her favourite oaks.

‘Rawl,’ she called to one of the men. ‘Water, please.’

The man immediately broke from the pack of soldiers nearby. He appeared by her side with a flask and she wet her handkerchief and dabbed it over Fynch’s face. Rawl was dismissed the moment Fynch opened his eyes. Knave, as usual, was sitting close — next to the boy’s head, in fact — and she stole a glance towards the dog as Fynch struggled to sit up. Fynch immediately put his head in his hands as though it hurt.

‘What was that all about?’ she finally asked. ‘You scared me.’

‘It happened again,’ he muttered, barely above a whisper.

‘Again?’ This has happened before? ‘Look at me,’ she said and he did. ‘What occurred just now?’

Fynch shook his head. ‘I can’t explain it.’

‘Don’t try to explain, just tell me.’

‘I had a vision.’

She had not expected this. ‘And what did you see?’

He looked at the Queen and detected no amusement or disbelief. There was concern but also interest in hearing what he had to say. He decided to tell her everything. ‘I saw you.’

‘Me?’

He nodded. ‘You were with Celimus.’

Her lips pursed. ‘What were we doing?’

‘Watching an execution.’ Fynch noticed how she struggled to respond. He pressed on. ‘He kissed you after it was done.’

It was too much for her. Valentyna was glad she had dismissed the guard.

‘Fynch, what is this about?’

‘I told you, I can’t explain it.’

‘And this has happened before, you say?’

‘Yes. The last time I saw Romen and yet somehow he was Wyl Thirsk.’

The Queen sat back and crossed her arms around her knees which she hugged close — this was disturbing. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

‘I thought I had imagined it … dreamed it.’

‘Fynch, you are the most sane person I know. You would not be duped by a dream.’

‘It was frightening.’

‘Tell me about that other dream,’ she said, suddenly feeling very much the adult comforting a child.

‘I saw Romen. He was injured but he was cutting off someone’s head. I think there might have even been another dead person in it but I can’t be sure.’

It sounded to her as though he had simply experienced a nightmare. She remained patient. ‘Your dreams are brutal. Executions and private beheadings.’ She shook her head gently. ‘And what else?’

Fynch looked distraught now, almost angry with himself. ‘I was looking at Romen but my impression was that he was Wyl.’

She was careful not to sound condescending. ‘You know that makes no sense.’

‘Of course. But it doesn’t change what I saw or how I felt about it, your majesty.’

‘Well, you’ve mentioned before that you believe Wyl is somehow strongly connected to Romen. Do you think you could have just wanted to see that?’ She hated the placatory tone creeping into her voice.

‘Yes, your majesty, I have told myself it was pure fancy.’ There was no sarcasm in his voice, only honesty.

She looked towards Knave who was gazing at her intently and she hastily looked back at Fynch. ‘But you don’t believe it is pure fancy, do you?’

He shook his head miserably. ‘It was as if they’re both together.’

‘Is there more … you seem to be hesitant,’ she encouraged.

‘I heard a voice. It was so soft, again I thought I had made it up. It answered my question to Knave.’

The Queen took a deep breath. ‘Go back to the beginning, Fynch.’

It was his turn to sigh. ‘I was cross with Knave for leaving as he did and you know how you talk to your horses?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I talk to him like that. I asked him where he had been.’

‘And?’

‘The vision happened. I was shocked and must have said something along the lines of so you were with Romen and he’s hurt. I think I must have asked Knave where Romen was.’

‘And a voice answered you — is that it?’

He nodded. ‘It said, “Safe for now.”’ Then he grimaced. ‘I know what you’re going to say next.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’re going to ask me if it was Knave who answered and then dismiss me as lary, like my mother.’

She looked at her hands. ‘I didn’t know your mother, Fynch. I know you rather well and would never consider you as anything but intelligent and sane.’

He said nothing but she sensed he was pleased by her confirmation that he was not going mad.

Valentyna could not help herself. ‘Well?’

The vaguest of smiles played around his mouth. ‘No. Knave did not speak to me.’

‘So someone else — who?’

He shrugged. ‘It was a man, that’s all I can tell.’

Valentyna had no idea what next to say — this talk of magic always unnerved her — so she retreated to safer ground by returning to his more recent vision. ‘And now in this second vision you say you saw me with Celimus?’

Fynch nodded. He chose not to speak, pulling at the grasses around his feet.

‘Anything else other than a kiss, Fynch?’ she said, holding out the flask so he could drink.

He took it but did not put it to his mouth. ‘I don’t know the man he’s having executed, of course, but it’s being done with a sword.’

‘A noble then?’

‘I suppose. The prisoner’s looking at you, though.’

‘I know him!’

‘I don’t know.’

Intrigued despite herself, the Queen held her hand out for the flask of water and took a sip. ‘Describe him for me.’

‘I’m not sure I can —’

‘Oh, come on, Fynch. You have the most scintillating powers of observation. Think hard!’

He closed his eyes and screwed up his face … his sweet, honest face she adored.

‘Large man. Sun-weathered face. Rugged features.’

‘Hair?’ she prompted.

He shook his head, eyes still closed as he strained to concentrate. ‘I can’t tell the colour. It’s tied back and dark with his sweat.’

‘And they’re about to execute him?’

‘Yes, that’s all I saw. I did not see him being executed.’ Fynch opened his eyes. There was nothing more he could share.

‘Well now, that certainly has me baffled.’

‘Best not to dwell on it, your majesty,’ Fynch suggested. ‘You’ve enough on your plate.’

She grimaced. ‘It’s bad enough that Celimus is coming here … will be here any day — and I have no doubt what’s on his mind for our royal discussion.’

‘You can’t marry him, your majesty.’

‘I know this, Fynch, believe me,’ she lied to herself as much as him. Marriage would be her only solution for guaranteed peace. She felt the rise of expectancy amongst her people. They all wanted the marriage to take place … they wanted the young men of Briavel to survive, grow old. ‘I don’t want to marry him!’

‘And yet I think you may,’ he said, even more miserable now.

She looked at Fynch, her frustration weighing heavily on her at the strength of his conviction. She saw what a small and frightened little boy he was and yet he found courage, he was always so strong for her. His eyes finally met hers.

‘I’m sorry, your majesty.’

Knave shifted closer to Fynch and the animal’s move was not lost on Valentyna. The dog at times made her feel so safe and yet on occasions, like now, she could easily feel so threatened by him. In just that slight movement the dog was communicating something to her or to Fynch — she could not be sure but she believed it was directed at her. Trust the boy, the dog seemed to say. Trust the vision. She knew she needed to behave rationally and not dismiss Fynch’s words as lunatic ravings. Fynch had not let her down previously and above everything else she loved him, trusted him.

‘I must somehow achieve peace for our realm without giving offence to Morgravia. I cannot even begin to deal with the prospect of war — we are ill equipped. Marriage is the most diplomatic path to take.’ She sounded sad. ‘Perhaps I could learn to love him.’

‘No, majesty, you would never be able to do that. You could not love the Celimus I know.’

‘Maybe I could change him?’ The words sounded hollow.

‘And the oxen may well skip over the lavender bushes, your majesty,’ he said and was rewarded with a smile. He had not meant it to sound funny but was pleased he had eased the tension.

‘How do you feel now?’ she asked.

‘My head hurts but I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget my visions,’ he added. ‘You have enough to think about in trying to make the King of Morgravia feel welcome, even though his advances may not be.’

As she nodded her agreement a messenger from the palace made himself known.

‘What is it?’

‘Your majesty,’ the lad bowed. ‘Riders. Commander Liryk and party are two miles from the palace. He has sent word ahead that a man called Romen Koreldy is with the party and that you are expecting him.’

Fynch’s spirits lifted instantly at the news.

‘Thank you, Ivor.’ She smiled at the young lad. He had become one of the best messengers in the palace — always brief and accurate. She remembered when he had been born and nearly died of a fever which was sweeping through Briavel at the time. Both his parents had succumbed to the sickness and the King had ensured the baby was taken into the care of the palace.

Thinking of her father now made her feel bereft all over again. She had survived that initial sense of panic at realising that he had gone and was now dealing with the loss in her own way. She knew she was coping and she also knew she would be a good ruler for her realm … she had learned well but oh how she craved his guidance right now, especially after what Fynch had just told her of his vision.

There was no doubt Fynch was honest — he could not be otherwise — which made his telling of what he had seen all the more unfathomable, as well as frightening. Celimus kissing me! The man who had contrived the death of her beloved father. And deep down, tucked away tightly in her heart, Valentyna knew the reality was most likely that she would have to marry this man she did not know, would not love. Hated! How could she marry Celimus after all that she knew of him through Wyl and Fynch? She would give anything for her father’s strength beside her now and, much as she hated to admit it, she was gladdened by the news that Romen Koreldy had returned.

The words of his letter burned brightly in her mind.

I will come soon — I am yours to command, my Queen. My loyalty to you will never waver. In the meantime I give you a special gift. I give you the dog, Knave, who will be true to you. Trust him alone and his faithful companion, Fynch. They will protect you.

Be brave, beautiful Valentyna.

She did trust Fynch and, as much as Knave scared her at times, she knew the dog would never harm her. Koreldy believed they would protect her and now he was coming to Briavel to offer his service. It made her heart feel lighter.

‘Rawl, we ride now — make haste everyone.’

As she climbed into her saddle she looked at Fynch. ‘Romen’s here, you must stop worrying.’

He smiled but she could tell he was still distracted, worried. ‘You ride on ahead, your majesty.’

Valentyna nodded and kicked her horse into a gallop and the riders charged in her wake.

He could tell Knave was eager to go too. ‘You want to see him, don’t you, boy?’

Knave did not flinch; he waited for Fynch’s signal. ‘You go then. I’ll be back soon.’

The dog cut across open fields towards the palace, making it back before the riders.

THIRTY-FIVE

VALENTYNA LEFT INSTRUCTIONS FOR Romen Koreldy with her Chancellor before ascending the palace’s central staircase to the first floor. She deliberately slowed her walk through the corridor towards what was formerly her father’s study and main reception chamber for important guests.

It was from here she tackled the daily business of running the realm, as her father and his father before him had done. She could remember how as a child she used to jump at each window she passed to catch a glimpse of the world outside the palace. This liveliness annoyed her prim-faced tutor but the admonishments had never succeeded in preventing her from repeating the performance each time she was escorted to meet a guest or just share a few precious minutes of the morning with her father.

Valentyna possessed only a few murky memories of her mother. She could recall the softly spiced fragrance of her scent and the sound of her laughter. Not unlike her own, her father had commented. And she remembered a lullaby. Her mother sang it to her when she was sick or having trouble going to sleep. She would stroke her hair and softly hum it. But the rest was a blur. If not for the portrait hanging in the Great Hall or the miniature on her father’s desk, she would not know her mother’s features or be able to recognise the powerful likeness to her own. Her mother had died carrying her sibling. There were complications during the pregnancy — a poisoning of the blood, she gathered. Valentyna had been much too young to grasp the details. All she knew was that the woman she loved with the lovely laugh, who sang and smelled as beautiful as she looked, could not come to her one night. The next day her father had sat tearfully at her bedside and explained that her mother had gone to Shar’s keeping.

It had been a boy apparently, the much desired son and heir, who had perished inside her mother’s womb. Valor had cried shamelessly as he told her of the night’s events. It was the only time she would ever see him weep. They had held each other tight and wept together. From that moment on her father had become Valentyna’s world and vice versa.

She came out of her musing and stroked the back of his battered chair as she stood by the window in his old room. From this chamber she could look down into the main bailey and watch the arrival of Liryk and his men. His presence had been sorely missed but she understood his need to re-evaluate security in the realm and organise as many of their soldiers back to Werryl in readiness for the Morgravian visit … just in case. The King was apparently bringing only a light escort by his standards — but that still meant five score Morgravian soldiers on their soil. She would not be taking any chances. Should trouble could occur or Briavel be duped, they would be ready this time, for any eventuality.

She looked for Koreldy and, even though she had no idea of his appearance other than the description from Fynch, she picked him out with ease. It helped that he was dressed in civilian attire but even from this height she could tell that Fynch had drawn a supremely accurate picture of this man. Once again she marvelled that such a young boy could offer such precise information.

I shouldn’t be surprised, she scolded herself silently. Fynch has a mind like a vice for detail.

Valentyna watched her message of summons being delivered to Koreldy. He was to be brought immediately to her. A guard from the palace politely asked for his weapons which he readily handed over, including two curious knives he pulled from within his shirt. She smiled to herself, not sure why, as she watched all this unfold from her vantage. She presumed the guard must have apologised and asked if he could do a quick search — orders and all that — but Liryk stepped in and seemed to wave away the necessity for that.

A short discussion and the guard left, carrying the weapons. She noticed a friendliness between Liryk and Koreldy — that too was positive. She trusted Liryk implicitly and he would have made it his business to get close enough to this relative stranger to make an assessment. She remembered how dubious Liryk and old Krell had been about Koreldy. But it was Fynch who had persuaded them that he was very much on Briavel’s side. He could be trusted.

She watched the two men in the yard share a few words, a quick laugh and then Koreldy took his leave, following the page.

Soon enough she heard footsteps and the only outward sign she showed of the sudden nervousness she felt was to touch at her wayward hair, wishing now she had taken a moment to comb it back at least. Never mind, she was not one to pay much heed to vanity and the thought was dismissed almost as soon as it had come.

A knock at the door and her Chancellor entered. ‘Your majesty, Romen Koreldy is here to meet with you.’

‘Thank you, Krell, please show him in.’

He nodded. ‘I will have the refreshments sent up immediately, your majesty.’

She smiled her thanks. His intuition as well as experience was precious to her.

Valentyna remained by the window, just a little unsure of herself. She hated that her normally effortless confidence had momentarily evaporated and she had only just begun to grasp the reason for its absence when Romen Koreldy finally stepped into her chamber. They stared at each other just a bit longer than protocol dictated. She noted that Romen’s eyes were sparkling — it was as if he already knew her and was gladdened to see her again.

A small smile of bemusement played at her lips as the silence lengthened. He had not made a step since the door had closed quietly behind him. Koreldy became aware of her gentle confusion and was now quick to stride across the room before kneeling and taking her hand.

‘Queen Valentyna.’ He kissed her hand, again lingering, she thought, for a moment or two longer than strictly necessary. ‘Your majesty, I offer my service, as promised.’ His head remained bowed, her hand still resting in his, she noted. He was clearly not keen to let it go and if she was truthful with herself, she was in no hurry either.

‘Be welcome, Romen Koreldy. It is a pleasure to have you amongst us.’

Now he stood up to his full height, taller than her, she realised, which was unusual. Most men she could look straight in the eye or down to; to reach his grey gaze, she found herself tilting her head just slightly. A rare and pleasurable experience.

Emotions she could not immediately pinpoint passed through her and threatened to unbalance her poise. In the same instant Valentyna recognised what had sapped her normally unflappable nature. It was him. Even when she was looking at him earlier from her private vantage something had sparked. For the first time in her young life Valentyna understood what it was like to be strongly attracted to a man.

Oh, she had experienced infatuation with older men when she was a girl. In fact she recalled having a crush on a tawny-haired stable boy when she was barely ten summers; and one of the squires in training had chanced kissing her once. She had kicked him. There was a tutor when she was twelve who made her breath catch when he smiled or leaned in close but since then no one. Not a single man to send her heart skipping out of control. The feeling unnerved her in truth, for it made her feel weak inside, like her knees felt right now. Weakness would not help her rule.

He was watching her closely with that sardonic expression, those knowing eyes. She had expected someone more arrogant. Krell had met Koreldy briefly on his first visit and had described a swaggering, confident sort of fellow with an easy laugh — someone used to getting his way. She did not sense much of this right now but it was too early to be making judgement. Koreldy cleared his throat and she realised the silence between them had stretched too far. She should say something.

‘Thank you for coming back.’

Now he smiled broadly and it changed him, lighting a fresh spark in his eyes and handsomely wrinkling the skin of his tanned face around his eyes and mouth.

‘I could not stay away,’ he replied.

I could get lost in that smile, she thought. Valentyna was rescued by a knock at the door and Krell announcing refreshments which a servant brought in on a large tray.

Relief flooded through her. ‘You must be thirsty after your ride,’ she said to her guest.

‘Please forgive my appearance, your majesty, we have been on the road for several days.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, thanking the servant with a small nod as he left the room. ‘I too have been out riding this morning.’ She wanted to tell Koreldy that she liked his dusty look, the smell of the horse about him, his unshaven chin and the unruly dark hair falling near his shoulders. It struck her that everything she found attractive in a man seemed to ooze from him. Here is a man to lose one’s heart to.

As Valentyna cleared her throat with embarrassment at her private thoughts, Wyl was feeling very glad for Romen’s unflappable manner, for he was sure without that he would be behaving as a stammering youth. He wondered at how intriguingly unpredictable Romen’s essence was, sometimes fading to nothing and at times, like now, potent. Looking at Valentyna again lifted his spirits and filled his heart. He could not imagine ever being happier than this precious moment. Just the two of them. Both a little awkward, his heart hammering in his chest and that familiar sensation of shortening breath. He recalled it from the first time they met. She is so lovely, he thought, and just as I remember with her hair easing from its clasp, wisps of it about her face, and her man’s riding clothes and unaffected manner.

I have missed you, Valentyna. I love you more than I can begin to explain, he so desperately wanted to say. Instead he nodded at her gesture to be seated and joined her at a small table and chairs by the window. He hoped Romen’s cheeks did not flush as easily as his own used to.

She grinned. ‘I’m still trying to get used to this room. It was my father’s, you know. I can often feel his presence.’

He could tell she was uncharacteristically nervous. ‘He was a brave man. We were outnumbered, I’m so sorry, your majesty, for letting you down …’

‘Don’t,’ she said, instinctively reaching to touch his hand reassuringly, only to be thrilled once again when he did not hesitate to cover hers with his own. She did not shrink away. She allowed the dry warmth of his palm to seep through the back of her hand. It was the most sensuous moment of her life. It made her catch her breath to feel his touch, whilst those flinty eyes held her so directly.

Valentyna resisted the temptation to clear her throat again and begged her voice not to tremble. ‘I know that you and Wyl Thirsk would have fought valiantly to save him. I owe you heartfelt thanks … a Morgravian and a Grenadyne fighting for a Briavellian. It’s ironic.’

Wyl remained quiet. Her pain was evident. The silence stretched.

‘There’s a small boy and a huge dog eager to see you,’ she said brightly, forcing herself to move away from the subject of her father’s death and from Koreldy’s touch.

‘Fynch — is he well?’

Taken off guard momentarily by his earnest manner — which certainly did not fit with the description Krell once gave her of this man — Valentyna liked him all the more for it. ‘He seems well.’

It struck Wyl that the Queen did not sound so sure. ‘But?’ he asked.

She handed him a goblet of wine, wishing she had not cast doubt in his mind. He spoke to her as if they were old friends, such was his easy manner, but she did not know this man well enough yet to share secrets. ‘No but. He is well,’ she confirmed, favouring him with a heartbreaking smile. ‘Please,’ she said, encouraging him to taste the wine. ‘This was one of my father’s favourites.’

Wyl sipped, Fynch forgotten momentarily as he allowed the warmth from that smile to wash over him. ‘It’s superb. Thank you.’

Valentyna enjoyed the compliment. ‘Father always counselled that this wine is best when young,’ she admitted, sipping from her goblet. She took a deep breath. It was time to move on from the pleasantries. ‘Romen, may I be candid?’

He nodded. ‘I’d prefer you to be.’

‘Well, it’s just that I find myself in a precarious situation. You tried to save my father’s life — with no reason for doing so — and you fought alongside a man we trusted. A man you had been sent to kill, I’m assured. Wyl Thirsk died that day and we have no one’s word but yours as to how that happened. The saving grace, of course, is that you could have simply left him and fled. However, you returned his body to Morgravia and then took his sister to safety, which we can only assume is a sign of your honesty in this matter. And now I am having to trust that your pledge to Briavel … and to me’ — she felt herself blush — ‘is true.’

He moved to say something but she held her hand up. ‘No, please. Let me say this. It needs to be said. I must have honesty from you in this because I cannot fathom what you have to gain, whereas I have everything to lose by putting my faith in you.’

‘Your majesty.’ Wyl took her hand again — how he wished to caress it. ‘I wrote in my letter that I am yours to command. I meant it then and I mean it now. I am true to you, Valentyna, Queen of Briavel.’

‘But why?’

‘Because Celimus is as faithless as a snake. His loyalty is to himself alone. I have no people, your majesty,’ Wyl said, hating to hear himself say it. ‘I no longer have a home. I have no roots which I care to claim. I am a free spirit,’ he added, not impressed with his choice of words. ‘I liked Wyl Thirsk. He wrung a blood oath from me that I would protect you with my own life.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ She was shocked. ‘Why would he ask that of you?’

It was his chance. Perhaps as Romen he could say what he never could have uttered as Wyl. ‘Because he was in love with you, your majesty.’

Her mouth opened to speak but no sound issued. She closed it again, eyes wide with surprise. ‘We were strangers,’ she finally said softly, in disbelief. ‘Knew each other for only a couple of hours.’

‘Have you never felt the stomach-churning, heart-stopping sensation of meeting someone for the first time and knowing they are the only person in the world for you?’ He said it lightly for fear of it sounding condescending. Wyl followed it up with the dazzling smile he knew Romen did so well.

Valentyna blushed instantly. She hoped he could not read her thoughts. ‘I have heard of it happen,’ she said, not daring to admit the truth.

He continued, ignoring her discomfort. ‘I liked Wyl from the moment I met him.’ Now he fashioned the lie. ‘I witnessed Celimus’s brutality of the Thirsk family first hand and decided then that I would not be Wyl’s murderer but I was in too deep to pull away from the mission. I could not allow Celimus to know that I had turned traitor. Wyl knew of my instructions — he heard of them through Fynch.’ She nodded. ‘The more I got to know of him on the journey to Briavel, the more I knew I could not execute him. We hatched a plan. Of course he did not know you then, your majesty, or the plan would have been very different.’

‘Go on,’ she said, embarrassed but intrigued.

‘Well, of course, once he had met you, it all changed. He no longer wanted to encourage you to marry Celimus, even though to fail would threaten his sister’s life.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, he said as much to us. He told us everything. His hatred for Celimus was the reason he was prepared to fight for Briavel’s King, I presume. He was the bravest of men, for to turn traitor takes the hardest courage of all, especially with the name Thirsk.’

‘Very true,’ Wyl said, touched by her perceptiveness. ‘Thirsk had witnessed his closest friend killed ruthlessly. His sister, wife of that friend, was made to kneel in her husband’s remains. The length of their marriage could be counted in hours.’ Wyl’s tone was so raw he had to clear his throat. ‘Ylena was imprisoned, held as ransom on her brother’s success in persuading your father to agree to the marriage. His guardian and mentor, Gueryn, had been almost certainly killed in the north, he was told. He suspected foul play on the part of the Celimus and I have since discovered he was right to believe this. But he was cornered. Wyl had much to hate the new King for and after meeting your father and you, your majesty, it was easy for him to choose Briavel’s cause despite his loyalty to Morgravia.’ He rushed towards the end of his emotional speech. ‘After you and Fynch had fled the palace, Wyl let me into the chamber and told me what he could about the ambush. That was when I realised I had been double-crossed. He asked me to fight alongside him. I had no choice.’ His tone became tentative, not wishing to reopen old wounds. ‘After your father was slain and we thought we had killed his attackers, Wyl admitted his heart was already lost to you. One last man murdered Wyl, I’m sorry to admit.’

A small choked sound escaped from the Queen. ‘We had shared a brief meal together — that was all. How could he claim to be in love with me?’

‘Your majesty, when love’s arrow bites hard into the flesh, there is no escape, no preferred length of time for its delicious poison to take effect. For some, its magical potion can be instant. There is no doubt in my mind that Wyl spoke from the heart. He was prepared to die for you — and he did. But he made me promise over a blood oath that I, of no loyalty to any crown, would protect you with my blade and his sister with my connections.’

Wyl deliberately stopped himself from biting his lip or betraying any other sign of anxiety over the cleverly crafted lie. Would she take it? Would she accept him?

‘I sensed he was a good man,’ she said, turning to stare out of the window as she considered all that she had heard. ‘I believe my father trusted him, even though they were sworn enemies.’

‘There can be true honour between enemies, your majesty, although I can assure you Celimus has none — he is so much less than his father was.’

‘Oh? Did you know Magnus?’

‘Er, no.’ Fool! ‘I heard much about him and Wyl Thirsk convinced me the old King was everything his son is not.’

She smiled sadly. ‘My father highly respected Magnus, though he hated him — does that makes sense?’ Wyl nodded. ‘…and he held Fergys Thirsk in enormous regard. They fought many battles,’ she said, a wistful note in her voice. ‘I should tell you that my father also approved of the marriage. The union will bring peace.’

‘It no doubt will — but a peace weighted heavily in favour of Morgravia,’ Wyl cautioned.

She turned away from the window and regarded him steadily now. ‘Go on.’

‘Celimus wants to rule Briavel. Once you have agreed to this marriage, you will relinquish any hold over your own realm.’

She baulked. ‘I would only agree to rule together.’

Valentyna watched Romen shrug. He sighed. ‘Yes, and he would promise you the world until you had taken your vow. Be warned, your majesty, Celimus will not keep his word to you on anything. Look through the handsome exterior. A serpent lives beneath.’

She stood, pacing distractedly. ‘He will be here soon. I have no doubt he comes in person to make a proposal of marriage. I have kept his advances at bay, as you suggested, but now I cannot avoid him. There are no more excuses … unless I wish for war which I cannot put my people through again so soon. They crave peace.’

‘I’m sure the Morgravian people feel the same,’ Wyl admitted, knowing it to be true.

‘What am I going to do?’ she said, swinging around. For the first time Wyl saw beyond the regal facade and sensed how alone she was.

Wyl stood and approached her. He wanted to kiss her but he fought the impulse. ‘Valentyna, will you trust me?’

She cast her blue gaze at him. It was direct, unwavering, strong. He loved her for it. ‘You have pledged your sword to us … your life to us. Yes, I must trust you because I love Fynch and he does trust you … and Wyl’s strange, unfathomable dog, who terrifies me at the way he can look into my soul and know my thoughts, he trusts you. You are surrounded by mystery, Romen Koreldy, which troubles me, but yes, I must believe you are true.’

He bent and kissed her hand, relief flooding through him. ‘I am true to you, Valentyna. Let me ponder the situation with Celimus. We will talk later, if that suits your majesty?’

She nodded. ‘Perhaps you will join me for a walk at dusk? We can talk then.’

He bowed, hardly wanting to leave her but knowing he must. He had been lucky this time but she would be more focused during their next meeting. He needed private time to gather his thoughts and find a solution. He was a master strategist — it was what he was born to do — and Wyl knew he would never rely more on that talent than now.

He had only a few days to foil Celimus’s plan.

Wyl was escorted to his chambers and the young maid who blushed, curtsied and stammered a few words as she opened his door was horrified when a huge dog barged past from behind her and leapt towards the handsome guest, knocking him backwards. Although he had not anticipated Knave’s welcome, Wyl did not lose his footing completely.

‘Shar’s Wrath, my lord. I’m sorry,’ the maid shrieked.

Predictably, Knave now had his forelegs up on Wyl’s shoulders and had pinioned him against the wall.

‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Wyl said to the pale and panicked servant. ‘I know this dog. This is his most friendly hello.’

‘Shar preserve us,’ she begged, calling mightily on the god’s indulgence. ‘That dog of Fynch’s will be the death of us.’

‘He’s fine. Please don’t worry on my account. We go back a long way. Incidentally, have you sighted Fynch today?’

‘Er, yes, sir,’ she said, hardly daring to move her eyes from the dog. She knew she would be blamed if their guest was in any way harmed or his clothes ruined — not that they could get much dirtier, she decided. ‘He was riding with her majesty earlier but I have not seen him since.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be fine from here.’

‘There’s warmed water in the basin, sir, and fresh linens. Her majesty requested some garments be laid out too. I hope all is to your liking. I believe young Stewyt has been assigned to you, sir, so he will run any messages for your needs.’

She curtsied.

‘Thank you again,’ he said, disengaging himself from Knave and stepping into the room. The dog followed, much to her disapproval. ‘I’ll let him out later.’

The maid nodded and mercifully left. He closed the door and turned to his dog, who was sitting on his haunches and staring up at him.

Wyl squatted and patted Knave. ‘What are you, Knave? You’re no normal hound, that’s for sure.’ The dog lapped up the affection, panting happily. His master shook his head and stood. ‘I’ll clean up and go in search of our young friend,’ he said to his companion, who slumped noisily to the floor to wait.

Wyl left his boots outside the door, hoping when Stewyt showed up he would take the hint. In the meantime, the basin, as it turned out, was actually a large metal bath. The water was hot, scented and inviting. Instead of a simple wash he was soon luxuriating in soap suds and the decadence of soaking. Tension and pain floated away with the grime gathered over many days and when he finally stepped out from his haven he felt like a new man. The notion amused him. He was a new man. Koreldy had certainly appealed to Valentyna — he was sure he was not reading her wrongly. But there was little of Romen left now, except his attractive shell and those fleeting sensations of his essence; the rest was all Wyl Thirsk. That made him smile. Perhaps there was hope that he might become more than just loyal blade to Valentyna?

He pushed the thought aside and shaved, wincing at the pain it provoked in his sore rib. After trimming his moustache back to its precise line, he tackled his hair, combing out its dark tangles, glad to feel it clean again, and then bound it back tightly into a single club.

‘Ah, that’s better, Knave,’ he said and the dog pricked its ears at its name. Wyl snorted. He had begun to believe that Knave could hear thoughts — he needn’t have bothered speaking.

He inspected the fresh clothes that had been laid out for him and was pleased they were of a simple cut and neutral hue. Romen would have preferred them more colourful perhaps. Wyl grinned wryly to himself: when you grow up with orange hair and the plainest of faces, the last thing you want to wear is bright clothes and attract more attention; he would never shake the tendency, even though he now boasted such fine, dark looks. His boots had been polished and returned to his chamber whilst he bathed in the small side room and, just as he wondered where the elusive Stewyt might be, a soft knock was heard.

‘Come,’ Wyl answered.

A lad stepped in. ‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m Stewyt.’

‘Thank you for the boots.’

Stewyt grinned. ‘Is there anything else I can help with right now?’

‘I wonder if you’ve seen Fynch around the palace recently?’

‘Ah yes, sir. I have a message for you. Fynch asks if you could meet him down by the stream.’

Wyl nodded as he pulled on his second boot, hair still dripping.

‘Apparently Knave will be your guide,’ Stewyt offered, shrugging.

‘He can always find Fynch,’ Wyl replied casually, deflecting any suggestion that there might be something mysterious about Knave. The less people who picked it up, the better.

‘And her majesty has asked you to join her by the herb gardens later.’

‘Dusk?’

‘After the evening bell from the chapel.’

Wyl stood, stamping his feet into his boots. ‘Excellent. Well, Stewyt, I’m all done here. If you care to have the, er … basin removed, that would be fine.’

The lad bowed and departed. It occurred to Wyl that the boy had sharp eyes, taking in everything in surreptitious glances whilst they spoke. He dismissed the thought that Stewyt was deliberately spying on him but he had little doubt that Valentyna’s trusted Chancellor had ensured his best page was on the job. Wyl presumed the lad had been taught well to absorb as much visual information as possible should he ever be required to report back. It did not bother him. He had nothing to hide other than his identity and that was already in perfect disguise. Knave was whining softly at the top of the small landing, waiting for Wyl to follow him down the narrow staircase.

‘Lead the way,’ Wyl said.

Wyl enjoyed the walk through beautiful woodland. This was where Valentyna liked to ride, he remembered her telling him on his first visit, when he still looked like Wyl Thirsk. He could understand her desire to be here amongst the elms and their shady peace, especially now that duties to the realm were making such demands on her. He thought about Fynch and wondered why he’d chosen such a secluded place for their meeting. Perhaps he was frightened, or it may be that he wanted to pass on some information in private. Whatever it was, he was not ready to be greeted by his friend — one of the few true ones he had, he realised — with hostility.

The small boy was standing by the stream, hurling pebbles into the rushing waters. It was the first time Wyl had noticed him do anything so childlike and carefree, and yet when Fynch turned he looked anything but.

‘Fynch! It’s good to see you again.’

Hollow-eyed and obviously under some strain, Fynch did not respond. He simply stared back.

‘A warmer welcome would have been nice but I’ll settle for a handshake,’ Wyl said carefully, approaching slowly, unnerved now by the boy’s attitude towards him. What is scaring him?

He continued with slow but steady steps until he was close enough to see that the little boy was shaking. Knave sat on his haunches by Fynch’s side. What a strange pair, Wyl thought, my only allies.

He bent down, kneeling on one leg so that he was more on eye level with Fynch. Perhaps Koreldy’s height was too imposing but he doubted it. Fynch was not scared of him. The real reason for this cool welcome was in his eyes. Fynch did not trust him.

‘Speak to me … please,’ Wyl said.

‘I have a question for you,’ Fynch said, voice sombre.

‘Ask it.’

‘Will you be truthful, though?’

Wyl nodded carefully. ‘I promise.’

‘Promise on something you care about.’

‘On my life, then … What is this about, Fynch?’

‘No. Your life is worthless, I think. Swear it on her life.’

Wyl was taken aback. This was more than simply strange behaviour. Something had rattled Fynch, made him doubt their friendship. ‘Who do you mean by she?’

‘You know who. Swear to tell the truth on Valentyna’s life.’

Wyl cleared his throat; he had a good idea now of what would be asked. Intuition told him that Fynch had somehow guessed his dark secret. The boy was sharp and extremely perceptive — although how he could have pieced it all together, Wyl had no idea. Nevertheless, the terrified expression on Fynch’s face left him in no doubt that he would have to be honest now. It was no longer time for guises or half truths. Fynch deserved more. He spoke clearly, gently ensuring the youngster understood that he was being taken seriously. ‘I swear on Queen Valentyna’s life to answer your question truthfully.’

Fynch stopped trembling and took a deep breath as he reached out to lay his hand on Knave’s head. ‘I suspect you are not Romen Koreldy, even though you look like him. I believe you are Wyl Thirsk … and I must know the truth, are you the General?’

‘Why do you ask me this?’ Wyl said, shocked, trying to avoid answering immediately.

‘I’ve been having visions.’

Wyl digested this carefully. Myrren’s gift is perhaps reaching out further. ‘Oh?’

‘One occurred only this morning.’

‘What have you seen?’

‘In one I saw you injured but hacking a man’s head off before being dragged by Knave to somewhere — he does not know where.’

Bells of alarm. Surely not. How could Fynch know this?

‘Is it true, Romen?’

Should he tell the truth? What would that do for Fynch, especially if — Shar forbid! — Celimus were to follow in his mother’s footsteps and encourage the Zerques to find a foothold in Morgravia once more.

‘Fanciful,’ he declared.

‘Answer me!’ There was a hint of desperation in this little boy’s tone and it hurt Wyl to hear it.

‘How would you ever believe me if I told you the truth?’ Wyl could hear the resignation in his own voice.

Fynch frowned. ‘Knave will help me to understand. Tell me.’

Wyl’s shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh. He sat down and pulled his knees to his chest. ‘You were there, weren’t you, when Myrren was burned?’

The boy nodded gravely.

‘And you were also by my side when I passed out at her death?’

Fynch forced himself not to overreact to Koreldy suddenly speaking as Wyl Thirsk. His question was already answered then and Fynch felt his throat constrict with tension at the truth about to be revealed. ‘I had some water with me and gave it to your friend, Gueryn. He was frantic.’

Wyl nodded now, recalling what he could of that confusing time. ‘I remember very little of those moments. But I need to take you back before that event, back to where it began in the torture chamber. Are you up to hearing this?’

Fynch sat down, his face a mask. Knave lay down by his side and the little boy’s arm instinctively reached towards the dog. Wyl saw it, was reminded once again of the prophetic words of the old widow. He told the boy everything he could remember about Myrren’s trial and how he had interfered with proceedings.

‘We shared a few words before the fire was lit. She said she wanted to give me a gift and that I was to use it wisely; she asked me to fetch her puppy from her home and raise it.’

‘And you thought that Knave was the gift,’ Fynch added, now freely joining in, both of them silently acknowledging that the man sitting here was Wyl and not Romen.

‘Yes. I didn’t understand it; I was a child trying to find my way, trying to grow up and be the General I was born to be. I just accepted her words, terrified that I had to witness her death after so much torture.’

‘And?’ Fynch quietly said.

‘Then she began to scream, as I recall, and,’ he shook his head, ‘after that it’s all a blur. The next thing I knew Gueryn was hovering over me looking frightened and I do remember you briefly nearby.’

‘I saw your eyes change colour,’ Fynch said in a determined voice now. ‘We never spoke about it but your friend saw it and exclaimed as much at the time.’

Wyl nodded sadly. ‘It frightened me when he told me about it — I wasn’t sure what to believe. He didn’t dwell on it — I suspect he was uncertain if that’s what he’d really seen — but I imagine it never stopped worrying him.’

‘That was her true gift, wasn’t it?’

It was painful to have this all brought back to him so vividly. ‘Yes. She was accused of being a witch for no other reason than her oddly coloured eyes, and according to Gueryn and now yourself, my eyes echoed her strange colouring at the moment of her death.’

Fynch said nothing but his gaze was direct. He wanted the full story — he knew there was more and he knew this was difficult for the man sitting before him. He would be patient until his question had been fully answered.

Wyl continued. ‘After that event everything was normal — well, as normal as it can be when you’re being constantly baited and ridiculed by Celimus. You know what you heard that day whilst hiding in the drophole? He wasted no time setting up the situation whereby I could be murdered along with Valor. Cunning indeed, his plan was beautiful in its simplicity and perfection. Use those I loved to coerce me into doing precisely what he wanted — and that was to win Briavel for him. Then kill me, as well as the King who may stand in his way; then kill my assassin, Romen, as well, no doubt, as all the other mercenaries connected with the mission. Ironic that Romen and I managed to kill off the mercenaries for him. So perfect!’ He said the last two words with savage bitterness. Wyl was now lost in the memory, no longer caring at how much pain it yielded and feeling a sense of relief at being able to share it properly. ‘He had me brought before him — Koreldy was present — and he told me of the mission he needed me to take on. I agreed readily when I heard about it for it was the move of a far-sighted King aiming to achieve peace. Except I was to travel with mercenaries and, of course, I sensed a trap was being laid. When I refused to accompany anyone but men from the Legion he had me dragged to the window to witness the beheading of Captain Donal.’

Fynch showed his shock at hearing this. He had no idea that Alyd was dead, although he had wondered where the Captain had been when he had met Koreldy with Ylena at Stoneheart. Now he knew.

‘It was worse, though, Fynch. When Alyd was killed it just made me more resolute, more determined to overthrow this man who now called himself King. But he knew me as well as I knew myself and he had taken brilliant precaution to also hold my sister. She too was dragged into the same courtyard where her husband had just been murdered. He would have killed her too in a blink if I had not capitulated.’

Fynch nodded, stunned by the information he had learned. ‘I know everything from thereon to the moment Valentyna and I escaped the palace. From then I believe I have been fed your lies.’

Wyl held his head. ‘Not intentional, Fynch. I had to protect you.’

‘You are Wyl,’ the boy stated firmly.

‘Yes,’ Wyl admitted looking up, suddenly drained.

A chilling silence lengthened between them.

Finally Fynch spoke. ‘That’s her gift? I mean, that you did not die when Koreldy killed you?’ Fynch’s voice was choked — as much as he believed this was what had happened, it was still distressing to have such a terrifying notion confirmed.

Wyl nodded. ‘We made a pact. If we both lived after the assault from the mercenaries, then we would duel honourably. Whoever remained standing would protect Ylena and Valentyna with his life. We made a blood oath.’

‘And Koreldy killed you?’ the boy asked, astonished.

Wyl grimaced. ‘A lucky pass with his sword. I had him but misjudged. Koreldy’s a brilliant swordsman but not as brilliant as I.’ He smiled at this. It seemed Romen’s confidence was infectious. Wyl shrugged at the question on Fynch’s face. ‘I suppose I had more to lose and so I took more risk … and paid dearly for it,’ he said.

‘And then … how did it happen?’

Wyl looked up, confused. ‘Oh, how did I become Romen? Hard to explain. He entered my dead or perhaps dying body — I could not tell because I had already moved into his. I am fully myself. My soul is here. His has gone.’

Fynch’s eyes were sparkling with wonder now. He spoke one word. ‘Magic.’

‘Indeed.’

With that, Fynch launched himself towards Wyl and clung to him. It took Wyl so by surprise that he only had time to catch the tiny lad and hold him close before he could feel Fynch’s ears against his neck. And then he too was weeping. It was as though Fynch’s interrogation had opened the floodgates of emotion as well as memory and they both poured out as they held each other. This brave little lad had to constantly find so much courage and now here was a new challenge. Magic had been unleashed and, though Wyl had tried to protect him from it, Fynch was too smart. He had worked it out. No, it was more than that … he had felt it, trusted his instincts, seen his visions and worried at the truth until he had unearthed it.

Their tears subsided but both were reluctant to let go of the embrace — they needed each other now. Fynch alone understood the magnitude of Wyl’s dilemma.

The boy finally pulled back but his arms were still around Romen’s neck. ‘And Knave?’

Wyl grinned. ‘The strangest dog to ever roam Morgravia or Briavel.’

‘He’s part of the magic, though, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know, Fynch,’ Wyl said with honesty. ‘But I believe he is enchanted somehow and, yes, our lives are definitely linked through Myrren. You know that vision you had of me?’

‘It was horrible.’

‘It is also true. Knave saved my life. I was in the north, in Orkyld then. How he reached me or even knew where to find me is beyond my comprehension.’

‘He was gone for three days.’

‘And he sat with me for one full day of that, waiting to see that I would recover. How could he cover such ground?’ Wyl said, astonished.

‘Magic, that’s how,’ Fynch replied gravely. ‘Were those men sent by Celimus?’

‘Yes. His intention was to kill Romen Koreldy. It still is. I know too much. They won’t be the last who make the attempt.’

‘There’s more.’ Fynch told him about the second vision.

‘Valentyna married to Celimus?’ Wyl said, aghast.

‘No, I’m not saying that, I couldn’t tell from what I saw — I was more interested in the odd circumstances of the execution.’

‘And you don’t know who the victim is?’

Fynch shook his head. ‘I described him to Valentyna but she doesn’t know either.’ He gave Wyl the same description: ‘Large man, sun-weathered face, rugged features.’

‘It could be so many men,’ Wyl said, thinking of the Mountain Dwellers. ‘It reminds me of at least two I know personally. There’s only one certainty here — I can’t let her marry Celimus. He will destroy her.’

Fynch shrugged his tiny shoulders. ‘It was only a vision, Wyl. It doesn’t make it real,’ he offered, hoping to find some comfort himself in the words.

‘Mmm. But yours have a way of being true, my friend. By the way, you have to call me Romen.’

The boy smiled and Wyl was amazed at how it changed his demeanour. ‘I’d prefer to call you Wyl.’

‘Then they’ll definitely have you and the dog carted away!’

‘They’d have to catch me first.’

‘And this voice speaking to you … that’s a mystery in itself.’

‘What do we do?’ Fynch said, sitting in Wyl’s lap. Suddenly he was just a little boy looking to the grown-up to make decisions.

Wyl wrapped Romen’s long arms about his tiny friend and held him close. ‘We must protect her. Valentyna is the only obstacle to Celimus getting what he wants. And only you and I know how ruthless he will be.’

‘He arrives soon,’ Fynch warned. ‘You cannot be seen.’

‘This is true. And we are going to sit here until we have a plan. We alone share the truth of Myrren’s gift.’

‘You won’t tell Valentyna?’

‘No! She is the last person who must know. Briavellians are actually more suspicious of talk of magic than any Morgravian could ever be. We are scared of it because we quietly believe it. The people of Briavel dismiss it. She would not trust us.’

‘She trusts Knave.’

‘She trusts you and now, hopefully, me. But Knave frightens her.’

‘Well, she believes he is somehow touched.’

‘That’s a fairly tame word, Fynch. She’s hardly admitting to having an open mind on the subject. To start explaining that a witch gave me the gift of a second life and that I am really Wyl Thirsk will push her too far. As it is she is frightened and confused. No, we tell her nothing of this. Can I rely on you to keep our secret?’

Fynch nodded. ‘Can it happen again?’

‘No,’ Wyl snorted. ‘She’s gifted me a second chance at life, I have to protect this one.’ He suddenly remembered Lothryn and Elspyth. ‘Fynch, I did tell two other people, to be honest. One might already be dead. The other, a woman, who helped me greatly these past few weeks is, I hope, protecting Ylena. She is true to us.’ He gave Fynch her name.

‘She believed you?’

‘Yes. She and the man of the mountains have strong spiritual beliefs. Magic is part of their lives — at least, I should say, they accept it. Elspyth will tell no one.’

‘You must tell me of your northern adventure, Wyl.’

Wyl nodded. ‘It is a long story — when we have the time I will share it with you. For now, though, you must call me Romen,’ he corrected. ‘You cannot let it slip, my young friend. I am Koreldy, although that name too is not to be murmured around Celimus.’

Fynch nodded solemnly.

Wyl could not help taking the tiny hand in his. ‘I thank you for your trust and friendship, Fynch.’

They spent the afternoon in deep discussion, building and tearing down each other’s ideas, and Wyl was once again grateful for the brilliant mind for detail which Fynch brought to their final strategy. He would take this to the Queen and hope she might go along with their fragile plan.

THIRTY-SIX

A LIGHT BREEZE CARRIED THE scent of mint and basil and the seductive fragrance filled the mild early evening air. He loved this light most of all, just as dusk descended with her horde of tiny flying insects backlit by the haze of the soft, dying sunlight. Wyl knew he would for ever associate Valentyna’s radiance with sunset and the perfume of herbs and lavender.

‘Forgive me, am I late?’ she asked, approaching quietly. She was dressed in a simple and unadorned gown of soft, dark-blue velvet which matched her eyes in this evening light. The bodice was cut low. She was ravishing.

Wyl felt his throat go dry. ‘No. I was early, long before the last bell,’ he admitted, silently amused by her long boyish stride which even her formal skirts could not disguise.

She arrived at his side and he bowed. ‘I love it here at this time of day,’ she said, allowing him now to gently kiss her hand.

‘You keep a wonderful herb garden.’

‘Not me,’ she admitted sheepishly. ‘I’m hopeless at any sort of gardening. It’s fortunate my mother is not alive to despair of me, for I’m told her fingers were ever green.’ She bent to pick a flower from the lavender bushes which edged the garden. Crushing the head to release its oil, she held her hand up so he could smell the perfume.

He held her slightly self-conscious gaze as he leaned towards her palm and inhaled. ‘Do you miss her?’

‘Not really,’ she replied, beginning to stroll the path which would lead them towards a magnificent sun dial. ‘She died when I was still very young. And you? Do you have family?’

Wyl did not know why he lied, or was he being truthful? It was hard to distinguish. He so badly wanted to be Wyl with her and not Romen. ‘My father died not so long ago but my mother died when I too was very young. I still miss her, though.’

‘You must have a rich memory.’ And she knew that this was true by his nod, which seemed weighted with sorrow. ‘Do you have brothers?’

‘No, just a sister. Mother died at her birth.’ This was dangerous telling his story and not Romen’s.

‘Then we are kindred spirits, Romen. We both know the same loss of family.’

He offered his arm and she took it, much to his delight. ‘Did you feel pressured being the only royal child?’

‘Yes, of course. After my mother and brother died, I worked out early that I must be more of a son than a daughter to my father, even though everyone was determined to treat me like the finest of glass.’

‘Is that what he wanted?… I mean for you to have been a son?’

‘No. If his son had survived, I don’t believe he would have loved me any less — just differently perhaps. I only strove to please. I always wanted to make my father proud of me,’ she said and then added in a sad voice, ‘I still do.’ She walked on, picked some rosemary to twirl in her fingers and continued more brightly. ‘In the early days I felt I had failed him for not being born a boy, especially as he had been too enraptured by my mother to consider remarrying, starting afresh with the possibility of a male heir.’

‘He was enormously proud of you … you do know that, don’t you?’

She shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, I am very lucky that my father never found it hard to share his love and his emotions. He told me every day how much joy I brought to his life, although I’m surprised he would share this with a stranger.’

Wyl realised he must be more careful. ‘We knew it was a hopeless fight somehow. I guess all three of us shared thoughts we normally would not,’ he lied.

She nodded gently and then pointed towards a small copse. ‘There’s a beautiful summer house in there which my father built for me. I still like to go there often. Shall we walk in that direction?’

‘Please. I would be privileged to see it. I was admiring your woodland today.’

‘My woodland?’ she laughed. ‘I suppose I have made it mine in a way. Did you meet Fynch there?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Let me just say that I have put his mind at ease and given a promise that I am here to stay.’ He hoped he had said the right thing.

‘Good. He has seemed withdrawn lately,’ she said carefully, not wishing to reveal anything further about the boy’s visions which had such personal meaning for them both. ‘No doubt your arrival will cheer him,’ she added, ‘so I can stop fretting over Fynch and worry about the King. How serpent-like is he?’

‘More slippery than an eel, let me assure you.’

Valentyna could not help but laugh. ‘A snake and now an eel. Tell me about him … describe his looks to me.’

Wyl did so candidly.

‘What a waste,’ she admitted. ‘And if he’s really as handsome as you describe then surely he can have the pick of brides … although perhaps not so readily a Queen,’ she added wistfully, knowing all too well the politics driving the proposal.

‘For sure but he wants Briavel more than a bride, your majesty. The only marriage Celimus craves is that of Briavel to Morgravia. He would control all land south of the Razors … and no doubt, once the south is unified, it is his plan to control what lies north too.’

‘So marriage really is the means to the end,’ she said, confirming what she knew, but wishing it did not have to be so.

‘I would put my life on it. Celimus cares for no one and nothing but his own greedy desires. I will never forget how he killed Donal so heartlessly and he would have killed Thirsk’s sister without remorse or a moment’s hesitation if Wyl had not capitulated in that second. Let’s not forget that he paid men to assassinate your father.’

‘Oh, Romen. Don’t let’s talk of Celimus any more. I know my duty. Let me enjoy a few moments’ peace instead.’

They had arrived in the copse.

‘Here it is,’ she said, a wistful note in her voice. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’ She sat down on a nearby log.

Wyl looked at the fairytale-like structure which had been built around the hollowed trunk of one of the trees. It was artful the way it blended into the forest — a canopy of leaves disguising and yet decorating it. A haven for a little girl, especially one who played alone and dreamed of being a Princess the equal of any Prince.

‘It’s stunning,’ he replied.

She was pleased he was impressed. Valentyna brought no one here. This was hers. Her private place which she shared with no one … not even her father. She had surprised herself in offering Koreldy a chance to see it. Why have I allowed him such a privilege? she wondered. She also pondered on the fact that she had taken extra care with her ablutions, deliberating uncharacteristically long over whether to roll her hair up or let it flow free. And her clothes, though simple, were more feminine than she had donned in a while. These thoughts niggled in her mind. In fact Valentyna had always ignored the curves of her own body. She rarely looked at herself in the glass and yet this evening she had lingered and even fussed a little. Still tall and lean as ever, she was nevertheless delighted earlier this evening to rediscover that her hips rounded nicely over her long legs. Her maid had commented on how beautiful she looked in her dress. She appreciated how much more shapely her breasts became when she was more elegantly attired. It pleased her fiercely all of a sudden.

More than anything, she hoped it pleased Koreldy.

‘Pardon me?’ she said, realising he had asked her something.

‘I just wondered if I might sit?’

‘Oh, please do. I’m sorry, I was far away just then.’

She loved his smile when it suddenly broke like that across his face.

‘What were you thinking of?’ he asked, making himself comfortable on the log next to her.

Now she dithered. How can I possibly tell him? ‘Oh, just remembering good times here when I was little.’

‘I had an idyllic childhood too. So we have more in common.’

An awkward silence followed. She felt that if they were lovers they would most likely kiss now but they were strangers. She pulled her gaze from his mouth and covered her agitation swiftly by saying the first thing which came into her head.

‘Have you found us a plan yet, Romen?’ She felt her heart lurch when he looked at her with such intensity through those clear grey eyes and took both her hands this time into his.

‘I believe I have, your majesty. It is risky but Fynch agrees, Celimus cannot pass up a challenge to his manhood — for want of a better word.’

‘What have you in mind?’

‘I must admit first that it was our young friend who suggested this. Have you realised how clever he is?’

She laughed. It relieved her fluster and she was able to sit beside him without trembling. ‘He is so serious sometimes and he bedazzles me with his sharp mind.’

‘He is bright, that’s for sure,’ Wyl said, pulling her hands into his own lap; he felt her tense and wondered if he had been too presumptuous. ‘Fynch believes we should hold a tourney.’

‘Whatever for?’ she asked, hardly able to focus on her words, looking down at her hands in his for she dared not risk looking into his searching eyes.

‘Because Celimus would love it. We hold it in his honour. We invite him to participate and we let him win at everything … cleverly, though. He must never know.’

‘This would certainly put him in a good mood, but how does this help my cause, mercenary?’ she enquired, intrigued, nervous about her hands resting in his lap.

‘Ah, here’s the clever bit. We let him win at everything until he meets the Queen’s mysterious Champion.’

‘Who is you, I presume?’ she said, catching on quickly.

He nodded.

‘And?’

‘And I punish him mercilessly. This will put him in very bad spirits. Celimus is prone to bleak moods, your majesty.’

‘How do you know all this? You are not Morgravian.’

‘Fynch notices everything,’ he replied. ‘He assures me that Celimus does not handle humiliation with any aplomb.’

‘All right, so we have him embarrassed and furious — I can’t see that is any more of a help to my cause.’

‘Well, when Celimus falls into his black humour he is good for nothing. He locks himself away and rants. Fynch says he usually likes to hurt someone or something. When he was young, apparently it was the castle dogs or cats, even younger children. As he became older, he began to take his fury out on women.’

She pulled a face of disgust and Wyl continued.

‘He will certainly not be of a mood to propose marriage if I humiliate him, so we must ensure the tourney takes place immediately before formal talks are held.’

‘This is it — our only plan?’

‘It’s the best we can come up with. I know it sounds risky —’

‘Risky? It is suicidal. Why won’t he, in his black mood, take umbrage and simply declare war?’

‘Because he is not stupid, your majesty. He is petulant, erratic, often dangerous but never stupid and he will not risk his wealth at war when he can secure the land he craves simply through diplomacy or a strategic union. Anyway, I’m assured by my small friend that Celimus has learned to recognise this particular frame of mind of his, and when it occurs he removes himself from the public eye. He will not wish you to see this side of him, your majesty. It might make you think less of him.’

‘If that’s possible,’ she sneered.

‘Fynch believes, as I do, that he will take his soldiers and depart Briavel swiftly on the pretext of being summoned home on urgent matters or similar.’

‘And then he’ll simply propose marriage through his minions again?’ she said sarcastically but her defiance had disappeared. Wyl could tell she was warming to the idea, in spite of its thin premise.

‘That may well be but we will have bought ourselves more time to plan ahead. Right now we have a few days at best. Our aim is to deflect his proposal without you causing direct offence.’

‘You’re sure of this, Romen?’ she implored, chewing at her lip in consternation.

‘No,’ he said and laughed when she looked at him in shock. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. It was such a brief kiss but bold beyond belief. He was thrilled to realise that the courage came not from Romen Koreldy but was all Wyl Thirsk. And Valentyna did not flinch. ‘But I will kill him for you if you ask me to. He will not get near enough to you to intimidate. This is a state visit of pure diplomacy. Celimus will not risk it getting ugly. And neither will his advisors.’

‘Will he sense a ruse?’ she asked, doing her best to disguise the waver in her voice at the sensation of his kiss.

‘No, your majesty, for you will be bright and friendly, ever amicable and welcoming to this suitor. You will compliment him constantly and you will give him the very strong impression that you are overwhelmed by his looks, stature, wealth and pomp. His vanity is incalculable. Furthermore, he will not expect to lose, for he considers himself the finest swordsman in the land, now that Wyl Thirsk has been laid to rest.’

‘But you know better, is that right?’ she said, shaking her head in worry as well as amusement.

His eyes sparked with mischief. ‘I know much better, majesty.’

She could no longer act responsibly. His closeness, his charm and his confidence seduced her. When he spoke like this she felt safe … no longer alone. Romen would kill Celimus if she asked him to — not that she would but the notion was comforting. She dare not use the word love but this was the closest affection she had felt for any man bar her father.

Without thinking on it for a second longer she leaned close and kissed him.

Wyl could hardly believe it until he tasted her lips on his mouth. When she began to pull away from the fleeting, gentle kiss, his arm quickly encircled her, guiding her back so he could return her gesture and confirm that his own heart was incredibly vulnerable where she was concerned.

She had meant the kiss as a thank you, knowing it was more than was required. But at Romen’s insistence it took on a more ardent nature, continuing until the crickets quietened their song and dusk had turned to dark.

Love had spoken to her this night. The poisoned arrow has bitten, she thought to herself, recalling his earlier words, and Valentyna knew there would never be another man for her but this one she held close to her now.

It was not just Fynch who noticed the change in Valentyna’s demeanour. Everyone from the maid who laid out her clothes to Commander Liryk saw that their Queen had a lightness to her step and a vague smile constantly threatening to break out. She appeared distracted, even flighty — dare they think it — even happy. Perhaps her mourning for her father had finally passed and she had decided it was time to lock away the grief and open herself up to life again, rediscovering the breezy optimism she had been known for.

No one complained at this fresh manner in their Queen. It had a positive effect on everyone’s spirits and some even began to believe that it might be the imminent arrival of a suitor — a King, no less — which had brought about this change in their monarch. Marriage, peace, unified nations … it was a mix of possibilities which drove the Briavellians harder in their preparations for King Celimus.

It was Fynch alone who worked it out. Without realising it, he absorbed every glance, every smile, every blink of Valentyna’s eyelashes … every minute movement when Romen was near. It took him only until noon the next day to understand what all of this information meant. Confirmation came from Wyl, whom he realised was showing all the same symptoms in the presence of Valentyna. So it is true. They have become lovers. Am I shocked? No. Was it so unexpected? Perhaps not, he decided. Valentyna is not aware of how striking she is — it was one of the reasons he liked her so much — and Wyl, now in the guise of Romen, is a dashing, irresistible man, he concluded. If I cannot help but like him, why not Valentyna? He felt more secure than he had in many moons now that his two closest friends were involved with each other. The neatness of it appealed to his tidy mind and to the child he still was.

Fynch watched too as Romen won hearts very quickly all over the palace. He was always ready with a jest or a smile; he was not averse to helping with any chore that needed to be done to set up the tourney; he struck up friendships with everyone from his page to the cook. Most of all Fynch took comfort in the fact that Knave seemed to overwhelmingly approve of Wyl and Valentyna being together. Fynch could not articulate how he knew this, he simply sensed it. The dog appeared to be less watchful, more playful. He did not stare at Valentyna the way he so often had. Knave gave the impression he was relaxed — nothing more than a dog who was looking forward to the next romp in the woods.

Fynch was not fooled, of course. Knave knew things, saw things, communicated things … he was sure of that now. Did Knave cause the visions? This he did not know nor could he guess at but he was pleased the headaches were gone for now. Wyl’s arrival had put a stop to them, he presumed.

Wyl had been in Werryl now for three days, absorbed both by Valentyna and the bustle of preparations for the King’s visit. All of the palace staff including the Briavellian Guard which was now strong in numbers, had worked tirelessly. The palace sparkled and plans for the tourney were well advanced; many hands had certainly made light work of the preparations. It was not on the grand scale of Morgravia’s annual royal tournament but it was festive and would attract a large and excited crowd which was already pouring into the city’s many inns and taverns.

Wyl, at the Queen’s direct behest, had taken charge of all the behind-the-scenes arrangements whilst Krell handled all formal communications. The only people who heard the name Koreldy were Valentyna’s close staff and the hardworking team below stairs. For the majority of those working or visiting the palace, the tall, dark-haired man was merely a professional organiser hired especially by the Queen, rarely seen in public and never referred to by name.

The Morgravian escort had been on Briavellian soil for two days now, and it was anticipated the King would arrive in the late afternoon of the next day. ‘Just enough time for you to see him made comfortable in his suite and then wear him out with the banquet,’ Wyl thought aloud as he lay back on the grass.

It was just the four of them. Fynch sat cross-legged, leaning against Knave, whilst Valentyna, back in her trousers again, sat near Koreldy. Near enough that the pulse between them was palpable, Fynch decided, knowing if he was not present they would most likely be sitting much closer, touching even.

‘You won’t be there, of course,’ Valentyna said, looking worried.

‘You can do this, your majesty. You know you can. It will be all protocol. We have ensured you are surrounded by many dignitaries. The singing, dancing and special events planned for the evening will make it pass quickly. I promise you he will not have the opportunity to press his case.’

‘And if he does?’ she said, determined to be gloomy.

‘I have taken precaution,’ he answered.

‘You’re being evasive.’

‘I’m being optimistic. You just concentrate on being irresistible and charming so he can have no complaint against the hospitality of the Queen of Briavel. Let me worry about everything else.’

She sighed, looked towards Fynch.

‘And even you can’t be seen, I now realise.’

Fynch stirred from his comfy position against Knave. ‘No, your majesty. We cannot run the risk that he or one of the Morgravians may recognise me.’

‘Romen, how are you going to disguise yourself when you duel with him?’

‘All taken care of. Fret not.’

She dragged a tuft of grass from its roots and threw it at him. ‘Ooh, you can be maddening. How are you so confident?’

‘Soldiers get like this before battle, your majesty,’ he said, grinning and dusting the grass from his chest. He desperately wanted to roll over, push her back and kiss her, but Fynch was present.

As if on some silent signal, Knave suddenly nudged Fynch, barking and nipping at his heels.

‘Game time,’ Fynch said, shrugging. ‘He’s been feeling a bit ignored with all the activity of the last two days. I’ll just give him a run through the orchard. He likes to chase a lemon in the absence of a ball.’

Fynch stood, glanced at Wyl who winked at him, and then ran off after an hysterically happy Knave.

‘What was that about?’ Valentyna queried, frowning.

‘He knows.’

‘About us? How can he?’

Wyl nodded, sitting up. ‘He’s clever, remember. He’s giving us time alone.’

‘Him or Knave? The dog started it,’ she said playfully.

He looked at her and saw behind her merriment; she was fighting against her intuition that Knave was much more than an ordinary hound. ‘Both, I suspect.’

‘Well, then, we should not waste the time they’ve given us. As it is I shall have to do without your lips on mine for the next two days.’

As she laid her head against his chest Wyl remembered Fynch’s vision of her and Celimus. He buried his face in her thick, dark hair and pushed the vile thought from his mind.

THIRTY-SEVEN

CELIMUS HAD NEVER FELT more sure of himself. Here he was, riding through Briavel, enemy territory, and he was being welcomed as a saviour.

His dream of himself as the all-conquering emperor of the southern lands was beginning to seem as if it could become a reality. The journey through Morgravia had proved an unprecedented success. On Jessom’s suggestion, prior to setting out he had announced a significant reduction in taxes for the next four moons as part of his coronation festival. It had worked beautifully. The people had greeted him with smiles on their faces and food in their bellies. He had even tossed silver coins into the crowds of well-wishers who lined the road into Briavel and bade him bring back a Queen.

At each stop, ale and free food had been made available to all who came to welcome their new King. The generosity was seductive. As Jessom rightly pointed out, people must view him as benevolent so that when the hard decisions needed to be made — when taxes needed to be raised — they would be less likely to revolt, understanding that their good King would not do this to them without reason.

‘You have captured their hearts, my King,’ Jessom flattered as they rode side by side on fine horses. ‘They adore you.’

When Jessom was elevated to the new role of King’s Counsel, no one in any position of prestige could understand why Celimus had chosen an unknown outsider — someone so new to the palace — for the role.

Celimus smiled. He too was impressed. This trip through the counties was inspired; he felt elated at the spectacle he imagined he must present to the commoners. Jessom had cautioned him against using that word, ‘commoners’, suggesting ‘subjects’, ‘civilians’, even ‘my people’ were far more endearing alternatives. Privately, Celimus considered them all peasants who should be grateful to have so magnificent a monarch to cringe before. He could tell they were excited at the prospect of their King marrying young and to the neighbouring realm’s Queen. It was the perfect match in their estimation, bringing unification and peace to the region at last.

Pah! he thought, peace and unification be damned. Power alone is what this is about. Power and wealth. When I have Briavel cowed and under my control, I shall look north and deal with the hoodlum who dares to cross my borders and offer death threats to my soldiers.

Celimus conveniently overlooked the fact that Cailech’s aggression had been entirely in retaliation for the execution of his own people, or the fact that Celimus himself had hoped that one Morgravian party in particular might be captured and killed.

Cailech will eat his words. No, Cailech will eat humble pie before me, Celimus told himself. I shall see him trapped and cornered. I, Celimus, will be hailed Emperor.

Celimus continued to amuse himself with notions of his grandeur and majesty all the way from the fertile plains of Morgravia to the lush meadows of Briavel. It only waned as he felt the first tension of being on enemy soil.

‘Do you think we brought enough reinforcement?’ he queried.

‘Yes, sire. Five score from the Legion is more than enough to make a firm statement of who is the greater power here. I gather in the last war Briavel lost thousands of her young men. Your father punished Valor the previous time they battled.’

‘My father was a soft touch — him and that other ageing idiot, Fergys Thirsk!’ The King hawked and spat. ‘Any other soldier worth their salt would have completely demoralised the enemy by inflicting a far greater death toll. As I understand it, Briavel was reeling, her throat exposed just waiting for Morgravia to rip it out … and still, still my father showed compassion.’ He made a sound of disgust. ‘The only good thing to come of that battle was the death of Thirsk, may Shar see his soul rot in hell.’

Jessom, realising this was a sore subject, smoothed the King’s ruffled emotions with honeyed words. ‘Nevertheless, your majesty, they were humbled and have not recovered. They are in no position to threaten us. If anything, you are their future, their salvation … you will bring peace and prosperity to two lands which have known countless eruptions of war.’

Celimus felt soothed by the encouraging words and noted with pleasure that the Briavellians were already gathering to greet him — it had occurred to him they may revolt but such a notion was unfounded. He saw nothing but smiling faces and cheering people. So Valor’s death had never been fully laid at his own feet then. People would have their suspicions, he knew this. But Valentyna’s advisors were obviously playing a clever game.

Better yet, reports back from various messengers confirmed that the Queen of Briavel was not the plump, frumpy sort he remembered from childhood but a slender, gracious woman … some went so far as to describe her as a rare beauty. Romen was right, then. That at least would make the task of siring an heir on her less distasteful.

Producing an heir, whose birthright would straddle both realms, was his paramount wish just now. It consumed him. If he was going to risk all out war with Cailech and the Mountain Dwellers, then he must secure the throne of Morgravia and better still, ensure it was irrevocably linked with Briavel. His son would rule both realms — there would be strength, wealth and men to call upon. There were moments when he almost wished his father were alive to hear of his grand plan so he could show the stupid old fool what a truly great King could achieve.

‘How much longer?’ he asked.

‘Riders have been sent ahead, majesty. The palace will already know your arrival is imminent. I would hazard a guess of two hours at most.’

The King relaxed. Not long then. He would drink in the fine scenery, accept the well wishes from the crowd and arrive ready to greet his new bride with the appropriate amount of discretion and flattery.

As if reading his thoughts, Jessom interrupted them. ‘There is a huge banquet planned for tonight, I’m told, sire.’

‘Do we have to?’

‘I’m afraid so, your majesty. Briavel is turning on its finest for you. It is a high compliment which you must accept and attend.’

‘I could use a long sleep after all this riding.’

‘I understand, sire. And you will certainly enjoy some rest, for sure. However, they wish to honour you with this.’

‘And the formal talks?’

Jessom took a breath. He hoped the King would hold his temper. ‘After the tourney, sire,’ he replied evenly.

Celimus turned in the saddle and glared at his advisor. ‘You jest?’

‘No, sire. I was only informed of it this morning. Queen Valentyna has heard of your prowess and wishes to highlight your skills with a tournament in your honour. In her letter she outlined how much the people of Briavel would feel privileged to witness your skills, and how fitting it would be for her lesser subjects to be able to see their Queen and her suitor together on such a social occasion.’ He hoped he had chosen the right words of appeasement, even though Valentyna had expressed nothing of the sort, other than to say that the tourney was being presented in his honour.

Celimus no longer bristled. Predictably, he lifted his chin. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I should let them see what a lucky woman she is to have snared the attentions of the Morgravian King.’

Jessom offered a conspiratorial chuckle. ‘Yes, my lord, and a chance to reinforce our prowess too, my King. War will seem an even more undesirable choice when they see how brilliantly our monarch fights. The Legion too will put on an exhibition.’

‘Yes, good. I should be told these things in advance, though, Jessom.’

It was a gentle rebuke but a rebuke nonetheless. Jessom bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sire. I simply like to keep much of the frippery from you.’

‘And the marriage proposal?’

‘You are free of duties, as is her majesty, for that afternoon following the tourney. It would be an appropriate time to make her aware of your, er … shall we say, affections? Formal talks will occur late that afternoon. It is my intention we sign all papers and exchange seals before supper, your majesty.’

‘Excellent,’ Celimus said. ‘Well, carry on. I think I shall ride ahead alone now, Jessom.’

‘Of course, sire. Let them see your full majesty,’ he said, smiling benignly as the King cantered towards the front of the column, though the contrived brightness of that smile did not touch his eyes.

Valentyna looked magnificent. Even Liryk, used to her natural beauty, took a deep breath on seeing how their Queen presented herself this afternoon. Her cheeks were flushed from her morning’s ride and matched the close-fitting dusky rose pink gown she had chosen to wear. The richness of the colour set off her smooth, polished skin and loosely clasped raven hair to perfection, whilst its softness of hue complemented the lightly rouged full lips and gentle smile she wore as she waited on the steps of the grand palace.

Liryk was impressed. She was paying Celimus full homage. No monarch was ever required to meet their guests, royal or not, in person outside the palace, so this was a departure for Valentyna, a cunning and courageous move to ensure her visitor felt more important than any other. He was proud of her and knew her father would be too.

She stood alone, tall and erect. Her bearing was regal, there was no doubt, and Liryk wished old Valor could see his superb daughter now as she held court, preparing to pull off one of the greatest coups in Briavel’s history. If she could find the courage to put what had gone before behind her and somehow make a good match with Celimus, their marriage meant instant peace and prosperity for Briavel. He had not even realised he was holding his breath as these thoughts raced through his mind.

He glanced towards the battlements where the realm’s top archers trained their sights on the approaching column. Soldiers were positioned to show a very strong presence. The Briavellian Guard stationed around the palace outnumbered the Legion by ten to one and still his eyes darted around, taking in and juggling all possibilities should trouble arise. He had no doubt that this was a visit made in true peace — one of diplomacy which aimed to secure a brilliant and strategic marriage agreement — but he ensured every one of his men was ready and focused. There would be no surprises this time.

Valentyna smoothed her skirts, wiping her hands of clamminess, as the King’s party approached. She lifted her head and smiled radiantly as Celimus, King of Morgravia, brought his magnificent horse to a halt not far from where she stood.

He was utterly beautiful. She smiled inwardly. Stop admiring the horse and make him welcome! she admonished herself. Romen would laugh if he knew she was watching the stallion more than the King.

Celimus alighted gracefully and handed the reins to his man. He held her gaze and although she was unnerved by the dark, intense stare, she forced herself to curtsy as he finally bowed very low, very elegantly before her. And still having said nothing, he took her hand and kissed the back of it softly.

‘Your majesty,’ he said, straightening, unashamedly impressed by the woman who stood before him. ‘The King of Morgravia, at your service.’

She looked at his broad, white smile and unwavering gaze. She imagined she saw a hunter, sizing up his prey. ‘The honour, your majesty, is ours. Be most welcome to Briavel,’ she lied.

A refreshing drink of crushed, chilled parillion fruit was served in the rose garden to Celimus and his immediate party, which included Jessom and the present General of the Legion, a bluff, middle-aged man who exchanged no pleasantries other than the bare words of greeting. Valentyna thought of Wyl Thirsk and how he might turn in his tomb to see his successor. The Legionnaires had already been shown to their barracks, their horses stabled, and three lesser dignitaries were presently being shown to their guest rooms.

‘Do you have spies, Valentyna, to know my favourite fruit?’

She noticed they had moved swiftly to first names. Two monarchs, two equals. He would do well to bear that in mind, she thought.

‘Why, how curious, but it is always my first choice too,’ she lied smoothly, remembering Romen’s advice that she be charming. In truth she did not care for the parillion’s overly sweet flesh. Still she sipped its juice politely. ‘We harvest them daily in season from the palace orchards.’

‘I should enjoy strolling those orchards with you, my dear,’ he said and the condescension was not lost on her.

‘Of course, it would be a pleasure. And how was your journey, Celimus?’

‘Very successful, thank you. It was ever rare for me, even as Prince, to get out into the provincial areas to meet with Morgravians,’ he said. ‘They made me feel most proud to be their monarch.’

You probably would not even bother with them normally, she thought and then checked herself. This would not do. She knew this man only through other people’s eyes and reports. Do him the courtesy of at least conversing honestly with him. Impress him, she told herself, and it will all be over by tomorrow evening.

‘I have no doubt that you are in need of a rest, my lord,’ she said, deliberately showing deference. ‘Perhaps you would care to visit your suite of rooms and see that all is how you like it?’

He nodded, pleased with her sudden servility. Tomorrow he would participate bare chested in some events. He had already planned this so the Queen and her people could view his magnificent physique as well as his prowess as a swordsman, archer, rider, whatever they wished … he was pleased to showcase his talents.

‘I understand we have arranged for basins to be sent up — sorry,’ she corrected herself, ‘baths, as you call them. Please be in no hurry on my account. You must relax and take your time.’

‘It is very kind of you,’ he replied. ‘I gather there is to be a banquet tonight?’

‘Yes. It is in your honour, Celimus. We are privileged that you have come in person to Briavel and we would do homage to our special guest with this feast.’ Romen would be proud of me, she thought, batting her eyelids and turning on her smile.

‘Until this evening then, my lady,’ he said, standing so she could admire him close up as he towered over her. He took her hand and once again laid a soft kiss on it. ‘Thank you for your gentle welcome.’

The other two men had milled around quietly in the background but now they joined their King, bowing to Valentyna, and she gave a small, polite nod to each as they took their leave.

She sighed with relief. The first hurdle was crossed but much worse was to come. She gave her royal guest sufficient time to have ascended the grand staircase before she fled towards her own chambers, using the concealed back passages. Romen and Fynch were waiting for her.

‘You shouldn’t be seen here,’ she said, her heart beating faster at seeing his lovely face again. She loved this feeling of being in love. It made her feel powerful.

He kissed her full on the lips and she withdrew, shocked, looking towards Fynch.

‘It’s all right, your majesty,’ the boy said.

‘I’m sorry, Fynch, you deserve to know about us,’ Valentyna said, embarrassed.

Wyl squeezed her hand. ‘He already knows, my love. Anyway, he’s our cover. If I’m discovered by your staff, I will be seen with Fynch, which gives our tryst respectability.’ He tugged once again at her pounding heart with his lovely smile. ‘Stop worrying, now tell us how it went.’

‘Exactly to plan,’ she replied, turning to enter her chamber and inviting them in. ‘He is as you describe. Arrogant, conceited, condescending, heartbreakingly handsome.’

‘Not too handsome I hope?’

‘Anyone who calls me, “my dear”, and is not old enough to be my own father, is not so attractive on the inside,’ she said in answer. ‘Outwardly, though, very handsome but with a wolfish attitude and a smarmy manner I find repulsive. Does that cover it?’

‘More than adequately,’ Wyl replied, feigning brightness whilst really feeling dangerously reckless at the knowledge that Celimus was close enough that he could run him through. Better, he could hurl Romen’s daggers with deadly accuracy. He heard a familiar growl from the doorway and shook his head. Can the dog read thoughts? Well, if he could he did not approve of the idea of doing away with Celimus so obviously. He ignored Knave. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, holding her hand.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ve got to get through tonight’s festivities, that’s what’s bringing me grief.’

‘You’ll be magnificent, your majesty,’ Fynch reassured.

She ruffled his hair. ‘I wish you could both be there,’ she admitted.

‘We will be, in our own way, I promise,’ Wyl said. ‘Now we’ll disappear and let you start preparing.’

‘And I’ll do my best to look alluring, I promise.’

Wyl turned back towards her. She loved the way his moustache twitched like that. ‘Valentyna, you don’t have to try. You already are very beautiful, especially in your riding clothes when your hair has torn itself free and your face is flushed. You are simply the most desirable, beautiful woman I will ever know or be lucky enough to love.’

She could not help the tears which welled. ‘Do you love me?’

‘From the second I saw you,’ he said truthfully.

‘Romen —’ She had no time to say anything else as they came together in an urgent embrace. Fynch had already discreetly closed the door and no doubt stood patiently on the other side with Knave, keeping a close watch.

‘You must go,’ she said, suddenly pulling away and catching her breath.

He nodded, said nothing, trusted himself to say no more at this moment, his heart was so full. He backed to the door and departed.

Despite her sense of power, Valentyna had never felt more vulnerable. She had never had anything so precious to lose as the love of Romen Koreldy — she would marry him tomorrow, no tonight, if she could. But there was a banquet to get through and a dangerous, unpredictable suitor to discourage in the most gracious of manners.

THIRTY-EIGHT

HERALDS IN FULL REGALIA blew brightly on their instruments to announce the arrival of their Queen. Valentyna held her breath behind the doors at the sound.

‘Your father would be so proud of you,’ Krell murmured, unable to keep a shaking admiration from his voice.

It was what she needed to hear at this moment and she cast a shy smile of thanks towards him before she swept through the opening double doors and into her palace’s Great Hall. It was the first time she had hosted any formal occasion, and she knew it was important to not only impress the King of Morgravia but more so her own subjects who were looking now to the leadership of their new monarch. There was a collective intake of breath as her guests saw their Queen for the first time looking every inch the rightful sovereign. She was breathtaking in dark green and violet, echoing Briavel’s colours. Everyone immediately dropped into bows or curtsies and she surveyed the lowered heads looking for one alone — the only one which was not formally required but certainly expected to offer her homage.

There he was, equally glorious in his own Morgravian livery of crimson, black and gold. He sketched a bow in her honour and she could not help but be quietly relieved that he had and there would be no hiccup at this point.

As she descended the short flight of stairs, Valentyna’s exquisite gown rustled its silks and the gems sewn artfully down its length sparkled. She had designed it herself and her seamstresses had worked day and night since they learned of the King’s visit to have this particular gown ready for her. It was far more spectacular than she had imagined it might be and it was a unique feeling for Valentyna to wear a dress with pride. Wearing the colours of Briavel made her feel fiercely patriotic and she would be damned if some other monarch might think he would crush Briavel and make the realm his.

The soft light cast from the oil cressets made Valentyna’s skin glow and her gown shimmered as she moved, the gems throwing off their own sparks of fire. Hanging from her neck she wore the Stone of Briavel which had been passed down through the ages. It was a square cut, dazzling emerald surrounded by deep amethysts and it now sat against the throat of Briavel’s most precious jewel of all.

People parted and the Queen expertly glided, as she had been taught, suddenly grateful for all those simpering, irritating tutors who had nearly lost their minds over educating the stubborn Princess, more in love with her horses than her needlepoint or letters. She approached the King of Morgravia to pay him correct courtesies.

Valentyna curtsied before him. ‘Your majesty.’

‘Your majesty,’ he replied in a husky voice. ‘How in Shar’s name has Briavel kept you secret for so long?’

And she could not help but smile at his comment. ‘Please, my lord. Join me,’ she said, offering her arm.

Celimus was, for the rarest of occasions, lost for words. He took her proffered arm and guided her towards the dais where the monarchs of Briavel and Morgravia would sit alongside each other for the first time in history. It was a breathtaking moment; its import lost on none of the guests. Music struck up as everyone was now invited to seat themselves, and the royals were permitted some privacy as staring, admiring eyes were averted momentarily with the arrival of trays of drinks and hot savoury pastries.

‘Valentyna, you are magnificent,’ Celimus admitted, finally finding some appropriate words.

‘Thank you, my lord. I must say you look most elegant tonight.’

‘Our royal colours clash,’ he said and grinned.

She enjoyed his subtle jest. She had not expected him to have a sense of humour. ‘Strong colours for strong nations,’ the Queen suggested.

‘Which I hope you and I will find a way to mould around each other, stand proudly alongside each other?’

It was a question she was not ready to answer. She shook her head slightly. ‘Emerald, violet, crimson and gold … a heady mix.’

‘A potent one, Valentyna. One we can both be proud of.’

She was rescued by the arrival of the server of wines. ‘Ah, you will enjoy this, I hope, sire. It is a dry Bostrach from our southern vales.’

Celimus sensibly allowed his previous statement to rest. No point in hurrying her. He sipped his wine and his eyes widened in appreciation at its crisp, citrus explosion in his mouth. ‘Excellent! I hope you will visit Morgravia soon and allow me to introduce you to some of our fine wines?’

She nodded politely and looked towards the servant to fill her goblet as well. ‘To a happy visit in Briavel, sire,’ she said, raising her cup.

‘To you, Valentyna … for you alone can make me happy,’ he replied.

She was taken aback by his declaration. He saw this and immediately diverted their conversation towards less confronting territory courtesy of Liryk who passed by to pay his respects.

‘Good evening, Commander Liryk.’

The soldier bowed. ‘Good evening, your majesty. I hear you like to hunt, my lord?’ Liryk added.

‘I love to hunt. I see you have some fine woodland nearby,’ Celimus answered.

‘Well, sire, that woodland has been my playground for all of my life,’ Valentyna ventured. ‘My father hunted stag and wild pig very successfully in those woods.’

‘There may not be time for a hunt, sire,’ Liryk replied, ‘but perhaps the Queen will show you around her playground before you leave us?’

Valentyna wanted to glare at the old soldier for the suggestion but she knew it was pointless. Everyone around her, including dear old Krell, was determined for this marriage to go ahead. All of them had set aside the fact that this man sitting beside her and smiling so artlessly in her direction was responsible for the murder of King Valor. She checked her rising emotion with the half of her which tended towards the pragmatic. Valentyna knew only too well why her counsellors were pushing so hard for the union to take place. Peace was what Briavel craved and freedom from the burden of war and loss of her fine young men. A chance for the realm to flourish. She was the sacrifice. Valentyna could achieve peace and prosperity for her people if only she would say yes to the man beside her.

‘Do you like to ride, Valentyna?’ the King asked, a little surprised.

A small laugh escaped her. But it was Liryk who answered the King’s question.

‘Sire, if you did not know better, you’d think our Queen was born astride a horse.’ He stopped himself saying anything further along those lines, having caught the sharp look of pain from his monarch. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. ‘Well, anyway … do let me know if we can arrange anything for you, King Celimus. It would be a pleasure.’

Celimus grinned. ‘I shall.’ They watched the red-faced soldier take his leave. ‘I’m sure he meant it kindly, your majesty,’ he whispered, leaning towards her.

Valentyna was not upset. She hated polite talk anyway and far preferred the camaraderie of being up on the battlements with Liryk’s men, even though they were in awe of her. ‘I know. He’s known me since I was born. And it’s true, as soon as I was old enough to hold myself erect, I climbed upon a horse.’

‘Truly?’

She nodded, a little smugly. ‘I can certainly ride the pants off you, your majesty.’ She had not meant to be quite so direct; it had slipped out and she dearly wished it had not. Her father had ever ticked her off for her familiar, confronting manner of addressing people. ‘At its least it’s flirtatious, Valentyna, and will get you into trouble,’ he had warned on more occasions than she cared to remember.

Valentyna felt a thrill of alarm now as she waited for the King’s response. It came, loud and full of mirth. Celimus put down his goblet and threw back his head in full-throated laughter.

‘They seem to be getting on rather famously,’ Lady Plumptyn commented. Her son was an officer in the Briavellian Guard and she desperately hoped her majesty would forge a marriage alliance with Morgravia to save her son an early death.

Her sneering, younger companion, Lady Joy, whose name did not reflect her countenance at this moment, did not have such vested interest. Her response sprang purely from the disappointment of being married to a wealthy but incredibly dull noble whose passions were fired at the sight of the first robin red breast rather than her own fulsome pair.

‘Hmmm,’ she answered. ‘She looks like she’s on heat — have you ever seen Valentyna look so feminine, quite so coquettish or dazzling, cheeks so flushed?’

It seemed hardly fair to Lady Joy that one woman who rarely tried could look this good and have a throne to call her own, not to mention another in the making. Lady Joy was dazzled by the King of Morgravia and his shimmering personality which oozed a love of life, every ounce of him a man in every sense. It was so unjust that Valentyna should get it all.

Lady Plumptyn laughed softly beside her. ‘It’s called love — that’s what happens when you’ve fallen in love.’

Lady Joy snorted into her cup of hippocras. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Little did either of the gossiping women know that Valentyna had indeed fallen in love but not with the King of Morgravia. The man she loved was hovering in the minstrel’s gallery observing everything — or at least as much as he could from behind his mask.

‘I think we’re almost ready for a rousing jig, gentlemen, then we’ll go into the masked bombero,’ he warned his musicians and the lead player nodded.

‘At your signal, sir.’

Wyl looked surreptitiously down towards the dais and flinched at the fun which Celimus was clearly having with Valentyna. He had laughed uproariously at some jest she had made and now they had their heads together, whispering. Well, he alone was to blame, having counselled Valentyna to be flirtatious and charming. She was only sticking to their plan. He decided on a whim to change his plan.

‘Fynch?’

‘Yes?’

‘Get them to serve the first course now.’

‘But —’

‘Please,’ he said firmly and the boy disappeared down the stairs towards the kitchen where the overworked head cook shook her head.

‘We can’t work magic here,’ she tsk-tsked towards Fynch whom she liked sufficiently well that she did not berate him. ‘All right, all right,’ she said wearily. Cook flapped away his thanks and gestured towards the goose and capons team in one of the corners of the kitchen. ‘Are we ready?’

A chorus of ‘Yes!’ responded.

‘Then serve away, my lovelies. Make sure our royals get the special ones.’

Valentyna had to admit that Celimus was more charming than she had expected and close up just as heart-fluttering in looks as he had seemed when they had met earlier. He really was the perfect man, as many of the dignitaries’ not so subtle, sometimes open-jawed stares attested. Everything about him was perfect … everything. A painter would give a limb to have him as a subject — best naked, she thought, imagining one of the friezes in the bathing chambers featuring the King. She stifled a smile at the notion as he turned towards her now. She gazed into the depths of his dark olive eyes and came up wanting. Why she hoped she might find some warmth and softness there she was not sure. Valentyna wanted to dislike Celimus — and did so — but his persona tonight was hardly that of an avaricious, single-minded man capable of anything. So far he was how a palace courtier, Lady Jane Breck described him: jaw-break charming.

Except right now, she realised, the chill of the thought cooling even her smile. His eyes were hard, calculating. In them she found nothing of comfort. His wide grin did not touch them. And she suspected this man would not hesitate to trample on anyone who stood in the way of getting what he wanted … including her. Briavel was in his sights and she was the obstacle.

Valentyna feared her grave misgivings over her guest were written all over her expression when his own clouded as he watched her. She composed herself quickly. ‘Ah, here we are, my lord,’ she said brightly, relieved to see Cook’s famous roasted goose being trundled into the hall together with roasted capons. ‘First course, fit for a King.’

Celimus’s gaze lingered a moment longer on her own, weighing her up. Then he smiled. ‘My favourite,’ he said and the moment of transparency passed. He was all charm and frivolity again.

Valentyna had deliberately paraded a dozen courses worthy of a royal banquet. No Morgravian present would leave her tables unimpressed. The goose, duck and other poultry were melt-in-the-mouth delicious. A broth of oxen was served before the beef, then venison. Red deer were presented on huge salvers carried in by a team of people who wore antlers, winning huge applause.

Celimus leaned across. ‘Magnificent spectacle,’ he said and joined the clapping of the antlered servers.

She nodded and smiled. ‘In your honour, my lord.’

Mutton was next, served with fresh bread and a minted sauce, together with boars’ heads. Swan followed and the centrepiece, baked stork replete with its beak stuffed with vegetables and wings outstretched, brought the first series of dishes to an end. It forced the Great Hall to a standstill and the loudest applause yet. A second remove of dishes was composed of jelly, spiced wine and an exquisite almond cream for which Celimus sent his compliments back to the kitchen. And these dishes were followed by practically every bird in the sky including pheasants, partridges, plovers, gulls, pigeons, larks and even tiny sparrows. Then came fish dishes including ling, coney, pike, salmon, haddock, bass, as well as lamprey. Once again a centrepiece was the highlight — this time it was stuffed and roasted porpoise and seal. The applause was rapturous. Tenderised lamb and goat completed the banquet before tarts, cakes and cheeses were served to anyone who had the stamina to keep eating.

Celimus was further prevented from conversing with Valentyna by the seemingly endless line-up of entertainers and singers who filled every gap of the proceedings. It was a hopeless atmosphere in which to attempt intimate conversation with this woman whom he had to admit intrigued him. He had not expected to be in any way fascinated. Winning her agreement, without resorting to war, was his single intention. It had not really occurred to him that he might actually like the woman who would hand him Briavel.

Briavel’s specialty, its honey from the famous Magurian bees, permeated many dishes, the most obvious one being the syrupy, fabulously sweet poppycakes, as they were known. Drenched in the aromatic honey, mixed with liquor and other herbs, the cakes were a rare treat for high occasions. The seed of the poppy which they contained helped along the happiness in the room and Valentyna noticed Celimus ate several.

‘Sweet tooth, sire?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

‘Wonderful. You must bring this recipe to Morgravia and introduce it to our people. Your fare is fit for the gods, Valentyna, not just royalty.’

She bowed her head gently at the high compliment which he had already expressed in a scintillating speech he had made to her guests in her honour. His words were polished and perfectly chosen to enamour the Briavellian nobility to his cause … not that they needed much prodding, she thought unhappily. Celimus had an undeniable presence — one could hear a pin drop, such was the eagerness to hang on his every word. If only they knew he had her father’s blood on his hands, Valentyna thought sadly, they might not be so determined their Queen wed their former sovereign’s murderer.

The tables were being cleared for dancing and the royal couple were invited to lead the people onto the floor. Valentyna loved to dance and was happy to be in the thick of it, and Romen was right, the first half of the evening passed swiftly as a result. She stifled her amusement at the dances selected for the evening’s entertainment. Romen had organised everything, down to the music. The rousing jigs not only got everyone into high spirits — as well as thirsty, which meant they consumed plenty of intoxicating ales and wines — but it left little opportunity for the men to hold the ladies’ hands for longer than a few seconds. It kept the King sufficiently distant.

She noticed Celimus was enjoying himself too and was very much the centre of attention, with every female present — married or otherwise — vying for a few moments of his regard. He lapped it up, of course, and hardly noticed that no sedate dances had been arranged so the royal couple could be close. In fact, as they clapped, cheered and jigged loudly to the music, it seemed that Celimus was very much in his element, for he was an accomplished dancer with such suave grace to his movement that even Valentyna found him irresistible to watch.

So far so good, she thought on one of the rare moments she had to catch her breath.

Liryk was now calling for quiet. The chattering voices and laughter gradually dimmed.

‘Your majesties, my lords and ladies. Please choose your headpieces for the masked bombero.’ His words were greeted by cheers and squeals of delight as huge trays bearing assortments of fabulous masks were brought in. As guests began to make their choices, a special pair of trays were walked to the dais by two servers.

‘Your majesties,’ they murmured, holding out their wares.

‘It’s a local custom, my lord,’ Valentyna said laughing. ‘The bombero is our most feisty yet sensual dance.’

‘Of course, but you’ll have to teach me,’ he said, grinning and reaching for his mask in the shape of a wolf.

Very apt, Valentyna decided, not daring to look up at the gallery where she knew she would find Romen watching. She picked up her mask and wondered at the lack of caution in fashioning a dove’s head for her.

Their meaning was not lost on Celimus who, sharp as ever, was quick to make a remark. ‘Someone in your retinue has a sense of humour, Valentyna.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked innocently, taking his hand and not giving him a chance to answer. ‘We start in rows, sire, but it gets manic and complex. Just trust each of your partners … they’re all dying to touch you anyway,’ she said, smiling beneath her beautiful dove mask.

The music began and Celimus had no further opportunity to say anything to her for he was quickly shunted down the fast-moving line of partners. The women at the front of the line affected a more complex dance step in a round, whilst women at the back twirled more sedately with their partners, awaiting their turn to move forward. Valentyna heard a familiar voice from the man opposite wearing an enormous grinning horse mask.

‘I love you,’ he whispered before he vanished, leaving her breathless with the emotion he had provoked deep within her, yet laughing at his comical headpiece, again its meaning not at all lost on her, for no one loved horses more than the Queen of Briavel.

Jessom, nearby, gave Celimus reassuring smiles which said all in good time. He could sense the King’s quiet frustration at not being able to get close to the Queen but this was diplomacy and the royal way after all. Soon enough — tomorrow in fact — there would be time for them to converse more intimately.

It was not as though those present did not understand why they were here. It was simply a case of moving through the required protocols. This was one of them and the tourney was another. Then they could get down to the business of making this young Queen realise that marriage was all that could save her realm from devastation. Morgravia would unify the south, one way or another. Marriage was certainly the less painful way.

Jessom could tell Valentyna was not entirely enamoured by Celimus — whom he had to admit was being utterly charming. He wondered why. In contrast he noticed that his King was more than a little interested in the Queen. Having arrived here with no preconceived notions of even liking the woman, Jessom could appreciate all the reasons why Celimus might feel very differently now. He ticked off her attributes mentally: intelligent, candid, unintimidated, modest in spite of having so much in her favour, young, regal and gracious. She had style and presence. She was wealthy, sitting on the rich throne of an uncrowded, fertile realm. She could make Celimus a grand partner, perhaps even work with him to build the empire which Celimus dreamed of. If she would relinquish her hold on Briavel, far bigger prizes awaited her.

He watched her closely. Her attentions were certainly not given over to any other male in the room, which he assumed indicated she had no former affiliations. After all, what lover would allow her to look as good as she did tonight and be wooed by a King? And yet she was decidedly distant. At no point had she been impolite or inattentive, as such; she was simply remote from Celimus, clearly sticking to safe ground, discussing the food, the music, tomorrow’s tourney, without venturing into the real reason why this whole pantomime was being played out. She had made him laugh out loud a few times too.

A lull occurred after the bombero and people were removing their masks to laugh with the partner they had ended up with. As the musicians re-tuned their instruments and some couples got themselves into position for the next dance, the Queen excused herself and she saw the King also break from the dance formation to join her.

Valentyna knew she must be very gracious now. ‘I noticed your beautiful destrier, my lord. You obviously love to ride.’ It was a lame statement, for she had heard much of his prowess but it would have to do. She was surprised by his modest response.

‘I do … although since taking the throne I don’t get any opportunity to ride alone any more. Now I have to take a cast of thousands behind me,’ he exaggerated.

She nodded with sympathy. ‘Oh yes, privacy is what I miss most.’

‘I suspect you ride only the best horses too,’ he said.

‘Well, I’ve had plenty of practice. My father always bred excellent beasts and ever encouraged me to ride them.’

‘Perhaps we can take that ride together as your Commander suggested?’

‘Surely,’ she said, regretting her polite answer the instant she said it.

‘How about tomorrow, then? The tourney does not commence until mid morning and I am an early riser. I can imagine your woodland is magnificent at sunrise.’

She was trapped. She was also stupid, she thought. How could she have left herself so open? It was everything they had contrived against.

He took her hand and the gazes of many around the room immediately picked up the affectionate gesture. He cared not for gossip or what people thought right now. He wanted time alone with this woman — away from Jessom or any other counsellor. He would decide when and where. She would see him at his best. ‘It would mean a great deal to me if you would see fit to join me, Valentyna.’

She hesitated. Give no offence. It is only a ride, after all. ‘Of course, Celimus. It would be lovely to share a sunrise on our horses. I’ll make the arrangements.’

He smiled, clearly pleased.

She felt ill. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she said, bringing their conversation to an end. ‘Now, my lord, please excuse me, I must go and thank our dedicated people in the kitchen for their hard work tonight. I’m sure you are tired after a very long day. Please don’t wait for me.’

He bowed, a little surprised at her sudden change in manner. Still, he must be patient. ‘Until tomorrow, Valentyna.’

She curtsied and moved swiftly away wondering how she would explain this new turn of events to Romen.

She lay awake, despairing. Liryk had appointed two guards outside her suite of chambers and tripled the guard in the corridors and landings leading to her wing of the palace. The shuffling and soft voices of men outside her door helped to keep her awake. She felt inclined to pull on her robe and join them outside for a chat … better than lying here alone and so worried. She had not seen or heard from Romen since their clandestine moment during the dance. He was reckless taking such a chance … but she loved him for it. And he loves me! He had admitted it.

So now she counted the minutes in the dark, wanting tomorrow to be over but dreading the hint of dawn when she must face the King of Morgravia alone. Would he try to kiss her? She recoiled at the thought.

It was then she heard the soft sound of the secret door opening slowly. Why she thought it was Celimus arriving unexpectedly to make a proposal of marriage in the middle of the night, she would never understand, but it was fortunate she took those few moments to consider the possibility before screaming for they saved Romen Koreldy.

‘It’s me, Valentyna!’ he hissed, sensing her fright.

She felt her body relax at the familiar voice. ‘I thought you were him,’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I couldn’t bear to be apart from you,’ he admitted.

He began to pull off his boots and she pulled the sheets up higher. ‘What are you doing now?’ Her voice sounded squeaky and terrified.

Wyl, infused with love and that new sense of recklessness, suddenly had the confidence of Romen.

‘I just want to hold you, feel you against me. I promise I shall not —’

‘Stop, don’t say any more,’ she said, pointing to the door to warn him of the guards. ‘Just get in,’ she whispered and threw back the sheets, glad for her own modesty that it was a coolish night and she had put on a gown.

He was now pulling his shirt over his head. It fascinated her how men did that — women would always undo the buttons — but that thought was lost at the sight of Romen’s near-naked body. Wyl slipped in beside her, gently pulling her towards him and she relinquished all control of herself. If it happens now I will let it, she thought to herself, turning so she could feel the full length of his long, hard body against hers.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

‘Hush,’ she replied.

Later she clung close, knowing she had to tell Romen about the ride which would occur in just a couple of hours. She could already hear the first lone chirping of a bird sounding the start of the dawn’s cacophony. She had no more time to hesitate.

‘How did you know how to find this chamber, anyway?’

‘Fynch,’ he said, stroking her face. ‘Valentyna, if I die tomorrow —’

‘Stop it!’

‘No, listen to me,’ he pressed. ‘If I die tomorrow I will die the happiest man in the southern lands because I have known you and I have loved you … and I have held you and touched you like no other man.’

She trembled at his words. They frightened her a little. ‘Let’s not talk about death.’

‘I’m not, I’m actually talking about life and how suddenly important mine is to me because of you.’

‘Was it not before?’

‘Not until I met you.’

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. ‘Romen … I need to tell you something.’

‘What, my love?’

‘It’s about Celimus.’

‘You must not worry about today, I promise —’

‘It’s not about the tourney. It’s about this morning,’ she said and he could see she was anxious.

‘Tell me.’ He had not stopped stroking her arm but she could feel the sudden tension in his body now, could see it reflected on his face.

‘I was cornered into agreeing to take a dawn ride with him today.’

He did stop the stroking now and he sat up, wincing at the pain the sudden movement brought to his healing ribs. ‘This was not the plan.’

She hurried on. ‘There was no way out. I had to agree or risk offence and you had cautioned me to be friendly … flirtatious, you even said.’

Wyl ran his hands through his hair repeatedly as he considered this new twist. It was not her fault and he told her as much, although she could sense his despair.

‘I’ll keep it short and we’ll have an escort — I shall see to that. Perhaps I can steer the conversation to neutral territory.’

She hated that he smirked at her last remark. ‘It’s no good, Valentyna. He will ask the question this morning. He wants time alone with you, without his courtiers and advisors about him, and now he has achieved it. Never, ever underestimate him — it will be your undoing.’

She nodded, not knowing what else to say or do. Valentyna sat up and leaned against his broad warm body.

‘I wish you had taken my virginity last night, Romen. Then we could just tell the truth and be done.’

He smiled as one would to a child. ‘Things are so black and white for you, aren’t they? It would not be over for him. It would be just the beginning of the horror, not the end. Admitting such a betrayal would mean choosing war for your realm. He would put the full might of the Morgravian Legion towards destroying you and right now he would achieve it. No, you are the reigning monarch of the realm he covets and as pure as this King would want you. You are perfect in his eyes, especially now that he has seen you. No one in the Great Hall last night could mistake what he was thinking. He wishes to own you. That’s why I stopped, Valentyna. I want you so much and yet I cannot have you like that. I must love you from afar.’

‘Not for ever, though. Say it isn’t so.’

‘I can’t. We are walking along a cliff edge right now and the only thing that matters is your safety and your realm remaining intact. Our love is secondary to that. You know this. You know your father would expect you to think of Briavel.’

‘Then he would encourage me to marry Celimus.’

‘Perhaps,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But knowing what you do of him now, perhaps not. Anyway, we must worry about this morning. You’d better get yourself readied whilst I think.’

‘Perhaps I could say I am unwell?’

‘No. You must attend. And I must come up with an idea which prevents you having to say yes to his inevitable proposal of marriage.’

THIRTY-NINE

HE WAS FLATTERED BY her genuine admiration of the stallion he rode this morning. It was a thoroughbred from the most famous of studs in Grenadyn, a country renowned for horse-breeding.

‘He’s even more beautiful close up,’ she said, unable to stop touching the magnificent beast whose flesh twitched and shivered, eager to be moving again. ‘How old is he?’

‘Two years,’ Celimus said, in turn marvelling at how much more desirable this woman looked in her plain riding garb. She had taken his breath away last night but this morning she was even more alluring. ‘You don’t suffer from vanity, do you, Valentyna?’ he commented.

She glanced towards the four men who escorted them; they stood too far away to hear this conversation. The King had wasted no time becoming intimate.

‘I have no time for it.’

‘It is most unusual. I don’t believe I know another woman who cares less about her appearance.’

‘Is that a compliment, my lord?’ She laughed, hoping to make light of the topic.

‘Of the highest sort, truly,’ he assured and there was no condescension in his tone this time. ‘The women at the court of Morgravia fuss and fiddle with their hair, they talk earnestly about silks and colours, their only conversation centres around newest acquisitions or how they look and whom they might marry or marry their kin to. They bore me. But you … you would rather talk about horses than gossip with other women, I sense.’

She wanted to accuse him of being hypocritical. He possessed enough vanity for her entire court. Instead she explained why she lacked conceit in her appearance. ‘It’s true. I have no interest in clothes or colouring my face, my lord. I wear fine garments only when occasion demands it, such as last eve. Otherwise I am happiest in what you see and even happier sitting on my horse … shall we?’ she said, eager to move on; she did not want to pursue this particular conversation.

‘Perhaps when one is as young, intelligent and handsome as you, Valentyna, it is easy to ignore the tendency towards narcissism.’ She smiled at his words but it put a chill through her when he added. ‘You will be refreshing when you are my Queen at court in Morgravia.’

Valentyna did not reply, pretending she had not heard his final comment as she busied herself remounting her horse and settling herself in the saddle. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we can take a canter along the line of the orchards — I believe I promised you would see them.’

Celimus smiled to himself at her evasiveness. The more distance Valentyna tried to put between them, the more fascinated he became with her. She was such a surprise. He had anticipated so much less. His only thought until yesterday was to possess her realm. Now he wanted to possess her as well. He let her go ahead, enjoying watching her ride. She held her seat well and rode her beast strongly, like a man, and yet she was very in tune with the animal. From this vantage he could also admire her neat behind, which he was very sure now he was going to enjoy soon enough.

The sudden thought of feeling himself against, between, within her, aroused him instantly and he had to shake his head free of the notion of taking her here and now — throwing her down and ripping off those riding breeches, pushing in from behind. He took a deep breath and kicked his horse into a gallop. She laughed indulgently at his challenge.

‘Apparently, you can ride the pants off me, your majesty?’ he called and she saw the arch of his eyebrows, heard the challenge in his voice.

This particular soft-natured horse she was riding was no match for the proud stallion but she gave friendly chase all the same, ensuring her escort kept in close range.

Their time was almost up. It was nearing third bell — mid morning — and when Valentyna felt she need not linger any further she politely suggested they return to the palace so she could prepare for the tourney. She felt she had adeptly avoided all potential for intimacy, often deliberately straying towards the escort and querying her men as though she did not know how to respond to some of the King’s questions. This brought the others into the conversation and kept her safe.

She knew Celimus understood what she was doing but she did not care. Right now Valentyna clung to her memories of the previous night, embracing Romen, feeling his bare skin against herself and his mouth on hers, his hands roaming her body … it was what helped her get through these past hours. The thought of holding him again tonight drove her on to get through what she knew would be a trying day.

A serious error in judgement snapped her mind back to reality. Valentyna had strolled from the party to pick some apples for the horses and when she turned back at the sound of the King’s voice she realised they were alone.

‘I’ve told the escort to walk the horses over to there,’ he said, pointing, ‘that we would join them in a couple of minutes for the ride back.’

She prayed the fright did not show on her face. She turned to pick another apple. ‘Thank you. I’ll just get this last one. I’m sure your horse will appreciate the ripest.’

‘I’m sure he would,’ Celimus agreed, stepping closer — too close she felt. ‘As I do too,’ he said.

Valentyna tensed. She knew exactly what he meant in that clever retort but she made a lame attempt at deflecting his innuendo. ‘Oh, well you’re welcome to have it. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to offer,’ she said, holding out the apple.

‘I meant you,’ he admitted, direct now. ‘You are ripe for the picking, Valentyna, and I want no one else to taste you first,’ he said slowly, firmly, so she could not mistake his intent this time. ‘You know why I am here and I am glad I came. I have seen for myself what a perfect Queen you will make beside me, presiding over Morgravia and Briavel.’

‘My lord, perhaps we should discuss this —’

‘Right now, I prefer. Just us. I want you to be my Queen. Will you marry me, Valentyna?’

He was shocked when she laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will marry you, Celimus, but you must win me first,’ she added in a gently mocking voice. She had no idea whether she could pull this off but Romen had counselled her on how and when to spring this last trap if it was needed.

‘Win you?’ Celimus said, his surprise evident in his tone.

‘Yes, my lord.’ Her voice was crisp and confident and she was grateful for it in this dangerous charade she had put into play. ‘I don’t know how it’s done in Morgravia but in Briavel our men must earn the right to their chosen woman.’

‘Is that so?’ he said, more playfully now, entering into the spirit of her suddenly flirtatious manner.

‘It is.’ She gathered the apples into a linen and tied them. ‘At this afternoon’s tourney, you will fight for me,’ she said loftily and then giggled, deliberately stumbling and falling against him so her breast, seemingly accidentally, touched his arm. She hated the sensation.

Another thrill of desire passed through him. ‘I shall fight for your hand, my lady,’ he said, playing along. ‘Who must I duel with?’

‘The people will love it!’ She laughed again. ‘You will cross swords with the Queen’s Champion.’

‘Who is?’

She arched her eyebrows, faking high mystery. ‘Ah, a stranger in black who never shows his face,’ she said, full of intrigue.

Celimus smirked, only just realising she had walked them back to where the group was now standing. ‘And if I vanquish your Champion, your hand is mine … is this right?’

Valentyna swallowed. Dangerous now. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘Bring him on,’ Celimus replied sweeping his hand through the air.

Watching his confident flourish, Valentyna wished Romen had never suggested this ploy. It was not a game to be playing with this man. She could see as much in the dark and greedy gaze of Celimus.

Wyl felt it was the royal tournament all over again. Despite the lack of grandeur, so evident in Morgravia, this homespun version in the King’s honour prompted a similar sense of destiny within him. He felt distracted and nervous about facing Celimus again — not because he was afraid of him. No, he was more afraid at what he himself might do in the heat of the moment, especially as Valentyna had now laid down very firm rules about this contest between the King and the Queen’s Champion.

‘Romen, whatever our personal grudges are against this man such feelings must not come in the way of what we are trying to achieve here.’ He said nothing and she did not appreciate the grim set of that mouth she loved so much. ‘Let us be very clear,’ she continued, ‘we are aiming to send him on his way to buy us time. That’s what you said.’

Again, no response as he inspected his sword. They were in a little-used outbuilding and she was circling him, half frightened, half angry with him. Fynch, trapped between them both, held on to Knave and watched carefully. He too was worried. He did not like the turn of events. Together with Romen they had been hiding in the stone outbuilding, close to the tourney field, since daybreak and the tension had gradually mounted until the Queen had returned from her ride and told them what had unfolded. If Romen had been relatively incommunicative all morning, he now plummeted into a frigid silence.

His expression had grown dark and distant, his normally glittering grey eyes looked depthless. All humour had vanished from a countenance which usually oozed it.

Valentyna accepted that Romen was disturbed, distressed, demented even at how things had turned out. She too hated that Celimus had contrived to speak with her unattended but they had foreseen this, had plotted for it, and although the plan bordered on childish in its simplicity, there was certainly nothing childish about the grave set of Romen’s features. Something sinister was lurking. What did he have in mind?

‘Romen!’

‘Yes,’ he said, finally responding but not looking at her.

‘I want your promise here and now.’

‘What am I to promise, my Queen?’

She kept walking around him, not sure if she was deliberately trying to annoy him. Trying to get him to look at her, shout at her, do something other than calmly tend to his sword. Although calm is really not the word, is it? she thought. He is going somewhere I cannot reach. He is deliberately making himself remote from me.

‘First, you will not do anything stupid like die out there today. Give me your promise.’

‘I cannot promise that, your majesty.’

‘Yes you can!’ she snapped, her voice cracking with the effort. ‘For I will order no killing.’

Fynch was trembling but Knave leaned his considerable and steadying weight against the boy.

‘Then I promise not to die today,’ Wyl said softly.

‘Why don’t I believe you?’

He looked up at her with such grief in his eyes that she had to turn away.

‘What else must I promise, your majesty?’

She composed herself and adopted her regal voice now, commanding: ‘I order that you will not so much as draw blood from the King during this contest. Humiliate all you wish, Romen, but no Morgravian blood will be spilled on Briavel’s soil.’ He stared at her and her resolve hardened. ‘Do you understand?’ she enunciated.

‘I understand and I give you my promise.’

Again she felt a flicker of disbelief. He was lying. She was sure of it. ‘Then I shall see you on the field.’

He stood, bowed and turned away but she stepped towards him and not caring that Fynch was present, she put her arms around Romen’s neck and kissed him softly on his pursed mouth.

‘Just a few hours, my love, and he’ll be gone.’

The look in his eyes did not suggest he believed her. Romen untwined himself from the Queen of Briavel and bowed once again before she departed.

FORTY

LIRYK WAS IMPRESSED BY how many Briavellians had made the journey into Werryl to witness the tourney and to lay eyes on this handsome King who pursued their Queen. The excited presence provided an instantly festive atmosphere long lacking since the passing of King Valor. This would do the realm a whole lot of good, he decided, happy that his security around the Queen and her royal guest was impenetrable. Every attendee had been searched, including all Legionnaires. None minded, good-naturedly submitting to the security measures.

The afternoon had so far provided plenty of entertainment. Valentyna had suggested some highly amusing contests, not usually found in tourneys, including the ‘greased log warriors’ which pitched Briavellian Guards against Morgravian Legionnaires and yielded much hysteria as soldier after soldier was dumped unceremoniously into the palace moat as they slid off the rolling oiled logs.

Mayor Belten had agreed to sit on a precarious bench — part of a cunning contraption put together by a team of carpenters hired by the palace — overhanging the same water. For some coppers, contestants could throw wooden balls from a distance and try to hit the exact spot — a secret — which would release a catch and drop the hapless mayor into the water. All proceeds would be distributed as alms to the poor and a sizeable amount was collected before Mayor Belten found himself drenched.

Laughter, cheers and fun was on the menu alongside sizzling meat on trenchers and some of the best southern ale Briavel produced. King Celimus was very much the centre of the attention and the Briavellians, despite long memories, seemed determined to give this monarch a chance to impress them, to woo their Queen and win them all the peace and harmony they so desperately desired.

Valentyna had found her easy smile again and insisted on taking some turns at the special horse races. Neither Liryk nor Krell could persuade her otherwise and Briavellians went wild with cheers when they saw their Queen appear in riding garb, lining up amongst blushing soldiers to compete.

‘She has it all, you know,’ Liryk whispered to a sombre Krell.

‘Indeed, my friend. Our Queen is all and much more. She has the touch of silk beneath which is a bedrock of steel. She’s better than a man for she can wield her womanly wiles … far more potent.’

The old soldier nodded thoughtfully.

They watched, holding their breath, as their monarch leaned down precariously from her mount to grab the colours of Briavel in every contest she raced in. This, of course, won uproarious applause from her people, particularly as she gladly raced against soldiers from the Morgravian Legion. The King declined to enter this particular competition, acknowledging that the Queen was a far more accomplished competitor than he. More appreciation from the people of Briavel for his gallantry.

‘She’s magnificent,’ Celimus breathed to Jessom standing close. ‘I will make her mine,’ he added as he smiled and waved for the cheering crowd.

Celimus did, however, display his skills in archery, wrestling and jousting, amongst a myriad of other contests in which he outwitted and outskilled every one of his opponents. He took his applause and Jessom smiled benevolently on. Things seemed to be progressing perfectly, the King’s Counsel believed. Celimus would be in excellent spirits at having won so many ribbons, each presented by the Queen. And on each occasion he had pressed his lips to her hand.

The master of the ceremony finally took to the stage and called for hush. It took quite a while to silence the happy, ebullient crowd. Not everyone could hear him but those closest gladly passed on the gist of what he was saying in hurried whispers.

‘Good folk of Briavel,’ he began, ‘let us give thanks that our own realm and Morgravia have, at last, come together to do mock battle in festivity and not the real stuff of war.’ He paused whilst a loud and heartfelt cheer erupted from the audience. ‘We welcome our friends — and I don’t use that word lightly — from Morgravia who come in peace amongst us and we especially venerate today Morgravia’s sovereign who pays us a great honour by making this journey into our realm.’ He waited again until the appreciation had died down. ‘I think it goes without saying that the illustrious King Celimus has more than winning mere ribbons in mind for this visit.’ People chuckled knowingly. ‘And I think we all wish him only success in his bid to win the hand of our own precious Queen Valentyna. Let peace and prosperity reign through both realms.’

At this point the crowd went wild and the master of the ceremony realised there would be no calming them for a while. A glance towards his Queen revealed she looked suitably self-conscious about her part in all of this. He waited patiently until finally lifting his hand again for quiet. ‘However, as with all young suitors in Briavel, our handsome King must earn the right to his chosen one.’ Clapping and whistles followed this reminder of the local ways. ‘It is of no matter that he is a sovereign,’ he said archly, making everyone laugh, ‘not to mention the reigning monarch of our powerful neighbour.’ Still more catcalls. ‘In this mission he is like any eager young fellow, keen to wed the most beautiful girl in the land.’ Valentyna was now blushing at the direct language. She had not sanctioned such freedom of speech but then again the people loved it and she was glad to see them so happy again after such intense mourning — though she would ask Liryk to keep an eye on the master’s liquid consumption for the rest of the day.

‘And so Celimus, brave King of Morgravia, has agreed to fight for the right to call our Queen his Queen.’ A long ooh murmured through the gathered. This was more intriguing than they had first thought. ‘The King will duel with the Queen’s Champion for her hand in marriage. Please make welcome our two opponents.’

Wyl listened to the master’s theatrical introduction and with each word felt his fury intensify. After Valentyna had left him this morning, Wyl had felt suddenly bereft. Celimus had already taken too much from him. And now he was preparing to take Valentyna — the only woman he could ever love. His thoughts had become morose and convoluted with anger and grief; the faces of Ylena, Alyd, Gueryn, Lothryn, Elspyth, Valor, Magnus, his own father began to rear up demanding vengeance.

‘I don’t like this much, Wyl,’ Fynch now cautioned, listening to the frenzied cheering of the crowd.

‘You mustn’t call me that.’

‘I know, I know. Whatever is going through your mind, I don’t think Knave likes it much either.’

‘And Knave would know,’ Wyl replied sarcastically. He looked at the boy then and felt badly about how he had spoken. None of this was Fynch’s fault. Fynch was innocent, courageous and being drawn into this web of deceit and intrigue like water down a drain. And he was suffering for it.

‘Sorry, Fynch. I don’t mean to mock. I too accept that Knave knows more than we realise. No more visions?’

Fynch shook his head.

‘Good.’

Fynch was not to be deterred. ‘But my instincts tell me this is a mistake, Wyl.’

Wyl dropped down to his haunches and Fynch was able to look him in the eye, marvelling at the dull black helmet which surrounded his friend’s face. ‘There is no other way. You have to trust me.’

‘I trust you, Wyl. I don’t trust Celimus.’ The boy locked his hand in Knave’s fur to stop himself from crying. He would hate it if he broke down now.

‘Keep the faith, lad,’ Wyl replied, hearing his cue to enter the arena.

Dressed entirely in black, Wyl now pulled down his visor, completing the mysterious outfit which would hide his identity.

‘You two stay out of sight,’ he cautioned and then stroked Fynch’s hair. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

As Wyl left the stone outhouse and began striding into the arena, Fynch felt the familiar and terrifying sensation of spinning. Suddenly his head hurt horribly and the overwhelming nausea arrived. The world he knew blanked out as he saw Romen bloodied and dying. There was a woman’s voice — it had to be Valentyna, not that he could see — but the voice was not frightened or weeping, she was whispering. Let go now, she said. Die bravely and quietly.

A new voice floated in his head. A man’s voice: It has to be.

Fynch passed out. When he fully regained his senses, it was already too late.

As Wyl strode into the loud atmosphere of the arena, he could see Celimus already testing his sword, slashing the air. When the King caught sight of the Queen’s Champion he affected one of his most elegant bows in mock homage to the warrior. Wyl ignored him. He could barely bring himself to look at that face he loathed and instead turned towards Valentyna. She looked nervous but only to him. Her cheering subjects saw radiance and laughter. He felt proud of her in spite of his gloomy, simmering mood.

He bowed before her. ‘A good luck talisman, my lady?’ he requested and she pulled an exquisite silk embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to him.

‘This was given to me by my father. You must cherish it as I have,’ she said, loud enough for all to hear. The roar from the crowd was deafening.

As he took it, he kissed her outstretched hand. She looked deep into the visor looking for his eyes, looking for a sign that he would keep true to her. ‘Keep your promises,’ she whispered for his ears only, and he could see she was fighting back tears.

Wyl turned away immediately to pull the crowd’s gaze back to himself and Celimus. No one must notice her anxiety at what was seemingly a piece of fun.

But someone did notice. Jessom felt the Queen’s discomfort, saw the mist in her eyes and stored it away. He could not help but wonder whether here in front of them stood the reason why Valentyna had kept Celimus at such a distance. He would ponder it.

‘Queen’s Champion, eh?’ Celimus jibed as Wyl approached. He was enjoying today and presumed this fellow in black would put up a brave fight whilst contriving to lose theatrically and give Morgravia its confirmation of marriage. Not that I need any help to despatch you, the King thought, looking forward to the fun of the fight.

Wyl said nothing as he drew his sword with the bluish tinge from its sheath. It made a sound like a chime as it pulled free. Lightweight and elegant, it felt as one with his hand. He wished he could run it through Celimus right now and wipe that unfaithful smile from his handsome, hateful face. He did not test the sword’s weight or movement through the air. Wyl already knew it was perfect.

‘Impressive weapon, sir,’ Celimus commented.

Still Wyl held his tongue. He refused to look again at Valentyna. His gaze was for the King of Morgravia alone.

‘Is he mute, your majesty?’ Celimus asked loudly for everyone’s benefit and they all obliged with howls of laughter.

‘No, sire,’ she answered. ‘He speaks a strange tongue,’ she jested, begging inwardly for this mummery to be done.

‘Well, perhaps he understands the language of the blade better?’ And Celimus, still standing casually, turned like a cat and struck.

Wyl was ready for him, however. He had seen Celimus use this trick so many times on unsuspecting opponents that he was not only waiting for it but was able to deflect the blow with ease and a staged nonchalance. Whistles and cheers from the crowd for their Champion followed.

Celimus preferred it all to go his way. He thrust again, quickly following it up with a low swipe. Again Wyl was ready for him. He had fought him too many times in the Stoneheart training grounds to be caught out by such transparency.

Celimus nodded towards the Queen. So, he was up against a skilled opponent. Perhaps she had not staged this for fun. Perhaps she was still reticent about accepting his proposal and would hide behind this contest. Well, they had no idea whom they had pitched this black warrior against. No one, save Wyl Thirsk, had ever bested him and that fool was ashes to the wind. He would show Briavel his prowess and he would claim his prize. The contest began in earnest.

Valentyna held her breath but she was not sure whether it was from fear for Romen or simply for the beauty of watching these two dashing swordsmen display their skills. It was like nothing she had seen. Everyone else witnessing the fight felt the same way. Their adeptness was mesmerising. And what had started out as a piece of theatre, accompanied by the audience’s cheers and whoops, settled rapidly into a duel of such intensity that the voices of those watching died to a whisper.

‘They are like artists,’ Valentyna muttered to Liryk standing nearby as it struck her again how incredibly beautifully these two men moved. They moved with the grace of the large forest cats her father had once shown her. They had been trapped in more exotic climes but a pair had been shipped to Briavel many years ago when she was but a child. They were wild and beautiful; they moved as fluidly as the molten gold she had seen being poured for sovereign coins at the treasury.

‘They are of a match, majesty,’ Liryk admitted, equally awestruck. ‘Neither has the upperhand on the other,’ he added before whispering, ‘Koreldy is amazing.’ Only Liryk and Krell had been permitted to know the secret of the Champion and Valentyna intended it remain that way.

‘Shh!’ she cautioned but, though quietly glad to see him flinch under her firm voice, she then made an effort to soften her warning. ‘It’s too dangerous for Romen to be exposed,’ she added in a whisper. The soldier nodded, abashed.

The King had begun to perspire lightly with his efforts and the warmth of the afternoon sun. This was taking longer than he had planned. He had thought it a fun piece of drama to entertain the masses and an opportunity to show off. There was no one to match his prowess with a blade and yet this masked swordsman was parrying everything Celimus was throwing at him.

A thought began to nag at Celimus. He could not focus on it for his opponent had begun to increase the pace at which he fought. That too reminded him of something familiar. What is it? The dance had taken on a darker feel too. The man fighting silently in such dedicated fashion opposite him had a stillness and a calm he felt he recognised. That is it! He felt he knew this swordsman. Flashes of familiar movement and balance in the man appeared beneath his flamboyant style.

I’ll be damned, Celimus thought suddenly. He fights at times like the red-headed troll, Wyl Thirsk. And if the man opposite had not been so tall or lean, he might almost have believed it.

Doggedly Wyl fought on. Looking for the opening. He was not permitted to draw blood but perhaps he could flick the King’s sword away. Whatever happened he would humiliate the man and send him on his way, his tail between his legs.

Celimus was openly sweating now. The Queen’s Champion was relentless. He was no longer allowing the King to showcase his moves before responding with his own. He had just slipped up to full battle tempo. Celimus began to feel the first pinpricks of fear coursing through him. The man meant business. He was duelling seriously. No more posturing or swoops with the sword; no more looking for cheers and grins from the audience. The black Champion meant to beat him. Celimus would not let that happen.

The silence about them had grown palpable and Celimus was grunting with each sword thrust. The more he thought about the orange-haired bastard who had brought him such grief at the royal tournament, the more anxious and ragged his own fighting became.

Wyl, meanwhile, could see nothing but the blur of the blue sword. It felt to him as though he needed no sight. The sword knew where to move and he was one with it. He could kill Celimus now. The King was tired from the previous evening and early start. Wyl sensed his frustration. He knew that the Morgravian monarch had drunk ale and wine last night and danced plenty. The carousing at the banquet would rise up and become another enemy for him this afternoon in the heat. Wyl could see it occurring before his eyes as the sheen of perspiration on the King increased. He could kill him now and surely save Valentyna and Briavel, perhaps even claim the Legion? There was no heir for Morgravia. The realm would lose its momentum for a while until it found itself a new monarch through the various noble families with blood connection to the Crown. And whilst Morgravia panicked, Briavel would find strength and calm. Valentyna would have the time to settle into her rule and be stronger for it.

Yes! Kill him. End it now, no matter what happens. Finish Celimus, he commanded himself, his wrath hard and complete.

Wyl found a stillness within and his sword began to shine blue with the fast and furious strokes which he now punished Celimus with. He felt he was fighting with the strength of two men. Him and Koreldy. Perhaps even three or four, adding Valor and Gueryn to the list.

It was all the King could do to fend off the killing blow.

Wyl did not see Valentyna step hastily from the podium on which two thrones had been placed. He could not know she was running towards them now, terrified, absolutely sure that Romen was about to break his promise to her and spill Morgravian blood on Briavellian soil.

All he could see through the grille of his visor was Celimus battling for breath, eyes darting, horrified that the next swipe would be the one to end his life. And then he had him. The King tried to feint but again Wyl knew the move, with Romen’s and his skills locked firmly into one now, there was seemingly no thrust or feint which he could not anticipate. With one sharp snap of his wrist, Romen sent the King’s sword tumbling from his grip and the sovereign of Morgravia was falling backwards, terror in his beautiful dark eyes.

Now! Wyl and Romen seemingly said together, Wyl holding the blue sword in a double-handed grip, ready to plunge into the chest of the betrayer, the murderer, the faithless cretin who ruled a great nation. Wyl lifted his sword high above his cringing opponent who yelled cravenly, and then he heard the near hysterical shriek of a woman … a woman he loved who was now standing before him, eyes wild, breathing hard and screaming directly at him.

‘Liar!’ she hurled. ‘You traitor! Throw down your sword!’

It was as if Wyl had snapped out of a trance at the accusation. He staggered backwards, letting go of the blade, stumbling away now. Celimus was on his feet in a flash. Valentyna was barely in control of herself, tears coursing down her face. The King was touching her, checking to see she would be well.

Wyl hated him more than in any other moment of his life for that touch, that false concern. It was such a clever move to make. Why had he not thought to offer comfort? She would have pushed his treacherous hands away, that’s why, he told himself with immense regret. Wyl could hear himself breathing behind the visor — he could swear he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Suddenly guards surrounded him, swords drawn. Two grabbed his arms but he did not struggle; he felt useless, limp. He was no longer a threat to anyone. If only she had let me finish it.

Celimus was white-lipped with fury despite his breathlessness. His face was still pale with terror. ‘He was going to kill me!’ he bellowed at the Briavellian Commander and Chancellor who were running to their Queen’s aid. Jessom slithered to stand by his King.

Valentyna snatched away her tears and dug as deep as she could ever recall to find composure, to steady herself and be the Queen she was.

‘I noticed the aggression, sire,’ she replied. ‘He will be punished, of course.’

‘Aggression? Punished! I will execute him right now before you,’ Celimus raged.

Valentyna turned an icy gaze on her royal guest. ‘You will do no such thing in my realm, majesty. No blood will be spilled in Briavel this day.’

‘Except mine!’ he roared, spit flying.

‘I see no trace of it, sire. Only your sweat of fear.’ Her words cut deep.

‘He must be executed,’ Celimus insisted, the gentle pressure from Jessom’s steadying hand, unnoticed by most, urging him to regain his composure. ‘I insist.’

‘King Celimus,’ Valentyna said, her voice as cold as anyone had ever heard it. ‘I alone have the authority to mete his punishment. Please withdraw.’

‘I demand to see his face,’ Celimus cried.

A stillness overtook Valentyna. Anger — the depths of which she had felt only at the news of the way in which her father died — was her master right now. Romen had betrayed her. In spite of his declared love for her and hers for him, he still chose his own path. That path now moved away from the one she herself stood upon. Love so newly kindled became tainted. A sense of treachery ran through her veins to her heart like poison.

‘Lift his visor,’ Celimus demanded, impatient with Valentyna.

The guards who flanked Wyl looked only to their Queen for permission. She had no choice. The safety of Briavel now rested on placating this dangerous King. Romen must bear the consequences of his own stupidity and betrayal.

She nodded and Wyl’s heart sank. He had lost her.

FORTY-ONE

CELIMUS STEPPED FORWARD, KEENLY feeling the triumph, and ripped back the visor on his silent foe. Wyl would later try to convince himself that the shock on his enemy’s face was worth the loss of the woman he loved. He forced himself to believe he had won and lifted his chin so Celimus could get a good look at the familiar face, the sardonic, easy smile.

‘Hello, Celimus.’

‘You!’ the King roared, disbelief claiming him. But then he surprised everyone, even Jessom who knew his turns of mood better than any, by bursting into laughter. It was loud and vicious … most of all it was confusing for Valentyna. She had no understanding of this.

‘Your majesty?’ she asked, an edge in her tone. ‘Perhaps you would share the jest with us?’

‘Oh, Valentyna, my poor, witless child,’ he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, not caring at the way she instantly bristled or that he had shocked her Commander and Chancellor with the pointed insult. ‘It is priceless, absolutely priceless that your Champion — the one who would protect your life, your virginity, your crown — turns out to be none other than the scum mercenary who ran your father through with a sword not so long ago.’

‘You dare to bring my father into this!’ she cautioned, her voice a knifing whisper.

‘Only to save you, my innocent,’ he said. ‘This man is Romen Koreldy, a mercenary, who came to me with his hands outstretched for a fortune in gold. He admitted to killing your father; he admitted to killing our very own General Wyl Thirsk. And then he dragged back our General’s body for good measure so we could see it with our own eyes.’

‘You lying snake!’ Wyl railed at the King’s terrible fabrication, and yet felt helpless at the look of shock on Valentyna’s face.

Valentyna felt the dull, tingling sensation at the back of her head which precedes rage. She recognised it even though she had felt it so few times in her life.

‘It’s true, your majesty. He tried to extort a sack of gold from me, laughing at the way he had murdered your father, claiming he had paved the way for Morgravia to overrun a weakened Briavel.’

‘I shall kill you —’ Whatever Wyl wanted to say next was cut off by a firm arm around his throat.

Celimus had regained full control of himself now. The smile was back as he wiped the dampness from his face with a linen. ‘I speak true, Valentyna. He is an extortionist. I sent him packing with nothing, of course. Warned him if he set foot on Morgravian soil again I’d hang, draw and quarter him. Sad as it is to admit, Koreldy was General Thirsk’s choice as captain for the mission to Briavel. I’m sure you have heard there was some acrimony between Thirsk and myself, but at that time we were sorting out our differences. Think on it, your majesty, why would I allow a man such as Thirsk to come on such a delicate mission to win your hand if I did not trust him implicitly? He insisted on gathering his own handpicked men about him. Yes, I thought it strange at the time that he did not take Legionnaires but Thirsk insisted on using mercenaries. He persuaded me that taking a troop of Legion men into Briavel could be misconstrued and cause ire. It is all much to my regret now, but who was I to question my General on matters of strategy?’ he said innocently. ‘This man, your Champion is false, Valentyna. He has betrayed me and Morgravia and now he has done the same to you. Execute him!’

She had listened carefully to the King whilst her rage bristled beneath the seemingly calm countenance she had forced herself to adopt. She heard the lie in his voice, despite his best attempts to conceal it, and she would never believe that Wyl Thirsk had been untrue — she had met him, heard the sorrow in his voice as he told his tale. Now Valentyna drew herself to full height and squeezed her hands together to keep herself from allowing the fury to show itself. ‘It is my understanding, Celimus — now that we are discussing this — that you organised General Thirsk’s death.’

Her words fell like splinters of ice before them and Wyl was only sad that none of the Legion’s soldiers were close enough to hear this exchange. Pity, he thought. It could have changed everything.

‘Your majesty,’ Celimus replied just as coolly, but masterfully paying her appropriate respect as this shift in the situation demanded. ‘I am surprised you know of such a thing and I cannot deny it. But what you will not know is that General Wyl Thirsk was suffering from delusions. He was readying to make war on Briavel.’

‘What?’ both Valentyna and Wyl cried together.

She looked towards her guards and they gripped Wyl tighter. He was meant to stay silent as the sovereigns spoke.

‘Yes, your majesty,’ Celimus continued, ignoring Romen. ‘Wyl Thirsk was unstable. My father knew it and warned me of it but our two families go back such a long way that I had to know for myself. I liked Wyl, despite our differences in opinion.’ He shrugged. ‘I grew up with him.’

Wyl began to rant and Valentyna had him removed. Liryk had no choice but to give orders to take him to the gatehouse and secure him for the time being.

Valentyna was in great pain from Romen’s betrayal and this new information threw a whole new spin on the story she had been told. She had to hear it in full. She gave a signal and her team of people started a new contest of boulder throwing which every strong man in the audience was invited to participate in. It achieved the diversion she needed and people began to drift away, stunned at how the contest had turned out — it seemed clear now that the Queen’s Champion had attempted to hurt the King. However, the wealth of entertainment on offer soon distracted them and the disquiet and confused murmurings died down.

Relieved, Valentyna returned her attention to the royal party. ‘Thank you, Commander Liryk. I will call for Koreldy when I’m ready,’ she said, then addressed the King. ‘We shall continue this in my solar.’

She turned and strode away. Celimus, still fuming, followed along with Jessom. Krell brought up the rear but soon stepped ahead of the royal party to make arrangements for refreshments. Inside the solar the silence was keen as cool drinks were served.

When all servants had withdrawn, Valentyna addressed her sovereign guest again. No warmth had found its way into her voice in the interim.

Celimus bowed and then set about fashioning his elaborate tale. ‘I was determined to give Wyl every chance to prove his worthiness as a General fit to command the Legion, your majesty. As I said, we’ve had our differences but I respected his abilities and his position. I wanted us to work together as my father and his father had before us. I chose to send him on this special diplomatic mission to petition yourself and your father on my behalf … such was my personal esteem for Wyl, despite the gossip.’ He smiled softly. ‘I realise you and I didn’t exactly get off to a good start in our first meeting during childhood and I wanted to approach this matter gently … mindful of your sensibilities.’

‘For which I am grateful, sire,’ Valentyna said sharply. ‘You were saying about General Thirsk?’

‘Well, it is as you understand it, your majesty. According to Romen Koreldy — and I only have his word to go on — things went from bad to worse during the journey. Wyl’s delusions set in and he began talking about needing to kill Valor before it’s too late.’

Valentyna allowed a small groan to escape; she could not help herself. Could Fynch have been a traitor in all of this, bursting from the privvy at the predetermined time?

Celimus was sure he had her now. ‘He kept talking to the other men he took with him.’

‘Why did you not use your own soldiers?’ she demanded.

‘Because I felt it might promote trouble. As I said, I was mindful that Morgravia and Briavel are ancient enemies and I wanted nothing to stand in the way of this potential union, least of all the spark which the sight of Legionnaires in Briavel might ignite. At the end of all the discussion, I decided Thirsk made a wise decision in hiring mercenaries.’

She nodded. There was some truth in this.

‘It so happened that Romen Koreldy had come to our notice before. He was an impressive soldier and assured Thirsk the other men in the party were trustworthy. And yes, I sent Romen along to watch out for Wyl and if he did anything dangerous or which compromised Morgravia in the eyes of Briavel then he had my permission to despatch him. It was my own father who had counselled me that Wyl Thirsk was not fit to command our army. He was dangerously unbalanced after an incident at an execution which took place a few years back, majesty. This is perhaps not the time to —’

‘No, perhaps not,’ she interjected, knowing full well that he was referring to Myrren’s burning.

He nodded, realising the Queen was not interested in pursuing the digression.

‘And?’ Valentyna was determined to get to the crux of this report.

Celimus shrugged. ‘I have no idea of what was said between your father, yourself and Wyl. It is my understanding that Wyl began to spread rumours that I executed his friend, Captain Donal and threatened to execute his sister.’ He feigned a hurt laugh. ‘It is ludicrous, your majesty. Ylena, bless her, is like my own sister and presumably at her family home right now.’

‘And the Captain?’

‘Donal, I believe is on the northern borders. I’m not sure I approve of this interrogation, your majesty.’ There was a subtle threat in his voice.

Valentyna pursed her lips. She needed to remain in control of this conversation, but it would not be easy for her to pursue whether Donal lived. ‘You know that Koreldy substantiates these claims of Thirsk’s. Says he was present in your chambers and witnessed the execution of Donal.’

‘He lies, your majesty. Koreldy is a cheat, a fabricator and brigand of the worst kind. Do you know his background?’

She shook her head, suddenly realising she knew very little of Romen.

‘Well, perhaps you should look into it. You would learn that his thieving ways put a price on his head with the barbarian, Cailech, and Koreldy’s cowardice resulted in his elder brother and twin sister, no less, being executed on his behalf in the most traumatic fashion.’

Valentyna swallowed hard. Who to trust!

Watching the Queen blanch, Celimus pressed his point. ‘I was able to discover this using family connections in Grenadyn. Morgravia had a first-hand report that Koreldy watched his brother and sister suffer for his sins. Cailech would have spared their lives, I’m told, if Koreldy had given himself up but he watched them die on the cross and then stole away, hardly batting an eyelid. I understand he remained in the Razors for some time, but ended up in Morgravia, and presumably now prowling Briavel, putting you under his spell.’

‘So you gave Koreldy permission to kill Thirsk?’

‘I did. Koreldy, whatever he is, is a skilled sword and he controlled the other mercenaries. Without him, they were simply rabble. I gave permission only if Wyl acted in a manner detrimental to Morgravia. And he did. He was threatening to kill your father at the first opportunity. The talk of those mercenaries killing the King is his story, majesty.’

‘How can you know if you were not there?’

‘Because one of them escaped and returned to me with the truth,’ he lied smoothly, without so much as blinking.

‘This is news to me. So what did this man see, what does he know?’

‘That Koreldy did kill Thirsk and that he also killed Valor to stir up trouble between the two realms. His aim was to collect gold from both of us. From me by blackmail that he would go to you with a lie which you would easily believe for truth, and money from you on the fake promise of protection. He has won from both of us, your majesty. Koreldy is ruthless. He has no loyalties at all, not even to Grenadyn. I believed him when he threatened. The situation was so delicate between us that I could not risk him coming to Briavel with his lies that I organised the death of your father. So I paid him. I wish only peace for our region. And I could not risk killing him on Morgravian soil because I had no proof of what lies he might already have told you on his mission to Briavel with Thirsk. He is not a trustworthy man, your majesty. This is why I organised soon after to travel to Briavel in person. I needed to prove my commitment to our peace and union.’

Smoothly done, Jessom thought, if a little wordy.

‘But Koreldy did make it back to Briavel,’ she said curtly.

Celimus nodded. ‘He escaped and we lost track of him in the north. I sent a man called Jerico to track him but Koreldy murdered him and sent me Jerico’s head as a taunt that I could not catch him. His note said he would create problems for Briavel and Morgravia as he had threatened but I did not realise it would all happen so soon. I am deeply regretful that you have been duped by this fellow. It occurs to me that he was aiming to kill me today, your majesty, to carry out his threat of war between our realms.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose because I had stopped payments of gold. At first I had no option but to pay, for he was dangerous, demanding larger and larger sums. That’s when I sent Jerico out to track him down.’

She took a deep breath. It was too much. She needed to think. ‘King Celimus, I appreciate your position in all of this and would ask your understanding and patience.’

He did not quite grasp her meaning. ‘What do you plan to do with Koreldy?’

‘I will need to think on all you have told me before I reach that decision. Please, sire, I am no longer in a position to continue with our diplomatic discussions. I need some time to sort through certain domestic affairs which this dramatic event has brought about. Please accept my most sincere regrets that we have brought you here on a fruitless journey.’

Celimus could not believe he had lost her in that moment. Yet he could tell she had made up her mind. Something in her tone and the set of her mouth made him realise there would be no talk of marriage until this matter was fully cleared up. Damn Romen Koreldy! There was nothing he could do right now except graciously accept her apology.

Jessom whispered in his ear, echoing his own thoughts. ‘Better to earn her gratitude now and win her hand later, than lose all the favour we’ve earned so far.’

Celimus cleared his throat and nodded. ‘Of course, your majesty. My man has just given news that we would be appreciated back in Morgravia — trouble in the north. Cailech grows bold, and we must work together against the barbarian. We will talk of this another time.’ He took her hand and gravely added, ‘You are aware that harmony for our realms is best achieved by you and I unifying in all senses of the word. We alone can set the tone for our future success and secure peace for our children.’

He was right of course but she was relieved he would depart without protest. ‘Thank you, sire.’

‘We shall make our preparations to leave,’ he said, bowing neatly. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to keep me informed of events connected with Romen Koreldy. He will be captured and executed as a traitor if he sets foot in Morgravia. I would suggest you consider the same for Briavel.’

‘I shall think on all I have learned, my lord, and yes, I will certainly appraise you of the outcome.’ She allowed him to kiss her hand. ‘You have been most understanding, sire.’

‘Be well, Valentyna. I am patient of your dilemma but urgent for your decision.’

Valentyna nodded. ‘We will speak soon,’ she said, keen for him and his retinue to be gone so she could face the trauma that was looming. ‘I shall farewell you shortly, my lord.’

Celimus took his leave, trailed by Jessom. Out of earshot of the Queen, the King spat his anger. ‘If Koreldy is not executed by her royal decree I want our assassin to move in and finish it, now! The finger bearing his family ring is to be delivered to me within the week, do you hear?’

‘It will be done, sire.’

When Fynch surfaced to consciousness, parched and muddled, the festive noise of the tourney had disappeared. There was silence and it sounded grim. He shook his head but the dull headache was still there and he remembered what he had seen in his vision before he had passed out. It disturbed him afresh and he hurried outside the building and retched into the bushes at the memory of seeing Romen dead.

Knave was nowhere to be seen. Fynch ran to the palace well and, after dragging up a pail of water, splashed his face and rinsed his mouth to revive himself. Dripping and feeling only marginally less distracted, he went in search of his friends.

It was one of the pages who finally filled him in. ‘Ho, Fynch. They’ve been looking for you.’

‘Who has?’

‘Her majesty’s people. I don’t know what they want you for but all hell’s broken loose this afternoon.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Koreldy’s been branded a traitor.’

‘What?’ Fynch felt his insides flip.

‘True as I stand here,’ the boy admitted, eyes gleaming with the intrigue. ‘She’s pronouncing sentence now. He’ll be lucky to escape with his life, they’re saying.’

Fynch did not linger to hear any more. He broke into a run, frantically wishing Knave was close, for the dog always knew where to find Wyl and he had not thought to ask the page.

Knave was already with Wyl; he had not left his side, in fact, since Wyl had been carted off to the gatehouse where he had awaited his fate. Wyl had expected to wait longer but it seemed Valentyna had reached her decision swiftly. Not long ago he had been brought to the Great Hall. A hush had blanketed the long chamber as he was led, hands bound, to a chair before the throne. He sat now dejected, not caring to look at the nobles, dignitaries and counsellors, all in waiting. The atmosphere felt ominous and a frigid bleakness, similar to that he had first experienced in the dungeon at Stoneheart just before Myrren’s torture overwhelmed him. For those gathered it was a different tension — a sense of anticipation and foreboding amid, excited whisperings.

Liryk came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Koreldy,’ he murmured and moved on. Wyl was not sure yet what the man was giving apology for but he could guess.

Krell also moved by and Wyl acknowledged him. The Chancellor had the generosity to stop.

‘Chancellor Krell, I —’

‘Hush, Koreldy. We are not permitted discourse with you. Everyone in this room is here to bear witness. They have already been briefed on what occurred, though most would have seen anyway.’ The man’s lips twisted upon the already grim countenance. He nodded and departed. There was nothing else to say.

No one else had spoken much to him since other than a few necessary words from guards. He was grateful that Knave had been permitted to remain with him in the gatehouse, but where the dog was now he knew not, hopefully with Fynch. He wondered where Fynch was, hoping the boy had found the opportunity to petition the Queen on his behalf. He realised his hopes were futile when the horns sounded, the voice called, ‘All rise for her majesty,’ and he saw her stern composure.

All bowed low as she entered the hall. When he straightened and looked long into that face he loved, he saw a remoteness to chill his heart. Her dark blue eyes glanced towards him once. What he glimpsed in that moment was not just sadness or disappointment but wrath. He could only begin to imagine the terrible lies Celimus had wielded to corrupt her mind against Koreldy. Wyl felt sick and he looked away, no longer interested in the proceedings which would seal his fate. He had lost Valentyna — that was obvious. Nothing much else mattered now.

As Krell had mentioned, the assembled nobles had already been briefed prior to the prisoner’s arrival which is no doubt why the Queen, in a clear, steady voice, had summoned him to stand before her without preamble.

Wyl stood and moved with a sinking heart before Briavel’s sovereign who looked down upon him from the shallow dais with an air of icy detachment.

He bowed. ‘My Queen,’ he said but she did not acknowledge him.

‘Romen Koreldy, you stand here before us accused of betraying the trust of the Crown of Briavel. I have heard disturbing reports of your clandestine activities, none of which I can substantiate but nonetheless fill me with a dread I have never known. However, we shall not execute you, Koreldy, as the monarch of Morgravia demands. Briavel extends you mercy, for without proof of your guilt, I cannot condone your death. But I also cannot permit your presence within our borders. For your treachery today, you are banished, to be escorted by my Guard to the Briavellian border.’

She paused just briefly to glance his way but he was staring at the floor so she continued.

‘You may choose where you re-enter Morgravia or you may take your chances by sea to the south, north into the Razors, or indeed far east into the unknown. We care not for your choice, though I would warn that should you return to Morgravia King Celimus will have you captured and executed on sight.’ This time she looked at him fully, her gaze resting long and sadly upon his bowed head. ‘Shar speed you, Koreldy, from our sight. Briavel washes her hands of you and your taint.’

Wyl felt his body lurch with despair but there was nothing to say, nothing to be gained by helpless, cringing complaints to the contrary. He was cornered by Celimus’s lies once again and, although there was the small consolation that Valentyna was not entirely going along with the King’s version of events, there was no doubting her desire for him to be gone from this place … from her life.

As he searched for something to say there was a sudden commotion which smashed through the silence. It was Fynch bursting through some concealed doors into the Great Hall, yelling.

‘No, your majesty. No!’

A loud combined exclamation issued from the gathered, offended that a child should interrupt proceedings but the Queen held her hand up for quiet.

‘Fynch,’ she replied gently, breaking protocol by even acknowledging him at this juncture. ‘It is too late.’

‘No, Valentyna,’ he cried and ignored the further angry murmurings at his familiarity. ‘You don’t understand him.’ He ran towards her.

‘No, I don’t,’ she said but bent slightly to look into the tear-streaked face of the child who had been such a good friend to her. Will I lose him too now? ‘But he must go. I cannot have him in our presence for a moment longer than necessary.’

‘Your majesty,’ Fynch implored. ‘This is not Romen Koreldy … this is —’

‘Fynch!’ Wyl called. ‘Let it be, son.’

They all watched the dishevelled boy, as his face twisted through a series of emotions, settling on something that seemed to lie somewhere between hate and despair.

‘Let’s go, lad,’ Liryk murmured, moving to escort him out of the Great Hall.

‘Come, Knave,’ the boy said. ‘We have no place here.’

Fynch did not look back and would always regret that he did not say a single word of farewell to the man called Romen Koreldy.

EPILOGUE

WYL SENSED THE REGRET in Liryk who joined the four-man escort which would see him to the border of Briavel; one man always riding behind, a crossbow trained on Koreldy’s back. All knew the weapon was not necessary; still, they were taking no chances.

He had been given no further opportunity for discussion with Fynch or indeed anyone at the palace, save Stewyt who had packed a sack of gear which Wyl could claim as his. The horse he rode was his to keep, especially chosen by her majesty, he was told — her final act of kindness towards him. It was a tan mare. He had admired her in the stables once — that occasion felt like a lifetime ago. But Valentyna had not forgotten. He wished he could read more into the gesture but remembering her wintry gaze from suddenly cold, blue eyes, he knew they were no longer even friends. Her generosity was simply payment for his service. Now she wanted him gone from her realm. The saddlebags, he noticed, were well stocked with food and supplies. His weapons were in the care of Liryk, strapped to the older man’s horse, until such time the Commander decreed it appropriate to return them to the disgraced prisoner.

As for the Queen, after pronouncing sentence she had departed the hall without so much as looking towards him again. She had made it clear that Briavel had washed its hands of him.

He rode in a bleak silence, ignoring his fellow riders, dark thoughts his only company. It was early evening when they set out with little intention of reaching any great distance before night closed in — at best Crowyll perhaps, ten miles from Werryl. It was important to Valentyna for him to be removed from the palace immediately. In truth Wyl felt as though he no longer cared about anything. It even occurred to him that should the soldier behind accidentally fire that crossbow it might be a welcome end to this intense grief at the loss of his only love’s trust. The only thought which encouraged him to stay alive right now was Ylena’s safety and the need to make amends to Fynch.

He came out of swirling thoughts. The other riders had dropped back he noticed absently, leaving only Liryk to ride alongside him.

‘I did not kill him,’ Wyl said into the silence. ‘The deed was done by a thug called Arkol — and he was sent by Celimus.’

The soldier knew immediately to what he referred. ‘But you cannot prove it,’ Liryk replied, ‘that’s our dilemma.’

‘Yet you would believe the Morgravian King?’

‘I have no choice publicly. But for what it’s worth, Koreldy, I don’t want to believe you murdered King Valor, and just for your peace of mind — if there is such a thing — neither does our Queen.’

‘Then why —’

The older man interjected. ‘But what you did on that tourney field today completely overstepped your familiarity with Briavel. It was tantamount to war between our realms. And if we did not punish you for such an affront to the visiting monarch we would risk his personal wrath towards her majesty. Don’t you understand, man! We are not equipped to fight another war so soon with Morgravia. We are treading the narrowest of paths here along a precipice and should we trip we could fall into the darkest of times.’

Wyl knew Liryk to be right. He knew the consequences before he had even stepped onto the tourney field with the intention to do malice. And he suspected Valentyna’s demand for his promises indicated that she never quite trusted that he would not take a chance to hurt the Morgravian King.

‘Why could she not say she knows me to be innocent?’ There was a plaintiveness in his voice.

‘Because she still isn’t sure you didn’t kill Thirsk in cold blood … and frankly neither am I! Whatever Thirsk was, he was honourable by all accounts — as was his father whom I personally knew. Enemy or not, murder is not the Briavellian way and Thirsk came here in peace.’

The sense of being trapped was complete. Briavel was banishing him on behalf of Wyl Thirsk. If only they knew.

‘But these days murder is the Morgravian way and you and your Queen are going to have to learn very quickly to fight fire with fire … or you are lost,’ Wyl warned, angrily.

‘Let us worry about that. You are fortunate to have escaped with your life, Koreldy. The King calls for your blood.’

‘I care nothing for his threats. All I know is he has corrupted Queen Valentyna’s mind. Tell her that from me. Beg her not to trust him. Not to agree to marry him.’

‘You know I won’t. You understand that I support this marriage to achieve peace.’

‘Well you are being duped! Celimus wants Briavel, not peace. He will plunge you straight into war with Cailech for sure.’

‘How can you know this?’

‘Because I know him so much better than you think,’ Wyl said, exasperated. ‘He will marry her and he will treat her with contempt. He will destroy her … and Briavel.’

‘Stop, Koreldy! I’ll hear no more of this. We’re approaching Crowyll and this is where we’ll overnight. You’d do well to appreciate your final evening in a comfortable bed. After this it will be grass for your mattress until we reach the border.’

Wyl said nothing, his frustration overwhelming.

‘Any preference for an inn?’ Liryk asked, friendly again.

His gripe was not with Liryk, who was a good man. ‘How about the Forbidden Fruit?’ Wyl suggested facetiously, remembering the woman, Hildyth.

‘Aha, so you were paying attention,’ the old soldier replied, surprising him. ‘Yes, why not. I’m sure we can afford the banished man one last glimpse of the good life.’ He laughed. ‘Incidentally, in which direction are we headed tomorrow?’

‘Morgravia, where else?’ Wyl said, his voice hard.

Liryk reminded Wyl that he would be guarded.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t try anything.’

Liryk nodded. ‘Good. Don’t, for your own sake. My men are on orders to kill should you attempt to escape and it would not please me to see you as a corpse when we’re going to so much trouble to keep you alive.’

‘Are we all staying here?’

‘There are normal rooms for rent so yes, but not all will be partaking of the specialties on offer. However, you may feel free, my friend. It is a farewell gift from me, shall we say. I hope you enjoy it.’

Wyl mustered the suggestion of a grin for the older man. Liryk was hard not to like. ‘And you?’

‘Not tonight, son,’ he replied, his glance flicking behind Wyl. ‘Ah, there she is. I trust you won’t pass her up a second time, Koreldy?’

Wyl turned, knowing it would be Hildyth approaching. He was right. She looked frankly surprised to see him — he could not read what her confused expression meant. Still, he gave no further thought to it, focusing somewhat helplessly despite his mood on how very desirable she looked in a rouched gown of white voile. It was transparent, yet cunning folds of the fabric clung perfectly to the areas of her body which she chose to conceal and tantalise the customers with. Her hair, cut bluntly shorter than any other woman he knew, struck him as unusual again and yet it suited her perfectly, framing her square face above very broad and angular shoulders which were bared.

She smiled and once again he was reminded of a cat — but this time one which had swallowed the pet bird. There was something knowing in those green eyes and he noticed any confusion he might have sensed in her moments before had vanished. She was entirely in control of herself again.

‘Romen Koreldy,’ she said, effecting a graceful and altogether feminine bow.

‘You remember,’ Wyl replied, impressed.

‘I would never forget a face like yours,’ she crooned. ‘And Commander Liryk, it’s good to see you again, sir.’ She returned her gaze to Wyl. ‘I knew I could trust you,’ she said.

‘Trust me to do what?’ Neither his body’s response to her flirtations nor Romen’s easy grin failed him.

‘To return. You said you would.’

He nodded. ‘That I did, madam.’

‘And I hope you will choose me to give you some relaxation this evening?’ she enquired.

‘Well, I gather from what you say that I made a promise?’

‘Not in so many words,’ she admitted, ‘but I took it as such.’

‘Then let us proceed,’ Wyl said, desire sparking through him, swimming strongly against his mood.

‘Gentlemen,’ she said, bowing to Liryk and the one other senior officer who had accompanied them into the building. She offered her arm to Wyl.

‘I’ll see you in a few hours, Koreldy,’ Liryk said and winked. ‘Remember what we discussed,’ he added.

Wyl already knew he was a man who needed to love a woman to enjoy sexual intimacy. He remembered his night with Arlyn in Orkyld as a blessed physical release, made richer by her affection. But it was Valentyna who had made him realise that when love came together with desire — when the need for both matched each other in intensity — it was the most potent of confections. Only with Valentyna could he say he had experienced this cocktail which so addicted the soul in the most vicious way. Wyl knew he would not recover from the potion. It coursed through his veins and would continue to poison his thoughts and his dreams.

Valentyna! he silently cried as Hildyth led him away.

It had taken every ounce of his will to control his ardour for Queen Valentyna when they had lain together in her bed last night. On the surface he regretted it now, wishing they had enjoyed each other fully. It was he alone who had stopped them from consummating their love. It was right but it was also unjust, considering the next man she would probably lay with might well be his enemy. Yet now as he walked down the softly scented, low lit corridors of the Forbidden Fruit, he was glad he had. She could only have hated him more if they had shared such an intimacy. As it was he could never expect her to look upon him — if she ever did again — with anything resembling affection.

Hildyth had none of Valentyna’s raw beauty but there was definitely something about her which Wyl wanted to possess, if just for a few hours. He would use and enjoy her hard, taut body tonight and release all of his tightly held aggression. And then he would leave.

No love shared. Just lust and payment.

Hildyth led him into a chamber where a narrow, low shelf ran the length of the walls. Upon this shelf fragrant candles burned, scenting the room with honey and jasmine with a hint of spice. A splash pool of heated water awaited where heady vapours of refreshing mint and citrus mingled with the other scents to create a sensuous atmosphere of wellbeing. Nearby a table held wine and sweetmeats for their indulgence. The smoothing bench was against the far wall.

‘What would you prefer me to call you?’ she asked, cat eyes shining.

‘Romen will be fine.’

‘Come, Romen, let me undress you.’

But first she reached behind herself and flicked the clasp which undid her gown. It fell to the floor, lightweight and wispy, leaving her naked. She stepped unhurriedly from her garment ensuring his own gaze could roam her body. He was right, she was contoured by muscle which did nothing to detract from what he realised was a neat yet wholly voluptuous figure. Her breasts were not large but they were full, curving towards dark, erect nipples.

She turned to pick up her gown and place it on a chair. It was a deliberate move so he could admire her round, rather lovely bottom. It occurred to him that she possessed the shape of a beautiful musical instrument. The thought was gone as she turned back towards him, the dark downy triangle between her strong thighs arrested his gaze. It was here he hoped to find solace and relief this night.

‘I hope I was the right choice?’ she said, half smiling at where his look rested.

‘Indeed. I chose well,’ he replied in Romen’s sardonic way and began to pull off his clothes.

‘Allow me,’ she said.

It was a slow and sensuous experience all of its own being undressed by this intriguing woman. She lingered on certain areas of his body as she unburdened them from their coverings. Wyl felt himself trembling in anticipation and surprised himself that he did not feel self-conscious when she removed his breeches and his hard desire for her was revealed.

She looked up from her knees, the half smile there again. He knew she thought about giving him the much-needed release right then but she decided against it, straightening back to her full height but making sure his naked skin now touched hers, sending a fresh shiver through his body.

Hildyth gestured that he should step into the pool and as he did so, she poured wine for him. She joined him in the water, handing him a goblet and seating herself on the ledge in the pool so he could lean back between her legs as she soaped his upper body. Wyl began to relax as the rhythmic movement of her sudsy fingers played over him. It was always such a treat to be washed in this manner. She lathered his hair and he drained his goblet of the excellent Kurshor from Briavel’s sun-drenched coastal valley, felt its fiery warmth hit the spot as her strong hands now massaged his scalp.

As she rinsed his hair, she encouraged him to caress her, and then she suggested he allow her to dry him. Wyl was reluctant to leave the pool, loath to interrupt this pleasure and the state of mind which had permitted him to put aside his angry thoughts, numb his cares for the last hour.

‘Let me give you a smoothing as you have never had before, Romen,’ she muttered in a low voice.

He nodded, allowed her to dry his body with warmed linens. Their gentle roughness against his skin revived his desire again as she dried his legs and buttocks. He realised their time together so far had been mostly silent. She was not curious to know anything more about him, which he found agreeable, and he appreciated that she did not babble, like so many of the brothel girls. Hildyth was comfortable in his silence but not once did he feel she was going about her business with him in a detached manner. If anything he felt a bond with her — as though they were kindred spirits in this comfortable place void of idle words.

She smiled and pointed towards the smoothing bench and he obliged, lying belly down, his face turned away from her.

‘On your back, please,’ she said in a soft voice and he obliged. This was an unusual position to begin the smoothing but he was past caring about details. ‘I have a warmed pouch of barley I am going to lay across your eyes. It will feel good and help you to relax,’ she explained.

Wyl nodded. He was familiar with this practice and sighed gently as she laid the perfectly weighted, warmed pouch on his face. He heard her opening the cupboard, then the gentle clink of small glass bottles.

Again the voice soft. ‘Would oil of lavender be to your liking, Romen?’

‘Yes,’ he murmured, knowing it was dangerous, for it would remind him of Valentyna and the evening they had kissed and their love had first taken flight.

As he listened to her rubbing the oil between her hands he imagined feeling her thighs around him shortly. After the smoothing she would lead him into the adjoining chamber — a bedroom — where they would complete this ritual and she would pleasure him in any way he chose. He desired nothing more complicated than the feel of a woman holding him as he moved inside her. Lost in his lust-filled thoughts, he reached his cupped hands behind, laid his head on them and sighed.

It stretched his body into the perfect position.

He felt her single warm palm touch his chest, not registering that it did not seem quite as oily as it should, and in truth he would later recall that he did not feel the cold tip of the blade when it first entered between his ribs in that sharp upward punching manner. He did, however, jerk and flail almost immediately as it then ascended on its killing journey. The barley pouch was flung off his eyes as the blade expertly and swiftly hit its mark his heart — puncturing it fatally.

Wyl was strong but Hildyth was surprisingly strong too and she leaned her full weight against his prone, already weakening, dying body and looked deep into Romen’s wide, fear-filled silvery-grey eyes.

‘Hush, Romen. It is finally done,’ she cooed, demonically stroking his rapidly failing erection as he listened to her gentle words. ‘Let go now. Die quietly and bravely. The King of Morgravia bids you Shar’s speed.’

The struggling had stopped, voice had left him, death was claiming him and he felt her kiss his lips as she pushed the knife harder and higher, severing tissue to be sure that Jessom’s contract was fulfilled.

They were locked in a lovers’ silent embrace now — albeit a bloody one — as Wyl, dying, suddenly felt a terrifyingly familiar feeling. The surging sensation took over as his closed lids, accepting of death, suddenly flew open to reveal two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.

Hildyth, as Romen did when this first occurred, was staring at him in shock. The convulsive pain was in her too and she had no idea of what was happening. She straightened taking a deep, agonising breath. Wyl did know what was occurring, although he could barely believe it himself … and he hated it.

They both shared death but only one took life. Wyl felt his soul lifting, wrenching free. All that was him and Romen was torn from their body as he glimpsed the dark, angry soul of Hildyth, the assassin, crossing over in terror into the body of Romen Koreldy where it died.

Wyl staggered back in Hildyth’s body now, dry retching and groaning. Tears streamed down his cheeks in disbelief.

Again! It has happened again!

He lay his burning face against the cold marble of the floor and sobbed … deep, dry heartwrenching sobs of intense grief as he curled himself into a small shape and released his pain.

Later, when he could finally bring himself to, he looked over at the body of Romen Koreldy … him. His latest corpse. And then he looked down at himself, frightened and disoriented in the naked body of Hildyth the whore.

No … not Hildyth, he realised.

My name is Faryl and I am an assassin.

He retched again.

Finally, he had no idea of time passing, Wyl composed himself. He had to think and quickly. How long have I been in here with her? He looked towards the candles. Possibly two hours so far. Liryk would most likely give him up to four hours for this treat but perhaps only three. He looked at his hands — his female hands covered with Romen’s blood — and without thinking further jumped into the pool to cleanse himself of death.

Dressed now in her gown, he faced Romen’s body. It looked sad and wretched, a vague look of surprise its final facial expression.

He made his plan. It was thin, as usual, but it was all he had.

Using Faryl’s knowledge he removed the wedged blade from Romen’s body and then, sickening though it was, sliced through the corpse’s ring finger and, wincing, pushed the blade back into the wound in the chest.

He wrapped Romen’s finger in a small linen and hid it behind one of the largest candles, taking care to remember its precise location amongst the others. Then he threw the wine carafe onto the floor, ensuring the golden liquid spilled at the doorway and then wrenched open the door into the main corridor and began to scream. He was amazed at the high female sound which came out but he used it to full effect, for people came running from all ends of the brothel and with them ran Commander Liryk whom Wyl deliberately threw his woman’s body against.

‘He’s dead … murdered!’ Wyl cried.

‘What?’ Liryk exclaimed, unravelling himself from her arms and pushing past Hildyth into the room. He sagged against the wall, distraught at what he saw. ‘How?’ he croaked.

Wyl began to weep hysterically. His own fragile state of mind helped him to be convincing as he broke down, speaking through sobs. Briavel’s soldiers quickly dispersed the few eager onlookers and closed the door so they could hear privately how such a tragedy had occurred. Through her cries, they pieced together that she had gone to fetch some more wine at her client’s behest and in the few minutes she was out of the chamber, someone had come in and killed Koreldy.

‘He had this on his eyes,’ she said reaching to pick up the pouch. ‘He would not have known it was not me coming back into the room.’

‘Did you see the killer?’

‘No, not really. I was gone only for a few moments but I did see a man running down the corridor. I thought it odd, of course, but I wasn’t really concentrating, I suppose.’

Liryk put his arm around her. ‘Hildyth, you need to tell us everything you can remember.’

‘That’s it, Commander Liryk. I … I’m so sorry. I know he was your friend. I only saw the killer’s back. I dropped the wine. He was big and dark-haired but no more could I tell you. Poor Koreldy.’ Wyl knew the babbling was effective and real. He felt entirely rattled.

‘How was this fellow dressed? Anything distinctive?’

‘No, sir. Like any other civilian of Briavel … like any other patron of this place.’

It was only then Liryk noticed the missing finger.

‘Shar’s Balls!’ he said to his men. ‘This was an assassination.’

‘How can you know?’ Wyl stammered.

‘Koreldy wore a distinctive ring on that finger — he told me once it belonged to his family. It will be proof of his death to whomever ordered it.’

Hildyth began softly weeping again. ‘Do you need me any more, sir? I’m feeling very unwell.’

‘No, you go home, young lady. I’ll send one of my men to escort you back. Please don’t go anywhere, though, we may need you still.’

‘I’ll be fine, Commander Liryk, don’t spare one of your men. Perhaps someone from here can take me home,’ he whispered, mind racing — he had no idea where home was. ‘You catch the killer.’ Wyl said, moving to take the old soldier’s hand. ‘I know you liked him, sir. I did too.’

‘That I did. I’m very sorry it has turned out this way for him.’

Liryk turned to one of his soldiers and asked him to fetch someone to help the young woman home. He returned quickly with a kind woman called Remy who took charge of the weeping Hildyth.

‘Come on, love. I’ll get you back to your rooms,’ she said and led Wyl away.

With Remy’s consoling chatter and guiding arm, Wyl stumbled in Hildyth’s unfamiliar body back to the two rooms in Crowyll amongst the densely populated area near the market. He thanked his companion, shutting the door as soon as it was polite, then he leaned back against it, sucking air in hard to steady his mind.

Myrren’s gift was more generous than he had first imagined. So now he was no longer Romen but Faryl. A woman! He had to get away from this town. What to do first?

Wyl steadied his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do from childhood. He calmed the raging swirl of his thoughts, which he imagined as thickening mists, until they were still. Then he centred and looked at the problem, his strategist’s mind attacking it objectively.

Steal my weapons back, was his first decision, then, fetch my horse. Retrieve the finger. Leave Crowyll under cloak of darkness. Where to?

Find the manwitch, came his own reply.

Seek answers to the Quickening.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AS I HEAD OUT on this new adventure it would be remiss of me not to make mention of the contributions from so many who offer such valuable support.

Robin Hobb, I must single out … again. Her encouragement and involvement in my writing career over the last couple of years has been precious. My draft readers, Gary Havelberg and Sonya Caddy, deserve special mention for their unswerving faith as well as the precision of their valued advice and suggestions. I rely on them hugely and treasure their input. And the community at my website’s bulletin board is soundly thanked for its constant enthusiasm.

Sincere thanks to Nicola O’Shea, senior editor at HarperCollins, who makes the critical side of editing so painless for me and to a newcomer to my work, Kim Swivel, copy editor and self confessed hair-splitter who made such a difference. Also to the rest of the hugely supportive team at HarperCollins — especially Stephanie Smith, Robyn Fritchley, Sean Cotcher and his wonderful and dedicated sales team.

Allow me a word of gratitude here to the booksellers of Australia and New Zealand — the more of you I meet, the more I realise how important your work at the coalface is. Thanks for the brilliant support these past couple of years.

And for any who may not believe that a stature such as Fynch’s might exist, let me assure you it does by thanking ten-year-old Justin Klimentou, who allowed me to borrow his often unbelievably slight frame for my gong boy.

Finally, heartfelt thanks and love to Ian, who keeps the circus of our home and business life rolling in the right direction while I disappear to different worlds, and to my sons, Will and Jack, for their boundless understanding and affection.

PRAISE FOR FIONA MCINTOSH

BETRAYAL

‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’

Adelaide Advertiser

‘… leaves the reader anxiously waiting to know more … Strong and interesting characters and a story which keeps the reader guessing, Betrayal is an enjoyable and fast-paced read, full of magic and destruction – who could ask for more?’

Northern Argus

REVENGE

‘as good as Sara Douglass’

Good Reading

‘an exciting and inventive battle between the gods of good and evil’

Adelaide Advertiser

DESTINY

‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best … Destiny ends the Trinity series … with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’

Altair

Dedication

In blood and in memory of my own…
for William Richards

Contents

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Praise

Map

PROLOGUE

WYL SLID OFF THE saddle on to unsteady feet. Too flustered to tether the horse, he trusted it to remain where he left it as he stumbled deeper into the copse and retched. The sickening need to be rid of the curse, to rip the sorcery free from its sinister grip, seemed to last an eternity. At the rim of his tortured mind Wyl acknowledged that this cold moonlit night was too beautiful for death … once again.

He believed he could taste the taint of the magic which had claimed his body hours earlier. Wyl did not want to remember it, but it was so fresh, so horrific in his mind, that he could not expel it. Commander Liryk of Briavel had smiled when the man called Romen Koreldy, newly banished from the realm, had suggested the Forbidden Fruit for their overnight stay before leaving for whichever border he chose. Liryk had understood that the mercenary wanted to drown his sorrows in the soft and welcoming embrace of a whore in the region’s well-known brothel. And he had smiled even wider when Romen had accepted the offer of the woman Hildyth. The commander had enjoyed her on a previous occasion and knew there would be no better place for his grieving companion to lose himself for a few hours.

Wyl Thirsk, trapped in Koreldy’s body, had felt the same… until the whore buried a stiletto deep in his heart, in an attempt to take his life. Except she did not. Romen’s body released its trapped guest so it could travel into the assassin’s and claim her life instead.

It was not a new experience for Wyl. He had felt that same wrenching sense of despair once before, and even now could hardly believe it had happened again. He was dry-retching now; knew he must force himself to stop. He looked at his hands — his smooth woman’s hands — gripping the tree he leaned against and angrily rubbed them on the rough bark to force himself to accept that he was living, not dreaming this nightmare.

Don’t think about who you’ve become. Remember who you are, he reminded himself. Remember who you are!

‘I am Wyl Thirsk, son of Fergys Thirsk of Argorn,’ he croaked with his new and strange voice. He hated its feminine pitch. ‘I am Wyl Thirsk, General of the Morgravian Legion.’

‘I am alive,’ he said, his voice becoming stronger and steadier, his mind accepting, his spirit resolute.

He repeated his mantra until the nausea finally subsided and his cramping muscles stopped answering the call to expel the enchantment. It was not possible anyway, he knew. Myrren’s gift was his to keep, unless he could find a way to stop it.

Wyl Thirsk raised his head to the starry skies and screamed his despair. It was a cry without hope. He knew all too well that no shaking of fists nor howling to the heavens could bring to an end the dark enchantment which doomed him to cheat death. Whoever might try to take his life, the curse that was Myrren’s gift would ensure that he claimed their life instead. Wyl did not know if it would ever end, only that he could not rest until he had found the key to unlock the mystery.

A wave of sadness crashed over him as he remembered Romen Koreldy, his first victim. Now Romen’s body was dead too. Wyl felt gutted to have lost the comfort of that vessel which had welcomed him, sheathed him, given him succour and life. At first so strange, it had become familiar — Romen’s essence had lived on with Wyl whilst Wyl’s true body was mortifying in a tomb. The two of them had become one… and now perhaps they must consider themselves three with this woman who embodied them. She was their shield; they were her secret.

Wyl limped to the narrow brook nearby. The water glinted in the silvery light and he threw himself down at its edge and cleansed his mouth of the taint. Lying there, he succumbed to tears; deep heartfelt sobs that shuddered through his new, womanly body. But the grief belonged only to Wyl Thirsk.

I live, he told himself again, fumbling in his pockets for the piece of linen that held the key to his life for the time being. Wrapped within it lay the bloodied ring finger of Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn, noble, mercenary and the lover of Queen Valentyna of Briavel. Wyl had retrieved it from the chamber at the Forbidden Fruit … and now he would use it. Wyl calmed his thoughts, drawing on his skills as a strategist to think through what he must do. He would send Koreldy’s finger to Celimus, the treacherous King of Morgravia, to convince him that Romen Koreldy was dead and confirm that the mysterious assassin had succeeded where others had failed. And in doing so, he would allow Morgravia’s sovereign, the betrayer, to live within a false cocoon of safety.

Wyl knew that the neighbouring realm of Briavel was Celimus’s main concern now, and his plans to wed its Queen, Valentyna, would be occupying his time. In his disguise as Romen, Wyl had aided Valentyna to hinder those marriage plans through diplomatic strategy, but Wyl knew she could not do so with ease again. He understood all too well what a tightrope of politics she was treading. Her own nobles and counsellors were pressing for the marriage and the peace and prosperity it would bring to Briavel. In fact, both realms were clamouring for a royal wedding, captivated by the romantic notion that the joining of their sovereigns would create harmony, and possibly an heir who would once and for all unite the realms.

It made perfect political and strategic sense. When Celimus had first broached the subject with him, Wyl could hardly believe the far-sighted plan this young king had devised to force the two warring realms to set aside their history of hate once and for all. He had even agreed to help shape such a union, until his inner sense warned him that Celimus’s intentions were not as straightforward as they at first seemed. His decision not to support the King’s wishes led to the slaughter of his best friend, Alyd Donal, and the imprisonment and degradation of his own sister, Ylena. It was with the knowledge that Ylena’s life lay in his hands that Wyl had agreed to travel into Briavel, escorted by a band of mercenaries, to win its princess for the King of Morgravia.

How could he have guessed that even deeper treachery lay behind Celimus’s plotting? Not only had the King planned to win Valentyna’s hand in marriage by using the Thirsk name to gain an audience with King Valor, but he had ordered the deaths of Wyl and Valor by an assassin once the betrothal agreement had been made. More twisted yet was the dark mind of Celimus, who had contrived that the blame for King Valor’s death should fall on Wyl himself, relying on the skill of the assassin, Romen Koreldy, to kill Wyl and also on the sheer weight of numbers of the other treacherous mercenaries to then murder Koreldy. The Grenadyne knew too much; his life could not be spared.

Celimus, however, had not reckoned on the integrity of the assassin, Koreldy. A blood pact made between Wyl Thirsk and Koreldy ensured that whichever of them survived a duel to the death would expose the King’s treachery. But little did any of them know an even darker menace lurked mysteriously within Wyl Thirsk himself; brutal and without loyalty to anything but itself. It was a gift from the Witch Myrren to Wyl for his kindness during her trial torture and it had waited patiently to wreak its havoc. When it had finally struck it was savage and shocking, forcing Wyl’s spirit out of his dying body, mortally wounded by Koreldy’s sword blow, and into Koreldy’s body instead, thereby claiming the mercenary’s life. And now Myrren’s gift had struck again and Wyl had lost Koreldy’s form and was forced to inhabit the body of the whore, Hildyth.

Wyl surfaced from his troubled thoughts, realising that his mind was rambling over old ground. He could not change what had gone; he could only move forward now and work to protect his sister — the last of the Thirsks — and somehow thwart Celimus’s intention to control Briavel through marriage to Valentyna. But before he could do either, he had to find a means of bringing to an end this foul curse.

The seer who had first identified the magic in Wyl had told him to seek answers from the manwitch, Myrren’s true father. And that was where Wyl had to turn his attention now — he must track down the manwitch and find the answer to the enchantment.

In making the decision to let go of the past Wyl’s intense regret was knowing that Valentyna, whom he had loved from the moment she had first breezed in to his life when he was General Wyl Thirsk of the Morgravian Legion, had fallen in love with him as Romen Koreldy. His own feelings for her had only intensified during his time as Romen and he could never forgive himself for risking that love and allowing her to think that he had betrayed her when she had so relied on him.

A headache was gathering. He must find out more about who he had now become before his pain and grief over his love for the Queen claimed him completely. Valentyna could never love him now, and his punishment was to love her from afar in this strange and female body. Wyl could not bring himself to look at his new body just yet, nor touch it. But he held no such reticence regarding the woman’s memories. What remained belonged to Wyl now. They were his to remember and use.

He leaned back against a tree, exhausted, and delved. Wyl learned that he was not Hildyth the whore — that was simply a guise. He was Faryl of Coombe, a brilliant assassin, born in the midlands and familiar with places far away from Morgravia or Briavel… and riddled with secrets.

ONE

THE QUEEN HAD SUFFERED a sleepless night, churning over her decision to banish Romen Koreldy. Valentyna had measured the dark hours by listening to the muted noises of the guard changing before stillness claimed the night again… until the next time. The only other distraction was the distant howl of a dog — or was it a wolf? She wondered if it was caught in one of the traps laid by poachers; or, more whimsically, she decided it had lost its mate and was venting its despair. She understood such things, for the sorrowful cry served as an echo of her own loneliness.

Valentyna asked herself the question yet again. Could she have kept the man she loved and still appeased an angry king? A king, she might add, with more than enough fighting power to overwhelm Briavel. The answer, whichever way she approached the problem, was no.

‘Damn duty!’ she murmured into her coverlets. She punched the feather pillow which brought no comfort this night.

To add to her misery, a vision of Fynch haunted her. She would never forget the way he had looked at her. He too had grown to love Romen, despite his initial misgivings about the man. In that she and her young friend were alike, and they had shared so much in the short time they had known one another. But that closeness was shattered now. Fynch was avoiding her because she had deliberately distanced herself from Romen and ordered him to be expelled from Briavel. She had cast aside the man she loved over Celimus — a man they all hated. Even a child could see that her actions made no sense. And Fynch was no ordinary child; his serious, deep-thinking manner made him special. She did not want to lose his companionship but it seemed that the day just gone had dawned solely to bring loss to her life.

King Celimus, she realised, kicking off her blankets with irritation, would probably be close to the border by now, possibly even crossing into Morgravia. Nevertheless she had no doubt his spies would keep him updated on events in Briavel and Koreldy’s banishment would feature prominently in their missives. It suddenly occurred to her that the King, on hearing this news, might have Romen tracked down. Surely Romen would be cautious? He had been warned not to set foot into Morgravia at risk of certain execution. Failing Romen’s good sense, she trusted that her own Commander Liryk would counsel him. Hopefully they had ridden through the night and would be headed north, back from where he had come. ‘Where Cailech, King of the Mountains, awaits him,’ she whispered sorrowfully.

The last time Valentyna had wept passionately was on the death of her father; the time before that was a decade ago when she had fallen from a horse. She considered herself resilient but heavy tears finally overtook her as she realised the enormity of her command. Romen had nowhere to go. Briavel alone represented safety. Beyond its borders to the north and west, people wanted to kill him. The south offered the ocean and to the east lay only fear in the little-known Wild. Fynch knew it too. She had seen the accusation in that final chilling glance he had given her. It spoke of betrayed friendships.

And he was right. What was Romen thinking during that sword fight! It was clear he had meant to kill Celimus, and where would that have left Briavel but in intense danger?

He knew how precarious her position was. What had been his intention? She had not had a chance to consider it, in truth. She had not had the luxury of thinking it through but had been forced to react swiftly in the only way possible for a monarch in her situation. She knew her decision was political but this reassurance was cold comfort.

Her heart ached. She loved Romen and she had sent him away. Briavel no longer recognised him as friend. Romen Koreldy would not be permitted to set so much as a toe inside its borders again. If recognised, he would be captured and imprisoned. Her actions had trapped him as surely as that wolf she had heard howling in the distance. Whichever way he turned, whichever borders he finally crossed, he was as doomed as their new and fragile love.

Valentyna twisted beneath her remaining sheet, trying to escape thoughts of his touch which brought a new kind of ache to her body. She would have given herself gladly to him that night before the tourney, but his had been the voice of calm amongst the waves of passion. It was Romen who had pulled back, Romen who had made her understand the reason for holding onto the most precious commodity for a new Queen. Virginity was wealth, he had counselled. More importantly, it was power. A virgin Queen was an irresistible magnet for appropriate suitors. Except she wanted no husband… unless it was Koreldy.

She rubbed her tired but stubborn eyes and sat up. This would not do. Pulling on a soft robe against the chill, Valentyna moved to the window and looked out towards the dark woodland she loved so much.

‘It might work,’ she murmured, as an idea gathered resonance in her thoughts. She could meet him somewhere outside of Briavel’s borders, somewhere safe where they could rendezvous in secret. If only she could feel his kiss just once more it would be enough, she reasoned, hardly believing it herself. She would take Fynch too. Between them they would mend friendships, renew loyalties, rekindle the flame which had burned brightly between them all. She could apologise for making the hardest of decisions, and she knew Romen already understood — his eyes had told her so when they regarded her so gently despite her harsh words. She could ask him why he had risked so much. They could set things straight between them. Perhaps she could even find a way around the expulsion order, when time had passed and life was less precarious. Perhaps there was a chance for them one day.

‘Where are you now, Romen?’ the Queen of Briavel whispered towards the trees, longing to see her lover one last time, not knowing that at this very moment he was just a few miles from entering her own castle’s walls.

Far sooner than she could have imagined, Valentyna would cast her eyes upon Koreldy once more; kiss him again as she had so desired.

Liryk’s expression was grim; beneath it anger seethed. This should not have happened. The Queen had deliberately granted Koreldy the chance to make a new life elsewhere when she could so easily have commanded death. There was friendship between the two, possibly more if his intuition served him well. He could not blame her. Who could help but fall under Koreldy’s spell?

The Briavellian Guard emerged from the cover of the woodland that surrounded the northern border of the palace grounds. Commander Liryk glanced to his left, where the corpse of the man he hardly knew but had comfortably called friend lay in a cart, wrapped in sacking. Combined sorrow and guilt threatened Liryk’s stern demeanour, forcing him to look back towards the castle.

They had arrived at the famous Bridge of Werryl where past sovereigns, remembered faithfully in marble, stood proudly either side to guide visitors into the palace. He raised his hand towards the ramparts where he knew his guards had seen their fellow soldiers approaching through the light mist of dawn. The gate was up, he noticed. He grimaced; he would have to take a hard look at security again and ensure the castle remained closed to all visitors until permission was formally granted. After Valor’s sudden death everyone had been extra careful but recently he had noticed a general slackening of vigilance. With an assassin on the loose who knew what could happen. Their Queen must be better protected.

In the courtyard he handed his horse’s reins to the stableboy and gave orders for Koreldy’s body to be taken to the chapel and laid out. Like his men, Liryk was tired. They had ridden through the night, determined to bring the body back as quickly as possible to ensure that gossip disappeared with the evidence. With no body, no sign that an assassination had occurred, the story would rage for a day and then hopefully be forgotten. The Forbidden Fruit’s women would be entertaining in that same chamber this very night, all sign of the recent bloodshed washed away. His mouth twisted at the thought. Poor Koreldy. He deserved better.

Tired or not, the next hour would be the most difficult. Liryk suspected that no matter how he counselled her, their headstrong Queen would want to see this corpse for herself. He shook his head, resigned. Valentyna was an early riser. Best to see her immediately and get the ugly business done with.

Liryk made his presence known to Krell, the Queen’s Chancellor and former servant to King Valor. He was a calm and solid force amongst Valentyna’s advisers and Liryk liked the man. He wondered if Krell ever slept, for the Chancellor always seemed to be available.

‘May I ask if it is urgent, Commander Liryk?’ Krell said, shifting papers around on his desk. ‘This is an irregular hour to be requesting an audience.’

The soldier nodded. ‘Something unexpected. She must be told.’

‘Bad news?’ the Chancellor enquired. Liryk’s expression was enough to foreshadow this would not be a happy meeting.

‘It is, I’m afraid. Koreldy is dead.’

The Queen’s servant looked up sharply from the orderly piles of paperwork which he dealt with daily for his monarch, sorting tasks into priorities and keeping Valentyna’s mind firmly on her duties. He understood that the woman needed space to still enjoy her youth and had single-handedly eased Valentyna into her challenging role as sovereign, allaying her fears, guiding her with informed skill, instinctively knowing what her father would have expected. In terms of administering the realm, he was a blessing to them all, a man who could rarely be ruffled. However, the expression on his normally well-guarded face was all shock at this moment. Liryk was convinced that Krell wanted to ask if he was quite sure but had checked himself.

Liryk confirmed it anyway. ‘I’ve had him laid out in the chapel. I imagine the Queen will want to view the body.’

‘Indeed. She will not be persuaded otherwise,’ Krell replied. He walked around from behind his desk. ‘This is dark news, Commander. I’m sorry to hear it. In spite of the reason for his expulsion, Koreldy was a good man for Briavel and…’

Liryk guessed that the Chancellor wanted to add that Koreldy was a good man for Valentyna as well; instead the Chancellor held his tongue and asked the Commander to wait while he sought an appointment with her majesty immediately. He left Liryk alone with his bleak thoughts and fatigue.

When Liryk was shown into her study, he could see Valentyna had not slept well. Her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and dark smudges beneath made them appear hollow in the much too pale face. He wished once again he could escape this task and hoped Krell had forewarned her of the tidings.

She was wearing a satin robe and had obviously come in a hurry straight from her chambers, not caring about her state of dress, but then Valentyna had never been one for vanity. He had known this fine young woman since she was newborn and she had always treated him as a kindly uncle — she still did, in fact. He noticed she managed to muster a smile for him, rising above the concerns that had troubled her slumber.

‘I am glad to have you back, Commander Liryk,’ she said formally. She crossed the room and took both his hands in her own, falling into her usual, less regal manner. ‘Now, ease my worry,’ she said. ‘Tell me it all went smoothly.’

Liryk glanced towards Krell who was passing behind her majesty with some papers. The Chancellor shook his head slightly and Liryk felt the weight of his task settle like a stone in his throat. Krell was following protocol — he had left the bad news entirely for Liryk to deliver.

Valentyna was searching his face, a confused smile on her lips now. ‘What is it? Krell tells me you have news which cannot wait. I presume you wish to report that Romen Koreldy was seen safely to a border. But which border? I must know,’ she said, her words coming out in a rush.

Liryk’s eyes came back to rest sadly upon her own. ‘May we sit, your highness?’

‘Oh, of course, how remiss of me. You’ve obviously been riding through the night to be back here so fast.’ She gestured towards one of the comfy armchairs. ‘Please.’

‘Thank you.’ He sat slowly, taking every last moment he could before he had to share his tidings with this lovely young Queen. So much grief around her. He wished Krell had remained in the room, but knew the man had done the right thing once again and given them privacy.

Valentyna sat in the chair opposite.

‘You look very pale, your highness.’ He blurted his thoughts aloud.

She nodded. ‘You know me too well. I did sleep badly. I’ve anguished over yesterday’s decision, Liryk. It was the appropriate action to take for Morgravia’s King and the dutiful thing for Briavel. But oh, it was a poor decision for me personally. I miss Koreldy more than most would realise.’

Liryk was shocked. He sensed the friendship had run deep but had no idea it had progressed so far and so quickly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, risking her further confusion whilst he gathered up his anguished thoughts.

‘My apologies, sir. I should not burden you with affairs of my heart,’ Valentyna said to fill the awkward pause, sorry that she had spoken as she had.

She noticed the sad expression on Liryk’s face when he opened his eyes and sat forward again. He even took her hand, held it gently but firmly in his large, gnarled soldier’s hands. He sighed heavily and when he said, ‘Your majesty,’ as though his shoulders carried the very weight of the realm, her intuition told her she did not want to hear whatever it was he had to report. She had to bite her lip to prevent herself from begging him to say no more.

He began to speak, his tone measured, his words carefully chosen. Valentyna looked at Liryk’s hands covering hers, trying to shut out the voice, concentrating on the gingery hair there which made her think of Wyl Thirsk of all people. Poor lovely Wyl Thirsk with his thatch of orange hair and freckles. She recalled the way he had blushed whenever her eyes glanced towards his, and that his smile, so hard to win, was bright and joyful when it came. He should never have died. He had fought courageously for a realm which was not even his own, in order to save the life of his enemy. She had liked him the instant they met; had felt a connection to him somehow, which was hard to shake. The young man entered her mind at the oddest of times to this day and there were moments — not that she would admit openly to it — when Fynch’s suggestion that Wyl Thirsk was still amongst them rang true with her.

It was an odd situation. Normally she did not take to people so readily; she was wary of folk by nature and downright suspicious of strangers from Morgravia. But Wyl was not what she had expected. He was forthright and humble. Just a little in awe of her father, which she had appreciated because it showed respect — even between enemies. And her father had liked him and, more importantly, had trusted him. That much was obvious. She recalled how Romen had told her that Wyl had fallen desperately in love with her on that first meeting. How shocked she had been and, strange though it sounded, how flattered. There had been something special about Wyl Thirsk. Despite his lack of stature, about which she had gently poked fun at him, he had a strong presence… and there had been a chemistry of sorts between them. Valentyna recalled how he had not felt ashamed to weep in front of her and her father, or accept her comfort for the loss of his friend and fear for his sister. She had loved that about him.

Liryk’s voice spoke on. As though from a distance, she heard him talking about a place called the Forbidden Fruit. It sounded like no establishment she would ever visit and yet she would like to. She wished she could see such things, understand them better. Apparently Romen had gone with a woman there. She knew what this meant but she tried to ignore it. She wanted to believe that the bathing and smoothing had been an innocent activity to ease the tension of that strange and joyless day. But it was more than that — she could read as much in the way Liryk told of it.

She heard the name Hildyth. A hateful name. She despised the woman, a stranger she had never met nor ever would. A whore. Romen’s whore.

She imagined the stranger laughing with him, unself-conscious at being naked with this handsome man. The whore would feel his fingers on her body, his tongue, his lips… Valentyna tried to convince herself, as these visions raged, that Romen had used the whore because he could not have his true love, his Queen. His Queen had banished him, had marked him as no friend of hers, or of Briavel’s. He had to bury his grief somewhere and he had chosen to do so at the Forbidden Fruit, sheathing himself within a woman called Hildyth. Was this what Liryk was so hesitant to tell her — that Romen had spent the night with a paid woman, she thought bitterly.

It seemed not. There was more to this tale. As he continued, her throat caught… and then began to close as though it meant to stop her breathing. Liryk was speaking of a knife, of a fingerless hand.

She looked up suddenly, as though the picture he was describing had only now become clear. The Commander stopped speaking, disturbed by the change in her manner.

‘I… Liryk… I don’t understand.’ There was a tremor in her voice and she hated it. Hated it almost as much as she hated Hildyth for taking pleasure in Romen’s body when he was meant for a Queen.

It broke every protocol but Liryk did not care — the Queen of Briavel, loved by all since a little girl, needed comfort. He moved to sit beside her and put his arm around his young sovereign, pulled her to his broad chest as a dear uncle might. She allowed him to because she was scared. She had heard the words but did not believe them. She would need him to say them again.

He spoke in a near whisper this time, his lips close to her hair which smelled of fresh lavender. ‘Your highness,’ he said gently, ‘Romen Koreldy was murdered last night. We have nothing more than the whore’s description of a man she saw running down the hall. Understandably she was distraught, so the details are somewhat vague…’ He stopped, not sure of what else to say.

As he pulled away the Queen’s gaze was locked on his face but her expression suggested her mind was far away. ‘Dead?’ she said, as though testing the word on her tongue. He nodded.

Valentyna moved fast, leaping to her feet, grabbing her Commander’s shirt in her fists. ‘Romen’s dead?’

‘Yes, my Queen. He was murdered,’ Liryk answered as gently as he could.

He was relieved when the door clicked softly open and Krell entered, carrying a mug of steaming liquid. Liryk caught a waft of dramona. It was a wise choice. The medicine was strong and would help with the shock.

Valentyna became aware of Krell and his presence helped her to compose herself. She released her grip on Liryk and felt for the chair behind her to sit down again. She realised she was wringing her hands and clasped them firmly together until she had regained control of them. The Queen took a long, deep breath. She remained silent for a moment or two longer and then lifted her chin, fixing with a steady dark blue gaze the man whose news had just stuck a blade into her heart. There was some pleasing symmetry to that notion, she thought bitterly, for if her ears had heard correctly, a blade in the heart was the manner in which Romen had died.

‘Commander Liryk, you will tell me everything once again so I understand thoroughly the events which unfolded last night.’ The Queen’s words fell like ice crystals now. They matched the wintry expression which had frozen her lovely face. She was not to be argued with.

And so for the third time that morning Liryk told his sad tale, this time sparing her no detail. He delivered his report in the detached military manner he knew best, devoid of emotion and embellishment.

‘It was only later that we discovered his ring finger had been removed,’ he concluded.

‘Why?’

‘A trophy perhaps, although I do believe, your highness, that this was an assassination. People who kill for money must provide proof of the death before they are paid in full. It is my belief that Koreldy was murdered by someone’s order.’

‘Whose order?’

One name hung silently between them. Neither dared speak it. If they did it would become truth, and the repercussions should they act upon that truth were too daunting to contemplate.

Instead Liryk chose a safer path. ‘We have no firm evidence as to who perpetrated this.’

‘Other than the blade,’ she replied.

‘Yes, highness. Other than the weapon.’

Krell took this moment to offer the Queen the mug of medicine. ‘Drink it all, your majesty,’ he whispered before taking his leave.

Valentyna smelled the dramona, knew its intention and put it aside. They would not sedate her. ‘Did Koreldy say anything to you before he died?’

The Commander nodded. ‘He told me that he did not kill your father. He wished you had given him a sign that you knew him to be innocent of all accusations levelled at him.’

Valentyna’s newly calmed expression faltered at the words. She knew Liryk had not meant to drive a further wedge of pain into her. She expected him to be truthful, after all. What she did not suspect was that his honesty carried only to a certain point. Liryk had told Koreldy that he would not do anything to dissuade the Queen from marriage with Celimus, even though Koreldy had begged him to. He held his tongue now. For Briavel’s sake, the marriage should go ahead.

Valentyna drew on every ounce of her courage to remain composed and not crumple. That would come later. Right now she had to learn everything she could about why Romen had died.

‘The whore…’

‘Hildyth?’

‘Yes,’ she said, irritated to hear the name again. ‘Where is she now?’

‘She asked if she could leave after she had told us everything she could. She was very upset, as you can imagine.’

‘Did it not occur to you, Commander, that the whore might have been involved? She could have allowed the killer entry? Could even have killed Koreldy herself?’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘And?’

She watched the colour rise in her chief of security. ‘She could not have killed Koreldy because he would have been too strong for her. You know what an artful fighter he was. As for her being involved — yes, it had occurred to me, but I decided she was innocent.’

‘Why?’

There it was again — the hesitancy, a flush of red at the neck. ‘I have met her before, highness. She did not strike me either as violent or anything more than a young woman trying to make the best of her situation.’

‘I see,’ said Valentyna, understanding perfectly. Romen Koreldy was not the first of her acquaintances to lie with this woman. Clearly Liryk had intimate knowledge of Whore Hildyth. ‘I want soldiers sent immediately to bring this woman to the castle for questioning. Can I leave that with you?’

Liryk nodded, embarrassed. ‘Of course.’

‘Where is Romen now?’ she asked, just managing to keep her voice steady as she said his name.

‘In the chapel, your highness.’

‘Thank you, Commander Liryk. I know you must be extremely tired. Please take your rest. We shall speak again when you are refreshed. I apologise for having kept you so long…’ and then her voice softened ‘…and for losing myself there for a few moments. It was a shock.’

She watched Liryk’s relief at her words. Perhaps her cool detachment had unsettled him, although was this not the very quality a Queen must exhibit? She could not be prey to shrieking hysterics but must control her own emotions and deal calmly with any situation.

‘I understand fully, your majesty. In truth, I don’t believe I have come to terms with it myself yet.’

‘He died as a result of a blade through the heart, that’s right, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Driven into his chest with expert precision. The killer knew what he was doing.’

‘So it would have been quick?’

‘Dead before Koreldy even realised he’d been struck,’ he assured her, although not quite believing it himself.

She nodded that he may depart and he stood and bowed gladly, flooded with relief that his ugly task was done.

TWO

KNAVE KNEW. THE DOG had woken him in the night with a howl so sorrowful it hurt Fynch to hear it. They had been sleeping rough in the woods because Fynch could not bear to be in the castle after all that happened. Most of all, he could not face the Queen. She had done something so unexpected that he had been unable to disguise his feelings over her actions — not that he had any right to disapprove of someone so above him in status. They were friends, though. Friends did not cast each other aside. She needed Romen — why could she not see that?

It was true that he too had been wary of Romen originally; how could he not be? It was Fynch who had overheard King Celimus plotting with Koreldy to assassinate Wyl Thirsk. But it was also Fynch who had noticed the curious attachment Wyl’s dog, Knave, had shown for Koreldy when they had tracked him back to Pearlis. Fynch had been shocked to see the mercenary with Ylena and to hear that he had brought Wyl’s corpse back to Stoneheart for the formal burial it was due. It was he alone who had worked out that something very strange had occurred, something magical.

Fynch believed in magic and so did not suffer from the same wariness of it as most Morgravians, or dismiss it like the Briavellians. His suspicion that Wyl Thirsk was somehow still amongst them had been gradually confirmed: firstly by Knave’s affection for a stranger, and secondly by Koreldy’s uncharacteristic actions regarding Ylena and his desire to clear the Thirsk family name. Fynch’s intuition was rewarded when Koreldy had admitted to being Wyl Thirsk, and told him of the Quickening, the frightening phenomenon that had given him life and taken that of the real Romen Koreldy.

But Wyl had forbidden Fynch from sharing this knowledge with Valentyna, which was why the Queen’s decision to banish Koreldy had been so painful for the boy. He loved Valentyna and wished he could tell her the truth outright, but he knew it would be in vain. How could anyone, especially one who could not conceive of sorcery, believe such a tale?

He had hoped to see Romen before the guards escorted him from Werryl — that way he could have heard Wyl’s plans, however thin they may be. But it had not been permitted. Knave had wanted to follow Wyl’s trace, but Fynch had exerted his own authority for once and told his companion they should wait. They needed to plan their next move. The boy sensed that the dog would always find its master, and they could catch up with Wyl later. Now he needed time to ‘tidy his mind’, as he liked to think of it, to consider all options. So the woods had become their hiding place.

Fynch had expected to spend a few days there, but outside events began to have their own crushing impact.

No amount of shooshing or cajoling had quieted Knave’s howling during the night. It was a strange sound, filled with despair. The dog was closed to him, so he could not work out what was troubling him, and neither did Knave want to be touched or spoken to. So Fynch had tossed and turned all night, trying to shut out the terrible keening. He had finally fallen asleep, only to be roused again by the dog at first light. The boy sleepily obeyed the beast’s wish to be followed. Clearly Knave had an objective.

They slipped into the castle grounds, waving to the guards and getting a familiar raised hand back. Knave was making for the main courtyard. The reason why became all too clear with the arrival of Commander Liryk and the Guard.

The boy and the dog had watched the soldiers enter the bailey. Liryk looked grave and weary. They saw him hand the reins to the stableboy and heard him give an order to his men, although Fynch had not been able to make out the words.

As Liryk left the courtyard and entered the castle, Fynch noticed that Knave was no longer at his side. Instead the dog was moaning by the cart which had rolled in after Liryk. He watched as the men struggled to lift something out of the cart, and felt a claw around his throat, squeezing tight and hard. Instinctively he knew they were carrying the corpse of Romen Koreldy. His heart felt as though it had cracked in two.

Distraught, he followed the soldiers into the cool chapel with its exquisite carved whitestone and simple yet sophisticated structure whereby six slim, smooth pillars somehow held up the entire building. The ceiling was frescoed with mythic scenes depicting the glory of Briavel. But none of its beauty impacted on the silent handful who entered its glorious space this morning.

Fynch felt relieved to be granted permission to be present. He stood, rigid with despair, next to the body, disturbed by its pallor. Romen had been browned from the sun; he should not be this ghostly. A guard, sensitive to the friendship which had existed between the dead man and this child, gently explained that a great deal of blood had drained from the body at the time of death which would account for its pale appearance. Fynch was not so sure he had needed to hear the reasoning, but he whispered his thanks all the same and was glad when the man stepped away.

The soldiers, all known to him, murmured their sympathies. One even apologised for not keeping Romen safe. Fynch wanted to cry out that Koreldy could take care of himself, but he had obviously been duped then murdered. Instead he accepted their commiserations silently and, relieved, watched them gradually depart.

He and Knave were alone at last with their friend and he felt it would be all right now if he cried. He reached out and smoothed back a few stray hairs from Romen’s face. Wyl had adopted Koreldy’s fastidiousness and would not like his hair to look so scruffy. Those who had dealt with the body in Crowyll had done their best, mercifully wiping away most traces of blood and putting him in a fresh shirt. Still, he was hardly tidy and he would hate to be seen so dishevelled. Fynch kissed his friend’s forehead before laying his own head on Romen’s cool chest and allowing his sorrow to echo through the chapel.

The dog sniffed the body long and carefully. Presumably satisfied that his master no longer breathed, he lay at Fynch’s feet. Knave was patient. It was as though he understood that it was Fynch’s turn now to grieve.

Valentyna felt her composure slip as she stepped quietly into the chapel, flanked by Krell and Liryk who had insisted on accompanying her. On seeing the child draped over the corpse, she felt the sickening lurch of a cry rushing into her throat. It was real; death was here. Krell’s guiding hand — a gentle, well-timed touch steering her down the short aisle — rescued her. She fought the grief back and was able once again to view the poignant scene before her.

Fynch looked so small, so vulnerable. She desperately wanted to hold him in her arms, to cling to the living. Instead, as she silently drew up beside him, she risked taking his hand. She knew she chanced a rebuke, for who could blame a youngster for not keeping his emotions in check? She was relieved when he did not pull away from her touch but straightened and stepped back from the corpse to stand next to her. Valentyna looked down into the tear-stained face and was rewarded by a watery smile. It was enough.

‘We lost him,’ he whispered, his voice leaden with sorrow.

‘Yes,’ she replied, now finally finding the courage to look fully upon the body of the man she had loved.

Neither Krell nor Liryk stirred, and Fynch and Knave too stood like statues, whilst Valentyna stared at Romen, seeing nothing for the moment other than how handsome he was in such stillness.

‘May I?’ she asked, pointing tentatively towards his shirt.

Liryk’s sad eyes blinked. He nodded gently, knowing what she wished to see.

‘He’s so pale,’ she whispered.

‘There was a lot of blood lost,’ Fynch replied, his voice coming as though from far away.

She felt herself lurch inwardly again as a picture of Romen’s body spewing forth its lifeblood swam into her mind. Undoing the shirt buttons she revealed his chest, no longer warm and filled with love for her. Valentyna needed to see the ugly wound where the blade had been expertly driven into his flesh to puncture his heart, all of its love draining out on to the floor of a brothel while a whore called Hildyth shrieked as she watched him die. Or had she killed him? The nagging thought would not leave her.

Knowing looks passed between the two men as the Queen lingered over the corpse. ‘Your highness,’ Krell uttered, after clearing his throat lightly. ‘Do not torture yourself any further.’

‘But I must. I sent this man to his death.’

‘No, your highness!’ Liryk spoke up. ‘You gave him his life… and a chance to make a new one. King Celimus would surely have had him killed.’

‘Perhaps he did,’ Fynch muttered to himself, but they all heard it.

Valentyna tore her gaze from Romen and turned to Fynch. ‘Tell us what you think.’

She and Liryk held their breath. If even the youngster was thinking it, then surely their unspoken yet shared conclusion could not be far off the mark.

‘Celimus wanted Romen dead. Now he is,’ Fynch said tonelessly.

‘We cannot prove such a thing, lad,’ Liryk replied, his voice gruff with rebuke.

‘No. That’s the point though,’ Fynch said, staring at the corpse. As he spoke he suddenly sounded a lot older. ‘You need not be a physician to see that this was an expertly achieved death. Celimus could not be seen to have bloody hands.’

All three Briavellians noted his casual use of the Morgravian monarch’s name. ‘You sound familiar with the King, boy,’ Liryk said.

‘I know him. Certainly enough about him to accept that Romen’s death could easily be by his design. We already know that Celimus thinks nothing of hiring mercenaries to kill a sovereign.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from both men, although Valentyna seemed not to react. Fynch continued as though they were discussing the weather. ‘What makes you think he would not order the death of a troublesome noble? Someone who knows too much about the comings and goings of Morgravia?’ He stopped suddenly, his look defying them to contradict him.

‘He’s powerful, son, and more than capable of such commands,’ Liryk said, impressed with Fynch’s grasp of the situation. ‘I just can’t prove the King of Morgravia is behind Koreldy’s death.’

‘No, and that’s why we must be very careful about what we say aloud,’ Valentyna warned. ‘Please, all of you — what has been aired here must remain between the five of us.’

Fynch found an inward smile. It amused him that the Queen counted Knave amongst them. He too believed the dog heard and understood everything. Knave sidled up towards him again and he laid his hand on the large head, glad of the comfort.

Without warning, a familiar dizzy sensation claimed him. Valentyna spoke again but her words sounded distant. ‘Krell, I know this is unusual, but you and I will wash Koreldy’s body.’

‘My Queen! I cannot permit —’

‘No, you cannot permit me anything,’ she said kindly. ‘This is my order, although I prefer it be a request of you.’

The old man nodded, an unhappy expression on his face.

‘I am doing this so we may keep knowledge of Romen’s death between as few people as possible.’

He is not dead! Wyl lives! A voice spoke inside Fynch’s head, which began to throb. He saw only swirling grey mist before him but he heard the words clearly. Then the mist cleared and he saw a small town fringed by fields of hops. He had no idea of its significance.

Find him. He walks in another body now, the voice urged.

The swirling sensation dissipated as fast as it had arrived and the voices of the people in the chapel no longer sounded as if spoken from the bottom of a well. Intense pain and shock reverberated through his body as he tried to think about what had happened. He knew now that the voice had come to him through Knave; he just did not know why.

Fynch felt distracted and nauseated. His mind was in turmoil. If Knave’s information was correct, then they were needlessly grieving over a man who was not dead. He walks in another body now. Had it truly happened again? Had Wyl Thirsk become the person who had killed Romen Koreldy?

Valentyna deserved to know, but what could he say to her? She would not even hear him out. She was liberal in most ways, and he would describe her as tolerant — she certainly had been of his views on magic — but she was not a believer. The Queen would probably banish him as well if he started talking about transference into another body. No. This he would have to keep to himself for the time being.

The Queen was still speaking to her Commander and Fynch struggled to bring his attention back to the people around him. ‘Liryk, I want that Hildyth creature at the palace by sunset tomorrow. Bring her before me alone. Did many other people at this place know of the murder?’

Liryk was grateful for the Queen’s tact. ‘Several, your highness. But none of them would know Koreldy. He was a stranger there. It was not crowded either, so those whose ears have already heard probably do not know his name — simply that a man was killed.’

‘Good. Your men will spread the rumour that this man was Briavel’s prisoner but that we had granted him a new life outside our borders. So far this is true. The seed you will plant, however, is that we suspect a Briavellian loyalist took offence at Koreldy’s actions at the tourney and took it upon himself to rid our realm of a troublemaker. Make sure everyone understands how keen Briavel is to pursue the betrothal. No official word, mind,’ she cautioned. ‘Tell the story into a few inns where loose mouths lurk. I will provide coin. Fret not that the story may become warped as it is retold; as long as people believe it was purely an internal problem.’

‘Why?’ Krell asked, unable to follow his Queen’s rapid line of thought.

Liryk could not help a grim smile of appreciation. He bowed: ‘Inspired, your highness.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Because, Chancellor Krell, as it’s supposedly our own work the rumours will die quickly. There is less intrigue, you see, around the death of a prisoner rather than the assassination of a noble, particularly one we supported. More importantly, in designing this plan, our Queen has deflected any potential damage to Briavel. Whether or not the person we suspect is behind this, he can only be privately grateful to her majesty for being so without guile and accepting blame in Briavel’s name.’

‘I see,’ the Chancellor replied, impressed. ‘Your majesty has inherited her father’s quick mind for strategy.’

Valentyna gave a brief, harsh laugh. ‘Oh, I do hope so. We are entering challenging waters, gentlemen, and we shall need all our wits to navigate the safest channel.’

Both men nodded their agreement.

‘What of the body, your highness?’ Krell asked gently.

The Queen sighed, inwardly proud that she had so far held on to her grief in front of these men. They were obeying her now as they would have her father. She had truly become their sovereign.

‘Liryk, to anyone nosing around, you can say the prisoner’s body was buried quickly in an unmarked grave. Make out you left it for others to do, and so it passes down the chain of command until no one really knows who took responsibility. Give the impression that neither do we care.’

‘Yes, your highness.’

‘Krell, you and I will prepare the body. Whom can we trust to bury him?’

‘Father Paryn is a good man, my Queen. He will help us to send off Koreldy with some dignity.’

‘Dignity, yes,’ she said, seeing once again her version of Hildyth enjoying her evening’s work with Romen. ‘He will be buried at a private ceremony. No one is to speak of it with anyone other than Father Paryn. Krell, please make arrangements for a site near my father.’

‘In the royal crypt, your majesty?’ His tone carried sufficient surprise that she knew he was not happy with such an arrangement.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘He deserves as much. He fought to save my father’s life; he certainly saved mine. He was also…’ She paused, forcing herself to hold back the words she longed to speak. It would serve no purpose for these men to know her true feelings for Koreldy. She took a breath. ‘This is what I want.’

‘As you wish,’ Krell said, bowing.

‘Liryk, what of the men who accompanied you?’

‘All reliable, your highness. If you will excuse me, I shall round them up now and make our orders clear.’

‘Each to be paid double salary for this moon cycle. They are to understand that their silence is appreciated at the highest level.’

He nodded and bowed before taking his leave.

‘Clothes,’ Krell muttered. ‘I should organise some fresh garments for him.’

Valentyna looked again at her beloved Romen in his dusty travelling clothes.

‘He looks best in dark grey,’ she said. ‘It sets off his eyes.’ The sorrow in her voice was thick.

Krell looked sharply at his sovereign and then away. The expression of pain on her face at that moment was too raw. He knew she needed privacy.

‘At once, your highness. I shall go find Father Paryn now,’ he murmured.

Valentyna heard the door of the chapel close quietly. ‘Lock it, Fynch,’ she begged, ‘I need some time.’ And she broke down, her soft cries heartbreaking as she bowed helplessly over the cold corpse. No longer a Queen having to follow protocol or keep her emotions in check, but a young woman grieving over the death of the man she loved.

‘His killer took his bracelet as well,’ she said through her tears. She felt no shame at showing her sorrow with Fynch.

‘Yes, highness, I noticed it was missing. But it was worth nothing. He told me his sister had plaited it for him, the beads were hers from childhood.’

‘A trinket, yes, but worth everything to Romen, I imagine, and perhaps more to his killer.’

‘How so, my Queen?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose further proof that he is dead. Anyone who knew Romen would have noticed he habitually wore that tiny bracelet.’

Fynch nodded, remaining silent.

‘He looks so peaceful,’ she admitted, her eyes drawn to the damaged hand where a finger had been carelessly hacked off.

Fynch saw she had refastened the shirt buttons to hide the brutal wound.

‘Asleep even,’ he ventured.

‘Yes. Except Romen was never still, was he? He had a special energy. We shall never hear his laugh again, or that way he mocked everyone with gentle affection.’

Fynch took a chance. ‘If I suggested this was simply a dead body and not really the Romen Koreldy you loved, what would you say?’

Valentyna looked at him, disturbed, wiping away the helpless tears. ‘I would call you cruel. Why should you suggest such a thing when you know how I feel… felt about Romen?’

It was pointless pursuing this conversation but he tried anyway. At least later he could reassure himself he had made the attempt. He swallowed. ‘Although Romen’s corpse lies here before us, I don’t believe that the man you knew — the man you loved, your highness — is dead.’

She looked at him aghast. ‘Fynch, whatever are you talking about? Stop now. This is hurtful.’

He sighed, dropped his head. ‘My apologies, your highness.’

She wanted to retain his friendship so much and yet here she was pushing him farther from herself. Valentyna moved swiftly to be beside him and then crouched so she could look directly into his large, serious eyes. ‘No, I am sorry. He is dead because I banished him. This is my cross to bear — not yours. You would never have done this to a friend, but oh, my dear Fynch, I am bound by duties and royal protocol.’

‘I understand. Really. I think I’ve got it straight in my mind why you did what you did.’

‘It’s your forgiveness I seek. I don’t want to lose you, Fynch. You and even your strange dog there are my closest friends in the world.’

Her words touched him. ‘Then you must trust me.’

‘I do.’

‘And understand what I must do.’

She noted the grave tone. ‘What must you do?’ she asked, frowning now.

‘I am leaving, your highness.’

The shock of his words stopped her tears. ‘No! Why?’

‘There is something I must pursue.’

‘Fynch, speak plainly. Tell me,’ she commanded, searching his guileless face for clues.

‘You cannot understand.’

‘Make me.’

He smiled. It was shy and rare, full of kindness. ‘I cannot, your highness. I have tried before.’

She took a deep breath, then laid her hands lightly on his shoulders. ‘Is this about Wyl Thirsk… and — what was it? Romen taking on his duties… his desires? You said you felt his presence.’

Fynch nodded. His expression was sombre. ‘More than that, but I cannot explain yet.’

‘Magic.’ She spoke the word as if it was poison in her mouth.

‘Just trust me,’ Fynch repeated.

‘But where will you go?’ There was a plaintiveness in her voice.

‘To track down Romen Koreldy’s murderer.’

The Queen rubbed a hand over her face. He could not tell whether she felt frustration, anger, despair or a combination of all.

‘You are a child,’ she said, hating to state the obvious and working hard at keeping her voice level.

‘All the more reason I shall go unnoticed, your highness. Who would bother with a child?’

‘And your purpose?’ she blurted, irritation spilling over, sarcasm evident in her tone.

If Fynch noticed he did not react. He spoke evenly. ‘I mean to see his killer with my own eyes.’ He kept as close to the truth as possible for lies did not come naturally to him.

‘And?’

Fynch was silent. She waited, knowing he was considering how best to answer her. He was always very careful in how he spoke.

‘I will decide then,’ he answered.

The cryptic reply annoyed her further. She stood and turned away, her voice hard. ‘It is your decision and you will be missed. Will you remain for the burial?’

‘There’s no point,’ he said quietly. ‘I prefer to leave immediately, unless you wish it differently.’

‘I do. We must honour him.’

‘But it is not him any more, your highness.’

‘Stop it, I beg you!’ she beseeched, the pain of his words cutting through her.

Fynch’s gaze was unblinking and honest. ‘Once again I ask for your faith. I will not let you down. Neither will he,’ he said, nodding towards the corpse.

Valentyna wanted to scream at him, shake his bony shoulders and force some sense into his head. She did neither. ‘I shall spend some time with him alone now. I insist on your presence at the burial.’

Fynch bowed but she had already turned away from him.

The burial was swift. The body was surrounded by small candles which would be permitted to burn out. A few spoken words, a quick prayer, and then Father Paryn was asking them to lay their gifts next to the body. Koreldy’s spirit would move beyond, whilst his body remained surrounded by possessions from those who had cared for him.

Liryk laid down a blade. He now dearly wished he had given Koreldy one — perhaps he might have saved himself if he had. Krell laid down a quill, the symbol of his duties for Briavel. It was all he could think of to leave with a man he had not known well but had respected. Fynch cut off a twist of his own hair and some from Knave. He laid it on Koreldy’s chest. It was the most personal item which would travel with Romen into the next life.

Finally, Valentyna placed her offering of a small wreath of mint, basil and lavender she had bound with one of her own ribbons intertwined with a thong Romen had used for his hair — beneath his crossed hands. That the wreath was heart-shaped was missed by no one. May it remind you of where love’s tentative touch first embraced us, she cast silently, hoping his spirit might hear.

Two soldiers, trustworthy men who had accompanied Liryk and Koreldy on their fateful trip into Crowyll, slid the heavy stone slab across the tomb in which Romen had been laid. It was unmarked.

Valentyna lifted her head. ‘No one is ever to speak of this.’ She eyed each of the men who stood with her. ‘Or I shall have his tongue cut out. This is a secret which Briavel shall hold.’

They nodded as one.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said, relieved she could trust them, even without the threat.

Fynch was the last person to leave the crypt. As he stepped out into the brightness of day he was momentarily blinded, but as his eyes adjusted he noticed a soldier making fast passage towards the chapel.

‘What news?’ Liryk asked, all formalities dispensed with. It was one of his most trusted men.

‘Your majesty,’ the man said breathlessly, going down on one knee. ‘Sir,’ he added, addressing his Commander, ‘may I speak freely?’

‘You may. Please report.’

‘The woman is no longer at Crowyll. She left her lodgings during the night of the attack or possibly the next day. None of the people who live nearby remember seeing her that morning.’

Liryk’s brow twitched in annoyance. ‘You checked her place of employment?’

The man was sucking in air; he had obviously ridden at speed. ‘Yes, sir. Everywhere else that we have been told she frequented. There is no trace of her.’

‘The plot thickens, Liryk,’ Valentyna said as she strode away. She was convinced now that the whore had been in on the deed. ‘Fynch, a word.’

Fynch hurried behind her until they had reached the quiet herb garden.

‘And so you leave me now?’

‘Yes, your majesty. I must.’

‘Then I shall miss you until I see you again.’

‘Likewise, your highness.’

The Queen pulled a pouch from one of her pockets. ‘I don’t understand this journey of yours, Fynch, but I see I have no choice but to let you go.’

He shook his head sadly, unsure of what to say.

‘I know,’ she said more quietly. ‘I must trust you.’

When he looked up she was making an effort to smile. He knew it did not come easily to her after what they had just done. No doubt she was in great personal pain and his leaving only magnified her loneliness. He hastened to offer some reassurance. ‘As soon as I have found out what I need to know, I shall return, your majesty.’

‘I wish I understood what it is you need to know.’

Sensibly he remained silent.

‘Here, Fynch. Please take this,’ she said, holding out the pouch. He took it and it rested heavily in his hand, suggesting gold and silver within. He hesitated and looked at the Queen, who immediately said: ‘No, don’t fight me on this. You will have need of it. This is a dangerous person you go headlong to meet. I wish I could stop you.’ She forced herself to pull her hand away, although every instinct told her to grab him and hold him, to stop him leaving as everyone she had ever loved had left her.

‘You cannot. But you must be strong, my Queen,’ Fynch replied. ‘Koreldy would expect it of you.’

She gave him a sad smile. ‘Everyone expects it of me, my friend. Shar speed you safely, Fynch.’

Valentyna allowed him to kiss her hand, then walked away, too fearful to hug him farewell. He recalled how she had turned from Romen in the same manner. Now they had both hurt her. He left quietly to find Liryk, Knave padding silently behind.

Fynch refused the offer of a horse but pressed a surprised Liryk to tell him all he knew.

Liryk, surprised at the boy’s queries, gave him all the information he had on the assassination, even down to an accurate description of the woman.

‘Where do you go, son?’ he asked, his curiosity piqued by the boy’s questions and distant manner.

‘To find Hildyth,’ Fynch replied.

THREE

CELIMUS MUNCHED ON AN almond cake baked fresh that morning. It mattered not to him that his pastry cook would have had to leave his bed many hours prior to dawn to craft this specialty. It not only meant a great deal of tedious preparation in skinning and crushing the nuts; the dough also required proving prior to its energetic kneading and shaping into the complex designs. The fiddly cakes were normally reserved for celebrations, but Celimus had a particular liking for them and, on a whim just before midnight, had ordered some to be served with his breakfast. No one dared put forward an objection. Celimus was King. Whatever he wanted he would have.

Celimus glanced at the second cake he held, relishing the anticipation of its chewy texture and delicate flavour, before looking back at the strange gift which had arrived this morning by courier. The King picked it up again from the linen it had been wrapped in; he had not been able to take his eyes from it since its arrival. He twirled it between his fingers — it gave him immense satisfaction to hold it at last. He wished he could preserve it somehow and thus retain the grim pleasure of glancing at it from time to time, knowing that once again he had triumphed.

He considered Koreldy. He had rather liked the mercenary’s sardonic manner and had appreciated his carrying out of Wyl’s murder, but Koreldy’s execution had become necessary after Celimus realised he could not rely on the man’s loyalty.

His strange behaviour in the cathedral during Thirsk’s funeral was odd to say the least, and once Koreldy had fled Stoneheart with Thirsk’s sister, Celimus understood he could not trust this man to keep their dark secret. There was too much at stake — not just the annexing of Briavel to Morgravia but his own crown. If the Legion ever suspected that he had anything to do with Thirsk’s death then his sovereignty would be vulnerable in the extreme. The Legion was too powerful; even without Thirsk at its head it could take over the realm.

No, he thought, flicking crumbs absently from his chin, ridding himself of Koreldy was regrettable but wise, especially as the man hailed from Grenadyn. Who knew what links he might have with the Mountain King. Risking the passage of Morgravian secrets into the hands of Cailech would be tempting fate indeed.

‘Best without him,’ he murmured, replacing Koreldy’s severed ring finger into the box it had arrived in.

Celimus was looking forward to showing his new prize to Jessom, his Chancellor. It was unusual to have circumvented the man’s thorough inspection of all deliveries into the palace, and had occurred purely by chance. He had been talking with his personal horse handler when the messenger had arrived, entering the main bailey at full gallop.

‘Find out what’s so urgent,’ the King had ordered at a passing page, interrupting the intense discussion with the horse handler about a new stallion shortly due to arrive in the royal stable.

The startled boy, unused to contact with the King, had looked terrified, unsure whether to bow or run the errand immediately. He had attempted both, clumsily. When he returned, he stammered that it was a package … a delivery for his majesty.

Celimus had strolled towards his guards. ‘You have a delivery for me?’

‘Yes, your highness,’ the most senior of the men had replied, nodding his head repeatedly to show the required subservience demanded by his King.

‘Well, give it to me. I can’t stand around here all day.’

‘Er, sire… Chancellor Jessom has ordered that all —’

Celimus’s anger had always been swift to rise, and he was bored — a deadly combination. Impatient for his new horse and impatient with the tedious days of routine which had followed his return from Briavel, his ire had sparked. The package was a small diversion but a diversion nonetheless.

‘I don’t give a flying fig what the Chancellor has ordered. Give it to me now or, Shar help me, you’ll be cleaning the latrines for the rest of your career… after I’ve had your feet cut off!’

The man visibly swallowed, unprepared for such an assault. He would be in serious trouble with Jessom but that paled in comparison to his King’s wrath. He motioned to the gatekeeper to pass over the parcel, then bowed low and handed it to Celimus, face burning from the embarrassment of being shamed in front of the other soldiers.

He had tried to salvage some small pride. ‘Apologies, my King. I am following orders.’

‘Indeed,’ Celimus had replied drily, his anger quietened. ‘It looks like something of no matter anyway. I’ve been expecting some new jesses for my hawk. It’s most likely those,’ he had lied, wondering if the contents could possibly be what he dreamed of holding in his hands.

‘Yes, sire,’ the man had said. He had bowed once again for good measure, and sighed with relief as he watched the King stride away to pick up the conversation with his horse handler as though no interruption had occurred.

Celimus smiled now to himself as he chewed another mouthful of his favourite cake. There was no warmth in the expression though, only malice. ‘Farewell, Koreldy,’ he whispered, wondering whether the finger had been cut off before his enemy died. He certainly hoped so. Romen would have known it to be an assassination — and on whose orders.

There was a knock at his chamber door. It would be Jessom. He covered Romen’s finger with the linen and closed the lid of the box. ‘Come,’ he called.

Jessom entered, his hands full of parchments. ‘Good morning, sire. I need you to sign some papers, if you please.’

He noticed the King was suppressing some mirth. He had already heard about the parcel’s delivery, but had not yet connected the two.

‘I’m rid of him, Jessom.’

‘Rid of whom, sire?’ the man asked absently, setting down the papers and shuffling them into a neat pile before the King.

‘Koreldy, of course. Care to take a look?’ Celimus pushed the small box towards him.

Jessom felt a thrill of elation. She had done it! He forced his expression to remain unchanged, however, except for a contrived confusion passing across it for the King’s benefit.

‘Whatever is this, my King?’ he said, staring at but not yet picking up the proffered parcel.

‘Open it.’

He did as asked, lifting back the linen and pausing theatrically, knowing the delay would drive Celimus to distraction.

‘Well?’ the King said irritably. ‘Your man triumphed.’

Jessom carefully shut the lid on the bloodied finger. ‘As I see.’

‘Do you not share my glee?’ Celimus was indignant now.

‘Of course, your highness. I am delighted we achieved your desire. It is always my aim to please you, sire.’

Celimus ignored the maddening obsequiousness. ‘And your man?’

‘Hmmm?’ Jessom deliberately busied himself with the papers. He did not want to answer any questions about the woman he knew as Leyen, and she would certainly not appreciate him divulging any information about her. ‘These are quite urgent, my lord.’

Celimus pushed them away. Some fluttered to the floor. ‘Jessom, you appear rather vague about this person.’

‘Do I, sire? It is not my intent.’

‘Then tell me his name.’

‘My King, we have discussed this previously. I do not wish to involve you in any matters which may incriminate you. By knowing the name of the killer, you become part of the intrigue.’

‘But I am the intrigue, Jessom.’ The olive-green gaze narrowed.

Jessom knew he must never play Celimus for a fool. The King was pretentious, often petulant, and had many qualities which a less perceptive person might consider rendered him a dolt. They would be mistaken. Jessom knew that Celimus possessed the sharpest of minds, the cruellest of tongues, and felt absolutely no remorse for any suffering. The King missed very little. He would have to tread carefully now.

‘Bring him here to Stoneheart,’ Celimus demanded, reaching for his third cake.

Jessom’s throat constricted. This was everything he did not want. ‘I am not sure I can do that, sire.’

‘Why not?’ Celimus casually brushed cake crumbs from his shirt. He slumped further in his chair, lifting one leg to rest on a nearby stool. ‘Tell me why this is impossible.’

Jessom knew not to trust the relaxed stance. ‘This assassin is not easily contacted, I must admit.’

‘Then find him. I wish to meet with him.’

‘May I ask why, my King?’

‘Because, Jessom, someone who has done my bidding where others have failed rises in my esteem. This man is useful to me. I wish to speak with him, perhaps even discuss further… tasks.’ He chose his words with care. ‘Have you paid in full?’

‘The last instalment is due on proof of death, sire,’ Jessom answered unhappily.

‘And now you have it. Your man will have to collect that payment and, when he does, you will bring him before me. Do you understand?’

‘I shall try, sire.’

‘No, Jessom. You will not try. You will do.’ The voice was no longer casual. There was clear menace in those softly spoken final three words.

The Chancellor nodded. Keen to change the subject he said lightly, ‘So you are free of the Thirsk influence, my King. This must make you happy.’

‘Not yet free.’

‘Oh?’ Jessom bent to pick up the spilled papers.

‘There is still the matter of the sister. Once she is dealt with, I shall have rid myself entirely of all connections to the Thirsk family. So this is what I propose: I want you to find out everything you can about the disappearance of the lovely Ylena. Where did Koreldy take her? He pulled the wool over my eyes on that occasion. I really believed he was going to use her and cast her aside. It suited my needs, I suppose, and I allowed myself to be duped. I shall find her though.’

Jessom was not surprised at how quickly the King’s temper changed. Suddenly he was charged with energy, all previous threats pushed aside. He fought the temptation to shake his head at the unpredictable nature of the monarch. It made him a very dangerous individual. ‘How much do we know of Koreldy’s movements?’ Jessom said.

‘Nothing, in truth. He and Ylena slipped out of Stoneheart on the evening of Thirsk’s funeral feast. No one saw them leave, although I’m told one of my guards spoke to Koreldy earlier in the day in a little-used courtyard.’

‘It had a gate, I presume?’

The King nodded. ‘The same gate where, apparently, Thirsk’s dog caused a commotion that night.’

‘Ah, that was the diversion then, not that I understand how one gets a dog to co-operate,’ the Chancellor said, picking up the King’s line of thought. He was pleased to see Celimus nod. ‘Where does the closest road lead, your highness?’

The sovereign frowned. ‘That would be towards Farnswyth, I suppose.’

‘It’s a start. I shall make enquiries. By the way, did you make provision for any staff for Koreldy during his brief stay?’

‘A page, I think. I know not which one. Why?’

‘Thank you, sire. You never know what a servant might overhear. I will look into it.’

‘Good. Now about my lost taxes and revenue — any progress?’

‘I have men infiltrating the entire Legion, sire.’

‘You remain convinced it is someone from within our own ranks?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Celimus became quiet for a few moments. Jessom knew something bad was coming. Tax collectors from all over the realm were being ambushed far too regularly for it to be random bandit raids. It had to be someone from the inside leaking information.

‘In that case,’ the King said finally, ‘from today and for every day that we fail to identify the culprit, two men from the Legion will be impaled. Take strong, healthy men — I don’t care how they are selected. Fear will spread like plague. They’ll yield the perpetrator very quickly.’ He took another cake.

His servant bowed and moved towards the door. The King stopped him. ‘And Jessom…’

‘Sire?’

‘When you find Ylena Thirsk…’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘…I want her killed.’

‘Consider it done, my lord.’

Jessom left the King’s chambers troubled. He had not successfully deflected Celimus from his desire to meet the assassin, Leyen. It was going to be hard work to persuade her to come to Stoneheart, but he had no choice now but to try. She had to be tracked down. As for Thirsk’s sister, that edict did not rattle him nearly as much.

He despised killing just for the sake of it and he was concerned that Celimus often demanded death on a whim. The whole Rittylworth escapade was a disaster for the realm and the amount of damage it could do if the truth came out would be catastrophic for Celimus’s reign. Sadly, Jessom thought, the King could not seem to grow beyond his own sense of omnipotence when subtlety was so urgently required. However, with regard to Ylena Thirsk Jessom could appreciate the necessity of her death. She was a dangerous person on the loose, for her name alone commanded such respect across the realm and particularly with the Legion. It was not a task he relished certainly but Jessom believed her death was critical to the continuing power of Celimus.

‘I’m coming for you, Ylena,’ he muttered as he stalked through the corridors of Stoneheart towards his own rooms.

FOUR

CAILECH, THE MOUNTAIN KING, stood over the prone figure slumped on filthy straw in the cell that saw neither day or night. Buried deep in the mountain out of which the fortress had been hewn, it might as well have been a tomb. Gueryn, the prisoner, hoped it would be.

‘Is he dying?’ the King asked, his jaw working to temper the anger he felt. Cailech rarely wasted words and the man he spoke to knew to offer the same courtesy. The gaoler nodded. ‘Willing himself to death, my lord. He hasn’t taken food in a long time.’

‘Water?’

The man shook his head. ‘Doesn’t talk; doesn’t move much either.’

‘I should have been told,’ Cailech said, disgusted. ‘Summon Rashlyn immediately.’

The gaoler disappeared, well aware that he had not pleased his King. He called for a runner and a message was sent to the strange, dark man who was barshi to the sovereign.

Inside the cell, Cailech paced as he thought. He had no idea who this man was, other than a soldier of the famous Morgravian Legion. Initially his delight in capturing him came purely from the opportunity to make an example of the Morgravian through torture and humiliation, to salvage some revenge for those of his people slaughtered by the cruel King from the south. The senseless killing of innocent youngsters, not even warriors, had offended Cailech deep into his soul. He would make the brash new King pay. But then Romen Koreldy had returned to the Razors, despite a warning from his previous visit that he risked death by doing so. Koreldy — whom Cailech could not help but like and, to some degree, admire — had spun a web of excuses, none of which resonated as truth to the Mountain King, but he could not prove otherwise. Even more strangely, Koreldy had seemed to recognise the Morgravian prisoner, even though the soldier claimed no knowledge of Koreldy. Why then had Koreldy argued to save the prisoner’s life? And why, in turn, had this man gladly given up his own chance at escape, bravely attempting to lead the Mountain warriors away from the trail of his fellow escapees, Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth of Yentro?

And so King Cailech, who could tease at a secret as a dog gnawed at a bone, did not kill this Morgravian soldier as his heart wanted to. Instead, driven by an instinct he was still unsure about, he had incarcerated him. Had even had the man’s near fatal wounds healed, in order that he might live and prove useful in luring Koreldy back to the Razors and to death.

Cailech had not taken the escape of his prisoners with any grace. If not for the recapture of Gueryn le Gant he would have had his own men executed for allowing the three Morgravians to slip past their guard. They had had help of course, from Cailech’s own second-in-command. Lothryn’s deceit was a matter which continued to make the King’s gut twist, for they had been the closest of comrades. As brothers, no less. It seemed unthinkable that Lothryn had chosen betrayal, and Cailech was uncertain yet of his reasons. Whether it was out of affection for the female Morgravian, or out of grief for the loss of his wife, who had died in birthing the King’s son. Or, more likely, a result of their argument about the near cannibalism of le Gant and the other prisoners. Whatever it was, it mattered little now. Loyalty had been asked, Lothryn had refused to give it and now he was paying the price.

Returning his mind to the prisoner in the cell, the King felt sure that Koreldy was not finished with this one yet. He would come back to rescue him and then Cailech would deal with them both. He smiled humourlessly at the thought.

His musings were disturbed by movement from le Gant. A flicker of the prisoner’s eyelids told him that the starving man was aware of the King’s presence. The candle which the gaoler had lit threw a warmer pallor over the Morgravian than he possessed. The chill of the cell was biting and the constant drip of water in one corner was enough to send most mad. It had created a mossy slime down one rough wall but the earthy smell did little to mask the stink from le Gant, who had long ago given up caring for himself or his health. In fact, he had deliberately laid in his own dirt, hoping that infection would find his old arrow wound — a gift from Cailech — and kill him. He was clearly determined to die.

All of this enraged the King but he held onto his famous temper as he spoke to his prisoner. ‘Understand, le Gant, that I will keep you alive. I must, for you will bring Koreldy back. Not only will I have his secret, but I will take his life. I know you hear me, soldier.’

The man moved then, enough to let Cailech know that he was paying attention.

‘Why the silence, Morgravian? I would have thought you would welcome some company.’

‘Not yours,’ the voice croaked, weak but still tinged with anger.

Cailech nodded, pleased with the recognition. At least the prisoner had not lost his wits.

‘We will make you well, le Gant. And then you will return here.’

‘And I will repeat the process,’ Gueryn said defiantly, still not opening his eyes.

‘As will I. You might crave death, soldier, but I will not grant it. Get used to the idea and make it better for yourself. Choose to live. Who knows, you might even see Koreldy again before you both die at the time and in the manner of my choosing.’

‘You are so naive, Cailech,’ Gueryn chided, weak as he felt. ‘No wonder Celimus isn’t worried about a threat from the north,’ he lied. ‘He knows you can be provoked into thoughtless rage and your kingdom dismantled at the time of his choosing and manner.’

Gueryn knew the echo of his words would enrage the man who stood above him, and he waited for the kick or punch that would surely come. Instead he heard a choking sound as the King of the Mountains swallowed his anger.

‘Don’t be so sure, soldier. Your King is the ruin of Morgravia and I shall be its ultimate destroyer.’

Gueryn had no time to respond. He heard footsteps and knew this would be the healer arriving, the strange man who had brought him back from the brink of death once before.

‘Sire,’ said the new voice.

‘I want him made well again — no matter what it takes,’ the King growled.

Rashlyn nodded. ‘I shall see to it.’

‘And this time he’s to be force-fed and watered daily.’

‘It will be done, my lord.’

Gueryn was moved from the dungeon to a room he recalled from his nightmares. It was here he had watched Cailech execute the kind, brave woman called Elspyth. She was a Morgravian, captured with Koreldy. How he had cheered inwardly when she had stood up to the King. It was she who had patiently cut away the stitches that bound his eyelids together so that he might look upon his rescuers. The one he had thought was Wyl, had heard speak in a strange voice yet with such a striking similarity to Wyl’s manner, turned out to be a handsome mercenary from Grenadyn. The man had certainly known Wyl but the disappointment had cut through Gueryn as keenly as a blade.

Elspyth was every bit the feisty woman he had guessed she would be and pretty too, whilst his previous torturer, Lothryn, had turned friend. Gueryn could not imagine what fate had befallen the Mountain man who had betrayed his King. He had been Cailech’s second-in-command and so the defection would have been a damaging blow to the King. Gueryn was glad. He wished he could deal some damaging blows of his own, but he was pathetically weak, his only way of fighting back being to try and kill himself. That had been a fight in vain. The cruel healer was preparing to bring Gueryn back to full strength so they could continue laughing in his face.

At this moment Gueryn had never felt closer to tears. He was not a man given to emotional outbursts; trained by the stoic Fergys Thirsk, he kept his thoughts and emotions in check. He had had many reasons to weep in his life. Since adulthood he had given into none of them, but he had never felt more like doing so than now. He felt useless — a senior soldier of the Morgravian Legion and personal attendant to the Thirsk family, and unable to offer any resistance to the enemy.

He spat on the ground in disgust.

‘Save that,’ Rashlyn called over his shoulder. ‘No use in wasting precious liquid, or I’ll do just as my King asks and subject you to the added humiliation of having men hold you down and force food and water into your throat.’

Gueryn sighed. He remembered Elspyth’s sad end and how her blood had gushed from the savage cut made by Cailech. It had congealed around Gueryn’s boots, marking him as her killer because he would not relent and tell them what they wanted to hear. Blackmail was only one of Cailech’s weapons. Gueryn remembered how Rashlyn had smiled as Elspyth died, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. He would not hesitate to hurt Gueryn, if given authority. But for now his job was to heal and Gueryn came to the painful realisation that the King of the Mountains was right. It was pointless fighting it, for they would continue the cycle and keep him alive — if not fit — until he was of no further use. But perhaps if he regained his health he could be of some use and strike some of those damaging blows. He could not think clearly enough yet, for his mind was dulled by starvation and thirst, but he promised himself to plan ways to hurt Cailech.

‘There’s no need to force me,’ he murmured, his voice cracking from lack of use.

‘Oh?’ Rashlyn said, turning now.

‘I’ll eat and drink.’

‘Good, the other method is rather messy.’ The wild-looking man cackled horribly.

‘I make a demand, though, for this co-operation.’

‘You are in no position to make demands,’ Rashlyn replied softly.

‘Your mad King wants me well and healthy. I will make this easy for you, for all of us, if he’ll allow me time outside to breathe fresh air and to work my muscles. If he won’t permit this then I will fight you, and I will promise you that I will find a way to die and anger him. Remember whose head will be on the chopping block then, Rashlyn,’ Gueryn warned.

There was silence whilst the man he spoke to digested the import of his words.

‘I shall speak to the King. But now you eat,’ he said. He clapped his hands to summon a bearer with food.

‘You will remain here until I release you. Consider yourself lucky, Morgravian. You have a window to look out of and a comfortable pallet to sleep on.’

‘I want to be allowed outside for periods and for that I’ll exchange your comforts for the dungeon.’

Rashlyn acted as though Gueryn had said nothing. ‘You will remain chained for the entire time you are in my care. Have no delusions, soldier. There is no escape, not even if you breathe the air of outside.’

‘I did it once before,’ Gueryn said, more out of defiance than any real threat.

‘With help. It will never be offered again.’

‘Where is Lothryn?’ he asked and hated the sound of the other man’s cruel laughter.

‘Nowhere you can help him,’ Rashlyn answered, delighted that he could hurt with words.

‘Is he alive?’

‘Hardly,’ came the cold reply. ‘Although it was a lot of fun dealing with him.’

Despite his lack of strength, Gueryn threw himself at the small dark man, his body toppling towards the King’s barshi out of pure will rather than an ability to move freely.

But Rashlyn held his hand up the moment he heard Gueryn move and for the first time in his life Gueryn felt real terror, spine-tingling fright that made the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck stand on end. For at Rashlyn’s gesture the soldier found himself pinned in mid-air. The thought flitted through his mind that this must look comical but then his wits were flooded by the realisation that something awesome and terrible had just occurred. Rashlyn was a sorcerer and had wielded magic upon him.

‘I will make it hurt next time,’ the barshi said softly. ‘Never try that again, Morgravian. If you have never believed it before, then believe it now that magic exists. You and the rather strange position you hang in are testimony to that. Remember how it feels, le Gant, for I can immobilise you like this for eternity if I so choose.’

Rashlyn removed the spell and Gueryn crashed painfully to the ground. He groaned in agony and gut-wrenching despair as he grasped the full terror of what he was up against.

FIVE

FYNCH SAT AT THE back entrance to the Forbidden Fruit. Knave had followed his friend’s suggestion to remain hidden for the time being but he had good vision from his quiet spot and could see the boy kicking at a stone, biding his time until someone arrived who might speak to him.

Several women had already hurried past and in through the dark doorway, but they had not struck Fynch as being the friendly target he was looking for. He trusted his instincts, knew the right person would come along. It had been a couple of hours now. Winter was mild this year but still cool enough to chill his thinly covered bones. He must have looked cold, sitting on the fence stump, when the young woman arrived. She seemed in no rush and he could not see if her full-length cloak covered a revealing gown. With no firm knowledge of how a brothel actually operated his mind bothered at such minor detail.

‘You’ll catch your death out here,’ she said, eyeing him around her hood.

He recognised the Briavel accent. So she was a local. ‘Yes, it’s right cold today,’ he replied in a strong northern dialect he had picked up from listening to some of the other lads, sent by their families to work at the kitchens of Stoneheart. He pitched it perfectly, masking his own less distinctive southern accent.

‘You’re far from home, boy. Morgravia?’

Bullseye, he thought. ‘That I am, madam. How sharp you are.’

She smiled. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

Fynch nodded. ‘My sister.’

‘Oh? And who might that be?’

‘Her name is Hildyth. I’ve travelled many days to see her. Our mam’s dead. I was sent to find her.’

Her expression melted as he had anticipated it would. ‘You poor mite — she’s not here, love. Come on inside. Let’s warm you up a bit.’

Fynch followed, and as they walked past some of the other women, he heard them use her name.

‘Thank you, Rene,’ he said as she pulled up a chair by a stove and sat him down.

‘There, that should warm those thin bones of yours. Now, how about something to eat? You must be hungry — boys are always hungry.’

He was not; hunger rarely entered Fynch’s mindset. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, forcing a grin, not enjoying beguiling this kind soul.

‘I knew it. I’ve got a couple of young nephews and their bellies are always grinding.’ She ruffled his hair and set about gathering some items to tempt him.

A few women moved into and about the parlour, but they ignored Fynch and he them. He stared into the flames of the stove, ensuring he looked cold, scared even, and not open to conversation with others. As he became lost in his thoughts, he realised he had already begun thinking about Romen’s murderer as being Wyl. He wondered whose shoes Wyl walked in now. Fynch had no doubt the whore was involved, even though Liryk had looked shocked at the Queen’s insinuation. He intended that she would lead him to Wyl.

‘There you are, sweetie,’ Rene said, arriving at his side and dragging his thoughts back to the warm kitchen. ‘Cheese and home-made chutney is the best I can do. And here’s a knuckle of bread. I’ve put a glass of milk behind you on the table. What’s your name by the way?’

Fynch hated milk. ‘I’m Fynch. Rene, you’re very kind.’

‘I just feel badly you’ve come so far for nothing,’ she said, her expression soft. ‘My little brother died some years past. He would have been ten summers now, a few years older than you.’

Inwardly he sighed. He was ten summers but knew he looked younger. ‘You must miss him,’ he said, forcing himself to munch on the food.

‘So much. He was a lovely lad. Shouldn’t have drowned. It was an accident but still…’

He had opened an old wound. ‘I’m sorry, Rene.’

She forced herself to brighten. ‘I know. You remind me of him a little with your light colouring. Somehow I don’t think he would have trekked so many miles to find me though. You must love your sister very much to have come so far.’

‘I had to. We need Hildyth. Father is sick too and there are five wee ones, all younger than me.’ He laid the accent on thickly, suggesting he was becoming upset. He was, in truth, for lying was not Fynch’s style.

‘Oh, now, now. Come on. Hildyth is no longer working here — in fact, I know she’s left Crowyll. Let me see if I can find out any more for you.’

He nodded, pushing more bread into his mouth so he would not have to lie any further to such a decent person.

She disappeared for a few minutes and returned whispering with someone. Another woman, slightly older, regarded him. ‘You’re Hildyth’s brother?’

He nodded, not allowing himself to fib any more. Her eyes were narrowed. ‘She never said anything about a brother.’

‘Hush,’ Rene said. ‘His mother’s just died. There’s several children. Be gentle.’

The other woman shook her head. ‘Hildyth’s gone. She left on the night of that fellow’s death, the one who got stabbed.’

Fynch wrinkled his brow in confusion. Rene rolled her eyes at her companion’s heavy tongue. ‘We had a mishap here not so long ago. A noble. We don’t know anything about him, but obviously someone wanted him dead. Hildyth was… well, she was with him — or I should say looking after him at the time. I took her home.’

The other woman bent down. ‘Do you know what your sister does for a living, boy?’

Again he nodded. ‘She makes men happy,’ he said seriously and saw Rene’s face soften once again with affection.

‘That’s right, love, she does that,’ Rene said. ‘Go on, tell him.’ She grimaced at the woman beside her.

This time her friend sighed. ‘She came back much later that night, must have been in the early hours of the morning, when all the fuss had died down. Everyone was asleep or gone back to their homes. I just happened to be still around and I saw her.’

‘What did she say?’ Fynch asked, listening intently now.

‘Nothing, really. I mean, she looked terrified and who wouldn’t be with what she’d just been through. I asked her what had happened.’ The woman shrugged. ‘She told me briefly about the man’s death, said she was leaving.’

‘Why did she come back, I wonder?’ Rene queried.

‘She said she’d left something behind in the room, but she didn’t want to see all those soldiers again so she’d waited until the place was quiet.’

‘What was it?’ Fynch hoped for a clue.

Irritatingly the woman shrugged again. ‘How would I know? She just stepped inside one of the chambers and was out again almost straightaway.’

‘Did she tell you where she was going?’ Fynch held his breath.

‘I didn’t know she was going anywhere to even ask. She was acting strangely, I recall — I mean, apart from being scared there was something else. It was as though she was drunk, but I smelt no liquor on her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Rene asked. Fynch was glad she did.

‘Well, I can’t really say. You know, staggering a little, unsure of her words, couldn’t hold my gaze. I just figured she was upset, but she seemed really uncomfortable around me which would explain why she left me so suddenly.’

Fynch tried to phrase his question differently. ‘Did Hildyth say anything that might help me find her?’ His accent slipped in his determination to learn as much as he could but neither of the women seemed to notice.

‘No. Perhaps she decided to go home, not that I know where that is. She said a name… a girl’s name. I didn’t catch it. Miriam or something. I don’t know anything else.’

‘Does that help you, Fynch?’ Rene asked, her face filled with hope.

He hated doing it but he shook his head, adopting a glum expression. ‘No, but I’ll just keep looking,’ he said. Inside, his heart lurched at the mention of Myrren, which was surely the name Hildyth had spoken. ‘Thanks rightly for the cheese and bread,’ he said to Rene. ‘And to you, miss.’ He nodded at the other woman.

She gave her habitual shrug and left, Fynch already forgotten.

‘Can I pack you a little food?’

‘No, Rene. I’ll be fine.’

‘Good luck, then.’

Fynch surprised himself by giving her a hug. After all his sadness it was uplifting to have such a positive lead. ‘I’ll come back and see you some day.’

She smiled, knowing he would do no such thing.

He left to find Knave and they quickly moved away from the Forbidden Fruit. Fynch’s mind was racing. ‘I’ll explain everything in a moment,’ he said to the dog. ‘Let’s just get away towards the woodland.’

Drinking water from the same stream that Wyl had in his new body, Fynch gathered his thoughts. He found it helpful to speak them aloud to his silent friend, arrange them neatly before storing them tidily away.

‘Wyl is alive — I’m convinced of it. The vision told me so. I have to believe it’s happened again and that he now walks as his executioner. If I’m right, then it was Hildyth who killed Wyl, and then Wyl had to lie about the man breaking in and stabbing Romen.’ Fynch adjusted his position to lean against the big dog. Knave licked him. ‘I suppose he discovered himself as this woman and disappeared from the scene as fast as he could.’ The boy shook his head, imagining how distressed Wyl must have been. ‘The woman at the brothel remembers Hildyth muttering a name. She said Miriam but I think she means Myrren. Only a handful of people know about Myrren — none of them in Briavel save our Queen and us. I’m certain he’s become Hildyth. We have to find her.’

Knave wandered away. Fynch assumed the dog was hungry and would probably hunt down a careless rabbit. He settled back against a tree and closed his eyes to ponder. When he needed to think things through he had taught himself to let go. To stop teasing at one strand of thought and let his mind roam amongst all its wealth of gathered information. Invariably he found that clues began to show themselves as threads intertwined. Where would Wyl go, he wondered. The memory of his recent vision slipped into his mind. He went back over what had been said and the image of the town and the fields of hops. Why had that picture been given to him? Where had Myrren come from?

Fynch sifted through his recollections of overheard conversations between excited city folk during the witch trial. He relaxed, turning his face up to the watery sunlight that filtered through the canopy of leaves. It came to him moments later. Baelup! Could that be where Wyl was heading? Baelup was where the realm’s best ale was made — he knew this from listening to the soldiers reminiscing about trips to the tiny town. Hops were used in ale-making. It was a clue. Perhaps Wyl was trying to track down Myrren’s family.

The dog returned. It carried something in its mouth but it was no creature. Knave dropped it into Fynch’s lap. It looked like a ragged thong until Fynch realised it was the bracelet Romen used to wear.

‘It’s a sign, Knave! He must have hidden here on the night he became Hildyth. Wyl left this deliberately, I’m sure. Perhaps he hoped you would find it, you clever dog.’

He scratched Knave’s ears and hugged the animal close. ‘We’re going to Baelup,’ Fynch whispered to his friend. ‘I shall need a horse. Valentyna’s purse will be put to good use.’

Wyl had collected a tiny stash of coins from a hiding spot in Crowyll, the whereabouts of which Faryl’s memory had released. She had similar hides located across both realms, he realised, so she could access money relatively swiftly. This was very little here — he would need more, much more. He took the time to write down the locations, in case Faryl’s essence and memories faded. He learned that her mind was tidy and her ways thorough. He was impressed.

If you must be a woman, then be glad it’s this one, he reminded himself constantly.

Faryl was not just good at her chosen work, he discovered, she was the very best. Her kills shocked him. Highly placed and influential people from so many different cities, and even realms across the ocean, had drawn their last breath as a result of her actions. She felt nothing for her victims; Faryl was cold. More than that… she was bitter. Why? This he could not tease out from where it was buried deep. It was connected with her family, he sensed, but no more would come through. Wyl left it. It might surface, as so many vague recollections of Romen’s had.

Wyl was riding towards Morgravia, destination Baelup. It was a start. He knew that Myrren’s mother had left that town almost immediately after her family’s traumatic deaths. Lymbert had reluctantly given him details of where they had found Myrren, and Wyl had travelled to Baelup to collect the dog, Knave, as he had promised the girl. He had met the mother only briefly — they had not even swapped names. He had tried to explain that he was from Pearlis, a member of the Legion, but she had hardly paid him any attention. She was almost out of her wits, packing her belongings frantically.

He had told her that he had promised Myrren he would pick up her pup, which the mother had been glad to hand over without further questions. Where she had gone after that he could not guess, but it was the only lead he had.

Drawing on Faryl’s good sense he had donned a disguise. It definitely felt more comfortable to be travelling as a man and helped somewhat to ease the despair of the last couple of evenings. Until this moment, it was all he could ask of himself not to grab his blade and open his wrists.

That bleak thought had been well and truly scrutinised the night before. He had come close, too. It had seemed the only answer when every demon came to haunt him as he slept rough beneath a hidden moon. He hated being a woman, despised the very sight of the body that had not so long ago stirred him to thoughts of lust when it belonged to Hildyth. The thought of being trapped in that body forever convinced him there was no point trying to live on.

Somehow he had talked himself through the urge to draw blood and allow it to leak away quickly and strongly. Thoughts of Valentyna swirled in his mind and he could not do it. Valentyna, Ylena, Fynch, even Elspyth — they all needed him to stay alive.

Remembering Elspyth inevitably led him to think on Lothryn. Wyl had given Elspyth a promise, one he knew he could not break, that he would go back to find out Lothryn’s fate. At the back of his mind too was the thought that he must recover Gueryn’s body and bring it home to Argorn.

Argorn! His eyes watered as he remembered his father. No, he could not kill himself. The Thirsks were a proud line and he was its last son, even if the world no longer recognised him as such. He must fight on and expose the root of all this evil: Celimus.

And so Wyl now found himself on a lonely, dusty road, a man in a woman’s body, dressed plainly as a man and carrying weapons. No one who glimpsed those would mistake him for a vulnerable lone traveller. He displayed them deliberately in order that any thief who may consider tackling him would think twice at the sight of the sword. His blades were once again close to his chest, lying uncomfortably against the breasts he had bound tightly to flatten. He had not been tempted to look at himself in the mirror amongst Faryl’s belongings. It was too much for his mind to bear right now. He preferred the discomfort of the bindings to the disarming weight and swell of his breasts when they moved freely.

He had been tempted to hack off her hair, but had resisted, reasoning that he may well be grateful for the female disguise Faryl offered. Instead he pushed it under a wig — made by a master craftsman, he could tell — and pulled a cap down over it. He also wore a false beard, again of such quality that he knew the pieces had been purchased at high cost from craftsmen who asked no questions and accepted only gold. The beard was his greatest comfort, together with the artful hair glued to the back of his hands. In this guise, he could convince himself he was a man again.

Wyl estimated he was now a day from the Morgravian border and a couple of days’ ride then to Baelup. The trail he was hoping to pick up was almost a decade cold and, although he had no choice but to try, he doubted he would find the scent of Myrren’s mother. The thought reminded him of Knave. He hoped the dog had sensed his death; it seemed to know when he was in trouble. If so, then perhaps Knave had already led Fynch to Crowyll and tracked down the bracelet. It would resonate in Fynch’s sharp brain and set the lad thinking. Wyl felt confident his young friend would work it out and then come looking for him. He would like both of them close by when and if he finally found the manwitch.

He refused to allow himself to think on Valentyna beyond wondering whether she would know by now. Of course she would. Would she be grieving? He hoped so, but then again perhaps she would see it as a fitting end to a flawed relationship. He could not forget the grief in her eyes, well-masked but evident to him. The accusation of treachery was clear in that pained glance. Her public accusation of his treachery was almost more than he could bear, but borne it he had, for he loved her more than he had ever loved anyone or any thing, including himself. He would gladly die for her. Wished that he could do so now — leave this wretched existence and save her the agony of Celimus. But he could not be sure of saving himself or Valentyna. All he could do was grit his teeth and go on, holding onto hope.

Wyl spurred his horse into a gallop. There was no time to waste in sorrowful musings.

SIX

ENTERING GRIMBLE TOWN WYL knew he could not stand the tight bindings around his chest for much longer. The temptation to spend the night at one of the two inns got the better of him. He quickly found stabling for his horse. The stablemaster hardly looked twice at him as he promised sweet water and fresh hay for the mare. Wyl reminded himself to stop being quite so self-conscious.

‘Which inn do you recommend, Master Paul?’ Wyl asked, adding some extra coin to the amount required. It was an old habit, one Gueryn had drummed into him from an early age. Pay well for whoever looks after your horse. His care might save your life one day, his mentor used to say.

Wyl extended the creed to all areas of his life. A few extra coins, especially silver, in someone’s palm often made that person unwittingly his through the subtle bond of generosity. Thinking of Gueryn brought a wave of sadness which he blinked back fiercely.

The stablemaster replied, ‘Well, the Four Feathers be as good an inn as you’ll find in these parts. The ale is watered only lightly and Kidger’s wife does an honest stew.’

‘Thank you,’ Wyl said. ‘I’ll see you on the morrow.’

‘That you will, sir,’ Master Paul said, already bending towards the buckets of water to wash the horse. Wyl smiled. Gueryn had been right. His horse would be fresh for tomorrow’s long ride having been rubbed down properly and well fed.

He strolled into the town proper as late afternoon settled upon it with the stillness that often comes as the sun lowers. At this time of year, once the sun had dipped low in the sky the temperature plummeted and the evenings became crisp. Wyl could feel it chilling as he cast a glance about Grimble Town’s main square. It was a neat, sleepy place, known mostly for its orchards which yielded Morgravia’s tastiest almonds and prized cherries. Come early summer the town swelled as transient workers flooded in to help with the harvest. It was also handily positioned not far from one of the main routes into Pearlis so it enjoyed valuable seasonal trade from merchants.

Right now it was quiet, which suited Wyl. He made his way towards the Four Feathers and was relieved when Kidger paid no special notice to the bearded stranger asking for a room. Faryl had a skill in pitching her voice low enough to be acceptably manly, so it drew no attention. He understood from her memory this had taken years of practice and silently thanked her for her diligence.

Wyl paid in advance for a night’s lodging and meals. Hearty smells wafted through from the kitchen and he suddenly realised how hungry he was. ‘That smells good. What’s on tonight?’ he asked.

‘The missus has got some lamb stew simmering or there’s chickens on the spit.’

Both sounded delicious. ‘I’ll have stew.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Kidger replied. ‘The girls will be serving from dusk.’

Wyl nodded and gratefully made his way to his room. He sank on to the bed with such pleasure it might have been down-filled and covered with fine linen rather than worn sheets over a horsehair mattress. Nevertheless the bed and the room were clean and a pleasant draught of air came from the open window. He had meant to undress straightaway. Instead he dozed off, the bindings forgotten as sleep claimed him. A loud clatter of pans beneath his window woke him abruptly less than an hour later and the pain across his chest reminded him the bindings were still in place. He ordered a bath to be brought up and filled.

‘The bathhouse in town is very reasonable, sir,’ said the somewhat sullen girl who took his request.

Wyl realised she did not fancy hauling up a tub or the water. He grinned through the beard, hoping it looked friendly. ‘I know, but I don’t feel like leaving my room. Here.’ He handed her two crowns, an exorbitant sum in her small world.

‘Oh, sir! I…’

‘Please. And bring my water quickly.’

She grinned, tucking the money beneath her blouse. ‘At once, sir.’

Impressive, Wyl thought. If he ever allowed himself to be seen as Faryl, he must remember that trick.

True to the girl’s word, hot water was soon steaming in the tub and she sent up soap as well as scented oil. He thanked the two lads who had dragged up the pails and the tub. Obviously the serving girl had coin enough now to pay for lackeys.

When the door closed and he was finally alone, Wyl stripped down. He struggled to untie the lengths of torn sheeting which held his breasts flat, and when they eventually loosened he sighed with relief at the wondrous sensation of being free again. He refused to look down at himself. Instead, he poured a few drops of the musky oil into the tub to soften the water, then, after checking the latch was firmly on the door once again, he climbed in, immersing his body as much as he could, averting his eyes from the smoothly muscled yet clearly feminine legs which bent at well-shaped knees.

Wyl had thought to have a flask of wine sent up as well and he sampled it now, glad he had paid that little bit extra to Kidger, for the first swallow told him it was of an acceptable quality. He closed his eyes, blanked his mind and focused on nothing but the soothing sensation of the water warming his tired, unfamiliar body. He soaked the beard and eyebrows then pulled them away from his face, the glue dissolving as Faryl’s memory had told him it would. Wyl placed them on a nearby chair next to the wig; these were valuable possessions to him now.

Unpinning his hair he let it fall loose, marvelling at its heaviness as it dropped, its ends curling into the water. Wyl ran his hands through it to push it off his face. Gone was his own coarse red hair; gone was Romen’s smoothly combed plait. Instead he boasted these lustrous locks of a curious darkly golden hue. He touched them, unable to resist, and was rewarded by the feel of their soft texture. He remembered the sensation of Faryl’s hair against his body when she bent over him, seemingly to begin his smoothing; in reality, to end his life with the punching of the blade into his heart. Wyl shuddered from the memory of that powerful and shocking sensation, and then the equally terrifying tearing away from Romen’s body as his spirit moved into his killer’s flesh.

His eyes remained fixed on the wall opposite, where a small dresser stood. He knew that on the other side of the chamber was a table with a mirror, which he had ignored and intended to go on ignoring. He had no desire to see himself as a woman. Feeling his hair with wonder was as close as he wanted to get to knowing this strange new body.

Again he closed his eyes and his thoughts roamed to Myrren’s mother and the knowledge that she had betrayed her husband. Had Myrren’s father known he was raising another man’s child? That question led him to consider Lothryn’s sadness at giving up his newborn son to Cailech, even though the babe was not truly his but had been sired by the King. Cailech had reclaimed him now to nurture and raise as his heir. Wyl shook his head and worried again at how Cailech would have dealt with brave Lothryn. He knew the King of the Mountains was too vengeful to simply kill his once-loyal second, his best friend.

Lothryn’s certain suffering prompted thoughts of Elspyth and his promise to her that he would return to the Razors to find the man she loved. He wondered where she was and how she would get on with Ylena, and his spirits plummeted further as he thought of these two women travelling alone — frightened, despairing at the loss of loved ones, their happy lives shattered because of him. He could not even protect them; instead he needed them to be courageous and fend for themselves until he could return to them. He sent a silent plea to Shar to watch over them.

The act of prayer put him in a sombre mood. He finished his soak swiftly, deliberately ignoring the chance to soap himself. He could not bring himself, just now, to touch the body he resided in. Wyl stood to reach the towel. The tub rocked on its uneven base and, in that moment of alarm that he may tip it all over, Wyl caught sight of his naked body in the mirror. The shock was complete.

He fought back the surge as his gorge rose and opened his eyes again. Reflected was the image of a striking woman. She was not exquisitely pretty like Ylena or classically beautiful as Valentyna; instead Faryl possessed something else which was hard to describe. It blossomed from confidence. He noticed the arrogant twitch of a smile on the neat, clearly defined lips. The eyes were feline and sensual in an oval face that was tanned lightly from the sun. Her hair, he mused, was probably her vanity. If not, she would have cut it short for it was an encumbrance to her trade. Digging into her rapidly fading essence he realised that Faryl needed her hair to feel feminine, to remind herself she was a woman, because she spent so much of her life posing as different men as well as following a brutal profession. The body itself was a marvel to his eyes. Curvy but strong. She ran to keep herself fit apparently, favouring hills for her exercise for they tested her stamina but also gave her cover. He nodded. She would make an excellent soldier of the Legion with her rigorous fitness routines and high level of fighting skills. She favoured the blade but was handy with a sword and skilled with a bow.

Feeling foolish he smiled at himself in the mirror, and was rewarded by a relaxing of Faryl’s normally intense look into a softness he had not glimpsed previously. She rarely used this expression, he realised, just as Fynch rarely lost his sober look, but her neglect was for different reasons. Fynch was just a serious sort whereas Faryl, Wyl now knew, had little to smile about. He tried to find specific memories, but the source of her grim outlook on life was still hidden from him. He must be patient. It would yield itself eventually. He stared at the smile on the face looking back at him. It touched the feline eyes, sparking them into girlish michievousness. Despite hating Faryl for what she had done to him, Wyl wished he could have glimpsed that smile when she was alive. Any man could fall head over heels for it.

Many minutes had passed; he was almost dry in fact. Then, as he stood there feeling like a peeping Tom stealing a look at a naked woman, he uncovered the disturbing memories. Wyl flinched as buried hurts emerged from Faryl’s youthful years. Her elder brothers — twins — had raped her regularly, as had her father. The younger boys — she had five brothers in all — knew of the rapes but were too scared of their burly elders to do anything about it, except, after the vile couplings were done, to help her to the brook nearby to wash herself clean. Her youngest brother, just ten, would cry as he dabbed at her bruises with witch-hazel spirit and she would weep at having to share this atrocity.

Wyl’s heart lurched as he learned that Faryl’s mother also knew of the rapes, but was helpless to prevent them so cowed and battered was she by her brutish husband. And so the abuses continued, until Faryl took her life into her own hands and killed her father. She stuck a blade into his stretched throat as he lay above her, taking his pleasure with his only daughter. She had relished his blood gushing over her; it was cathartic. Then she had pushed his corpse from between her legs and walked to the brook, as she had done on so many previous occasions. This time she was not weeping and she was not scared. Naked, she took her time bathing and cleaning herself.

Her twin brothers had come then, trembling in fury and fright. She had defiantly raised her catlike eyes to the handsome, perverted pair. ‘Watch your backs, boys,’ she had threatened. ‘One day I’ll be coming for you.’

Her calmness and the demonic look in her eyes had stilled their tongues and rattled their minds. Neither moved, too shocked by the sight of the bloodied corpse in the empty stable.

‘I’m leaving now,’ she had said, climbing out of the water and, not even bothering to dry herself, pulling on some clothes. ‘You’re evil, both of you. I hope Shar finds a way to take you soon.’

She spat on the ground between them, picked up her cleaned blade and, just fourteen, walked away from her life of despair, vowing never to desire a man. She had enjoyed the sensation of killing her father and, in her bitterness, looked forward to doing the same to other men. Her only regret was that her youngest brother might suffer for her bravery.

‘If you lay a finger on Tye, I’ll kill you both, and horribly,’ she said as a final warning over her shoulder.

She had not needed to carry out her threat. It seemed Shar had heard her plea, and the brothers died in a freak accident when their horse was startled, overbalanced their cart and they plunged down a ravine to their death.

Wyl, eavesdropping on Faryl’s memories, realised that she had indeed looked after Tye, sending money home in secret for him. One day, a few years after she had escaped, she had met him covertly and taken him away. She had continued to send money to what remained of her family. Faryl had lost track of Tye, but no longer worried about him for her brother was now rich and enjoyed a new life as a merchant.

Wyl felt hollow as he returned his gaze to the mirror and Faryl’s reflection. He felt pity, but understood that she had long ago rejected any such sentiment. She preferred to be utterly in control of her life and remained contemptuous of most men. Faryl’s coldness would never have warmed. She was an assassin and enjoyed her work.

He learned how killing Koreldy in the brothel was a thoroughly satisfying task until it ended so badly for her.

He shook himself clear of her memories and noticed with pleasure that she was a tall woman — he had got used to towering above people as Romen. Flat and trim though her belly was, it felt empty and interrupted him now with a loud grumble. He felt hungry enough to eat all the stew and a helping of the fowl. Towelling himself unnecessarily, he felt the sombre mood dissipate slightly and he was grateful, for it clouded his thinking. He was glad his curiosity had won through. Learning about Faryl’s past had enabled him to turn the key on it. He was Faryl now. He had no choice but to use her body to all of its best advantages and not lose sight of his mission to find Myrren’s true father and learn the secret of her gift. It was frustrating having to give over so much time and energy to chasing down strangers whilst Valentyna remained vulnerable to Celimus. But, as with Elspyth and Ylena, he was useless to the Queen of Briavel until he solved this nightmarish curse. He had no intention of being killed again; that said, he could hardly bear the thought of remaining as Faryl for the rest of his living days. The temptation to choose a victim himself flitted through his mind, but the seer had told him that he could not control this gift of Myrren’s. He could not choose who to become. It would be murder anyway, he reminded himself. No, the answer to this curse remained with the manwitch and finding him remained his priority. Wyl prayed once again that Shar would protect the three women he loved from the dark grasp of the man he hated.

Reluctantly he lifted the strips of linen which would help him look like a man again. Wyl sighed, knowing it was only for an hour or two, then wasted no further time in binding his breasts flat and climbing into fresh clothes. He swished his previous garments in the still warm bath and rubbed at them with the soap, congratulating himself as he realised this simple act brought all three of his personalities together: Faryl’s diligence, Romen’s need to be neat and tidy and Wyl’s training to take advantage of every opportunity. He squeezed the clothes out and hung them wherever he could position them on a chair to enjoy the draught.

Darkness had fallen. He should hurry down to eat. Checking his room for any giveaway signs of Faryl, he was convinced all had been well hidden. He re-glued the beard to his face and donned the wig, pinning his hair very carefully this time because he did not have the luxury of the hat to hold things in place. He would need to be vigilant tonight. Still, he was not planning to do anything more than eat his meal quickly and return to his room. Tidying away the glue, he satisfied himself in the mirror that he was now Thom Bentwood again — his alias for this journey.

He headed downstairs into the common dining room, marvelling at how easily Faryl’s body slipped into a masculine stride. His mind turned hungrily towards the lamb stew. He swept the chamber with a practised gaze without being obvious, taking in that the common room was busy with a group of men, some of them Legionnaires.

Wyl’s heart skipped but he settled his nerves. None of these soldiers could possibly know him. He did recognise one; a man older than himself whom he had never had much time for when he had been General. Wyl remembered the fellow to be lazy, the sort who looked for short cuts and always on to some lurk or another. He was loud of personality, though, and tended to impress the younger soldiers with his wit and confidence.

Wyl took a swallow of ale, deliberately looking away and around the room as he tried to remember the fellow’s name. It came to him. Always good with the ladies, he recalled, as he watched the man give one of the serving girls a brash smile. Wyl fiddled with his beard as he waited, trying not to think of his breasts which had sounded a fresh ache, threatening to ruin his appetite.

‘Lamb stew, wasn’t it, Master Bentwood?’ a plump young girl asked, startling him as she set down a huge clay plate. He nodded distractedly and she smiled. ‘I’ll be right back with some bread. Can I bring you some more ale, sir?’

‘Please,’ he replied, relieved that his hunger had remained intact as he eyed the meat which had been simmered to render itself into a deliciously rich and sticky stew. Vegetables and some dumplings floated in the dark gravy.

‘Perfect,’ he said quietly and began eating. He became so focused on his pleasurable chewing that the large serve was gone very quickly. He realised he must have been extremely hungry to wolf it down so fast. He pushed his plate aside and hardly noticed when it was cleared away and the new ale deposited before him. He felt sated and peaceful at last. He leaned back against the wall, turning his body so he could surreptitiously watch the rest of the room whilst not really seeming to be staring at anything in particular from beneath his bushy eyebrows. His attention was drawn back to the soldiers. There were three of them and they sat amongst five civilians clearly known to them. These five looked dusty and road-weary. They were travellers. Wyl wondered at the easy connection between the two groups and their increasingly loud behaviour. He noticed it was not just ale flowing freely but wine also. Money was plentiful, he could tell. All had eaten here, and if the night wore on much longer he believed they may even be staying here. Legionnaires did not normally stay at Grimble Town, and if they did there would be a small company of them passing through, certainly more than this trio.

He puzzled at it but could come up with no answer, other than a vague suspicion that the soldiers were not meant to be here at all. There was no officer present which was further damning. Three foot soldiers in a tiny town? He let it go. Right now he was Thom Bentwood and he had a mission. Whatever these members of the Legion were up to, it was not his business any longer.

Wyl finished his ale. As he drained his mug he saw that one of the civilians was watching him. He was big, built like a bear. The man averted his eyes immediately, rejoining the merriment around the table, but he somehow did not seem to belong there. Not that it mattered to Wyl — it was time to go. He stood and felt light-headed momentarily. Too much ale on top of the wine earlier. He noticed that he had managed to down two jugs of the liquid.

I need some air, he told himself and, against his original plan, decided to step outside the inn for just a few minutes before retiring. He waved his thanks to the girls, left some coin at the table — which he knew would be pounced upon as soon as his back was turned — and made his way to the main door. He did not even glance towards the group that had previously held his interest.

Stepping outside, the freshness of the night hit him and he felt sober straightaway. He allowed himself the luxury of a short stroll up the street, with the plan to head back upstairs just as soon as his large meal had settled. On his return, he was barely fifty paces from the door of the Four Feathers when he noticed a figure leaning against the wall of the building next to the inn. It was one of the men from the group; he recognised the chap’s hat. He wanted to believe the fellow was merely taking some fresh air too, but all his senses were on instant alert.

Wyl walked briskly towards the inn. He was not daunted by the presence of a single man, and farther down the street a few locals were going about their business — closing up for the night, walking home, perhaps even headed for the Four Feathers… although probably not, as the darkened shadows were moving with purpose but not towards him.

As Wyl drew close to the figure, confident now he would pass without incident, the man began to whistle softly. It was too obvious. Wyl’s body clenched in anticipation, and his fears were confirmed as several other shadowy figures melted out of an alley. They manhandled him into the unlit area and dragged him around the corner, behind the sheds of the inn.

There would be no help here, so Wyl allowed his body to go limp rather than fight. He counted five of them, one of them the soldier he had recognised, Rostyr. He obliged Wyl now with one of those fake smiles he hated so much. ‘What were you doing watching us?’

Someone held a candle close to Wyl’s face. Wyl shook his head, feigning confusion. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Get these men off me,’ he said, hoping he sounded like an offended merchant.

‘Oh yes you do, friend. You were far too interested in us back in the inn.’

‘Good fellow,’ Wyl spluttered, realising he should have allowed Faryl’s instincts to rule rather than his own — she would not have allowed herself to be noticed, ‘my name is Thom Bentwood, I am a merchant and I have never seen you or your companions before this evening. You’re a soldier, anyway. What in Shar’s name could I want with you?’

‘My question entirely,’ Rostyr said with unnerving calm. ‘Perhaps we should help his memory along,’ he added. Wyl felt the first blow land and his breath whooshed out of him, leaving him struggling to fill his lungs. He coughed. The next blow, delivered with precision, doubled him over. The third brought him to his knees.

‘Pick him up,’ Rostyr ordered.

Wyl was hauled back to his feet where he hung between the two men who held him, sucking in air, his face battered, all of him hurting. He realised his beard had gone askew. So did his tormentor, who at first looked baffled then began to laugh.

‘It’s a lad,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you squeal the truth now, boy,’ he added, gripping between Wyl’s legs.

It would only be much later that Wyl would enjoy the memory of the shock on Rostyr’s face. Expecting to squeeze the truth from the impostor, Rostyr found his large hand gripped nothing.

‘What the…’ He jumped back. ‘Pull his breeches down!’ he yelled.

‘Are you mad?’ someone asked, then laughed. ‘Do it yourself!’

Rostyr, angry now as well as confused, did just that. ‘Bring the candle here.’

Wyl closed his eyes. He had not thought he could hate Myrren any more for her gift, but right now he believed he was plumbing new depths. His trousers were torn down to reveal the truth of what he had become. ‘It’s a fucking woman,’ a dismayed voice said.

Rostyr’s expression coalesced into something new and horrible in the glow of the candlelight.

‘Now this bitch will give us the truth all right. Hold her down.’

Wyl could not believe what was happening. He watched with horror as Rostyr, snarling menacingly, struggled to free himself from his clothes. Then some internal defence forced Wyl to close his eyes and not witness this. He felt the abomination of probing fingers, then something else pushing inside, and from deep within he began to scream. It was Faryl’s true voice this time, primal and angry. A filthy hand clamped itself over his mouth. He tried to bite it and succeeded. Wyl filled Faryl’s lungs to scream again but someone hit him on the head and his world filled with sparks of light before misting over.

When his vision cleared, he saw an altogether different scene. Rostyr’s body was arched, but not from the anticipated release, rather because a knife had just penetrated his lung. He spasmed then coughed, spattering Wyl’s face with bright blood. His body was hauled up and flung away like a rag doll.

Wyl looked around. Others were dead, one still dying. The candle was extinguished so now only a huge shadow loomed. Wyl thought he was almost certainly going to be run through with the knife too. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought wryly and wanted to laugh at his own dark humour as he imagined becoming the man who towered above.

The figure stepped over him and finished off the groaning man. Wyl held his breath, or thought he did; he could still hear someone breathing short and shallow and realised it was in fact him.

A face appeared close to his own.

‘Come,’ the voice said and he was lifted as easily as if he weighed nothing.

‘Who are you?’ Wyl slurred.

‘Aremys.’

The dizzying mist returned and this time it enveloped him entirely.

When he woke he was in a bed. He opened his eyes slowly. A large man sat in a corner watching him. Wyl remembered now — it was the bear from the dining room. He realised he was naked beneath the sheets. For some reason he found this deeply disturbing with the huge stranger nearby. He dimly recalled the man’s name.

‘Aremys?’ he said, careful to use Faryl’s real voice this time as it was obvious the man knew he was a woman.

‘I’m here.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t like women being attacked.’

Wyl could not agree more. ‘You were one of them, I thought. The bear.’

The man smirked at the title, as though it had been levelled at him often before. ‘Not really one of them.’

Wyl remembered how the huge man had seemed distant from the others. He nodded, let it pass for now. ‘All dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘The bodies?’

‘Taken care of,’ the bear reassured.

‘Taken care of?’ Wyl could not keep the incredulity from his voice. ‘Five corpses!’

‘Seven actually.’

Wyl took a sharp breath. The bear had been with seven other companions and he had killed them all.

‘Why?’

‘That seems to be a favourite question of yours,’ Aremys replied, the suggestion of a smile behind his words.

‘It’s a good question under the circumstances!’ Wyl countered, a suggestion of anger behind his words. He moved stiffly to sit up. ‘May I have some water?’

The bear moved smoothly for a big man. He took his time, lighting a second lamp nearby before pouring a mug of water which Wyl gratefully swallowed in a single draught before falling back on the pillows. His body ached everywhere.

‘Tell me what happened… please.’

Aremys gave a reluctant nod. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

The man’s mouth twitched as if to smile but it did not eventuate. He sighed instead. ‘Let me pour myself a wine.’

‘Where are we?’ Wyl could see this was not his own chamber.

‘My room. The other inn.’

‘I see. Whose side are you on?’ It was a loaded question.

‘Yours, it seems.’ He leaned over to pour himself a cup of the wine from a nearby carafe.

‘Who undressed me?’

‘I averted my eyes,’ Aremys said and then a smile did ghost across his face.

Wyl could not remember a moment in his life when he had felt more embarrassed.

‘You took my clothes off?’ It came out in a girlish shriek, which he hated even more.

‘You’ve got lovely tits,’ Aremys added, fuelling Wyl’s discomfort, making his cheeks burn.

The big man laughed. ‘Couldn’t help myself.’

It felt good to share a joke, despite the awkwardness. Wyl smiled. ‘I’m glad you appreciate them.’

Their mood became serious again as Aremys attempted to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t arrive in time to stop them… well, you know…’

Wyl closed his eyes in distress at the memory of the violation and the deeper memory of Faryl’s early life. ‘I know,’ he said, softly, wanting to put it behind him, but wondering if women who were attacked in this way ever could. Faryl had never succeeded. She had hated men ever since. ‘Is that why you killed them?’

The man sipped from his cup then looked over its rim at Wyl. ‘No, but your plight made it easier for me to do it.’

It fell into place. ‘You’re a mercenary?’

Aremys nodded. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve known a few.’ There was a wryness which his companion heard but did not pursue. ‘In whose service?’ Wyl added.

‘The realm’s.’

‘Celimus?’ It came out choked.

‘I suppose. His monkey, Jessom, hired me. I gather royal revenue has been going missing with alarming regularity. Jessom suspects it’s someone from within the Legion.’

‘Rostyr,’ Wyl murmured. ‘How fitting.’

Aremys shrugged. ‘I don’t care. I’m not Morgravian but anyone who can steal back taxes has my vote. Except your King has no sense of humour,’ he said, drily. ‘Jessom paid me a fortune to track down the culprits. It turned out to be three of them and I managed to infiltrate their group. It took me many weeks to find them and then the most of this winter to win their trust. Rostyr was the leader. Cluey fellow too. He used bandits to do the deed but he was the brains behind the jobs.’

‘I see,’ Wyl said, trying to straighten himself on his pillows again. ‘A lot of money stolen?’

‘Enough to fire a king’s wrath.’

‘Did they hurt anyone?’

‘Yes, on a couple of occasions. It wasn’t intentional but it happened.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘Yes. You seem very interested in them.’

‘Can you blame me after being raped by them?’ Wyl bristled. ‘It hurts, Aremys. I’m not sure many men realise quite how much!’

‘Apologies. That was blunt of me.’

Wyl accepted it graciously although the part of him that was Faryl was angry. ‘And so why did you choose tonight to kill them?’

‘They were planning something daring. It would mean more innocent deaths and someone of note also. I could not allow that to happen — it was the right time to deal with them as I was instructed.’

‘Poison?’ Faryl’s senses told him this would be the best mode.

Aremys nodded. ‘Good guess. That was my plan, until you decided to enter the dining room and ruin it. I had to use a messier method.’

‘I’m sorry to have spoiled things. What have you done with the bodies?’

‘Tomorrow they’ll be carted back to Pearlis as proof. I’ve already sent a messenger to inform Jessom of my findings.’

‘Not to mention requesting final payment.’

Wyl’s barb had no effect on the man, who simply shrugged his burly shoulders.

‘And so now it’s your turn,’ Aremys said, setting down his mug. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘For what?’

‘To hear the intriguing tale of Thom Bentwood, a woman in disguise as a merchant passing through a town whose season for merchants is long over.’

Wyl mentally kicked himself. Faryl’s instincts had niggled at him along these lines and he had ignored them. Aremys had him nailed good and proper.

He tried for the obvious. ‘It’s not easy being a woman travelling alone,’ he replied. ‘The disguise helps.’

‘I accept that. But the point is, why do you travel alone?’

‘Do I need a reason?’

Aremys fixed his dark gaze on the bruised woman before him. Secrets. That was all right; he had them too. ‘No, I suppose not. But will you tell me anyway?’

That was unexpected. Wyl felt flustered.

Aremys could see this. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Right now I suspect sleep is what you need.’ He sensed the woman’s relief. ‘Will you allow me to tend the injuries to your face?’

Wyl nodded. ‘Are they bad?’

‘I shan’t be giving you a mirror tonight.’

‘Oh, that alarming,’ Wyl said, disappointment strong in his voice.

Aremys was rifling through an old leather sack. He pulled out a small flat glass box. ‘It would be if I didn’t have my miracle salve with me.’

He moved to the bed. ‘I’ll have a bathtub brought up tomorrow,’ he said absently, digging a finger into the cloudy ointment. He daubed it on to Wyl’s face, which soon began to tingle as the big man gently rubbed the salve into the injured spots. ‘The bruises will surface and disappear quickly,’ he assured his patient. ‘Now rest.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Not far. I’ll be here on the floor beside you. I’ll leave a fresh candle burning.’

Wyl was touched. He could more than take care of himself under normal circumstances but it felt rather comforting to have someone looking out for him. It reminded him of being a youngster again, with Gueryn making all his decisions for him. He missed being looked after. He missed Gueryn. On that sad thought he closed his eyes and turned on his side. Sleep would come fast tonight.

He listened to the sounds of Aremys trying to make himself comfortable on the hard floorboards. Wyl was grateful to him for not pursuing the story of Thom Bentwood further tonight.

‘My name is Faryl,’ Wyl said quietly into the darkness, surprising himself for giving the other man the truth… and for finally acknowledging it himself.

SEVEN

THE DAYS AT RITTYLWORTH passed slowly, following their own particular rhythm as the men of Shar kept to their routine of worship and work. For some, their duties were in the library, poring over texts and carefully scribing passages; others who were artistic spent hours patiently copying ancient illuminations. For many, their daily toil was in the vegetable gardens and orchards, or tending to the sheep and goats which kept them fed. Others looked after the few cows which sustained the gentle community with fresh milk for drinking, as well as producing the rich cream, butter and famed cheese of the region.

Rittylworth Bruise took its name from the dark wax the monastery’s cheesemakers dipped their proud product into for maturing and preserving. The shiny violet rounds of hard cheese were stored in a special room beneath the chapel, which maintained a steady temperature through all seasons. But even this room was not as deep into the ground as the secret grotto — a place that few outside the monastic Order knew about.

It became Ylena’s favourite place of all. Brother Jakub, all too aware of their visitor’s grief, had suggested within the first day of her arrival that she make it her own for a while. As much as Ylena enjoyed her sleeping room with its view over the orchards, it was to the grotto she escaped for solitude and it was there, alongside the gentle waters of the warm spring, that she had begun to slowly heal.

In the beginning, the healing process was purely physical: regaining an appetite, finding her voice again, the fading of bruises and swellings. Eventually, as her slim frame regained some of its strength and vitality, she found herself able to think of the horror she had experienced, and to begin to grieve.

In the dungeon at Stoneheart, forced to look upon her beloved husband’s severed head, she had thought she would go out of her mind. Darkness had gripped her then, and she sank into its embrace willingly, finding strange comfort in that wilderness, for there was no pain there.

But at Rittylworth, surrounded by the monks’ serenity and faith, Ylena felt a subtle change occur deep within. The storms of helpless sobbing grew less frequent and slowly she understood that she could not bring back her loved ones, no matter how hard she wept. And in accepting this, her feelings of weakness and the belief that she was incapable of living without those she loved began to dissipate.

It was not easy, and many times the grief threatened to carry her away again, but on those occasions Ylena would remind herself of her family name and the need to live up to it, to keep digging deeper towards the strength she knew she possessed.

Wyl had once spoken to her of how he had taught himself to accept the death of their mother and, more lately, their father. Ylena drew on that teaching now, directing the painful emotions inward and burying them in a safe dark place where they could no longer disable her.

Ylena would be the first to admit that she had led a pampered and spoiled life. But Thirsk blood ran in her veins and Wyl, Shar bless him, had never allowed her to forget that she came from the strongest of stock. And the knowledge gave her the resilience to fight the grief and despair and return to the light. She could think of Alyd and his execution now without being overwhelmed by the horror, and her shock at losing the only remaining member of her family, her dear, loving brother Wyl, had dulled to bitter acceptance. At times she still felt numb but she was learning to put that aside and ‘walk out into the sun’ as Brother Jakub so poetically put it.

It was Celimus of course who had contrived all of this death and suffering and on whose hateful name she should build her own hate. Killing Alyd was his petulant reaction to them denying him the right to Virgin’s Blood during the tourney — how clever Wyl had been to suggest they marry within hours of learning Celimus’s intention. And how sorrowful that she had lost both men who loved her so much. She had cried for the loss of Gueryn too, whom she presumed had been felled for similar jealous reasons. Celimus had systematically set about destroying the Thirsk family and its closest supporters.

And then there was Brother Jakub — calm and patient with searching eyes that seemed to see into the depths of her heart and the pain she had buried there. He had never asked directly about her dark experiences but it was obvious he knew what had happened and at whose behest. The old monk’s patient care had contributed much to Ylena’s recovery and she would be forever grateful to him.

And so, nourished by the calm of the secret grotto, Ylena had allowed the days to blend until her body and her mind returned themselves to her whole. Now, she sensed a resilience within she had never known before. Daunting though it was, she would do what was expected of her as a Thirsk — what her father would want; what Wyl would admire. Despite her fear, she would fight back. Somehow, as impossible as it seemed right now, she would make Celimus pay for his horrific deeds.

Crossing the main courtyard this bright morning, Ylena smiled at two brothers, who dipped their heads towards her but did not break the morning silence which was held until third bell — due any moment, she suspected. She wondered where Pil was. He was normally skipping around her by this time, making her laugh with his tall stories. The young novice monk took his role as her caretaker earnestly and she had to keep reminding him that she was not an invalid and preferred to do things for herself. He would smile shyly and apologise, then go right back to fussing around her. In truth, he was a large factor in her recovery. His almost childlike desire to make her smile and see her well again was infectious.

Pil was one of a big family who hailed from the northwest. His father was a fisherman, as were his brothers. His sisters and mother prepared and sold the catch. Everyone in their village was involved in the sea and its bounty but Pil was the only member of his family who felt no calling for it. In fact he would be the first to admit that he suffered the ocean sickness and hated anything to do with boats and fish. Saying such things was sacrilege in his village so he suffered in silence and did a terrible job of mending nets and helping wherever he could. His father finally gave up on him and on one particular evening of high frustration asked a travelling monk whether he would take his youngest, good-for-nothing son with him and teach him the ways of Shar. ‘Perhaps he’ll be some use to us then and can pray for our safety and prosperity,’ Pil had haltingly repeated to Ylena one day. The monk had agreed and after travelling with the man for several months and discovering that he was not only interested to do Shar’s work but that he was good at his letters, Pil began to feel a calling to become a monk himself. The kindly guardian had contacted his old friend Jakub at Rittylworth and by year’s end, young Pil had found himself a new home and a new family who welcomed him with love and patience. He had fitted in easily and being the youngest had been spoiled with care and affection from the brothers. Ylena could see this and the love they had given him had manifested itself in Pil’s ebullience at life and his desire to do his god’s work with enthusiasm. She thanked her lucky stars that Pil had been so dreadful at fishing and had told him that not so long ago, enjoying watching him blush and stammer.

Truly, it felt as though she had lived here amongst the brothers for an age when in fact it was only weeks.

Despite the bright day, winter’s last bite still nipped at the air, although the buds on the fruit trees suggested spring was not that far away. Ylena pulled her soft shawl more tightly around herself. She felt the cold and even the steaming bowl of cream oats sweetened with oozing honeycomb she had swallowed gratefully early that morning had not warmed her sufficiently. She shivered, relishing the thought of her daily soak in the soothing waters of the grotto, which was where she was headed now.

Her boots clicked on the flagstones of the great arched cloisters through which Ylena loved to walk. She turned her head, knowing Brother Tomas would be in the tiny courtyard to her left, lovingly tending his citrus trees. The peel of the akin fruit had healing properties, he had explained to her, and curiously it was at its most powerful in the morning. And so each day he checked the fruit at the same time, testing it for readiness. She waved and he nodded to her, holding up one of the bluish-green spheres and grinning. It was a good one obviously. Tomas had said that he was fortunate to coax one fruit per week from the trees when they were in season in early spring. They were one of nature’s more stubborn follies and one needed extraordinary patience to tend and harvest them. It was easy to be patient at the monastery, Ylena thought, surrounded by its sleepy, tranquil atmosphere.

Skipping down some steps, she realised she felt the brightest she had in a long time. Happy was not quite the word she would choose, but she felt as though she was almost ready to consider a life beyond Rittylworth. Her first task would be to get herself to Alyd’s people. After learning the fate of his son the powerful Duke of Felrawthy would surely help her in her quest to bring down Celimus — she was sure of it. Ylena was convinced the Legion would not take up arms against them when it learned of the truth behind its General’s death and the execution of its popular Captain.

Third bell sounded and Ylena smiled: the silence for the day was over. It occurred to her that she had meant to call in on Brother Farley and get a gargle for the gritty throat she had developed during the night. Torn between longing to immerse herself in the warm waters of the spring, but not wanting to risk falling ill now that she felt so much better, Ylena hurriedly veered towards the old physic’s rooms — and ran straight into Brother Jakub.

‘Ah, my girl. You are a sight to gladden the heart of an old man.’

She hugged him. ‘Good morning, Brother Jakub. Are you ailing?’

His face crinkled into his gentle smile. ‘No, child. There are some sick children in the village and I want to speak with Brother Farley before he becomes too engrossed in his day’s toil. I’d like him to look in on them this morning. And you?’

She touched her neck. ‘Sore throat.’

‘Well, my dear mother used to say that if you gad about with wet hair on cold days you’re bound to catch a chill,’ he said, wagging a finger in fair imitation of an old woman. She enjoyed his impression and he squeezed her hand, delighting in her joy. ‘How good it is to hear you laugh.’

Ylena pulled a rueful face. ‘Today, for the first time since I was married, I am pleased to be alive. I catch myself smiling and I feel almost guilty.’

‘You mustn’t,’ Jakub counselled. ‘This is the human spirit, child, restoring itself. It is how we heal; how we go on and deal with life which can be so ugly sometimes. Let your spirit soar when it is of a mind to. Trust it, for it means you have found hope again. Hope is a powerful weapon.’

She nodded, feeling tears welling at the goodness and generosity of this man. He sensed her emotion and, not wishing to upset her happy mood, changed the subject. ‘Is Pil attending you well, Ylena?’

‘Too well, Brother Jakub!’ she replied, with mock despair.

‘Ah, he’s a good boy and takes his role of protector very seriously.’

‘I know. He has been most kind… all of you have. But I must think soon of leaving.’

‘Not too soon, I hope,’ he said softly. ‘Take your time. Be well.’

She took her chance. ‘I shouldn’t hold you up, Brother Jakub,’ — he shook his head slightly to show it was of no consequence — ‘but I wonder if I could ask you whether you have heard from Romen?’

‘I’ve received no word,’ he replied, guiding her into the warmth of the physic’s chamber. Brother Farley was busy measuring out powders and breaking clumps of dried herbs into smaller pieces. He muttered to himself, hardly noticing them.

‘Then may I impose on you further by asking whether he left something with you before he departed — something important for safekeeping?’

Jakub’s expression grew grave and Ylena knew immediately that Romen had indeed left behind the sack containing the remains of her husband. She swallowed hard. ‘It’s all right. I can talk about it now. I’m much stronger.’

‘I know you are, child. You are a marvel and it is not difficult to see that you come from strong stock.’

‘Did you know my father?’ she said, surprised.

‘Of him, of course. I regret I never had the pleasure of meeting your fine father, or your brother, in person. They were good men as I hear it.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘So you do have it?’

He hugged her. ‘It’s safe. In the grotto.’

Ylena flinched at the realisation that she had been sharing her special place all this time with Alyd. ‘Where?’ she asked.

‘There is a false back to the cupboard where we keep the candles. I hid it there. It has been preserved as Romen requested.’

‘He did?’ She had not counted on this and would kiss Romen right now if she could. It had been worrying her that Alyd’s remains would have deteriorated beyond recognition and she would never be able to prove to his father how his son had died.

Ylena was about to speak again when the sounds of men yelling cut across the calm morning. Frowning, Brother Jakub told her to remain where she was and hurried outside to see what was happening. A few moments later he ran back in, face ashen.

He grabbed her hand. ‘Ylena, hide behind this counter.’

‘Whatever is going on?’

‘Riders — king’s men!’ Pil burst into the room, a look of terror on his face. ‘They’re hurting the brothers.’

Ylena’s eyes widened with disbelief and rising panic gripped at her throat, its soreness forgotten in an instant. ‘What —’

‘Do as I say,’ Jakub ordered, his voice hard. ‘Hide now, both of you, and as soon as you can, climb out of the window here and make for the grotto. You know what to do there, child,’ he said sombrely to Ylena, then turned to Pil: ‘Now is when you prove your worth, lad. Keep her safe. Get her away from here as soon as you can.’

‘Jakub!’ she began, her voice trembling with intense fear. ‘It’s me they’ve come for, isn’t it?’

‘But they’ll never find you, my girl. Not as long as I draw breath.’ He nodded at his colleague. ‘Come, Farley, be brave now. We have nothing to share with these men.’

Jakub gave Ylena a searching look, kissed her briefly and whispered for her to be brave, then took the dismayed Brother Farley’s hand and together the two old men walked out into the bright day.

Ylena was too stunned to move. Then she heard men’s voices gruffly questioning her friends who had just left the room. ‘Come on!’ Pil hissed and dragged her around the counter.

They ducked behind Brother Farley’s weighing bench and crawled underneath his shelves. Ylena held her breath as she heard boots clattering into the room. Pil put his finger to his lips, more out of a need to comfort himself she was sure, for his eyes were tightly shut.

She heard Jakub’s voice. It was gentle, filled with the contrived confusion of an old man. ‘There is no woman in our monastery, son,’ he offered innocently, presumably to a soldier. ‘But by all means you’re welcome to search…’ His voice trailed off as they left the chamber again. Mercifully the men were only carrying out an initial cursory search.

‘They’ll be back,’ Pil whispered.

‘I want to see what they’re doing,’ she mouthed.

He shook his head vehemently. ‘I promised Jakub.’

Ylena knew he was right, just as she knew that these intruders had come for her. If they found her she might not live to enjoy her revenge. She was terrified but if they were to escape, they had to know what was happening. ‘We can’t risk running into greater danger, Pil,’ she pleaded.

The young monk bowed his head, beaten. ‘Perhaps we can see from the small tower,’ he suggested.

The small tower used to be a special place of prayer for brothers who chose to live for a time in what was known simply as Solitary. Part of the floor had collapsed a few years back and Jakub had declared it too dangerous so the tower had been closed. Due to lack of requests from brothers looking to spend time in Solitary, its repair had still not been attempted.

‘We can get there easily enough,’ Pil added cautiously, ‘and then we can access the grotto through the cheese pantry if we have to.’

He climbed out from under the counter and motioned that all was clear. They opened the small window and wriggled out — fortunately both were slight of frame. They tiptoed across the small clearing towards the tower, then heard voices.

‘Quick! Someone’s coming.’

The pair hurtled through the tower door with barely a moment to spare. Leaning back against the solid wood, they breathed hard and silently, listening to the sound of boots crunching on the small pebbles.

The boots stopped outside the door. ‘Did you check in here?’ a voice asked.

Ylena held her breath now, praying to Shar to keep them hidden.

‘Yes. It’s a ruin. No one there.’

‘Right. Put a bar against the door so no one gets in… or out. Then all our boys will know this one’s been checked.’

‘At once, sir.’

The footsteps trailed off. Ylena looked towards the pale-faced Pil and appreciated for the first time how very young he was. He could only be fifteen, she realised, and here he was risking his life for her. She would have to put her own fear aside and be strong now, just for him.

She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll find a way out, Pil. Trust me,’ she said, surprised at the confident tone of her voice. She wondered where all this new courage was coming from, then remembered Jakub’s words about the human spirit and hope being a powerful weapon. It’s not really hope, she told herself; there was none, with Alyd and Wyl dead. Just the need to survive and see them avenged.

‘Come on, lead the way,’ she encouraged.

He gave a nervous smile and, holding on to her hand, began to ascend the narrow winding staircase. Slits in the wall let in air and Ylena felt a new fear claw at her heart.

‘I smell smoke, Pil.’

He said nothing, just kept climbing. At the top he pointed out some rotten timbers. ‘Be very careful,’ he said softly.

‘Are you all right?’ she ventured.

‘They were beating some of the brothers,’ he said, his eyes bright with tears. ‘I’m not sure I want to see any more.’

Ylena swallowed hard. How could she have been so insensitive? The men could not be Legionnaires, she decided. No Legionnaire would participate in something as heinous.

‘Are you sure they are the King’s men?’

‘They carry his banner,’ the young man said.

‘Then Celimus must have amassed an army of paid mercenaries dressed as Legionnaires,’ she mused. ‘Wait here, I’ll look.’

Pil did not argue. He pointed out where she must tread and she crossed the small area with ease. She reached the opening and gazed down on what was happening below.

At her first strangled sound, Pil slumped to the floor. He did not need to see it to know that the world he loved was being smashed to pieces. Ylena’s throat closed in terror and her eyes confirmed what the wind blowing through the wall slits had told her. Fires had been lit. The monastery was burning.

Men she recognised lay in contorted positions in the gardens, their hoes and spades dropped beside them. They had been murdered where they were working — no warning, just a sword through the belly. Others, more bloodied, had tried to escape and been hacked to death. Some had arrows protruding from their backs.

She covered her mouth with her hands as she recognised the slumped figure of Brother Farley. He was still alive, barely, but one of his hands was missing and he was looking at the bleeding stump, bewildered. How will he measure out his powders now, she thought idiotically, knowing he would die from shock within minutes. Others still were being interrogated — in their midst was the tiny figure of Brother Jakub, rallying their spirits and trying to keep his human flock — what was left of it — from fighting back or giving offence. She could see him pleading with the strangers, begging for mercy for his men of Shar.

He was quickly singled out, beaten and nailed to a makeshift cross. Ylena knew in that moment that if she did nothing with her life but kill Celimus, she would have achieved something worthwhile. She choked back the scream that struggled to fly from her throat and watched the perpetrators throw liquid from a flask over Jakub’s tortured body. A lit torch was flung towards the frail figure and he ignited. Now she did let out a heartfelt sob. ‘Jakub,’ she whispered.

Pil was crying, his hands covering his ears, but she knew that the anguish in her expression had told him all he needed to know. She did not need to see any more carnage to know that these men had not come to find her — they had come to kill her. They knew she was at Rittylworth and they were persecuting its community to discover where she was hiding.

They would not find her. The deaths of these kind, helpless men made it all the more necessary to escape and somehow expose Celimus’s treachery.

She moved to where her young friend crouched against the wall. She pushed back her fear for his sake — he must not know how terrified she was or he would never have the courage to do what she needed of him now. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Come, Pil. We must go.’

‘Where to?’ he sobbed.

‘To the grotto first. There is something I must fetch, and we will be safe there to make our plans.’

‘Is everyone dead?’ he mumbled.

‘I don’t know.’ It was a poor answer but it was truthful. She knew it would not help their cause if she told him all she had seen. ‘We must hurry.’

‘We can’t get out,’ he reminded her, trying to stop his tears.

‘Yes, we can. We’ll go out through this window behind you — they won’t be able to see us.’

He looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

She stated the obvious. ‘We can’t stay here. They’ve barred us in and they might come back and search through all of these places again.’

‘It’s too dangerous across the roof.’

‘You know, Pil,’ she said as gently as she could amidst her own swirling emotions and fears, ‘you told me something important when I first came here and was too frightened to be left alone. You explained how Brother Jakub had taught you to fix your eye on the things that scare you and walk towards them — do you remember that?’

He nodded bleakly.

‘Well, it was you who helped me to find myself again. You helped me to conquer my fear of what happened to me in Stoneheart.’ She knew he had only scant information about those events, but the gravity of her words was enough to convey it had been a terrifying experience.

‘I did?’

‘Truly. And so now you have to take Jakub’s advice again and stare this beast right back in its eyes and let it know you don’t fear it. And I shall do the same.’

‘How?’

‘By running across the rooftop with me and helping me to get into the grotto so we can make our escape.’

His expression told her that he was now convinced she was mad.

‘Trust me,’ she begged.

‘Where are we escaping to?’ he asked, in some awe now of the courageous woman standing before him.

‘We go to Felrawthy, to convince the duke to raise an army.’

EIGHT

AREMYS KEPT TO HIS word. In the morning a tub was brought up and filled with steaming water and some fragrant oils he had ordered. Once again Wyl was surprised by the thoughtfulness of this stranger.

Aremys turned at the door. ‘I’ll go out for a while. You take your time.’

‘What have you told them about me?’

‘Nothing. It’s not their business. What they surmise is up to them,’ he said and winked.

Aremys smiled at the look of dread that passed across the woman’s face when she realised what he meant. He was glad to note her bruises had benefited from the salve; even with her injuries she was striking to look at.

‘Lock the door behind me,’ he suggested and left.

Wyl did, then for the second time in as many days slid with extraordinary relief into the comforting warmth of the tub. He gingerly touched the spots that hurt, avoiding them as best he could, scrubbed himself clean of the violators with the flannel and soap paste provided. It was the strangest of sensations — a woman’s sex felt completely different from the other side, so to speak. He did not have the courage to explore further, and those parts felt raw anyway. Another time, he decided, embarrassed.

Wyl knew he could never feel the depth of despair a real woman might in a similar situation — he was still a man in his thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless he would never forget how physically vulnerable he had felt as Faryl against a group of lusty men without a skerrick of pity amongst them. He was glad Rostyr was dead. Justice had been done, thanks to Aremys — and indeed to Jessom. The threads that remained of Faryl certainly approved.

He wondered what penance had been meted out by Celimus before the tax thieves were discovered. Knowing the King as he did, he had no doubt that he would be seeking information on the thefts in far less subtle ways than his Chancellor.

He would not have to wait too long to learn the answer.

Wyl had taken care with his hair, brushing it until it shone before tying it back in Faryl’s way as best he could. He was alarmed to see the extent of the bruises on his face — they would attract unwanted attention. On the positive side, however, although he pained in several places he knew his body was intact, with no bones broken.

Aremys returned to find Faryl much refreshed and wrapped in one of his huge shirts which she had dug into his saddlebags for. He swallowed at the sight of her. She really was an exciting-looking woman. He had never been one to fall for the breathily-spoken, pretty sort who looked as though they may break if squeezed in a hug. Nor did he find more obviously flirtatious women desirable — they were confident of their bodies and used their sexual attractiveness as a weapon. If he was honest, he had never truly fallen for anyone — unless he counted Elly from the farm next door when he was a young lad. But then Elly had been more tomboy than girl, which was probably why she still won through as his favourite. Elly could run faster, shoot arrows further and skin a rabbit quicker than he ever could. She had called him Bear too, and like Faryl wasn’t conventionally pretty. She had a laugh, though, which could fill his heart and a wit that could cut anyone down to size.

Wyl felt instantly self-conscious at the way Aremys was staring. ‘I thought I’d travel as myself today,’ he said defensively.

The man nodded, approving, but remained just inside the doorway. He said nothing. An awkward silence stretched between them, neither knowing how best to handle the situation.

Wyl shrugged, touched a hand to a bruise on his face. ‘You’ve been extremely kind to a stranger. I’m not sure how to say appropriate thanks, but consider it said and meant.’

Aremys found his voice. ‘I’ve been back to the Four Feathers, picked up your things for you. I didn’t think you’d care to go back just now.’

‘Ah… I’m further in your debt then. Thank you.’

The mercenary took a step into the room and made a gesture to say it was no trouble. Struggling for something else to say as his mind raced to consider his next move, Wyl politely enquired as to whether there were any outstanding monies due at the inn he’d been staying at.

‘No. You had prepaid everything. A woman after my own heart,’ Aremys admitted. ‘I always prepay… er, just in case I need to leave swiftly.’

It was Wyl’s turn to nod. ‘Well,’ Wyl said, with an exaggerated brightness, ‘time I left you to your own business. You’ve done more than enough for me.’

Aremys nodded. ‘Where are you headed?’

Wyl cringed; they had moved to small talk. ‘Oh, a little town a few days’ ride from here.’

‘Family?’

‘Er… no, well… in a way. I’m trying to track down a friend’s mother.’ It was easier to stick close to the truth, Wyl decided. ‘And you?’ he added, hating how polite they both suddenly sounded.

‘Nowhere really, now that I’ve finished my job for Jessom. I’m at a loose end you could say.’ Aremys laced his large fingers together, undid them, put them behind his back, then hung them at his sides again. This happened in a blink but Wyl saw it all. It was time to go.

‘I hope our paths cross again,’ Wyl said, stepping forward to take the large hand in his. ‘I’m grateful to you, Aremys,’ he added, looking into the man’s expressive eyes. ‘Shar keep you safe.’

The dark eyes regarded him with what looked like sadness. ‘I’ve fetched your horse as well.’

Wyl grinned briefly. ‘Whatever made you do that?’ he asked, bemused.

Aremys noted how the small smile made such a difference to Faryl’s bearing. It touched her eyes and changed her serious, often sad visage into something light and lovely. He shook his head to suggest he was a little baffled himself. ‘Well, I figured you may ride out as yourself and thus would not want to confront the stablemaster as Faryl demanding Thom Bentwood’s horse.’

He decided to come clean. ‘But… I also thought we might leave together. There is only one road, and I’m guessing you’re headed towards Pearlis rather than away from it — is that right?’

‘Why, yes I am,’ Wyl replied, taken aback at the suggestion and not able to think of a reason to contradict it.

‘We could ride together for a while, then?’

It was time to be direct. ‘Aremys, you don’t need to worry about me. Contrary to how it seems, I can fend for myself.’

‘I’m not worried about you. I can see from the tautness of your body and by the weapons you carry that you are not one to trifle with.’

‘You went through my things?’ Wyl’s voice was suddenly harsh.

‘I could hardly miss them, Faryl. I told you, I gathered up your stuff.’

‘It seems there is nothing I can hide from you! What else did you look through?’

‘I give you my word I wasn’t prying.’

‘You’re a mercenary, Aremys. I’m not sure your word is worth much.’

Wyl could see he had struck hard. It was not necessary and surely undeserved. Why was he so touchy? This man had probably saved his life.

‘I’m sorry. I’m edgy today, please forgive me. It’s just the aftermath of what happened, I’m sure. I have a long ride ahead and should get going. I really do owe you thanks rather than criticism.’

‘It’s forgotten.’

Wanting to salvage something for Aremys’s sake, Wyl capitulated. ‘Look, I don’t mind if we ride out together. I just want you to know that I’ll be fine.’

Aremys nodded. ‘Good,’ was all he said.

It was not ideal, but it was only as far as the outskirts of Pearlis and then Wyl could branch off. ‘Let me just climb into some clothes,’ he said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me throwing on one of your shirts?’

‘Not at all. I don’t mind you rifling through my stuff one bit,’ Aremys replied, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Their departure from the inn was uneventful and Wyl had to admit he felt infinitely more comfortable physically — if not emotionally — travelling as Faryl, without the painful bindings and irritating hairy disguise. He was dressed simply in loose tan trousers, soft boots and a warm jacket over a shirt.

‘You still look like a man,’ Aremys said, but it was meant kindly. He watched Faryl climb on to her mare with practised ease. He could tell she was as comfortable in the saddle as she was drawing the weapon he had watched her strap on earlier. She had let him hold the knives — he had never seen such beautiful craftsmanship.

‘Is your throw as exquisite as your blades?’ he had asked facetiously back in the inn.

His answer had been a knife whooshing past his cheek, narrowly missing his ear and pinning some of his hair to a wooden beam. The speed and fluidity of her throw had left him stunned.

‘Sorry… that was a bit theatrical of me,’ Wyl admitted, stifling the grin of satisfaction that Romen’s skill had stayed with him.

If Aremys had needed any further convincing that this woman could, for the most part, look after herself, that had done the trick.

As they rode through a particularly pretty patch of Morgravia’s southern rural region Wyl felt himself relaxing for the first time in many days. They had been travelling in companionable silence for a long way now, which contributed to his peace.

Aremys finally broke it with a question. ‘May I ask where you learned to throw a knife with such deadly accuracy?’

Wyl had expected the query far sooner, was ready for it. ‘When you grow up with a host of brothers, you learn such skills.’

‘I have six brothers. None of us learned how to throw a knife.’

‘Six,’ Wyl said, keen to direct the conversation elsewhere. ‘I had only five. Where is your family home?’

‘Minlyton is the village I was raised in.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Wyl admitted.

‘I’m not surprised. It’s on a small island off the far north coast.’

Wyl’s every nerve sprang to high alert. ‘Oh? Which one?’ He hoped his voice sounded casual and that Aremys would not say the word he feared.

‘Grenadyn.’

Wyl flinched, and because Aremys had turned his dark gaze towards him, attempted to cover it by flicking away a few strands of hair that had escaped their bindings.

‘Do you know it?’ Aremys enquired.

‘Er… I’ve heard of it, of course.’

‘But never been there?’

‘No,’ he said, grateful to answer truthfully. ‘Why?’ His tone was cautious.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. I just… well, there is someone from Grenadyn who is as handy as you are with a knife. Actually, I understate his skill. He is a sensational wielder of the small blade and throws a knife with such deadly accuracy that, until I saw your talent, I had never thought to see anyone match it.’

Wyl’s throat constricted. ‘Oh yes? What’s his name?’

‘Romen Koreldy. A noble from a very wealthy family.’

This time Wyl could not hide his alarm. ‘Did he know you?’ The stupid question slipped out and Wyl, cringing, tried to correct it. ‘I mean, do you see him?’ His mind raced to dig amongst the little that was left of Romen to find information on this man.

‘No, he was older than me. He used to lark around with my elder brothers but I was too young. I did see him once, showing off for the youngsters. I was about five. He was that good with a knife he could split a thread from twenty-five paces when he was little more than a youth.’

Something nagged at Wyl’s attention but he ignored it. He was fascinated, for Romen’s mind had not released any of this. No wonder his riding companion’s name had meant nothing to him. ‘And?’

Aremys shrugged. ‘Nothing of note. Our family left Grenadyn not many years later and we came to the mainland. We didn’t stay so long, a few years perhaps — we all missed home too much. In that time, Romen had left. There was some talk of a scandal amongst the Koreldys but I never found out what it was. I have not seen or heard of him since.’

It was time to move away from Koreldy. ‘And you’ve never been back?’ Wyl asked.

‘To Minlyton?’

Wyl nodded.

‘No, but now you mention it, once I collect my monies I may do just that.’ Aremys straightened in the saddle, stretching. ‘Time to break our fast, do you think?’

The mention of food ended that conversation and Wyl was relieved he had not been required to explain his skill with the knife any further. He had learned his lesson about not showing off. They shared the hearty meal they had asked the kitchen staff at the inn to pack, knowing it was an all-day ride to Pearlis. The servings of chicken, cheese, fruits and bread were generous, and afterwards both admitted they could easily lie back on the soft verge and take a nap. Instead they encouraged each other to saddle up again and continued their journey, falling back into easy silence for the next hour or so.

As they drew closer to Pearlis, Wyl’s question was answered: Celimus had indeed been busy strong-arming the Legion for answers. ‘Shar’s wrath!’ he exclaimed when they came across the first tortured soul.

The body had been well preserved by the cool weather and rotted slowly on the fearsome spike. The mouth was drawn back in agony, the limbs strangely twisted.

‘This man died slowly,’ Aremys commented. ‘You can see they broke his bones first, and expertly done.’

‘I’ve never seen such cruelty in Morgravia outside of its torture chamber,’ Wyl murmured, shaking with anger. ‘This is over the stolen taxes, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Faryl. Come on, let’s keep moving.’

They counted a further nine corpses, all soldiers, hanging from the poles on which they had been precisely impaled to cause maximum pain and ensure a slow death. Some had deteriorated more than others, suggesting Celimus had set to with his vicious inquisition several days before the first victim they had seen.

‘And these are only the bodies on this stretch of road. Shar knows how many more are rotting on the others that lead into Pearlis,’ Aremys said.

The smell of putrid flesh threatened to spill their breakfast for them. Wyl was horrified that these men — his men — had been tortured like this over the likes of Rostyr. ‘I hate him,’ he whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The King,’ he said, staring at the body contorted in its death spasm.

His companion was looking at him with a guarded expression. Wyl knew there was no point trying to take the words back. ‘And if you repeat that to anyone, I won’t miss with the knife next time.’

He sighed. ‘I’m going now, Aremys. Here’s where we part company. My road into the western counties is about four miles from here. Again, I thank you for your company.’

He almost made the farewell sign of the Legion, stopping himself just in time. Instead he reached over and clasped the man’s shoulder. It was not a particularly feminine gesture but he had already decided that a woman who carried weapons was never going to be considered courtly.

‘Faryl, please don’t leave yet.’

‘I must. It’s time I was on my way.’

‘What’s so important?’

‘Nothing. I just want to continue on my own now. I’ve seen enough to know I have no reason to travel through the city.’

‘Sounds to me like you have something to hide from.’

Wyl bristled. If only you knew, he thought. ‘Only my hate for this sort of thing,’ he said, pleased to hear how calm his voice was. ‘Just leave it, Aremys.’

‘All right, I understand,’ his friend said, then he grinned. ‘Look, come with me as far as Smallhampton. It’s just a few miles away and you can pick up a small track there to the western counties. It won’t take you much out of your way.’

‘Why?’

‘I have a hide there. I want to pick up some money.’

‘But you’re going into Pearlis, surely, to be paid for your kill?’

‘No. I’ve changed my mind — that money can be paid later. Since we began talking about Grenadyn I’ve decided to go home… see my family before I die or they do.’

Wyl was baffled. He swiped at yet more of the auburn hairs which had loosened on the ride and were flapping around his face. It was such an annoying sensation, and yet he recalled how attractive that same look had been on Valentyna. ‘Well, that’s good. But what has this to do with me?’

Aremys looked uncomfortable again. ‘Nothing, in truth. I just want to continue riding with you a little longer. We can…’ He stopped, embarrassed by his own awkwardness. ‘I like you, Faryl. I just…’ He struggled again. ‘That is… I enjoy your company.’

Wyl did not know whether to feel flattered or cornered. It was true that going to Smallhampton would not take him much out of his way, and there would be a chance there for an ale and some food before heading out west, which would enable him to ride through the night. On the other hand, Aremys was sounding needy, which did not sit right with what Wyl knew of him so far. Aremys struck him as an independent type, used to a solitary existence. It just didn’t add up. There was some secret here but as he tried to bring together those thoughts which had nagged at him earlier also, he noticed that Aremys would not meet his eyes. That, together with the slight flush to his cheeks, gave Wyl far more information than he wanted. Shar save us! he thought. He’s enamoured of me.

‘Please,’ Aremys added softly, with perfect timing.

Knowing it was a bad idea, but flustered by the situation, Wyl conceded. ‘All right. Smallhampton it is and then I’m going west… alone.’

Aremys loosed a broad smile, pleased with his win. ‘We can share an ale at the inn there before you go.’

Wyl looked again at the putrefying body nearby. ‘Let’s just get away from here,’ he said.

They moved off the road on to a small track and flanked some deserted fields before entering a copse.

‘Know anything about hides?’ Aremys asked.

‘No,’ Wyl replied, lying. Faryl had dozens all over various realms.

‘Actually hired assassins tend to use them more than we mercenaries, but I like to be cautious. You should follow suit — it could save your life some time.’

‘I don’t live as dangerously as you. But yes, I may take that advice.’

There was an old disused hut on the edge of the copse. ‘In there, is it?’ Wyl asked.

‘No. Too obvious. Any vagabond using it for shelter could discover my cache. I use the hut as a marker. Let me show you.’

He climbed down from his horse and pulled a small length of rope from his saddlebag.

Wyl got off his horse too. ‘What’s the rope for?’

‘Wait and see.’

They approached the hut as far as its door, then Aremys turned his back to it. ‘Now walk with me thirty strides.’

They did.

‘And ten strides to our left.’

Wyl followed him to a hollow in an old tree but hung back as Aremys glanced into it.

‘Bollocks!’ Aremys exclaimed.

‘Gone?’ Wyl said, leaning over to look in too.

They were shoulder to shoulder now. Aremys turned and looked at the woman he liked very much — he had even allowed himself daydreams of bedding her. He was not an unattractive man, just large. Most women, once they got to know him, enjoyed him. He would have loved to have pleasured this woman. He hated doing this.

‘I’m so sorry, Faryl,’ he whispered into her hair. Then louder, ‘Forgive me.’

‘Forgive you? For what?’

In a blink Aremys had spun Wyl around and clamped his hands behind his back. He knocked his legs away so Wyl slammed to the ground, old wounds protesting angrily, new bruises flaring. Aremys used the rope to bind Faryl’s hands. It would have been easier if he had been required to kill her, because she struggled furiously, nearly unbalancing him at one point. She was far stronger than he had anticipated. But he was bigger and he finally managed to sit on her legs and still her, which was fortunate because he was not sure he could have killed her for any amount of money.

‘Aremys!’ Wyl shrieked in the voice he despised. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Apologies, Leyen,’ said a new voice, prompting Wyl to turn his head sharply towards the hut. ‘I knew you wouldn’t come to me on the strength of my bidding so I had to hire special help.’

‘Jessom!’ Wyl spat, remembering the Chancellor who had accompanied Celimus into Briavel.

Aremys lifted Faryl to her feet, moving to dust off her clothes. Wyl kicked at him, eyes burning with hatred towards his betrayer. ‘Fuck you, Aremys!’

Jessom made a sound of disapproval. ‘Dear me, Leyen. Language, language. So crude for a lady.’

Wyl stopped struggling and simply glared between the two men. There were soldiers too. No point in trying to run or even fight. He was trapped.

‘What do you want?’ he snarled.

‘Well, my dear, you did such a good job on your last … er, task that you have impressed someone who wishes to meet with you.’

‘I’m not interested,’ Wyl said, every nerve on edge now. This was dangerous.

‘I expected as much. You certainly are a private person. Is this a disguise you are wearing, bruises included?’

Wyl remained silent. Jessom looked towards Aremys.

‘This is the real thing as far as I can tell,’ the mercenary mumbled.

‘Not that I’m complaining, for she is far more attractive than I have ever seen her. How can you be sure, though?’ Jessom enquired, in no hurry.

‘Does seeing her naked count?’ Aremys growled, bristling now.

He did not care much for Jessom but the money was too good to ignore. The Chancellor had paid five times more than the price of a kill just for Aremys to track down and capture the woman. It all became too easy when she stumbled into his path and he was able to deal not only with the conspirators but with her as well. The disguises he discovered in her belongings and other giveaway signs like how well she rode, her lean strong body, her private ways — they all added up to her being the woman Jessom searched for. But as soon as she threw the knife towards him, he no longer had any doubt this was his prey.

He hated himself for handing her over to Jessom. It was obvious Faryl had no desire to meet with the King. More secrets, he decided. Take the money and leave. Don’t get involved, he told himself, not wanting to meet her gaze.

Jessom was laughing softly. ‘Ah, that’s very convincing. I’m glad you were able to enjoy a dalliance with this intriguing creature… and get paid for it. Surely you didn’t give her the bruises as well? Tsk, tsk,’ Jessom said.

Wyl wished he could reach his blades. There would be several dead men in the copse if he could. He said nothing, just levelled Aremys with the murderous stare he knew Faryl did so well.

Jessom became businesslike. ‘I know her as Leyen. She is a master of disguise. Has she told you any different?’

Aremys considered. If Faryl’s eyes were weapons he would be dead thrice over. She was a dangerous enemy to make, as she was surely going to be permitted to live. Perhaps the money was not worth it after all — he knew she would probably pursue him now, come hell or high water. And he had stupidly admitted where he came from. Strange… he knew she had been honest with him up to a point, possibly shared things she would not with most, and that had made him truthful with her… up to a point. It was a mistake, though.

‘Well?’ Jessom prompted, irritated.

Aremys noted that Faryl’s eyes were communicating something more than just the plain hate of earlier.

‘Sorry, I was just thinking back over our conversations. No. I have known her only as Leyen,’ he admitted. He saw relief flit across Faryl’s face before she looked away.

‘Good, then perhaps we have her real name now. Not that we can be absolutely sure, but it will do. Come, my dear, you are to be escorted back to Pearlis.’

‘Why?’ Wyl said.

‘To meet with his royal highness King Celimus, whom you have impressed with your talents.’

NINE

ELSPYTH HAD STAYED TRUE to her promise to Wyl. Resisting the urge to head home after their farewell she had made her way slowly south, accepting rides with a family, a merchant convoy and a travelling band of musicians. All were very kind and would accept no money for their transport or hospitality. None were in a hurry and, in truth, neither was Elspyth, happy to meander at their pace, stopping off at towns to make their deliveries or perform. The musicians had helped her find her laughter again, even encouraging her to sing along with them around their nightly fire. They were taking a circuitous route towards Pearlis, hoping to earn good profits during the spring months and more than happy to have her in the group for part of their journey. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed her time with them, and quietly regretted their parting. The troupe gave her a fond farewell and the usual expressions of hope for meeting again.

Between all her new friends she had got as far as the outskirts of Rittylworth, about eleven days after her parting with Wyl. She was happy to walk the rest of the way, wondering how Wyl’s sister would react to her and what she was going to say to the grieving young woman. Wyl had extracted a promise from her that would effectively see Elspyth telling lies from here on in to anyone who knew him. But she and Wyl — as Romen Koreldy — had been through too much together to forsake one another over a few lies. Furthermore, Wyl had given her his own oath and so she would keep true to him, anticipating reciprocal courtesy when the time came for him to return to the Razors.

Elspyth had no idea why Wyl needed to guard his identity so keenly. She did, however, understand part of his reluctance to share his tale, for people’s suspicion of magic was deeply entrenched. This enchantment on Wyl was hardly a fairground trick; its enormity was too much for most to cope with. The fact that both she and Lothryn had accepted the sorcery was fortunate for Wyl, but they came from backgrounds that accepted the existence of magic in the world.

She remembered how Wyl had haltingly told them of the curse on his life — ‘Myrren’s gift’ he had called it and laughed bitterly. As implausible as it had sounded, everything he had said corroborated that this magic had indeed been wielded on him. For Elspyth, it explained her aunt’s strange reaction towards Wyl when he had visited the seer, and the curious comment she had made after the Pearlis tourney that, ‘we haven’t seen the last of that one yet’.

And Elspyth could see that Lothryn believed him too. She recalled how matter of fact the Mountain man had been, not at all perturbed by the suggestion of magic. She felt the same way. Another reason to love him. Her thoughts turned to how hard and quickly she had fallen for the big man who had wrenched her from her home and, against her will, taken her into the Razors, only to risk his life for her a few days later. It was seeing him weep for his dead wife while holding his newborn son in his arms that had caused her heart to fully melt for him, and no doubt he had felt similarly, for since that moment their relationship had changed. Suddenly there had been a burning connection between them, yet they had not so much as shared a kiss. How sad when she loved him as she did.

She remembered how he had turned to fight their pursuers on that lonely escarpment, begging her to run. And she had done so only because she had given her word to him that she would, and then Lothryn had pressed Wyl into running too. It hurt deeply to imagine what had befallen him after their escape. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would have been taken alive in order to stand before a wrathful Cailech and suffer whatever punishment was meted out. Would it have been death by some harrowing method which only the Mountain King could dream up?

Elspyth did not want to think about it. She wanted to believe that Lothryn lived, and distracted herself by turning her mind to Wyl. Trapped in Koreldy’s body, he was trying to save the Queen of the realm which had killed his father and been his homeland’s enemy for centuries, whilst sending Elspyth off to track down his grieving sister. What a tragic family, she thought, so much despair in their lives. But she had agreed to do this for him, and in exchange he had agreed to return to the Razors as soon as he could and find out what had happened to Lothryn.

She had put her trust in Wyl Thirsk. He was a good man, and she would like to talk to him in happier times about what it feels like to become someone else. Wyl was lucky, she thought, that it was the darkly handsome Romen Koreldy’s body he walked in. Imagine how it might have been if he had been killed by someone who was crippled or retarded, or someone of very lowly birth. Worse, she giggled to herself, a woman!

She found herself approaching the high ground from which she had learned she could look down into the valley and see the monastery with its village clustered nearby. Relief that she had made it this far coursed through her and she climbed the slope with a lighter heart than when she began.

Still smiling from the notion that Wyl could have become a woman instead of handsome Romen, she began to rehearse what he had instructed her to say to Brother Jakub. But as Elspyth crested the hill her smile died, taking with it her good mood.

The tiny enclave of Rittylworth was in ruins, parts of it still smoking from the fires. The monastery itself looked cold and silent. It was still whole, but even from this distance she could sense it was deserted. What had happened here?

She did not want to approach just yet, she needed time to gather her racing thoughts. She scrutinised the scene below, gathering as much information as she could. Noticing something odd in the far distance, she squinted then let out a sound of despair when she realised what it was. People… crucified. She could not tell whether they were corpses or still alive.

Elspyth did not pause for further thought but picked up her skirts and began to run.

As she drew closer, gasping for breath, her fears were confirmed. She could see that the village had been torched. It was desolate. There were no bodies, much to her relief, so she suspected the attack had occurred to teach the villagers some sort of lesson, perhaps as retribution for something. Presumably they had fled and would return to rebuild the village and their lives when they felt it was safe.

Panting now as breathing became easier, she discovered that the monks had not been so fortunate. The greater lesson had clearly been taught within the grounds of the monastery, where the smell of burned flesh was cloying. The light breeze carried the stench from the host of charred corpses suspended from a hastily erected series of crosses.

She had not realised she was weeping until a gust of wind blew the tears across her face. It was obvious that many of the monks had been set aflame and left to die in horrific pain wherever they writhed. She found herself stepping over the blackened remains of men… some boys too, and quickly averted her horrified gaze. It seemed that most had been working in the gardens or had gathered there when the raid began, for that was where the greatest number of bodies lay. Elspyth had no doubt there were more inside the monastery itself but she was not prepared to look within.

The horror of being nailed to a cross and then burned had been saved for selected monks — the most senior perhaps. She counted six. They all appeared dead although their bodies had not yet begun the process of decay. This made her skin prickle for it meant the attackers were not that long gone.

Needing to do something to combat her despair, but unable to face going into the holy chapel of the monastery, she sank to her knees and began praying at the feet of one of the crucified. As she murmured her pleas to Shar, the body above her croaked something. Elspyth fell backwards with fright, looking up towards that tortured hairless head with the flesh hanging off it. She stood, petrified, yet craning as close to the man’s moving lips as she could on tiptoe.

‘Find Ylena,’ he breathed. ‘She lives. Pil took her.’

‘Are you Brother Jakub?’ she asked, frantic.

An almost imperceptible, clearly painful nod told her he was indeed Brother Jakub.

‘Let me help you,’ she cried, desperately looking around for a tool which might loosen the nails.

‘Too late,’ he croaked. She returned to look into his sightless eyes and charred flesh. ‘Tell Romen…’ he coughed, his breath rattling in his throat, ‘that this was the work of the King.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ She could see his death looming.

‘Thirsk… he…’ was all the monk could get out before the last agonising breath wheezed out of his throat and he died.

Elspyth wept for his suffering and that of his brothers, all peaceful men of the cloth. She felt rage surfacing at this new King of Morgravia, understood now why Wyl’s identity must be protected. She gently eased the lids down over the staring eyes of Brother Jakub. There was nothing more she could do here, other than bear witness to the atrocity. It would stay with her forever. She touched a shaky hand to the blackened cheek of the brave monk who had stayed alive long enough to give her the information she needed, then set off. She did not know where she was headed, only that she must find the young woman being hunted by a merciless king.

Elspyth trudged in something of a stupor for more than a day, only realising as she heard the haunting call of an owl that dusk was darkening to night. She was exhausted. Since leaving the smouldering village of Rittylworth she had met no travellers along the narrow roads through Morgravia’s mid-north. Her mind too numb to think, she had put one foot in front of the other to gain as much distance between herself and death as she could. It had been many solitary hours.

She shivered now in the chill night air as darkness finally registered in her blurred thoughts. She burrowed into a small hollow beneath a bush for safety and collapsed there, not so much from fatigue as from the emotional trauma of the morning. She was convinced the smell of burned flesh still clung to her, and she could not forget the fire-torn voice of Brother Jakub courageously using his last breath of life to tell her what had happened. Elspyth wept quietly into the silence.

Inevitably, her despair led her to think on Lothryn again. Would she ever see him again? Deep down she believed that the man she loved still lived. Despite all her fears for him, something within begged her to believe that he was alive and so she must remain strong for him. And as firmly as she believed this, Elspyth instinctively trusted that Wyl Thirsk, now walking as Romen Koreldy, was the only person who might be able to restore Lothryn to her. Why this seemed so she could not say, except that her aunt had taught her to trust her instincts. Nothing had been the same since that day in Pearlis when Wyl Thirsk had entered the tent of her aunt, the Widow Ilyk, and terrified her. Her aunt. Elspyth laughed bitterly. What had become of her ageing relative? Was she dead? Injured?

She could so easily have returned home when she and Wyl had parted company, but here she was, heading who knew where after a woman she had never met.

Rittylworth had been torched because of the Thirsk name. Holy men of peace, of love, had lost their lives because of the Thirsk name. Even Lothryn had suffered because of…

No, she must not follow that line of thought. She must not blame the Thirsks or she would never survive this.

Elspyth sniffed. She dug in her cloak pocket and found some nuts and dried fruit which her travelling friends had provided. There was some hard biscuit too, but she decided to keep that for the morning when hunger always seemed at its sharpest. She chewed without interest in what she ate, considering her path now. She must make some decisions — good ones, and quickly.

Brother Jakub said Ylena had escaped. The girl would be on foot presumably, so not that far away from Rittylworth herself. Elspyth wondered about this lad the older man had mentioned, Pil. She presumed he was a monk as well. Either way, Ylena would be confused, frightened, disoriented. The thought brought a sad smile to her face. Much like myself, she admitted, realising that she was also penniless, having used all her money to buy Wyl a horse in Deakyn. They had assumed she would soon meet up with Ylena and have access to funds again, but now she had no coin nor means of getting any.

She shook her head clear of the doubts, swallowed the last of the fruit and nuts and settled down to sleep. But her thoughts drifted back to her journey and where she must go. She could not know in which direction Ylena had fled, so she had to choose the path that best served her promise to Wyl. She had in her possession a letter for the Duke of Felrawthy from Wyl — that was where she should head next. But for now she was alone and defenceless, which meant she would need to find a new method of transport. Perhaps she could link up with another group of travellers heading east, find some temporary work to pay for food and lodging along the way?

Well, it was a plan. Something to wake up to the next morning. The owl hooted again, reminding Elspyth that her kind should be asleep whilst the creatures of the night went about their business. She wriggled into the least uncomfortable position she could find and cast her last conscious thought towards Lothryn, wherever he was.

Elspyth dreamed.

Lothryn was calling to her. Crying for her, in fact. He was in pain. Drowning in all-encompassing, mind-altering pain. It seemed to her that he could sense her presence as strongly as she sensed his. Why there was pain and who was inflicting it she could not tell. There was darkness. Anger too. She felt bitterness raging about Lothryn; it was not his own, but she could not see him or the person experiencing the emotion. Something else too … something powerful. Magic … swirling around her … It knew she was there but it could not touch her.

Did she scream or was that Lothryn again?

Lothryn! she called into the pain.

His voice, barely audible, thick with agony. Tell Wyl I will wait, he whispered. I am no longer as he would expect.

Elspyth did scream now, shrieking Lothryn’s name into the darkness and its foul magic again and again, but her lover was gone. Their bond was viciously snapped, as if the power-wielder cut through the point where their minds had touched.

She awoke, still crying out, as dawn crept through a heavy mist that had settled about her during the night. Initially Elspyth panicked in the blindness, waving her arms and fighting the foggy swirls, but as her vision cleared slightly she was reassured of where she was, and her aloneness. Shallow breaths came rapidly; she needed to slow them. Painfully she stood from her uncomfortable hollow and sucked in deep gasps of air, filling her lungs and expelling it as slowly as she dared.

Tears streamed down her face as a new fear of what had become of Lothryn gripped her. Was he talking to her from the dead? Had he spoken at all or had she just experienced a nightmare of sorts? She forced herself to be practical even though she felt more fatigued now than before her distressing sleep. She wiped her eyes, relieved herself, then sat down to slowly consume the hard biscuit and think on what had happened. She was not hungry but the process of chewing and swallowing would help ease her alarm, she hoped, and so she forced herself to eat. Lothryn had made them eat when they were fleeing for their lives in the Razors. None of them had felt hungry, yet he had insisted and he had been right. She took the same advice now and nourished herself.

Elspyth had never felt more alone in her lonely life than at this moment. Lothryn’s words, real or imagined, were all she had to cling to now. She must succeed in her task if Wyl Thirsk was to keep his promise.

She stood, brushed away the crumbs and patted at her unruly hair. She knew she looked a fright but no longer cared. Lothryn was suffering. He had spoken from life not death — she knew it and trusted her weak sensitivity to magic, even though she could not wield it herself. Magic was strong in her maternal line but not strong in her. Somehow it had avoided her with its riches, but she knew enough to understand that Lothryn had truly reached her. The means he had employed were irrelevant. She had heard his voice: he needed help.

Setting her jaw in a way her aunt would recognise as the stubborn manner of her forebears, Elspyth began to walk, heading east towards Felrawthy.

TEN

WHILE ELSPYTH WAS RUNNING down a lonely hill towards desolation, Fynch was entering the town of Baelup. He had made speedy progress from Crowyll out of Briavel and into Morgravia courtesy of a man in a hurry to make a delivery to Pearlis. Fynch had done him a good turn and the man had offered the boy a lift to his destination.

It was Knave who had done the good deed, in fact, frightening off a couple of thieves who were nosing about the man’s cart whilst it was briefly unattended. Fynch had noticed their interest and, realising their actions were furtive, had sent Knave in. When the huge dog sounded his ferocious bark the men scurried away, understandably terrified.

The scene had brought to Fynch’s face one of his rare smiles. As he was patting Knave in congratulation for his performance, the owner of the cart had returned. He too looked anxiously at the dog. Fynch explained what had occurred and the man’s face lit up.

‘Travel with me,’ he had said. ‘I’ll pay you.’

Fynch was taken aback. ‘Why?’

‘This is the second time this has happened. Two months ago I lost half my goods to thieves. I suspect it is not the last time either, and it’s more than my life is worth not to get this delivery to Lady Bench of Pearlis.’

‘And how can I possibly help you?’ Fynch asked, amused, thinking of how slight he was. Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh, I see. My dog.’

‘Precisely,’ the man said. ‘You do have control of it, don’t you?’ he added, nervously.

‘Only when he wants me to. But fret not, he will not attack you.’

‘Thanks be to Shar,’ the man replied with relief. ‘Is it a deal?’

‘I need to get to Baelup.’

‘Perfect. I can take you there as soon as I’ve made my delivery,’ the man had said. ‘Please… I have food for the journey and my intention is to drive the horses hard to Grimble Town, changing them there. We shall be in Baelup sooner than you can pick your nose. What do you say?’

Fynch liked the man and his amusing manner. He knew Hildyth’s trail was cooling with each day he spent on foot and he could make up valuable time if he took the man’s offer. ‘All right.’

They had experienced no further robbery attempts and it had turned out that the man, Master Rilk, was a tailor, one of the best in Briavel, although modesty prevented him from claiming that he was in fact the most popular of all tailors with the nobles. Word had spread and now various Morgravian dignitaries were securing his services. Lady Bench was the most notable to date, and she had paid him a veritable fortune to tailor her daughter’s latest dancing gown. She had insisted, however, that Master Rilk personally deliver the gown just in case it required last-minute adjustments.

Rilk made pleasant, intelligent company for Fynch, and he in turn thoroughly enjoyed the serious lad, who was knowledgeable in the ways of the Morgravian court and seemed to know many of its nobles. Fynch had gladly passed on their names and dress tendencies, his attention to detail impressing the tailor. Master Rilk had plans to expand his business dealings in the Morgravian capital so this inside information was a blessing.

They had parted company at Baelup as friends, with a promise to meet again some time. Fynch had refused payment. He had been fed and watered well, as had Knave, at Rilk’s expense, plus they had travelled swiftly and safely to their destination.

After they had waved goodbye, Knave made himself scarce and Fynch walked into the main square, wondering where to begin. Several hours later, having passed himself off as a distant member of the family bringing news of his own mother’s passing, he had established that Myrren’s mother, Emil, had left Baelup soon after learning of her daughter’s ugly death. With her husband dead and her daughter burned as a witch, people had sympathised with her fears for her own life.

The blacksmith was the most helpful. He seemed to have known the family well, but claimed to have no idea where she had fled to.

‘I can’t offer much more help. I know a young fellow came here to see her the day after Myrren’s death. He was with a tall chap, but I don’t think the older one went in with him to see Emil.’

‘Was the youngster’s name Thirsk?’ Fynch asked.

‘I don’t know, lad. I just saw him arrive and leave with the pup. I gather Myrren had asked him to take her dog. He was there barely minutes.’

‘Can you remember anything about him?’

‘Red hair. Does that help?’

Fynch grinned. ‘It does. He was probably accompanied by a man called Gueryn. How did you come to meet them?’

‘My missus and I were helping Emil pack her things, as I recall,’ the man said, scratching his head. ‘She was in a tearing hurry to leave. And once she had news of Myrren’s end, she could only think of fleeing the house, the town, everything she knew. Shame. It was the second time in her life she’d done that. Myrren had funny eyes, you see, and those Witch Stalkers were after her. Poor mite — she deserved better. She was a lovely girl and a good daughter. The old man just dropped dead in front of the Stalkers. His heart gave out; he had feared such a thing for so many years.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Fynch said. ‘And then what happened?’

‘Well, after the bad news from Pearlis, Emil was only too happy to hand the pup over to this red-headed chappie, for she had no idea what to do with it anyway. Apparently the lad had shown Myrren some kindness at the time of her torture and she had wanted to give him a gift in return.’

If only you knew, Fynch thought.

‘And then Emil left,’ the man concluded. ‘She never said anything more about the dog or its new owner. We didn’t hear her conversation with him either, although I tell you it was only moments long. Emil could hardly string two sensible words together at the time.’

Fynch nodded in sympathy. ‘She gave no mention of where she might have been headed?’

The man pulled a face. ‘Wait now… I do recall her saying something about a sister. Where was it?’

‘Please, it’s important.’

‘Er… let me think now. It was mid north. Perhaps Rothwell?’

‘Where’s that?’

‘About three days from here. Tiny village. But I can’t be sure now, lad. Truly, I can’t remember what she said.’

There was little choice. Fynch decided to head north to Rothwell, just in case it brought him closer to Myrren’s mother — or, more likely, Wyl — and so he filled up on a sweet pastry at Baelup’s bakery and a mug of apple juice before he set off. He was sipping at the refreshing liquid, thinking that he must purchase some dry food, when it happened.

Onlookers watched in dismay as the small lad’s mug crashed to the floor moments before he did, his body instantly limp amongst the spilled juice. Seconds later a huge black dog entered the shop, terrifying all with its fierce growl. The beast positioned itself above the boy, guarding him.

Then it waited, its head cocked as though listening …

Fynch could hear the familiar voice. It was not unkind but it was insistent. Look at me, boy.

Fynch turned his head. He saw himself prone on the floor of the baker’s shop, apple juice around him and people fussing nearby. To all intents and purposes he was dead. Above him stood Knave, still as a statue, fearsome.

Am I dead? It was his voice — somehow he could talk with his mind.

No, came the reply. Use your power, child. Send yourself to me.

Fynch obeyed, finding that he was able to lock on to the voice and reel in its echoes of sound as though pulling on a rope. He willed himself along the connection, feeling insubstantial yet very much alive and aware.

Moments later he saw a figure facing him through a fine mist. Fynch reached out to touch it, but it was as unreal as he was in this place. But as the face smiled, its warmth reached through the mist to touch him.

Fynch surmised that the man seemed oddly short, but could not make out his age, or any features other than a suggestion of dark hair.

Who are you? Fynch asked.

A friend. There was caution in the voice.

What are you?

Wyl Thirsk knows me as the manwitch.

Myrren’s father?

The man nodded.

Are you Knave as well?

There was the brief smile again, as though congratulating the boy. In a way, he spoke softly. But he is real enough.

What do you want with me?

Your help, Fynch.

How?

The manwitch, Elysius, shook his head. Not now. Too dangerous like this. Come to me. Follow the dog. Trust him.

But…

Go now. Send yourself back to your body. Forget Emil. We will talk soon.

Fynch did as he was told and woke to see the people from the baker’s shop crowded around him. Knave had disappeared. He came to his wits as if from a dream.

‘What happened, lad?’ someone asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten in days.’

He heard them muttering about how tiny and skinny he was. He was used to this. Hands lifted him from the floor; others pushed food into his lap as they sat him down. People talked to him, talked over him, and worried about whether that ferocious dog might reappear.

‘No,’ Fynch murmured, ‘he won’t.’ He knew Knave would be waiting for him now, ready to lead him to wherever it was he had to go.

There was no longer any need to search out Myrren’s mother. He was travelling to Elysius, where he hoped he would be reunited with Wyl — or whoever his friend might be by the time he reached the manwitch.

ELEVEN

IT FELT STRANGE, AND dangerous, to be entering Stoneheart again. The last time he had ridden through its magnificent gates he had been Romen, bringing back the body of Wyl Thirsk to clear his name as well as rescue his sister. He thought of Ylena now, hoping she was safe with Elspyth.

Aremys’s horse drew up alongside. ‘I hope it was worth it,’ Wyl said bitterly. ‘Enjoy your money quickly, Aremys, because I shall hunt you down and kill you.’

‘I regret it,’ Aremys admitted.

‘Too late,’ Wyl replied. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what you’ve done.’

‘I —’

But Wyl did not wait to hear what the mercenary had to say. He clicked his horse on and entered the bailey alongside Jessom.

‘Be easy, Leyen,’ the Chancellor said. ‘The King does not want you dead. Believe me, I had no choice but to bring you in.’

‘What does he want?’

The Chancellor grimaced. ‘You achieved for him something important, something no one else could.’

‘Payment is thanks enough for me,’ Wyl snarled, handing his reins to the boys who had run towards the group.

‘Not for him, apparently,’ Jessom said, climbing down from his horse. ‘Oh, and by the way, he thinks you’re a man.’

Jessom had requested that Aremys join him and Leyen at the audience with the King. It was clear Aremys felt uncomfortable at the summons but he simply nodded. They followed Jessom to the orangery, an area the King had claimed as his own, including the chambers surrounding it.

It was another stab to Wyl’s heart that this part of Stoneheart, designed specifically for Ylena by her guardian, King Magnus, was now enjoyed by Celimus. Wyl held his breath as the delicate fragrance of orange drifted towards them, bringing with it a flood of memories of happier times spent here with Alyd and Ylena.

‘Let us hope the King is in good spirits today,’ Jessom murmured as they stepped down into the sheltered courtyard, ringed by citrus trees laden with ripening fruit, that Wyl knew so well.

‘My liege,’ Jessom said, bowing low.

The King was staring out across the balustrades to the panoramic beauty of the meadows beyond. Wyl’s whole body tensed with hatred as Celimus turned towards them. He wished he had a knife. One swift throw and the cruel man before him would be taking his last gasp. Being hanged, drawn and quartered would be worth the pleasure of seeing Celimus dead.

Wyl bowed low, hiding the look on Faryl’s face from the man he so deeply hated.

‘Ah, Jessom. Welcome to you and your guests.’

The smooth resonant voice was so reminiscent of old King Magnus, yet it made Wyl’s flesh crawl.

Celimus stepped forward, tall and graceful. He flicked an appreciative glance towards the woman but his attention was securely on Aremys. He reached out his hand for Aremys to bend over and touch to his lips, which the mercenary dutifully did.

‘You must be the man I have been looking forward to meeting. I wanted to thank you in person for your services. I trust we have rewarded you well?’

Aremys looked into the olive eyes of the handsome King he had heard so much about yet until now had never seen. Confusion passed across his face. ‘My King, I…yes, the reward is ample.’ He looked towards Jessom.

‘Your highness,’ Jessom said softly, ‘this man is Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn. He has rid us of the Legionnaires responsible for stealing the royal monies.’

Celimus looked sharply at Jessom. ‘Forgive me, Chancellor, I was under the distinct impression that you were bringing before me the person who relieved me of a certain mercenary who threatened the Crown.’ The King’s voice was suddenly icy. He did not appreciate being embarrassed.

The Chancellor moved smoothly on. ‘I have, your majesty. May I introduce Leyen.’

The olive gaze slid from Aremys to look into the face Wyl hid behind. He held that familiar gaze steadily, despite the sensation that he was being slithered over by a deadly snake. Celimus said nothing for a moment; the small silence was sizzling with intensity.

‘A woman?’ he finally said.

Wyl bowed once again; he could hardly curtsy wearing these clothes. He was not so sure whether he would know how — perhaps Faryl might. These fragments flitted through his mind as the full weight of the monarch’s scrutiny rested upon him. Close enough to kill with a single stab, Wyl thought, hoping his face remained as expressionless as he was trying to make it.

‘I am without words,’ Celimus admitted. ‘Once again you surprise me, Jessom.’

‘Your highness, I am your servant in all things,’ Jessom oozed.

Then came what Wyl had been dreading. He blinked as he saw the hand of the King rise. He could not, would not kiss that hand. He would sooner die than swear allegiance to this King. Wyl bent over and reached for the hand, then exploded into a coughing fit. Celimus snatched back his hand and glared towards Jessom, who appeared equally alarmed.

It was Aremys who rescued Wyl. ‘Your highness, forgive us. We have been riding hard for a couple of days without adequate food or water,’ he lied. ‘Leyen suffered a vicious attack at the hands of those same men whose corpses I sent you, your majesty. That is how we came to meet. She is in need of rest and attention.’

It was a long speech for Aremys. Perhaps a bit too long to be convincing, Wyl thought. Despite his misgivings about the man he was grateful for his intervention at this moment.

‘I see,’ Celimus said, not really seeing at all as Wyl continued to struggle with his contrived cough. ‘I have noted the injuries to your face, Leyen, and we will provide the attention you require. Jessom, see to it.’

The Chancellor bobbed his head in agreement.

The King continued, his irritation evident. ‘Let us meet later then, when both of you have had sufficient time to recuperate.’

‘Thank you, your highness,’ Jessom said, embarrassed.

‘Have them join me for a private supper tonight. I have things I wish to speak of to these people.’ He spoke to Jessom as though neither Aremys or Wyl were there. Grateful to be ignored they bowed and followed the Chancellor out of the courtyard.

‘Not an auspicious beginning,’ Jessom spat as they moved out of earshot.

‘My apologies,’ Wyl lied. ‘I really don’t feel well.’

‘Be brighter by tonight, Leyen,’ Jessom warned. ‘It will not go well with you if you displease the King a second time. He is unpredictable,’ he added, in case neither of them were taking his advice seriously enough. ‘Now follow me.’

Aremys was housed away from Wyl, in a separate wing close to the Legion’s quarters. That suited Wyl; he had no desire for any further dealings with the man, beyond those which were absolutely necessary, such as the evening repast with the King. His own accommodations were sparse but comfortable. To his good fortune, he saw the page, Jorn, racing by, a worried look on his face. Wyl hailed him.

‘Yes, madam,’ Jorn enquired, clearly in a hurry but just as keen not to offend one of the King’s guests.

Wyl wished he could tell this lad the truth. ‘What is your name?’

‘Jorn, madam. How may I serve you?’

‘You seem to be a little rushed just now.’

‘I am happy to help in any way I can,’ the lad replied. He had grown up quickly at Stoneheart, it seemed, for the sparkle in his eye and his eager manner had gone, replaced by polite language, a cautious approach and a demeanour that suggested anything but happiness.

‘Well, I was going to ask your advice, but may I request that you come by later when you are not quite so harried?’

Jorn looked surprised. ‘Have you no lady assigned to assist you?’

‘It seems not, but then I require such advice as only a young man such as yourself can provide.’

Now Jorn looked worried. ‘In that case, madam, I shall return as soon as my immediate duties to his highness are complete.’

‘You work for the King?’

‘I am one of his personal messengers.’

‘Thank you, Jorn. I look forward to seeing you when you can spare a minute.’

The lad bowed and hurried away. Wyl returned to his room to ponder this information. Jorn had personal access to the King’s dealings; he may prove himself the ally the youngster had so badly wanted to be when Wyl, as Romen, was fleeing Stoneheart with Ylena. What to tell him, though? It needed further thought. For now his immediate problem was what to wear for dinner tonight — every woman’s dilemma. Wyl scowled, hating that he should be concerned with such things.

He had nothing appropriate, obviously. He would have to speak with Jessom. In the meantime a bath was very necessary and he made his way, grimacing, to the women’s bathing pavilion.

Wyl had no idea what to do when he arrived there. He was entering a mysterious world which had never been even remotely available to him previously. To begin with, the atmosphere was hushed and tranquil in the special gardens that housed the pavilion. Outside the men’s building it was normally raucous with young men jostling and jockeying with each other. Here the women entered and exited sedately, in quiet conversation with one another. They seemed to move in pairs, he noted, whereas the men tended to wander in as a boisterous herd. As General, he and his officers had a special area they could retire to for more peaceful bathing. Nonetheless, they tended to form what was essentially a smaller gang of the soldiers and were just as noisy and energetic. He hoped that Faryl’s femininity would help guide him through this ordeal as she had surely visited bathhouses in the past, although there was no advice surfacing at present. Whilst he was thinking about all of this he had not realised that he was lurking at the entrance of the pavilion.

‘Are you all right?’ a voice asked.

It was a middle-aged woman, one he recognised.

‘Er… this is my first time at Stoneheart. I’m a little daunted. It’s very beautiful.’

And it was. The pavilion was delicate in design and decorated with beautiful glasswork of brilliant colours.

‘Don’t be, my dear,’ the woman said. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you the ropes.’ She linked her arm in Wyl’s. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Leyen.’

‘Pretty. Not from Pearlis or around here then obviously?’

‘No.’ Wyl’s mind raced. He had not thought about what background to give. He wanted no link to Faryl whatsoever. ‘Er, I’m from a small village to the mid-north.’

‘Oh yes? Which one?’ She was not going to be put off easily he realised.

‘Rittylworth.’ It was the first name that came into his head.

‘Shar’s mercy. That poor place,’ the woman said, her voice suddenly grave.

‘Pardon?’

But his companion was distracted by a group of women hailing her. They sound like a gaggle of geese, Wyl thought, amazed by the laughter and sudden bursts of separate conversations that ensued.

‘I won’t desert you,’ his new friend said, looking back and winking. ‘Take a towel and a robe. We undress over there,’ she added. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

There was nothing for it; he had to follow her instructions or risk curiosity. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same direction. He chose an elegantly shuttered cubicle for modesty but most of the women just stripped off in the communal area. It was terrifying. Wyl felt way out of his depth now. He was going to have to walk naked to the baths.

He looked down at his full breasts and felt the familiar urge to gag at the sight. But it was the fear of discovery that troubled him most. He took several long, shuddering breaths. You’re Leyen, he berated himself. No one bar Aremys knows any different, and he knows nothing other than a name. They see only a woman’s body. Now —

‘Leyen?’ It was his friend knocking. ‘Are you in there?’

He closed his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m just coming,’ he said as lightly as he could and reached for courage. He opened the door and stepped out, his gaze on the floor.

‘My, but you’re a modest one,’ she said and chortled softly. ‘Oh, my dear, with a body like yours you have nothing to fear here — other than all-consuming jealousy. I don’t believe there is a flatter belly nor tauter thighs amongst us. Now come, let me show you around.’

‘I don’t know your name, I’m sorry,’ Wyl lied, still not risking a glance towards the naked woman who walked beside him arm in arm, her doughy flesh touching his own.

‘Oh, how remiss of me,’ she chuckled. ‘I am Lady Bench. But, please, as we have now strolled naked together, you must call me Helyn.’ She smiled warmly and Wyl blushed.

‘Thank you, Helyn,’ he said, knowing he must do his best to start acting like a woman and less like an impostor.

He looked up at last and was rewarded with a sight any other man would give a limb for: fifty or sixty naked women, bathing, luxuriating, talking, some taking a smooth, others just being oiled. The atmosphere was serene yet playful — he wondered how they achieved that. His companion answered his thoughts.

‘Welcome to the ladies pavilion, Leyen,’ Helyn said. ‘All we do is gossip,’ she added. ‘We’re all talking about each other, of course… but carefully.’ She winked again. Her mood was infectious and Wyl liked her.

The bath was hotter than he had expected as he stepped into the gently bubbling water. He could see a magnificent mosaic on the floor, similar in design to what he recalled from the men’s pavilion. This building was more palatial though, with more glass, more light, paler marble, artworks adorning the walls, and smoothing tables made comfortable with cushions. Everything just a little more luxurious, a little softer, than the men enjoyed.

The chatter here was subdued — probably because of its needing to be kept ‘just between us’ he thought, and grinned to himself. So this is what Ylena used to get up to.

‘Ah, you must share the joke. Nothing is private here, Leyen,’ Helyn admonished in gentle fun. ‘Follow me — over here is my favourite spot,’ she said. The noblewoman gestured for Wyl to join her on a special seat built into the wall which allowed them to comfortably submerge themselves in the water’s warmth whilst still being in a position to talk with ease. Steam was rising off the surface of the water. Wyl commented on it for conversation as they settled themselves, and to keep his eyes occupied rather than lecherous as they seemed determined to be.

‘They keep the temperature of the water warmer in the ladies’ pavilion than in the men’s, I’m told. Apparently we women prefer it that way, to steam our skin and keep our complexions healthy.’ She levelled an enquiring gaze upon Wyl. ‘So, Leyen, who are you?’

‘A guest,’ Wyl replied. ‘I am handling some correspondence for the King between realms.’ The lie came quickly.

‘No messenger I know of is accommodated as a guest of Celimus,’ Helyn probed.

‘No messenger you know of is a special courier to Briavel,’ Wyl said evenly, wondering at the audacity of his own invention. He could thank Romen for that.

‘Indeed,’ she said, eyebrows raised, curiosity piqued. ‘Briavel? This can only be about the marriage.’

‘Press me no further, Lady Helyn. I am sworn to secrecy,’ he added theatrically but hoping she might take the hint.

His words achieved the opposite, fuelling her need to discover more. This time her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t look like a simple courier.’

‘I am not and never will be simple, madam,’ Wyl replied and laughed coquettishly, drawing on the mannerism Faryl had used to such effect at the Forbidden Fruit.

‘I’ll get to the bottom of you yet, Leyen of Rittylworth,’ Helyn said, enjoying the intrigue.

‘Which reminds me, Lady Helyn, what did you mean earlier when you spoke of my home village?’

She looked at him sideways, sober now. ‘Have you family there still?’

‘No,’ he said carefully.

‘You are fortunate then, and little wonder you have not heard that the place was torched.’

Wyl felt his chest constrict. ‘Torched,’ he repeated in a small voice, the sight of naked women suddenly forgotten. ‘By whom?’

‘They say bandits, but I have never heard of bandits who could be bothered torching a village. Ransacking it maybe, but they would not waste the time damaging it. To what end? You burn a village to teach its inhabitants a lesson, in my opinion.’

An attendant squatted by them with a tray of multi-coloured layers. Wyl looked confused.

‘Oh dear, child, wherever have you been hiding yourself? These are soap leaves, my girl. Take a few. Each is scented differently.’

‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, feeling like a dullard. In the men’s pavilion they used soap paste, nothing so dainty as these leaves. In truth, part of his confusion came from shock at the news.

‘I know only the dusty road, Lady Helyn, and am used to washing myself in a tin tub dragged up the inn’s stairs. Forgive me my ignorance. But tell me, what of the monastery at Rittylworth?’

Lady Helyn sighed as she began soaping herself. Wyl looked away, embarrassed, locking instead on to the sight of an attractive pair of breasts on the other side of the pool.

‘Well, that was the worst part of it, Leyen — and why any fool would know this was not the work of bandits. The monks were killed and not mercifully either. Everyone in the monastery was murdered.’

Wyl must have paled because his new friend reached out to steady him. ‘I am so sorry to give you this news. You must have known many there.’

‘Yes… yes, I did. You say everyone was murdered?’

‘Mmm, it’s true. My husband deals with many merchants. One who passes through Rittylworth regularly said he had recognised the body of the senior monk, Brother Jakub. He had been nailed to a cross and burned. Any visitors at the monastery were killed too… dreadful business.’

Lady Bench continued talking but Wyl had stopped listening. The horror was too much for him to bear. Ylena, dead? Her lovely face swam before him but he could not make it smile no matter how hard he tried. His memory of her now was sombre — her laughter had gone from the moment she had witnessed her husband’s death and been committed to sorrow. Perhaps she had welcomed death, he wondered. His entire family was dead now then, including himself in a way.

He agreed with Lady Bench — the killers were no bandits. Only a sadist would do such a thing. A sadist with power. Celimus — who else? But how could the King possibly have known where Romen had taken Ylena? He had covered their tracks too well. Wyl’s whole being fought back the urge to make his way to the King’s rooms immediately and, come what may, kill him.

Then another horrific thought came. Had Elspyth perished too?

‘When did this occur?’ he demanded.

‘Pardon me?’ Lady Bench said, turning back towards Wyl from engaging someone passing by in a polite salutation. ‘Oh… I would guess at about three days ago.’ She waded off with her friend, throwing a wink back to Wyl as though she had latched on to some juicy gossip. ‘Won’t be long,’ she mouthed.

Wyl was relieved she had given him a few moments alone. His mind felt dazed.

If she had travelled quickly, Wyl calculated, then Elspyth would have certainly been at Rittylworth when the attackers came, and there was no hope for either of them. He could only pray to Shar that she had reached Ylena before the massacre and got her away to safety. And then, irrationally, he hoped that Elspyth had ignored his needs, had broken her promise and gone directly to her home. But he knew she would not have done that. Elspyth was steadfast and true; she would have kept her oath to him and walked straight into danger. He had failed both the women he had sworn to protect.

Lady Bench floated back. ‘My dear, you look very pale.’

‘I’m sorry. The news of Rittylworth has upset me.’

‘And I feel badly that I was the messenger of these painful tidings. Come, wash yourself and then you are to return home with me.’

Wyl wanted to be alone with his sorrowful thoughts, but he also did not want to be within Stoneheart.

‘It is spitting distance from the palace,’ she urged. ‘We will share a light meal and you can spend some quiet time in my gardens. It will be better for you than here. I shall leave you in peace if you wish — you can even stay the night.’

‘I am having supper with the King tonight,’ Wyl said distractedly.

‘Shar save us, girl! You are important.’

‘Not really,’ he said, wondering why he had blurted out that information. ‘I have nothing to wear.’

‘Well, I have plenty!’ Helyn said, suddenly galvanised. ‘I shall hear no argument. You are coming with me.’

Without further discussion Wyl found himself dried, dressed and in Lady Helyn’s carriage bound for her home. She was alone right now — her husband away and her only daughter staying with friends — so she was glad of the company.

Wyl had to admit it was good for him to be diverted in this way. His inclination was to jump on a horse and ride for Rittylworth, but his soldier’s mind told him there was little he could do. Whatever had happened would not change because of his arrival; the carnage would not become any less tragic. Besides, he had begun to convince himself that Elspyth had got to the monastery in time and that both women were together and on the run to Felrawthy. Jakub would not have allowed any harm to come to Ylena. At the first hint of trouble he would have hidden her in the secret grotto and hopefully got her to safety.

Lady Bench was right. Wyl did feel better for the solitude, and she was as good as her word and left him alone for a while. Her home was a splendid sandstone affair, its design and furnishings testament to her wealth and excellent taste. The gardens were no less magnificent and Wyl was pleased to spend some time wandering their scented paths, thinking over his current situation and how he might make the best of it. Wyl was not completely taken in by the attention he was receiving from Lady Helyn. He knew she was a pivotal and indeed powerful member of the nobility, and she had sensed the chance to be privy to the secret dealings of the King. She herself had mentioned to Wyl how Pearlis thrived on gossip and hearsay, and she was no different to other women — a bored, wealthy woman was always going to be fascinated by intrigue. Wyl appreciated, however, that Lady Bench was intelligent as well as wise, for she knew when not to push for the information she so desperately craved. When she finally joined him, they talked about every subject under the sun, bar the King’s marriage.

They sat sipping mint tea next to a pond filled with fat flame-coloured fish that occasionally broke through the water’s surface decoration of delicate water lilies. Nearby, an aviary of chittering canaries was a mass of colour and movement. The garden was a sun trap and they were warm out there, with the help of some soft rugs, which Wyl did not need but politely accepted. ‘Now, Leyen,’ Lady Bench said, ‘we must find you an appropriate gown and cloak for your rendezvous with the King this evening.’

‘Lady Helyn, I hope you won’t take it as rude when I say we are not necessarily of a size. I am taller for a start,’ Wyl said, feeling clumsy. Despite his best efforts he believed he gave offence. No woman alive liked to hear that another was taller, slimmer, prettier… no matter how old they were.

‘And infinitely trimmer too,’ she said, laughing. She placed her glass on the small table beside her. ‘I was thinking of something from my daughter’s wardrobe. Shar knows, I lavish enough of my husband’s fortune on that girl’s back. She won’t even notice them missing, my dear. Only the other day I took delivery from Amos Rilk, Master Tailor of Briavel, of my daughter’s first formal ballgown — worth a small fortune in gold.’

‘You use a tailor from Briavel?’

‘None finer. They say he dresses the Queen.’

‘Then he is privileged indeed,’ Wyl replied, wishing he could dress Briavel’s Queen in Master Rilk’s place. He stifled a sad smile at the thought that he would actually prefer to undress her.

‘Have you met her majesty?’ Helyn enquired innocently.

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘She is very…’ He wanted to say easy to love, wonderful to kiss, but he did not ‘…statuesque. Rilk would surely be in raptures hanging his fabrics from her shoulders.’

‘Hmm, I hear she is an extraordinary beauty.’

‘She is. But Valentyna,’ he saw Helyn’s eyes widen in surprise at his casual use of the monarch’s name ‘…er, I mean, the Queen, is not a vain woman from what I can gather. In truth, I have seen her more comfortable in riding breeches than a gown, with her hair falling down around her face rather than exquisitely braided.’

‘You have mingled with her at formal occasions then … as well as less formal ones?’

‘A couple.’

‘As her guest, no doubt,’ Helyn said, unable to hide the irony in her voice.

‘Lady Helyn, forgive me. I have mentioned that much of my work between the monarchs is covert. I am not permitted to discuss it.’

‘I understand. My apologies. I don’t mean to pry but, as you can tell, we Morgravians are all very excited about this marriage.’

‘Are you?’

‘Of course! Aren’t you? We all want peace. Valentyna will bring it by marrying Celimus. Perhaps she may also temper his wayward pursuits. And if you ever repeat that, Leyen, I shall publicly denounce you!’

Wyl laughed in spite of his churning emotions, and made the gesture of locking his lips with a key.

‘I’ve been away on other business so must catch up on the latest news. How far have the plans for the wedding ceremony progressed?’

‘I believe it will happen soon,’ Helyn replied. ‘Certainly the nobility is pressing through its own channels for a wedding by spring’s end.’

‘Spring’s end,’ Wyl murmured. Only weeks in which to save Valentyna.

‘So tonight, no doubt, you will receive another message from Celimus for his beautiful Valentyna?’

‘No doubt.’ Wyl grimaced.

‘He is very clever to use a woman for this role. Who would ever suspect? Now, let us choose something from my daughter’s wardrobe to put him in a good mood.’

This was the last thing Wyl felt like doing. His mind was fraying just thinking about Rittylworth, but Faryl’s essence kept him strong.

Lady Bench led Wyl to a dressing chamber, chatting along the way about the type of woman Celimus usually favoured. Wyl allowed her to ramble.

‘I think olive green is your colour, my dear, with that lovely hair. Which reminds me, have they given you a maid?’

Wyl shook his head.

‘Right, I’ll send over one of my girls, with some flowers to dress your hair. Fresh gardenias from my glasshouse. I hope you don’t find their perfume overwhelming?’

‘No. But your generosity is, Lady Helyn.’

‘Don’t mention it. I want to cheer you after your news, and who knows, I may be responsible for helping you into the King’s bed if we make you look as gorgeous as it’s obvious you can be.’

She winked at her friend as a co-conspirator, then immediately apologised, alarmed by the look of horror on Leyen’s face. ‘Oh, my dear, just a little joke from a silly woman with nothing else to occupy her mind.’

TWELVE

WYL LOOKED AT HIMSELF in the mirror after Lady Helyn’s maid had departed. He hardly recognised this person as the Faryl he had known since he had taken over her grooming. Before him stood a tall, striking woman. Her polished hair was swept up into an intricate design behind her head and interwoven with tiny delicate gardenias. He would require no perfume tonight as the fragrant flowers more than compensated.

Helyn had decided against the olive green in the end and chosen a soft cream gown. It was simplicity itself, draping elegantly from his broad square shoulders, softening the long muscular arms. The maid had carefully smoothed and creamed his lightly browned skin until it too shone and then, to Wyl’s fascination, she had dusted it softly with a gold powder. The effect was to make his skin shimmer as he moved — it was a stunning addition for any woman looking to impress a man. For Wyl it was a wondrous insight into the female arts of allurement.

Helyn had also sent one of her own items of jewellery: a small ruby now hung at his throat like a drop of blood. No other adornment was required after a dab of soft kohl at his eyes to deepen their dark intensity and a smudge of tawny colour on his lips. Wyl despised the taste and the gluey texture, but he knew Leyen looked superb and dared not wipe his mouth clean. The maid had trimmed and buffed his nails until they too shone mirror-like. He was complete.

As he stared at his reflection Wyl hoped that the King would not take an unprofessional liking to what he saw. He was relying on his own knowledge that Celimus had always tended towards flaxen-haired beauties whose fairness made his own swarthiness all the more dramatic. Wyl also knew that the King preferred weaker women, ones he could dominate, which was why he must allow Faryl’s strong personality to shine. Such preferences made Valentyna a poor choice for Celimus — she neither suited his taste for golden-haired women nor did her feisty, regal style lend itself to his domineering manner.

Wyl realised, though, that it was not Valentyna whom Celimus loved but the riches she brought and the peace their union would achieve. The whole region would grow wealthier still, and Celimus’s heir would rule over two great realms. Wyl grimaced at the thought of Celimus siring an heir upon Valentyna. Then it occurred to him that perhaps the King’s ambitious eyes looked even further afield. With peace achieved in the southern realms, the new power could deal with the people of the Razors and their upstart Mountain King.

Spring’s end. The thought nagged repeatedly.

There was a soft knock at the door, which turned out to be Jorn.

‘Too late,’ Wyl said, ‘I’ve already chosen. Do you approve?’ he added.

‘My lady,’ Jorn said, blushing, ‘what could there be to disapprove of?’

‘Well spoken, Jorn. Come in. You’ve been busy, I gather?’

‘Yes, my lady,’ he replied, stepping carefully into the chamber and leaving the door ajar.

‘Close it, would you,’ Wyl said.

The lad did so, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Jorn, let me put your mind at rest. We have a mutual acquaintance.’ This won the lad’s attention. ‘I am a friend of Romen Koreldy.’

The young man’s eyes lit up. Wyl was pleased Romen had made a good impression.

‘I am honoured, then, to know you. He is someone I admire.’

Guilt raged through Wyl. The truth would not work here, however. ‘Tell me, how are you getting on?’

‘Did he ask you to enquire after me?’ Jorn said, his eagerness heartbreaking.

‘Yes, in a way.’

‘And the Lady Ylena? Tell me she is well, Madam Leyen.’

‘In truth I have not seen Ylena in a long time. I —’

Jorn cut across his words. ‘Because I have worried myself sick over the recent news that Rittylworth has been ransacked, knowing she had gone there.’

Wyl felt a twist in the pit of his stomach as the missing piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. It was Jorn who had told them; innocent, eager Jorn who had unwittingly led Celimus to Ylena like a cat to cream. He felt sick at the thought of kind and wise Brother Jakub, the young lad Pil, all those monks murdered so cruelly in the pursuit of the Thirsk line. A vision of Ylena lying broken and dead hit his thoughts like a clap of thunder. No, she is alive, he told himself.

He took a steadying breath, working hard not to betray his fear. He could not blame the boy. ‘Jorn, did you know specifically where Koreldy was headed when he left Stoneheart?’

‘Not really, madam. He mentioned something about the northwest and possibly Rittylworth, but he wasn’t sure at that time as I recall.’

Wyl remembered wanting to bite out his own tongue when that slip had occurred. It was a pity the lad had such a good memory. ‘And did you mention this to anyone?’ he asked casually, busying himself fussing with his hair so as not to arouse suspicion in Jorn.

‘I… um… I might have, yes. I think Chancellor Jessom was making some enquiries.’

‘Ah, yes. I know Jessom,’ Wyl said in a tight tone.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Of course,’ Wyl reassured, forcing himself to keep his voice even. ‘In fact I promised Koreldy that I would visit the Lady Ylena the next time I passed through this region.’

‘She is not at Argorn, then?’ Jorn asked sadly.

Wyl recalled how Ylena had promised the page that she would send for him once she returned to her family home. He shook his head. ‘I can’t be sure, Jorn.’ Anything to keep the truth from getting out.

‘Oh.’ The lad looked deflated, then his eyes lit again. ‘You might care to try the Duchy of Felrawthy then, madam. My lady married into the Donal family and she might well be visiting them in the far north.’

Damn the lad’s excellent memory. Wyl’s anxieties increased. How to keep him quiet without provoking suspicion?

‘Thank you. I shall make some enquiries.’

Poor Jorn. He was determined that Ylena’s promise was not forgotten, even if it meant chewing the ear off a visitor who might meet up with her. ‘She said she would send for me, Madam Leyen.’

Wyl put a kind smile on his face despite his fears for Ylena. ‘Is being in her service more important than serving the King, Jorn?’

The lad flushed scarlet. ‘I would die for her,’ he stammered.

This was a shock. Wyl’s immediate reaction was to tell Jorn he hardly knew Ylena well enough to pledge such a lofty sacrifice. However, he himself had fallen in love with Valentyna within moments of her turning that direct blue gaze upon him. From then on Wyl Thirsk had become a man of Briavel, her man. Valentyna knew none of this, of course. She loved Koreldy, and she could never possibly love Wyl, and especially Faryl, even though all three were now one.

Wyl sighed, noted Jorn was still blushing and uncomfortable. He found a grin for him. ‘Well, let’s hope you never have to, Jorn,’ he said, praying that his sister was safe. ‘But now that you have expressed your loyalty,’ he added, taking advantage of the boy’s weakness for Ylena, ‘I suggest you observe it as sharply as ever. Do you understand?’ He could not help but emphasise it further. ‘Be discreet to the point of silence.’

Jorn nodded but wore a puzzled expression. Wyl could say nothing more direct; he would have to let the lad figure it out for himself.

‘Well, I believe I am expected in the King’s suite. Thank you for coming,’ Wyl said.

‘Call upon me any time, Madam Leyen. Please, give my regards to Romen Koreldy when you see him.’

‘And what shall I give to the Lady Ylena should our paths cross?’ Wyl said.

He was relieved to see Jorn grin. So the young fellow did have a sense of humour and was not all earnest effort. Wyl smiled his farewell. Jorn may yet prove useful.

It was a mild evening, made milder still by the braziers burning in a circle around yet another private courtyard in Stoneheart. The castle boasted at least a dozen, some of which Wyl had been in at one time or another as he grew up, but this one he did not recognise. It was compact, ringed by beds of herbs including several fine bay trees. There were none of the spectacular flowers for which King Magnus had been known. Nonetheless the area was beautiful in its simple, somewhat stark design.

Its ordered structure was softened by the breathy fragrances of the herbs, which mingled in the warmth to create a sensuous atmosphere. In the centre of the courtyard was a table around which four chairs were placed. The setting was elegant but, again, simple. Wyl was struck by the restraint; he would have expected something more elaborate from Celimus. The King had excellent taste but leaned towards the flashy. What Wyl was looking upon now was understated, more to his own taste in fact, and he felt instantly comfortable in this small square of Stoneheart.

Aremys was already in attendance. He held a cup of wine and was talking softly with the Chancellor, whom Wyl presumed made up tonight’s foursome. He saw the mercenary turn, heard the breath catch in the man’s throat, and realised in that instant what power a handsome woman held over men.

‘Leyen, you look very lovely.’ It was Jessom, giving the rare honour of a bow.

Aremys gathered his wits and inclined his head. ‘Leyen.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Wyl said. ‘One of the noblewomen took pity on me and insisted on dressing me tonight,’ he added, lest they hope this was part of his regular wardrobe.

‘She did you proud,’ Aremys replied in a tight tone. He coughed softly to clear it then drained his cup.

Jessom held out a goblet. ‘May I offer you wine?’

‘You may,’ Wyl said, graciously taking the cup. ‘What shall we drink to? Forgiveness, no doubt?’ The dryness of the comment was not lost on his dining companions.

‘To duty,’ Aremys replied.

Jessom gave a cold smile and raised his glass.

Wyl sipped at the sweetish aperitif and looked around at the garden once again. ‘This is certainly a most beautiful courtyard.’

‘I’m glad you approve,’ the King responded airily as he made a majestic entrance at the top of the shallow flight of stairs.

The men bowed; Wyl was forced to attempt the more traditional curtsy now that he was dressed in a gown. He couldn’t imagine how clumsy he must look. Still, Celimus seemed not to notice. Instead he was appraising the woman who stood before him. He remained on the stairs for the moment, preferring not to come down to their level, and in those few seconds Wyl was reminded that Celimus cut the most dashing of figures. He was resplendent in superb garments tailored perfectly to show off his tall, lean physique. Even bathed and groomed Aremys still looked like a scruffy bear by comparison.

Wyl felt the familiar hate curdle within. All the old feelings returned, threatening to unbalance him, but he reminded himself that he was no longer short and stocky with orange hair and freckles. He was tall and lithe, certainly not pretty, but with his own beauty — or rather, Faryl’s. He had nothing to feel inferior about. He was the only woman in the company tonight; he must use that power wisely and negotiate a passage as far away from Stoneheart as possible.

Celimus finally descended the stairs. Instead of proffering his own, he took his guest’s hand and, leaning over, kissed it, shocking Wyl. The feel of those cruel lips, which ordered the execution of Alyd, against his own flesh made it crawl. Wyl controlled his inclination to shrink away from the touch.

The dark gaze met his own. ‘I designed these gardens myself,’ the King continued. ‘In honour of my bride-to-be, who, I am assured, loves herb gardens and simplicity in all design. Good evening, Leyen.’ His eyes sparkled.

‘Your highness,’ Wyl said, bowing his head, hating the King’s confidence that Valentyna was already his.

The others followed suit, bowing low once again.

‘What are we drinking, Jessom?’ Celimus asked, all ease and charm.

‘The Cherenne, sire, your favourite.’

‘Ah, indeed. Come, let us sit.’ At the King’s nod a host of servants descended to lay platters of savouries on the table.

Small talk accompanied the food until a delicate fish course was served, then Celimus banished the servants. None of his guests needed to be told that what the King had to say from here on was private.

‘So, Leyen… I understand you are Morgravian?’

Wyl nodded carefully at the King, the sweet sauce that set off the fish so magnificently suddenly souring in his mouth.

‘From where exactly?’

Wyl needed to keep the truth from Celimus, but remembered the story he had told his new friend, Lady Helyn. He would have to stick to that. ‘Rittylworth, your majesty.’ He decided to go on the offensive: ‘Although I have heard since arriving here of its demise.’

At this the King stopped in the act of swallowing from a goblet of wine. ‘I am sorry to hear that you were raised there. It was a necessary lesson being taught.’

Wyl appreciated Celimus’s candour; he had expected lies. ‘What lesson is that, your highness?’ he asked innocently, taking a small mouthful of the fish and avoiding eye contact with the King.

‘That traitors and those who harbour them shall be hounded down and dealt with.’

Wyl simply nodded, his expression blank. Inside, his blood boiled. He felt Aremys watching him carefully. The mercenary knew Faryl was from Coombe not Rittylworth; Wyl had told him as much during their ride.

‘Do you know of this village, Aremys?’ Celimus said.

‘Yes, your highness. I have passed through it on occasion but mostly around it.’

‘A sleepy enough place,’ Jessom commented, not wishing to be entirely left out of the conversation.

‘And one stupid enough to protect those who would betray their sovereign,’ Celimus said.

‘May I ask who was important enough to have so many good people put to death, sire?’ Wyl asked as nonchalantly as he could.

‘Ylena Thirsk.’

‘A woman?’ Aremys blurted. Jessom glared at him.

Celimus did not react. ‘Yes,’ he said mildly. ‘As Leyen here testifies, women can be so much more subtle than men in their intrigues.’

Wyl smiled at the King, hating him. ‘How was this Ylena a problem for you, your highness?’

The King sighed, as though being pressed on the subject was troublesome to him. ‘The whole Thirsk family were traitorous, to be truthful. My father, may his soul rest in Shar’s safekeeping, protected them for too long. This is all rather tedious but probably worth you knowing,’ he said expansively, reaching for his goblet before leaning back in his chair. ‘Old Fergys Thirsk was my father’s best friend… apparently.’ The final word was loaded with irony. He grinned, white teeth perfect. ‘He was a villain of the highest order and would have stabbed my father in the back at the first chance, although I guess he found it easier to poison him instead — metaphorically speaking, of course,’ Celimus added, chuckling softly at his own remark.

Jessom gave his usual cold grimace in response, whilst Aremys remained motionless and watchful, unsure of his place at this table. Wyl only maintained his composure by clasping his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The King continued. ‘I was thrilled beyond my wildest dreams when I heard old Thirsk had been cut down. He could not have died quickly enough for me.’ Celimus sipped the Cherenne. ‘I know what you’re all thinking — how could a child hate so much? — but I hated that man for taking all of my father’s love and his friendship, not to mention land and wealth, whilst all the time working against the realm.’

‘Forgive me, sire,’ Wyl said, unable to remain silent any longer, ‘I thought I had heard that General Fergys Thirsk took the sword slash meant for King Magnus? It was told in the taverns of the north where I was travelling at the time that Thirsk sacrificed his life willingly for his sovereign.’

The King shrugged, a rueful smile just touching the perfectly shaped lips. ‘Who knows what truly happened on that battlefield, Leyen? My father might have protected Thirsk’s name to the very last. For all we know it was a conspiracy and someone from our own side killed the General for his devious ways. I would reward that man if I knew him.’

Wyl let out a choked sound which he quickly checked with a swallow of wine. Celimus’s contrived story was too ridiculous to feel any further insult. The King had nothing to substantiate his vile and slanderous claims, all but making up the story as he told it. Yet there was nothing Wyl wanted to do more right now than pick up the fruit knife and stab it into the King’s throat, for the pure pleasure of the kill.

‘You are amused, Leyen,’ Celimus said, missing nothing. ‘How so?’

‘Apologies, sire. It was not amusement — one of these scrumptious dried figs has stuck in my throat.’ He swallowed several more mouthfuls of the wine. His glance strayed to Aremys, who was watching him carefully, one eyebrow raised in question. ‘Please, your highness,’ Wyl said, ‘forgive my interruption and continue.’

Celimus did so, outlining the burgeoning of his hatred with the arrival at Stoneheart of Fergys Thirsk’s son, Wyl; the two lads’ tumultuous childhood; and finally the story of the younger Thirsk’s betrayal in Briavel. ‘Oh, how I wished we ran our army on the merit system,’ Celimus said. ‘This tradition of handing down a title through a warrior family may have suited the shrunken men of olden days, but these are modern times and simply because the family produced one hero in an ancient Thirsk it does not necessarily mean it breeds them.’

‘Hear, hear, sire,’ Jessom muttered, signalling to a watchful servant out of earshot that the plates could now be cleared.

A magnificent spread of cheeses, glacé fruits and sweet fudges were laid out, the serving staff moving deliberately to be away from the table almost as quickly as they arrived.

When it was just the four of them again, Aremys cleared his throat. ‘Your majesty, I’m not sure I understand why I have been privy to this intriguing tale, but I’m wondering how a young woman, a nobleman’s daughter whose head is no doubt more filled with visions of lace and satin than politics, could be of any threat to your sovereignty.’

The King nodded. ‘Indeed, Aremys, well said. It is complicated and I don’t wish to bore present company any further with those complexities.’ I bet you don’t, Wyl thought. The King kept talking: ‘Suffice to say Ylena Thirsk continues a fine family tradition of treachery towards the Crown. It is my belief that she is currently on her way to the powerful Duke of Felrawthy to stir up trouble.’

Wyl could hardly believe the joy he felt at hearing this statement. ‘So you didn’t find her at Rittylworth, sire?’

‘No, indeed we did not. Which brings me to why we are here tonight,’ Celimus said, his tone suggesting he would brook no further interruption. He stood, preferring to deliver his orders from a vantage point.

‘I want you, Leyen,’ he said, inclining his head, ‘and you, Aremys, to travel to Felrawthy. Hopefully you can intercept Ylena Thirsk’s journey there.’

‘And?’ Wyl asked, hardly daring to breathe.

‘Kill her,’ Celimus replied. ‘It’s what you do, isn’t it?’

Aremys and Wyl nodded, both stunned for different reasons.

‘Good,’ the King said. ‘Jessom, make the usual arrangements. Provide them with horses, coin, whatever they need. No one, and I mean no one, is to know of this mission.’ He eyed each of them, a threat behind the look.

Again Aremys cleared his throat softly. He had noticed the shock pass across Faryl’s face although she had covered it adroitly. What was going on, he wondered.

‘Any questions?’ Celimus asked.

Aremys sat forward. ‘Your highness, may I ask why the duke would protect her? Surely he would support the Crown rather than risk all for an old friend’s daughter?’

‘There are reasons. Please trust my judgement on this. I am hiring your services not your understanding, mercenary.’

Aremys nodded politely yet persisted. ‘Then may I enquire why the task requires two of us?’

‘The duke is well protected with his own men — one of Fergys Thirsk’s cronies, I’m afraid, who has grown fat and rich at the Crown’s expense. If Ylena Thirsk has succeeded in reaching the duke, things could turn ugly. I’m sending you as a special support, Aremys, although I suspect Leyen is more than capable of pulling this off, considering her last successful task for me.’

Celimus smiled slyly, his glance sliding from Aremys to Leyen, whose face was a blank mask. ‘I want proof of her corpse — more than a finger this time, Leyen,’ the King cautioned.

Wyl’s lips thinned and he stood. ‘Then we should leave tomorrow, sire,’ he said, no longer able to spend another minute in the King’s company. ‘I accept the commission, your highness. I shall away to my rooms to make my preparations.’

‘So soon, Leyen? I thought we might take some more wine together,’ the King replied.

‘Er, forgive me, your highness.’ Wyl took in Jessom’s aghast expression at his audacity at denying the King his company. ‘I need a good night’s rest and a clear head. My intention is most certainly to intercept the woman before she reaches Felrawthy.’ He became businesslike. ‘How many days does she have on us, sire?’

‘Three, as I understand it.’ Celimus looked towards Jessom who confirmed this with a brief nod. ‘She escaped on foot — we found this out from one of the villagers who saw her fleeing, accompanied by one of the monks. One so new his pate was yet to be shaved.’

Shar bless you, Pil, Wyl thought, recalling Koreldy’s young friend at the monastery.

‘Then we should waste no further time,’ Aremys said, pushing back his chair. ‘Leyen is right. We must leave at first light to have any chance of catching them.’

Celimus shrugged. ‘So be it. Remember now, I want a corpse. For this I will pay you each a fortune in gold. The Chancellor will discuss terms. Perhaps that should be attended to now, Jessom, as our guests seem determined to leave Stoneheart almost as soon as they have arrived.’ He held up his hand. ‘But I understand and applaud you for it. You shall be well favoured by me if you rid Morgravia of the Thirsk curse.’

Aremys was at Leyen’s side. He bowed, putting pressure on her arm to force her to follow suit. Wyl curtsied as best he could.

‘Oh, and Leyen,’ Celimus said, as an afterthought. ‘I have another mission for you when this is done.’

‘Yes, sire?’ Wyl said, his voice tightly controlled.

‘Mmm. If you have a moment?’ he said. ‘You may go, Aremys, Jessom.’

Wyl watched Aremys leave. There was something in his expression that told Wyl to be careful.

The King returned his gaze to Leyen. ‘When you are done with the Thirsk woman I want you to go straight to Briavel.’

Wyl nodded, wondering what terrible deed Celimus was going to ask of him next.

‘I want you to take a document to Queen Valentyna which I shall have delivered to you tonight. It is my final proposal of marriage. You will bring back to me her signed agreement that our wedding will take place at the close of spring.’

‘And if she should refuse me, sire?’ Wyl asked matter-of-factly, careful to keep his voice devoid of all emotion.

The answer was delivered in an identical businesslike tone. ‘You will kill her and I will invade Briavel and destroy its Crown once and for all. See that you succeed with both women. You are free to go now.’

As Wyl left the beautiful courtyard, he called on all his training to keep his emotions in check. Aremys and Jessom watched, concerned, as the tall woman in the beautiful gown all but ran past them.

THIRTEEN

WYL HAD NO INTENTION of waiting for Aremys or until dawn. The three women he cared about were under threat from the same man and it was a terrible decision who to try and help.

It had to be Ylena.

If Aremys got to her first then she was as good as dead. He could rely on brave Elspyth to do her best to reach his sister, and if they had not already joined forces then Elspyth had the wherewithal to go on to Felrawthy and deliver the note. He realised she was penniless but he also knew she was resourceful and courageous enough to find her way. As for Valentyna, she was the most protected, at least for now.

With these thoughts cluttering his already swirling mind, Wyl raced back to his rooms and packed what little gear he had. Rousing a sleepy page he asked the lad to find Jorn for him. Whilst he waited impatiently he scribed a note to the Lady Helyn and tucked it with her necklace into a hidden pocket in her daughter’s cloak which he had not used that evening. Then he changed out of her daughter’s gown into his comfortable travelling clothes.

Jorn arrived with the King’s missive which he handed to Faryl whilst he took in her rough riding garb. ‘Madam Leyen,’ he said astonished, ‘surely you’re not leaving at this time of night?’

‘Hush, Jorn,’ Wyl whispered, dragging the lad fully into the room. ‘You must never mention to anyone that we had this conversation.’

The boy’s eyes widened now, fully awake. ‘Heart crossed and hope to die,’ he said, making a sign over his chest.

Wyl mustered a smile. ‘Good. Now listen to me. Lady Ylena is in trouble. I leave now to find her but I must do so in secret. I need your help.’

He eyed the boy and Jorn nodded mutely.

‘You must fetch my horse for me.’ Wyl pressed a pouch into Jorn’s palm. ‘Here’s coin to pay off whoever you have to in order to get me safe passage out of Stoneheart.’

Jorn, to his credit, did not even glance at the bag of money. ‘But what excuse shall I make?’

‘You are the King’s messenger — use your status. Tell them I travel on the King’s business. Everyone knows I am a guest of Celimus, some sort of courier. Be confident, they will believe you. Use the coin to grease their palms and they will ask few questions. Offer my sincere apologies for disturbing them at this late hour.’

‘I’ll do it, of course, but it sounds dangerous for some reason, Madam Leyen.’

‘No, I promise you it is not. Just irregular. If it was broad daylight no one would think twice.’

‘Am I to fetch Master Aremys as well?’ Jorn wondered.

‘No! He especially must not know that I depart.’ Wyl gripped the lad’s arm, concerned he even knew about the other guest. ‘Promise me.’

Once again Jorn nodded, not understanding but prepared to do what was asked of him.

Wyl pointed towards the bed. ‘This gown is to be returned to Lady Helyn Bench.’

Jorn was expecting something more difficult. ‘I can arrange that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you wish to send a note with it?’ he asked.

Wyl thought a moment. Truth was danger to this boy. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘Simply return it with my thanks for its use.’ He had already tucked the note inside the hidden pocket of the gown, which he had discovered earlier and marvelled at. Women obviously had such things stitched into their garments… he had no idea precisely for what, but was grateful for it. He had to hope the Lady Helyn would find the note.

‘Do it as quickly as you can for me, would you?’ Wyl asked, embellishing his plea further with another lie. ‘I believe her daughter would like it returned for her own use tomorrow evening.’ It was a thin tale but Jorn was not really paying attention to detail. He had his tasks now and was keen to move.

‘I will fix all of this for you. Promise me, Madam Leyen…’

Wyl suddenly felt the weight of responsibility he was leaving with this innocent. ‘Yes?’

‘Please remember me kindly to the Lady Ylena. Let her know I await her summons.’

Wyl felt a sharp pang of grief for Jorn. He would send for him himself as soon as he reached Felrawthy. ‘I shall do that for you.’

Jorn gave a dazzling smile. ‘Then I must hurry about my duty, madam.’ He bent low over Wyl’s hand and, surprisingly, kissed it before turning for the door. ‘Leave as soon as you hear the next bell. I will have everything readied by then. Your horse will be at the southern end of the stables.’

‘Thank you, Jorn… for everything.’

The lad smiled once more and left.

Wyl used the time to tie back his hair tightly and pull on a jacket. He looked around the chamber, checking that all was as it should be. Aremys would surely come looking in the morning and he wanted to leave no clues. He double-checked the note and jewellery were securely tucked inside the pocket of the gown and grimaced. He was risking much in sending that note — its contents would be damning if intercepted — but he hoped his judgement of the noblewoman was on the mark.

The bell sounded not long after and Wyl slipped from his room and stealthily made his way down corridors and through familiar halls. He encountered no one but a maid who took little notice of him anyway — she was in a hurry, rushing from the scullery carrying hot water and towels. Wyl presumed a baby was about to be born somewhere in the many rooms of Stoneheart. He continued on, passing by the kitchens he had so loved as a youngster and out through the small vegetable patch whose produce was reserved especially for the King. Finally he entered the courtyard that led to the stables.

As promised, Jorn met him at the southern end. He led Leyen’s horse, already saddled.

‘Any trouble?’ Wyl asked, his chest tight with tension.

‘None. Come, I will walk you out the gate. It will look better.’

Wyl nodded. He put his foot into Jorn’s linked hands and stepped up lightly on to the horse. Jorn tied on Leyen’s small bag.

‘Thank you again for this,’ Wyl uttered.

‘Don’t mention it, Madam Leyen. We work for the same cause.’

Wyl wanted to shake his head. Such loyalty. He felt pride burst in his chest at the lad’s dedication. At least the Thirsk family had one friend.

Jorn led the horse slowly towards the main gates. ‘Have you already spoken with the guard?’ Wyl whispered.

‘Yes. Fret not.’ Wyl was impressed with Jorn’s cool head right now.

They approached a guard, who stopped them. ‘This is an odd departure time,’ he commented but with idle interest, Wyl noted.

‘My apologies. As you know, serving the King is never a predictable duty,’ Wyl said and risked a wink.

The man shrugged, understanding the meaning of the woman’s words. ‘In that you are right,’ he admitted. ‘Go safely, madam.’

‘Are you sure you will be safe in the darkness? Felrawthy is many days away,’ Jorn muttered, worried.

Wyl grimaced. He did so wish the boy would learn to keep his tongue curbed. ‘The dark is my friend, Jorn. It alone is my safety right now.’

‘I don’t understand,’ the lad said, walking the horse out and away from the gates.

Wyl turned and waved thanks to the guard. He knew the man might have heard his destination but could only hope he would not have digested it. It was too late to worry; he just had to impress on the boy the importance of keeping quiet over this matter.

‘You will. Keep this our secret now, tell no one where I go. May Shar watch over you, Jorn.’

‘And you.’

Wyl took the reins, ruffled the lad’s hair and clicked his horse into a fast trot. He did not risk looking back.

Aremys paced, unable to sleep. He was quartered near the Legion and he could still hear some of the men singing quietly or talking in muted tones. But it was not the men who kept him awake. It was Leyen… or Faryl more to the point. Something was amiss. The speed at which she had left the King’s courtyard earlier this evening was a surprise. She looked rattled. The secrets he knew she kept seemed all the more potent tonight. The way she carried herself, her stiffness around the King, and especially the way she reacted to talk of the Thirsk family.

It was obvious — to him, at least — that Faryl was not happy with her task. He wondered why Celimus had held her back. Faryl had been with the King only minutes beyond his own departure, so talk was all that could have occurred and not much of that even. But it was clear that something had passed between the King and Faryl which had disturbed her.

It was none of his business, he knew. And yet he had already lied for her. Why? He liked her, that was true. But there was more. He was not sure yet what it was but he had learned over the years to trust his instincts and they were screaming at him right now that Faryl was in some sort of trouble. Perhaps she could use his help.

Should he go to her? Would she answer his knock at this late hour? Probably not… probably never. Her coldness towards him was deep. His betrayal had enraged her.

‘I would take it all back if I could, Faryl,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

His mother had always told him never to go to sleep on an argument with a loved one. Well, he could hardly consider himself loved by Faryl, but there had been something of a friendship there before her capture. Perhaps there could be again. Maybe if he explained himself, told her how he regretted his hastiness in turning her over to Jessom, they could start again. They had a long journey ahead and it would be difficult if they were not even talking to one another…

Realisation suddenly hit him like a stone.

‘You’ve gone, haven’t you?’ He spoke out loud, as though Faryl could hear him.

Aremys ran from his chamber, hopping down the hallway as he pulled on his boots. He had to ask directions several times, startling maids and the odd pageboy going about their late-night business. The only reason he knew he had arrived at the right chamber was because he saw a young man emerging carrying a gown he recognised as the one Faryl had worn earlier this evening. He descended on the lad, breathless and angry.

‘Where do you go with that gown, boy?’ he demanded.

The lad shrieked with fright but composed himself quickly. ‘Sir?’

‘Answer me!’

‘I am running an errand for Madam Leyen. Please excuse me.’

‘What is your name?’

The youngster told him, chin held high, adding, ‘I am the King’s messenger.’

It did not impress as intended. ‘Go about your business then, Jorn.’

The lad looked as though he was about to ask Aremys what he was doing there, but he hesitated and obviously decided to hold his tongue. He scurried away, grabbing at the folds of the garment so they would not trail on the flagstones.

Aremys turned to the door, feeling in the pit of his stomach that his hunch was right. He knocked. When no reply came, he turned the huge metal ring, hoping against hope it would be latched and not permit him entry. The door opened easily. He closed his eyes briefly with worry that his instincts were proving correct.

‘Leyen?’

Nothing.

‘Faryl!’ he said, louder now.

No reply.

He stepped inside and closed the door. The chamber and adjoining room were empty. No sign of her. The gown being returned to its owner was the only clue that she had ever been in this room — that and the vague perfume of gardenias which he remembered wafting seductively from her earlier that evening.

He felt devastated. She had gone. Fled from Stoneheart — from the King, no doubt. Or was it from him? He had betrayed her once; she was not giving him another chance. She had a secret and she was taking it with her. Who was she protecting? It was pointless to try and tease out answers from himself. Faryl was an enigma.

Aremys moved swiftly, giving chase to the lad, but he had no hope of finding Jorn amongst the many hallways of huge Stoneheart. Instead he angrily navigated his way back to his room and packed his garb. He would set off after her. It was madness, he knew. The woman was trouble. But he discarded all the sensible objections of why he should not pursue her. He had a hunch where she might be heading.

A light knock came at the door. He flung it open, expecting a messenger. He found Jessom instead.

‘Leaving us already?’ the Chancellor said, eyeing the bulging saddlebags.

‘I can’t sleep,’ Aremys replied flatly. ‘I thought I’d make myself useful — early start and all that.’

‘And Leyen?’ There was something sly in the tone.

Aremys played it carefully. ‘What about her?’

‘She’s gone — did you know?’

Aremys thought quickly. However he might feel about Faryl, he certainly did not need a king for an enemy. Jessom’s arrival and enquiry provided him with the opportunity to appear loyal to both sides.

He frowned deliberately. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve just been to her rooms,’ the Chancellor said. ‘May I come in?’

Aremys stepped aside and Jessom entered his chamber.

‘Close the door,’ the Chancellor suggested. After Aremys had done so, he continued. ‘I wanted to talk to her about why the King kept her back this evening for a private word. I don’t like secrets, and I was intrigued by her hasty departure from the King. Were you not?’

Aremys said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow to show he was paying attention.

‘And now I find she has gone. There is no sign of her in her rooms,’ Jessom continued smoothly.

‘When was this?’

‘Moments ago.’

‘I see,’ Aremys replied, thanking Shar’s blessing that he had run out of Faryl’s rooms so quickly.

‘Any idea why she may have left you behind?’

He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No, indeed. I thought we were supposed to leave at first light.’

‘Yes, that was my understanding also. I am wondering if the King gave her another task.’

Aremys shrugged. It was his notion too, but he certainly was not going to share it with the inquisitive Chancellor. ‘But why brief us on what seems an important task to the Crown, give us orders to undertake it immediately and then turn around and give a counter order?’ he reasoned.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jessom said. ‘Although there is never any accounting for the whims or moods of Celimus. He is thoroughly unpredictable.’

‘I can’t help, I’m sorry.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘Carry on as instructed. I suppose I shall head off immediately then.’

‘Yes, why not. There’s no point in you remaining here.’ The Chancellor handed Aremys a pouch of coins. ‘This should cover you for expenses. I have already made arrangements for payment with regard to your capture and delivery of Leyen. And monies for the execution of the Legionnaires and delivery of their bodies is now paid in full,’ he said, handing a bigger sack — of gold this time — to Aremys.

The mercenary grunted his thanks. Money was the last thing on his mind right now. He walked with the Chancellor to the door, eager for the man to leave.

‘I shall get to the bottom of Leyen’s mysterious departure. I wonder who might have seen her leave?’ Jessom mused.

Aremys held the door open. ‘Well, start with the lad Jorn, perhaps. Leyen mentioned he was attending to her.’

He knew it was a mistake the moment the words came out. He had meant it as an offhand line, something to move the Chancellor on his way so he could grab his saddlebags and go, but he knew immediately from the clouded look on Jessom’s face that he had stirred up more trouble.

‘Jorn! The King’s messenger?’ the man said, aghast.

Aremys needed to recant quickly. ‘Oh truly, I have no idea. That’s probably not even his name. I thought I heard her mention it tonight but come to think of it she said that some noblewoman had sent a maid…’ His voice trailed off. It was too late to repair the damage. Jessom’s expression had deepened in thought.

‘You get going,’ the Chancellor said distractedly. ‘I must find that boy.’

Aremys shrugged. Jorn probably knew less than he did anyway.

‘Report back to me in the usual way as soon as you have news of Ylena Thirsk,’ Jessom added. ‘We want her corpse in Stoneheart within weeks, although her head will do.’ He laughed drily.

Aremys strode away, the sound of Jessom’s amusement diminishing behind him. At the stable he roused the disgruntled horse master, whose temper was only marginally improved by the sight of silver. Aremys learned that Faryl had barely a couple of hours on him.

At the gate he met the same guard. ‘Lots of comings and goings tonight,’ the man said wearily.

‘Yes, I’m afraid we’re all on the King’s business,’ Aremys admitted. ‘In fact I’ve been asked to catch up with the woman who left a little earlier.’

‘Ah yes, she took off in a real hurry… on royal business,’ the man volunteered.

‘That’s her. Do you know where she was headed?’

‘No, sir. Young Jorn might have mentioned something about Felrawthy but I can’t be sure. I just open and shut the gate on orders, sir.’

Aremys made an expression of contrived sympathy. ‘Thanks, anyway,’ he said and tossed the man a silver coin.

The next morning Lady Bench’s servant brought her a flask of sweetened wine as asked. He bowed. ‘A delivery came for you, my lady,’ he said as he poured.

‘Oh? When?’

‘In the early hours, madam. I thought it best not to disturb you.’

‘Really? How very odd. Whatever is it?’

‘Garments, my lady, brought by one of the King’s pages, returned with thanks.’

Lady Helyn smiled. ‘Ah yes. Intrigue over, Arnyld. I lent them to one of the King’s guests who was staying unexpectedly at Stoneheart without formal attire. Have the gown cleaned, please, and returned to my daughter’s rooms.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The man bowed and withdrew.

Lady Helyn was pleasantly engaged in potting the bulbs she had had sent from her special supplier in Briavel, when the manservant was back and bowing before her.

‘What is it, Arnyld?’ she said, mildly irritated to be distracted.

‘Apologies at disturbing you, my lady. But I checked the pockets of the cloak and discovered this note addressed to you.’

‘Oh?’ she said, eagerly reaching for the small roll, hoping Leyen might have sent her some titbit for gossip. ‘Where is my glass?’

Arnyld lifted a fat disc from a small table nearby and handed it to his mistress.

‘Thank you, you may go,’ she said.

After the servant’s departure, she hurriedly unfurled the slightly crumpled note and placed the disc over the words to magnify them.

She read it several times. When Lady Helyn finally looked up from Leyen’s note, her lips were pursed and her eyes reflected alarm. What she read had stunned her.

She ran over its contents again then crushed the note and threw it into the pond. She watched its sodden mass drift gently towards the murky bottom, ensuring no other pair of eyes would ever read.

FOURTEEN

THE PATH SHE HAD been walking for the past two days widened into a proper road and Elspyth’s prayers were answered. People moved freely along this road. Two carts, obviously travelling together, almost knocked her down as she emerged somewhat wildly from the adjoining track, desperate to stop them. Stop them she did, nearly falling under the hooves of one of the startled horses.

‘Shar’s wrath!’ someone yelled.

Elspyth fainted with relief or possibly hunger. When she regained her wits, she was lying beneath the canopy of a covered cart with several wide-eyed children staring down at her.

‘She’s awake!’ one of them called.

A woman, obviously the mother of the brood, hove into view. ‘Better?’

Elspyth grimaced and nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You gave us all a terrible fright,’ the woman said. She smiled tentatively. ‘I am Ruth. This is my family.’ She called to the front, ‘Ham, she’s awake. Stop now.’

The children grinned shyly then lost interest in the strange woman.

Elspyth sat up as the cart lurched to a halt. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

Ruth smiled, more warmly now. ‘Come. It’s time we broke our fast.’

The mention of food made Elspyth’s belly grind.

Ruth looked at her. ‘Time you broke yours too,’ she said, frowning.

It was reassuring to be amongst fellow travellers again. Elspyth felt her fears subsiding at the merry voices and the sudden activity to get a fire lit, water heated, food laid out. It was a humble spread but it was a feast to her.

‘Eat,’ Ruth encouraged. ‘How long since your last meal?’

‘Days,’ Elspyth admitted. ‘Is there enough for all?’

‘Always,’ the woman replied.

The men began to gather. There were two families. The second woman had older children, two boys, old enough to sit up front with their father.

Ham, Ruth’s husband, introduced himself first and then the others. Elspyth nodded, smiling at everyone. ‘Again, my apologies for startling you. I was so keen to speak to another person. It has been so long.’

‘Well, whilst you eat, let us tell you about ourselves,’ Ruth said, her kind eyes encouraging Elspyth to slice some meat from the haunch that had been set out. ‘We always eat heartily at this time of the day,’ she added.

Elspyth did as bade. As she ate she learned that the families were Briavellians — providores returning home after a successful trip into Morgravia.

‘What do you sell?’ she said through her contented chewing.

One of the lads spoke up, ‘Our family are honeymakers.’

She looked confused now as she swallowed. ‘But surely Morgravia makes its own honey?’

They all grinned as though this was a regular question. The lad enlightened her, ‘Ah, but our bees are special. They have not been cross-bred with any others. They’re the Magurian bee, from a tiny island off the southeast coast of Briavel.’

Elspyth was intrigued. ‘But how do you stop the bees from breeding with other strains?’

The honeymaker family were impressed that she was taking so much interest. The father answered this time: ‘Well, my family has been in honeymaking for generations. I am the third son; there was not enough income for me to make a livelihood in Maguria. So I moved to Briavel as soon as I was old enough to leave the nest and settled on the mainland.’ He sucked at a pipe as he recalled those early days. ‘I fell in love with a beautiful Briavellian maiden, but I hated the honey on the mainland, preferring the richer lavender and clover flavours of the Magur gold.’

His wife smiled indulgently at his words.

He continued: ‘And so rather than the bees themselves, I suggested to my father that I might import some of our honeycomb.’

‘I’ll bet the Briavellians loved it too!’ Elspyth said, enjoying the tale.

‘It helped that our dear King Valor, rest his soul, took a fancy to it, having tried it once whilst passing through our region,’ the wife said softly.

‘And do you supply your lovely young Queen?’ Elspyth asked.

Their son was eager to take up the story. ‘Yes. Apparently she eats it each day and attaches much to its health properties.’

Elspyth nodded. ‘She is very beautiful, I hear.’

The lad blushed. ‘She is magnificent. No one can hold a candle to her looks.’

Elspyth grinned. ‘Then I must taste this honey of yours for it must be her secret.’

Her companions laughed, offered around more food and tea.

‘And you?’ Elspyth said to Ruth. ‘Tell me about your family.’

‘Ham can tell you,’ she said, nodding at her husband as she began to clear away some of the debris of their meal.

He obliged. ‘Well, our family are grape-growers and wine-makers but not just any old grapes, mind. Our vines produce the prized frostfruit, harvested very late in the year when the first bite of winter is felt. They are exquisitely sweet, very small and produce the most lush, rich wine —’

‘Also favoured by royalty, no doubt,’ Elspyth chimed in, amusing both families.

‘By your own royalty in fact,’ Ham admitted, liking her cheek. ‘We recently made a delivery to the court of King Celimus and we’ve been travelling in the north for a while. My son’s first vintage and a fine one it is,’ the man said proudly, looking towards his boy who shrugged self-consciously. ‘Don’t be bashful,’ he added. ‘You’ve a better palate and nose than any member of our family I can remember.’

‘And so Briavellian honey and wine finds its way across the border into Morgravia regularly now?’ Elspyth asked and the adults nodded.

‘That’s wonderful to hear,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Trade overcoming politics.’

Ham nodded. ‘Yes, but only because our two products have found favour with the royals, as you say.’

Ruth sighed. ‘It will be a lot easier when your Celimus marries our Valentyna. We can all trade more freely. Worry less.’

‘Do you think it will happen?’ Elspyth wondered, thinking of Wyl.

‘It has to,’ said the honeymaker, taking a long puff on his pipe. ‘It is the only way our two realms can become profitable. All these wars have achieved is to beggar each realm’s producers. If they marry we can forget war and our children can look forward to a better life.’

Sounds of agreement came from those around her and Elspyth felt a surge of sadness for her trapped friend. Wyl loved Valentyna, but it seemed her duty to her realm would weigh heavier than their desire.

‘You said you live in the southeast of Briavel. Do you ever get to the capital?’ she asked, chewing on a fat fig.

Ham nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. My eldest son and I travel there regularly. We were there recently in fact.’

‘Oh, so I wonder if you’ve heard of a nobleman called Romen Koreldy? It’s just that I know him quite well and the last time we met he was on his way to Werryl. I heard on the grapevine from fellow travellers that there was some sort of duel between him and King Celimus at the Queen’s tourney?’ It was true — she had heard as much.

‘We were there,’ the eldest son said. ‘It was more than a duel.’

‘It looked like a fight to the death,’ Ham admitted. ‘Our Queen stepped in to prevent bloodshed.’

Elspyth was shocked. This was fresh news to her, but she knew Wyl had many reasons to hate the King. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing much more there,’ Ham said, ‘but I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, young Elspyth — Koreldy is no longer with us,’ he added as gently as he could.

She shook her head. ‘No, I imagine not. He would have to leave Briavel after that, though I wonder where he has headed. I —’

Ruth took her hand. ‘No, you don’t understand.’ Everyone looked suddenly embarrassed.

Elspyth turned to Ham.

‘He’s dead, child,’ the man said.

It felt to Elspyth like several long minutes passed before she took another breath. The silence was painful for all of them.

‘You must be mistaken,’ she stammered, feeling a chill pass through her.

Ham shook his head. ‘It happened at Crowyll — we were there the day after it took place. The town rumour is that a whore killed him, although the Briavellian Guard is saying different. What was her name, son? Someone did tell us.’

The boy stuck his chin in the air and closed his eyes. ‘Hilda, was it?’

‘No. Hildyth, that’s right. According to the gossips she’s a striking woman — tall with auburn hair and feline eyes. Unmistakable.’

Elspyth began to tremble; her whole world was crumbling about her. ‘Why?’

‘No idea,’ Ham admitted. ‘The story goes that her majesty banished Koreldy from Briavel. He was being escorted to a border of his choice, and he and the guard accompanying him stopped at a place in Crowyll for a smoothing and suchlike.’ He cleared his throat self-consciously, glad that the youngsters had already gone off to play.

‘And?’ Elspyth asked, distraught.

Ham shrugged. ‘It happened.’

‘But there is no reason for it!’ she cried. ‘Why was he banished? Why killed?’

Ruth put her arms about her. ‘Oh, Elspyth, I’m so sorry we were the ones to break the news. He must have been a good friend for you,’ she said, holding her close. She scowled at her husband. ‘Ham, tell her everything you know.’

Her husband blushed, distressed to be seen as the villain. ‘Rumours were rife whilst we were there. Some said the whore worked for Celimus and that the King ordered Koreldy’s death. No one knows the truth of it though. And now, with our own soldiers saying it was one of them who killed him, a renegade or something, it’s all a bit baffling.’

‘The body — who saw it?’ Elspyth demanded.

‘I’m sorry to say that a close friend of ours helped to clean up Koreldy’s corpse. His… his heart had been punctured.’ Ham stammered over the words, unsure of how much detail his wife meant for him to tell. ‘Um… my friend is from the morgue and he was called in to deal with the body before it was transported to Werryl. Very trustworthy fellow. He only told me because he was so shocked at the manner of death — he said it looked as if it was carried out by a professional assassin. Apparently, everything was hushed over quickly by the Queen’s Guard, and my friend was ordered to remain silent. I’m sure he didn’t mean to tell me as much as he did. Now you know as much as I do — and I’ve told no one bar my wife until this moment.’ He glared at the others, daring them to say any different. ‘Oh, and she’d cut off his finger too — that’s another indication it was a paid killing.’

‘What do you mean?’ Elspyth said, confounded.

‘The finger is proof of death. Apparently Koreldy wore a ring with a blood-red stone and marked with a special family insignia.’

At that Elspyth broke down. It was true then. She knew the ring; knew it was Wyl they spoke of. He was dead. Now Lothryn would never be rescued from the dark magic and the pain.

The others, except Ruth, moved away silently. Ham put his large meaty hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, lass.’

She said nothing but cried harder against Ruth’s shoulder.

‘Travel with us, Elspyth. You’re in no state to move around alone just now,’ the woman whispered.

Elspyth did not know how long they sat there together or at what point her sobs subsided and the tears dried on her cheeks. She was only marginally aware of Ruth helping her back into the cart and being laid down, covered with a blanket and encouraged to sleep. She welcomed the escape from her exhaustion and pain.

This time she dreamed of a tall woman with auburn hair and catlike eyes who had destroyed her dream of Lothryn being rescued by Wyl. It was up to her then. She would deliver her message to Felrawthy and keep her promise to the dead friend who had once walked in the guise of Romen Koreldy. And then she would rescue the man she loved.

FIFTEEN

THEY RAN, TERRIFIED, NOT daring to look behind or slow down, until their legs were too weak to carry them any further and their lungs protested, burning for air.

‘Please stop, my lady,’ Pil gasped, his body bent over. ‘We must catch our breath.’

‘We cannot rest, Pil!’ Ylena’s hair was wild from snagging in overhanging branches, her garments muddied and torn. ‘I daren’t tell you what they were doing.’ Her voice broke. ‘Shar’s tears,’ she gasped, all strength leaving her as she crumpled to her knees and clasped her face in dirt-smeared hands. She wept, exhausted.

Pil was too shocked himself to offer much comfort. What had happened at Rittylworth could not be comprehended. He knew Ylena was keeping much of the horror from him and he was glad of it. The King’s men had planned the attack well, storming the monastery at the break of morning silence to ensure the monks would be in the buildings or working in their gardens. He cast his own teary thanks to whichever angels had been guarding his life and had contrived for him to be looking for the Lady Ylena when the soldiers arrived.

Brother Jakub had asked Pil to remain close to Ylena from the beginning. He recalled Jakub’s gentle words. You are young and she will not feel too threatened by you. She has seen and experienced much sorrow at the whim of powerful men. Although he did not know the whole story Pil had gathered that Ylena was terrorised at Stoneheart by the King and his minions, which would account for her early distant behaviour. Koreldy had counselled that she was not of sound mind, warning that Ylena had witnessed a horrific murder. In the days he had spent in her company, quietly escorting her, serving her meals, generally being on hand to see to her needs, she had been withdrawn but polite. Her silence or sudden tears were the only external sign of her anguish.

Looking at her now he marvelled at the strength that lay within the fragile-looking noblewoman. She was terrified herself, but had taken command of the situation and rallied his own flagging courage. Such bravery must run in the Thirsk blood, Pil thought; her father and her brother had been revered Generals of the Legion.

The novice was desperate to lay his head down on the grass and drift into oblivion but he dared not for he was sure he would dream of burning bodies. He guessed they had been on the move for roughly an hour, perhaps almost two. He glanced towards the sky — barely mid-morning, he estimated.

‘Lady Ylena,’ he uttered gently, ‘I don’t believe we’ve been followed. I am sure we escaped notice.’

‘Everyone’s dead,’ she muttered, her voice flat. ‘And they’ll hunt me down until he’s satisfied I’m dead too.’

‘Don’t say that, my lady,’ Pil replied, fresh fear coursing through him.

She lifted her head to look at her companion. Her eyes were red from tears and they held a wildness that unsettled Pil further. ‘Who do you think they are after?’ she demanded.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t even know why they came.’

Ylena laughed bitterly. ‘They were after me, Pil,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Me and Koreldy. Where is he? He promised he would not abandon me.’

Pil wanted to interject that she was not abandoned by the monks, they all loved her. Instead he held his tongue.

‘My parents are dead, my brother murdered, my guardian sent to his death, my young and beautiful new husband murdered. Doesn’t it strike you that this monarch is determined to see the Thirsk name become barely more than a memory?’

So that was the core of her pain. He knew she had seen someone killed but Jakub had refused to say more. He had to presume then that Ylena had witnessed her husband’s death. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to deepen her grief. ‘I want to be a monk, my lady. I am not a politician. I do not understand the intrigues of the court.’

Her expression became sad. ‘It doesn’t matter. I am hunted; the last of my line. You would do well to protect yourself by leaving me now.’

Pil was shocked. ‘I cannot do that, my lady. I promised Brother Jakub I would take care of you.’

‘And who was taking care of Brother Jakub and all the other brothers? You saw some of it, Pil — each one murdered where he stood. Shar alone knows how those senior brothers suffered on the cross. How can a boy protect me when a whole community cannot?’

Pil suddenly felt all of his young years. He understood what people meant when they talked about the blood draining from someone’s face. He could feel it now, could feel a weakness moving through his body that seemed determined to shut down his movement, his speech, even his heart, from shock and despair. Not so long ago he had been carefree, laughing with his fellow monks, eager to become a fully fledged member of the Order. And now Ylena had revealed the full horror of the massacre and his mind was filled with visions of gentle holy men being stabbed, their throats slit or swords run through their bellies… and nailed to posts.

Every ounce of him wanted to break down and weep. To die where he sat and not have to face this ugliness any more. Instead, it was Jakub’s comforting voice he heard in his mind and he adopted a similar tone now.

‘We have been spared, my lady. Shar protected us by placing us somewhere unexpected when the soldiers came. And almost no one outside of the monastery knows of the grotto,’ he added as gently as he could. ‘Brother Jakub was keen for you to have a private place to bathe and rest.’

A wan smile ghosted across her face. ‘Go, Pil. By staying with me you put yourself in much danger. I am not sure I can look after both of us. Please, be safe.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘We must stay together as we promised Jakub. That’s my job, remember; he told me that now was the time when I would prove my worth.’

A long silence followed and Pil believed Ylena had lost track of their conversation. So it made him jump when she stood and said, ‘Only Duke Donal might offer us protection.’

‘Then Felrawthy is where we must head, my lady.’

He tried to sound brave despite the sense of dread he felt.

‘I don’t get your point, Jessom. Frankly, I like her dedication,’ Celimus said, kicking away the hand of the stablemaster who was fiddling with his stirrups. ‘Leave it!’ he scolded. The man flinched and stepped away from the beautiful roan mare the King had just mounted.

‘I’ll be galloping her,’ Celimus warned. ‘You’re sure her foot is fine?’

The stablemaster nodded. ‘Yes, sire, all soreness gone. Enjoy your ride.’ He bowed and departed.

‘Get on with it, Chancellor!’ Celimus barked, irritated by the delay to his dawn ride. ‘Tell me what bothers you.’

‘It just strikes me as odd, sire, that Leyen would leave under cover of darkness.’

‘I would have thought most assassins craved the cloak of night.’ The sarcasm bit.

Jessom ignored it, continued smoothly, ‘She left without Aremys. No word as to why.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘No longer at Stoneheart,’ Jessom said, deliberately brief. ‘Gone about your business, sire.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I’m just wondering what business Leyen might be about. You specifically gave instructions that they were to track down the person in question together.’

‘Do you not trust your own people, Jessom?’

The Chancellor hated the cunning way Celimus always managed to turn accusation away from himself. He squinted up to where his King sat on his horse, a halo of sunshine about his head. ‘I trust no one, my King.’

‘Well said.’ Celimus relented: ‘I gave Leyen some additional instructions to take a message to Valentyna.’

Jessom glanced around to check no one could overhear them. ‘I see. Did you ask that she perform this task first?’

‘No. It was my understanding that she would handle the business with Aremys before travelling to Briavel.’

‘It is strange then that she left so hurriedly and, may I say, she seemed rather disturbed after she left your dinner last night, your highness.’

Further irritation traced across the King’s face. ‘Your point?’

The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps she did not like the message to be passed on to Briavel,’ he said carefully, hoping the King would enlighten him as to his instructions to Leyen.

But Celimus was too shrewd. ‘It bears thinking about. Do we know anything about her departure?’

‘Only that one of your pages, Jorn, was attending to her. He showed her out of the castle gates. He may know something.’

The horse was restless to move, as was the King. He looked puzzled now though. ‘Jorn? Perhaps he delivered to Leyen the message I wanted her to take to Valentyna.’

Jessom contrived an expression that suggested it pained him to divulge what he was about to explain. ‘Your majesty, my fear is that Jorn, who serves you and attended Leyen — without permission, I might add — also attended Koreldy when he was at Stoneheart.’

That caught the King’s attention as Jessom had known it would. He let the implication hang between them, knowing the subtle mind of Celimus would bring all the strands together.

Anger clouded the olive gaze. ‘Find the boy and throw him in the dungeon. Make sure he’s frightened enough to tell us everything by the time I get back. And I’m trusting your instinct, Jessom, that there is something to tell.’

‘As you wish, sire.’ Jessom bowed low as Celimus rode his mare out of the courtyard.

SIXTEEN

JORN COWERED IN THE cold damp cell, frightened and confused. Being grabbed by two soldiers in one of the castle glasshouses where he had been collecting some parillion fruit for the King’s breakfast had terrified him. Jorn had risen especially early to ensure that when his monarch returned hot and dusty from his morning ride he would have plenty of the refreshing juice he favoured to quench his thirst. Now Jorn mournfully remembered the precious fruit he had dropped and then stepped on in his fright when the soldiers had appeared and manhandled him so roughly towards the dungeon.

He shivered and looked around the cell, his vision dulled from fear at what he could have done to so anger his superiors that they had locked him down here where criminals were kept.

Coincidentally, this was the same chamber from which Myrren had been dragged by her torturers almost a decade earlier. Such information would mean little to Jorn, of course, but if he had studied the last block of stone in the wall behind the cell door he would have noted a curious inscription that might have meant something, considering his adoration of Ylena Thirsk.

On that stone were three words: Avenge me, Wyl.

A boy such as Fynch, susceptible to the ebb and flow of magic in a world that scorned its existence, might touch that inscription and feel the thrum of the enchantment used to make such a mark in stone.

But even if Jorn had such talent, he was incapable right now of focusing on anything beyond his own fear. What had he done to warrant incarceration? He replayed the last few days over and again in his mind, wondering what terrible mistake he had made. He found none, of course — other than his doomed love for Ylena Thirsk. The arrival of the Chancellor did nothing to reassure him. The man’s seal of office swayed heavily on its chain as he paced slowly, waiting for the King.

‘Please, Chancellor Jessom, tell me what it is I have done,’ Jorn begged through the bars.

‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ Jessom replied, adopting an avuncular approach. ‘This is all very confusing. It goes to the highest level, Jorn. Somehow you have attracted the King’s attention… negative attention, that is.’

‘But Chancellor Jessom, sir, it is my pleasure to wait loyally upon the King. I would do nothing to harm him.’

‘Would you not?’

The boy shook his head dumbly. Even in his terror he knew he was missing something important. It was written in the Chancellor’s heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Ah, here is his majesty now, Jorn. Hopefully we can clear this up and you will be back at your duties by the noon bell.’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Jorn said, feeling a surge of hope knife through him. ‘I’ll do anything to set things right.’

‘Good boy. Be easy now, your King approaches.’

Jorn could hear the click of his sovereign’s boots against the stone of the dungeon floor. He could not make out any words but knew by the eruption of laughter that the King had made some remark which had amused the guards. The swaggering tread resumed and suddenly the tall and resplendent shape of Celimus appeared beside Jessom. His face was shining with tiny beads of perspiration. He had come straight here then from his ride, Jorn thought miserably. Whatever secret he apparently held was considered more important than the sovereign’s comfort. The King turned a predatory gaze on Jorn who quailed at the sight.

‘Your majesty,’ the Chancellor said, bowing low.

Jorn, more terrified than ever, kneeled immediately. ‘Your highness,’ he whispered, ready to confess to anything.

Celimus glanced towards Jessom, whose slight nod indicated the lad was petrified. Celimus smiled thinly. If Jorn had looked up at that moment he would have known that his life was already forfeit, but he kept his head low to the floor, hands clasping and unclasping nervously as he awaited his King’s pleasure.

‘Stand up, lad.’ It was the dry voice of the Chancellor.

Jorn obeyed, but kept his head bowed. To his shame he realised that he had soiled his trousers in his fright.

The King finally spoke. ‘Look at me, boy.’ The voice was hard.

Jorn struggled to obey and finally lifted damp eyes towards Celimus. ‘I shall ask a few questions,’ he continued, ‘and what I require from you is complete honesty. You have nothing to fear,’ he lied.

Jorn nodded, eyes wide with his intense desire to please. ‘Yes, your majesty. I promise to tell you whatever it is you need.’

‘Good. Now, do you recall a guest at Stoneheart who dined with me last night? She arrived with a man called Aremys and —’

‘Madam Leyen, yes,’ Jorn interrupted, anxious to impress his King.

Celimus nodded. Jessom smiled briefly.

‘Is it true that you waited on her… without permission from either myself or your superiors?’

Jorn frowned. ‘I did not wait on her, your majesty.’

‘Oh? I hear differently.’

The boy clutched at the bars. ‘Oh no, sire. I…’ His brow creased as he recalled what had occurred. ‘I was on an urgent errand for one of your secretaries, sire, which took me that morning into the wing of the castle where Madam Leyen was accommodated. I couldn’t find the person I needed so I was in quite a hurry.’ He saw both men nod. ‘Um… Madam Leyen hailed me as I ran along the corridor.’

‘And what did she want?’ Celimus prompted.

‘Advice, sire.’

Jessom smirked. ‘What sort of advice, boy?’

‘Well, I didn’t find out until later that evening because she could tell how much of a rush I was in to be about my duties. I left straightaway having exchanged only a handful of words with her, sire. She was a stranger to me.’

Celimus was not so easily deterred. ‘And later?’

‘Yes, later, sire, I did go back to her chamber as she asked me to. I felt obliged, your majesty, because she was your personal guest and had no one attending her.’

The King held on to his patience. ‘And?’

‘She wanted advice on her gown.’

There was an awkward silence before Celimus said, an edge of threat to his tone, ‘You jest, of course?’

‘No, sire,’ Jorn beseeched. ‘I would never do that, my King. Madam Leyen wanted to make the right impression on you, your majesty, for the supper she was sharing. She had no garments of her own and was in a borrowed gown. She sought my approval.’

‘A lad’s approval?’ Jessom’s voice was thick with disgust.

Jorn made to shrug, then caught himself and turned it into an obeisance. ‘It is the truth, sire. Perhaps she thought I might be of use as I had mentioned that I worked for you as a messenger.’

‘That’s it?’ Celimus said, his own disbelief evident. ‘You expect us to accept that this… this… approval was all she asked of you?’

Jorn bobbed frantically. ‘My lord King, that is all she asked of me.’ He saw the King’s hand turn to a fist as the famous anger was stoked. ‘I did go back that night, of course,’ he blurted.

‘Ah, and why did you do that?’

‘To deliver a parchment one of your secretaries bade me take to her. I was told it was urgent, King’s business.’

A glance passed between his captors and it was then that Jorn realised where this strange conversation was leading. He had always counted himself as sharp; he made good use of that skill now to make the leap in his mind that it was not him they were after but Leyen. And even she was not the true prey — it was to whom she was loyal that they were most interested in. They were after Ylena Thirsk. Beautiful, sorrowful, tortured Ylena. He would rather die than betray her. And yet betrayal was precisely what they sought from him. He could see it now as clear as daylight. They wanted him to tell them where Madam Leyen was travelling to in such a hurry. They wanted to hurt his beloved Lady Ylena still more.

Well he was only a messenger and thus nothing in the eyes of the King, but he, Jorn, had made a promise to a beautiful woman and she had returned his loyalty with her promise that she would send for him. Any day now he would escape Stoneheart and travel to Argorn where Ylena would welcome him and allow him to serve her as he so dearly wished.

They would not find out her secrets through his lips, Jorn thought. He was not a fiery person; he rarely allowed anything to get under his skin sufficiently to make him cross and his naturally sunny personality helped him to defuse many situations where another’s temper might flare. But now a spark of anger had erupted within him and it was fuelled by the accusation in his monarch’s expression and the Chancellor’s carefully contrived look of sympathy.

The anger took hold and from that moment nothing — not even his fear of the King’s reprisal — would provoke him to release Ylena’s name to them or her whereabouts. He cared nothing for Leyen but to reveal her direction was to betray Ylena Thirsk and he would never do that.

‘Well?’ the King demanded.

Jorn spoke with assurance. ‘I gave Madam Leyen the parchment and returned her gown, as requested, to Lady Bench’s household, your majesty.’

‘Leyen left that night, you liar, and you know it!’ Celimus spat through the bars.

‘I have no reason to lie to you, my lord King. I was coming to that,’ Jorn said, pleased he had not flinched at the King’s hostility despite the sudden watery feel to his knees. He grasped at the little composure left to him, ignored the damp reminder of his fear and gilded the truth. ‘She told me she was leaving. I know not why, sire. She asked me if I would accompany her to the stables because she did not know her way around Stoneheart. It was not my place to question her actions, my King. I am a simple messenger, whose duty is to serve you and your esteemed guests.’

‘And so you did,’ Celimus said, slyly now.

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Did she mention where she was going?’

Jorn paused to think how to answer this. ‘No,’ he said truthfully.

‘That’s odd, boy, because the guard on duty last night recalls you mentioning the Duchy of Felrawthy.’

Jorn had never given a better performance in his short life. His expression remained impassive even though inside he flared with hate for the man on watch last night. He had given him much coin to keep his mouth closed. ‘That’s right, sire, I think I might have mentioned it.’

‘Why?’ Celimus approached the prison bars as a hunter might, closing in for the kill.

‘Because that’s where I understood Madam Leyen comes from, sire,’ he lied.

Celimus looked at Jessom, who blinked slowly. ‘I have no information on Leyen’s history, sire,’ he admitted, somewhat abashed. ‘She told us Rittylworth, but she is a mystery and likes to keep it that way. She is usually in disguise, even for our meetings.’

‘For all we know she could have been in disguise at supper,’ the King growled, not realising how close to the truth he was. ‘When did she share this information with you?’ Celimus demanded of Jorn.

The lad shook his head, seemingly confused. ‘She must have said it in passing for otherwise I can’t imagine how I would know such a thing. I am sorry, sire, that I don’t remember our brief conversations more clearly. I do not think she told me where exactly she was going — I merely presumed it was to her home,’ Jorn replied smoothly. Forgive me, Shar, he beseeched inwardly.

The handsome eyes of the King regarded Jorn intently now. His gaze was direct and intimidating and Jorn felt his resolve crack slightly, but he rallied his courage, resisting the temptation to blurt out everything he knew — which, in truth, was little enough — of Leyen and her intentions. He instinctively cast his own eyes down — and this was his final undoing. If Jorn had held his sovereign’s cold, compelling look, his unpredictable King might have erred towards leniency in this instance.

Instead Celimus swung towards cruelty, where he felt comfortable. He could tell the youth knew very little and it was unlikely a secretive and highly qualified assassin would share with him her thoughts or intentions, yet it nagged at Celimus that he was being beguiled somehow. As a result he reacted as only one so insensitive to others’ suffering could.

‘He lies. Wheel him!’

Jorn’s ear rang with the hammer of his own heartbeat. He slid towards the floor, dazed with shock at the King’s words. He noticed three words scratched into the stone by the cell door before he lost consciousness.

‘My King, please…’ Jessom attempted, alarmed at the idea of the needless torture.

‘Do not even think to contradict me, Chancellor,’ Celimus warned, his voice hard, eyes glittering. ‘I want him wheeled. He’s not strong enough to resist the pain. I will know whether Leyen is true to my cause or not.’

Jessom knew Leyen was true to no one but herself yet this was not an occasion to test his majesty’s temper. He nodded in acquiescence, keeping his head bowed so he heard rather than saw the King’s swaggering departure.

The Chancellor motioned to the dungeon master. Once the man had listened to his grave words, Jessom turned back to Jorn. ‘I am sorry, lad,’ he said, and meant it.

But Jorn did not hear the apology nor did he feel the rough hands that grabbed his limp body and removed him to a part of Stoneheart he had never seen before — and had never expected to.

It was a genuine surprise to the skilled team of torturers Celimus had assembled that the youngster lasted as long as he did. Many a battle-hardened soldier facing the same honour had begged for the mercy of the sword or simply died from the shock.

First the boy’s joints were smashed by a man who asked no questions but simply went about his gruesome business with quiet expertise. Normally he would prolong the session, taking his time at placing the wooden block beneath the sweating shrieking victims before allowing his heavy mallet to descend with its punishment. But the man sensed this young lad was not deserving of the extended version and he pleased the other two torturers by doing his job swiftly.

The second stage was the pulverising of Jorn’s skeleton beneath the vast iron wheel. The men rolled it over his body slowly, not because they wanted to increase his suffering but because the wheel was so enormously heavy it took some doing to get it rolling. As it turned the men openly marvelled at the young fellow’s capacity to withstand what was regarded by most in the profession as the most intolerable pain a person could suffer.

Jorn was embarrassingly brave to the end and they felt ashamed to be visiting such punishment on a youth. Uncharacteristically, they winced at the loud popping and cracking of the lad’s bones until the weight reached his chest and finally stopped his faint erratic heartbeat.

As Jorn died, vague satisfaction skimmed through his blurred mind that he had not let Ylena down despite the chilling shrieks that escaped his throat. Suddenly the three words scratched on the cell wall came back to him. Avenge me, Wyl, they read and Jorn made the connection in a fleeting moment of clarity. He sent a dying prayer to Shar to preserve the Thirsk line and ensure his death was not in vain.

The men were expected to use the crushing wheel over the entire length of the victim’s body but as soon as Jorn’s eyes clouded with death the two men stopped.

‘Enough!’ one said. He was good at his job but did not like hurting innocents and there had been too many of those in recent times. ‘I’m not crushing this one’s head for his majesty’s pleasure. He’s suffered enough — and with courage.’

‘It’ll be our own guts the King hangs us from if we’re not careful,’ his companion said.

‘Jessom wasn’t happy over it. He said to make it swift.’

‘Got nothing out of him though, did we?’ the other man said.

‘Nothing to get, probably. Come on, roll it back. At least if any family come to collect the body they can see his face is whole.’

‘Can’t say the same about the rest of him,’ commented his fellow torturer. He whistled, looking at the shattered bloodied mess before them.

Later that day when Jessom visited the King’s chambers, the sovereign’s first question was of Jorn.

‘Did the page reveal what we wanted to hear?’

‘No, my lord King.’ Jessom did not have to work at being solemn; he was still in a distracted mood over the morning’s horrific events and the altogether unnecessary torture and death of a young man.

Celimus glared at his Chancellor, hand poised over the parchment he was scrawling his mark upon. ‘Surely you jest?’

‘He took whatever secrets you feel he had to the grave with him, sire.’

Celimus stood, angry at being beaten by a youth. ‘He was wheeled as ordered?’ he demanded. It was just short of an accusation.

Jessom kept his voice even. ‘Yes, sire. Exactly as you instructed,’ he lied. ‘It seems the boy survived an interminable time. Not until the iron crushed the very beat of his heart did he relinquish his grip on life.’ Inwardly the Chancellor felt proud. This was one death he did not agree with.

‘He gave us nothing?’

Jessom made a deprecating gesture, suggesting he did not believe there was anything to give.

‘He spoke no words at all?’ Celimus pushed, determined his oily Chancellor would keep nothing from him.

Jessom kept his expression blank. ‘Just the usual assortment of shrieks and groans, sire. No words as such.’

‘Admirable,’ Celimus said, walking to the window. ‘For he was surely withholding something. Where is the body?’

‘Ready for burial, I presume, sire.’

‘I want you to think hard, Chancellor.’

‘I beg your pardon, sire?’

‘Think, man! I employ you for your sharp mind. What are we missing? There is something we have overlooked. Ponder upon it — find the solution for me by tomorrow and report back. We shall meet in the morning after my ride.’

Jessom bowed. He felt a pit open in his stomach at the thought of awaking tomorrow with no answers for a King prone to tantrums that usually resulted in someone’s death.

‘By the way, no burial for Jorn. Impale him and have his body displayed on the main road to Felrawthy… just in case.’

‘As you wish, sire,’ Jessom said, weariness overcoming him. There was probably not much left of Jorn to impale anyway. Was there no end to this man’s brutality? He kept his voice steady. ‘I shall see to it now.’

‘And I shall see you tomorrow, Chancellor, with an answer to my question.’

SEVENTEEN

ELSPYTH HAD TAKEN ALL of that day and the following night to surface from her bleak state. When she did she knew it was time to leave the two kind families who had cared for her. She could tell her brooding presence unnerved the youngsters, and the once-lively chatter of the women was now guarded as they were careful not to impose on her sorrowful mood.

The carts rolled to a pause at the Five Ways, where roads led to different regions of the realm, and Elspyth took her leave. She mustered a smile for the families and hugged both the women, especially Ruth.

‘I will worry after you,’ the kind woman admitted.

‘Don’t,’ Elspyth assured. ‘I’m really very capable.’

‘You know you are welcome to stay with us,’ Meg offered.

Elspyth felt a surge of gratitude and reminded herself that the world was not such an evil place. ‘Yes, and I thank you. But I must find Koreldy’s sister — that’s where I was headed when I stumbled into your path.’

‘I’m sorry again, lass,’ Ham said, still abashed. He handed her a small sack of food they had put together.

Elspyth took the sack and squeezed his hand to reassure him that she held no grudge. ‘You’ve all been so very good to me. Rather I hear it from kind souls than those who might take pleasure in such news. I’ll be fine, I promise. It was just such a shock, but once I deliver a message to the Koreldy family I’ll be able to get back to my own life,’ she lied.

She hoped no one would ask where this elusive sister might be, or indeed where Elspyth’s home was. No one did and after another round of awkward farewells the carts rolled on their way, heading east towards Briavel’s border. Once they were out of sight, Elspyth took stock of her situation. She was aware that she could have continued with the families and reached Felrawthy more quickly, but she felt a strange relief to be on her own again. She turned towards the road that led northeast — a more direct route to Felrawthy. She still felt as though her mind was blank; first Lothryn’s plea for help and then the news of Wyl’s death had left her decidedly empty.

‘It’s up to me now,’ she said aloud on the lonely road.

Hearing her own voice sounding so defiant gave her courage. First she would keep her promise to Wyl, find Ylena and hand her into the protection of the Duke of Felrawthy. That done she would return to Yentro and check on her aunt. Hopefully the old girl was still alive and might be able to offer some advice. Once there she would gather together whatever monies she could find before heading farther north and into the mountains. She did not relish the thought of facing the forbidding Razors at this time of year, but she remembered the terror in Lothryn’s voice and knew she could no more sit out the season than fly to Felrawthy.

The only thing that really mattered to her now was discovering Lothryn’s fate. If she died in the process, so be it. His love had offered her the first relief from loneliness in a lifetime and she was not about to relinquish it without a fight.

Elspyth squared her petite shoulders, lifted her chin and began her long walk to fulfil a promise.

Ylena and Pil joined the straggling bunch of people and animals roaming through Dorchyster Green’s town square. It was market day and the smell of newly baked bread and steaming meat pies sharpened their hunger.

‘When did we last eat?’ Ylena asked, looking longingly at the wheels of cheese and the potted meats.

Pil’s belly was growling. ‘I can’t remember, my lady,’ he said, avoiding the ponderous sway of a cow passing by. ‘But we should move on for we have no coin.’

Ylena’s despair snapped to anger. ‘This is not right. I have money — I just don’t have it with me. I’m so sorry, Pil.’

‘Hush now,’ he soothed, taking her arm. He understood. She was used to fine things in life, not having to wonder where her next meal may come from. In truth, he too had lived a comfortable existence at the monastery where food was plentiful. ‘Come, let us continue on our way.’

They had stopped by a stall of fruit and the bright colours arrested their gaze. Now their bellies groaned together as a new smell — roasting meat — mocked them.

‘We cannot go another day without eating,’ Ylena moaned.

She was right but all he could do in response was shrug. ‘Short of stealing, my lady — and I could never do that — I have no solution.’

‘Then we shall beg!’ She sounded so resolute that Pil’s protest died in his mouth. ‘Yes!’ she continued, ‘I shall sing. I have a comely voice, or so I have been told. I shall sing for our food… and you… you shall dance a jig beside me,’ she finished desperately.

‘All right,’ he said bravely, hoping his voice did not give away his dislike at the thought of her humiliating herself so. ‘Anything is worth a try and I am certainly hungry, my lady.’

A vague attempt at a smile appeared on Ylena’s mouth but there was no warmth to it. ‘Come then, we shall position ourselves over there by the well.’

He followed her, wondering how she thought she would be heard above the din of the market where people called out their wares, beasts mooed and bellowed and children ran helter-skelter.

‘Here,’ she commanded. ‘Lay your hat at our feet.’

Pil did as asked, embarrassed. ‘You don’t surely expect me to dance, my lady?’ he beseeched. ‘I find it hard enough to walk without tripping over.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Ylena said, smoothing her tattered skirts and tucking back her untidy hair. ‘It was just a thought. But make sure you smile at the passers-by. We need their pity. It’s a shame you didn’t have your pate shaved — being a monk would have helped our cause,’ she said distractedly, going on to clear her throat.

Pil steadied his gaze towards his feet and waited. When the first bright note emanated from Ylena, his eyes widened in amazement and his glance flicked sideways to watch her. Her voice was pure and beautiful, like a bird released to soar towards the sky where it had always longed to be. Pil recognised the song. It was a sorrowful ballad of two youngsters who had grown up together, become lovers and whose rapture for each other was blessed by the gods. But the man is murdered by a jealous admirer of the woman… and so the tale continued, pulling at the emotions.

Pil noticed a small crowd had begun to form. Ylena had chosen well, for the song had many verses and was lengthy enough to attract attention. He stepped away from her, realising his presence was no longer needed. The gathering listeners had eyes only for the beautiful, albeit dishevelled woman and her song of grief. Ylena, lost in the telling of her tale and the music, hardly paid them any care and so she did not notice the coins being dropped into the hat or how large and silent the crowd became.

Pil noticed it all, especially the appearance of a man who stepped out from the Dorchyster Arms, the town’s inn. He was clearly a wealthy noble from his garb and even in his winter years he remained a handsome, vital man. The once-yellow hair had dulled to a buttery white and was pulled back severely from his face, accentuating the wide square lines of his features. His beard, worn short, was a motley of yellow, silver and even reddish hues. It added to his attractiveness. Deep-set sea-blue eyes regarded Ylena and he held up his gloved hand to the man beside him to stop the fellow talking. This was a man used to giving orders and being obeyed; even the set of his generous mouth suggested he was powerful, a leader of men. He strode from the inn’s entrance deeper into the square. People stepped aside, pulling their goats and donkeys out of his way.

Pil saw the noble’s eyes narrow in concentration as Ylena reached the peak of the song’s tragic consequences. Other men, the noble’s own no doubt, began to gather nearby. One risked interrupting his lord’s pleasure and was rewarded by the same gloved hand in the air. The man looked around at the others who shrugged. They all understood they must wait now.

Ylena’s song came to its heart-wrenching end and cries of appreciation came from the crowd, people surging forward to toss a few coins into the hat. The nobleman shouldered through the crowd and Pil noted that they all moved aside easily, some bowing, the women curtsying. This was no petty lord.

Pil approached carefully and bent to pick up his hat. Ylena had slumped against the well, her eyes closed, her energies spent and her emotions no doubt in turmoil as the song had so obviously been about her and the man she had loved and lost. The nobleman reached for her hand. It occurred to Pil that the man had recognised her status, despite her tattered dusty appearance, for he was touching his lips to her limp knuckles. It must be the clothes, he realised. Only a noblewoman could afford such quality garments.

‘My lady,’ the older man spoke gently. ‘You sing like an angel.’ His voice was tender but Pil felt sure his men rarely heard this tone.

Ylena’s eyes fluttered open but held no recognition. She affected a brief curtsy of sorts. ‘Thank you, sir. I am hoping my voice will feed myself and my companion tonight,’ she said, glancing towards Pil and then back into eyes that were now the colour of a stormy sea.

‘Shar’s wrath!’ the man exclaimed. ‘But you need not sing for your supper, madam. Who is your family? I demand to know who leaves you in this state.’

‘My family?’ Ylena breathed, hardly above a whisper. ‘My family,’ she repeated, ‘are dead, sir. I am all that’s left, my lord, and I am on the run from those who would do me harm.’

The noble made a sound of frustration. He signalled to one of his men. ‘She’s weak, pick her up!’ he commanded, taking off his cloak.

The man obeyed and his lord laid his own cloak about Ylena, at which point Pil thought it necessary to step forward.

‘My lord,’ he said, bowing. ‘I am Pil.’

‘And?’

‘I am a monk,’ Pil continued, ‘well, a novice in truth — and was instructed to stay close to the Lady Ylena. She is ready to faint from hunger. She has been recuperating with us for some weeks and I fear our journey across country has set her back.’

He hoped he had made a good account of himself. Brother Jakub had always cautioned that brevity was a desirable trait.

The man regarded him before saying, ‘Follow me.’ Pil found himself all but trotting to keep up with the elderly noble. The hat in his hand jangled with the coins weighing it down. They returned to the inn and were taken straight to its dining room. The noble barked orders and suddenly the room was a frenzy of activity. Men appeared and disappeared, taking their instructions from their chief and going about whatever business he required.

Before long the smell of bacon wafted towards them; it made Pil dizzy in anticipation. ‘Eat first,’ the man commanded, ‘then we shall talk.’

Ylena was given a posset of sweetly spiced milk which she drank without comment, although her glance towards the girl setting it down was filled with gratitude. Pil was given the same and he gulped the contents of the cup quickly, feeling its healing warmth hit the right spot immediately.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said. The excitement of seeing slices of fresh bread smeared liberally with butter accompanied by thick rashers of sizzling bacon stopped whatever words might have come next. He ate with gusto and in silence, his glance darting towards Ylena who nibbled hungrily on her bread, not yet daring to touch the meat. The noble ignored them for the time being, talking quietly with a man Pil presumed to be his second-in-command. Pil finished his meal and felt immediately drowsy. However, the luxury of sleep was not yet his.

‘Now we talk,’ the man said and beckoned Pil to a corner of the room where a tray of ales had been set down.

‘My lord,’ Ylena interjected, ‘I can account for myself, sir.’

‘Then do so,’ the nobleman said brusquely. ‘You may speak freely.’

Ylena glanced at Pil and found a brief smile of sympathy for him. Both knew they would have to relive their trauma for this man. Pil nodded encouragingly, noticing the spark was back in her eyes and her expression had lost its despairing look. The food had already worked wonders.

Ylena’s voice was steady and firm as she began. ‘We have come from Rittylworth monastery — we were forced to flee.’

The old noble frowned. ‘Why?’

Ylena sighed. ‘The news has not travelled this far north yet, then?’ The man glared from beneath silver-peppered eyebrows, keen for her to get on with it. ‘The monastery was burned, my lord. Most of the monks were murdered where they stood, the senior ones were singled out for special torture.’

Two mugs were banged down on the table by shocked listeners, sloshing ale on the fists which had held them. Neither man seemed to notice.

‘What?’ The noble’s voice was hard, disbelieving.

‘I speak the truth, sir. I saw it. We were hidden but we saw men flying the King’s colours cut down the monks one by one. They crucified and burned the senior brothers.’ Scenes flashed into her mind of that terrible morning and she felt sickened. ‘It is too terrible to speak of, my lord. They arrived directly as morning silence ended and we have been on the run since.’

‘Well timed to ensure they got everyone,’ the nobleman’s companion commented.

Ylena looked at him for the first time. The easy smile and drape of bright golden hair shocked her — he was so similar to her Alyd it was heartbreaking. He also wore a close beard. She noted his resemblance to the older man. Were these father and son, she thought, not realising she had thought aloud.

‘Yes, this is my son Crys. My apologies, my manners have deserted me. I am Jeryb Donal, Duke of Felrawthy.’

Ylena was stunned into silence, could only stare from Alyd’s father to his equally handsome brother. Then all the bravery she had found to temper the fear for her own life and despair at losing so many loved ones rose uncontrollably on a wave of emotion which flooded her body. Ylena broke down and sobbed. The two nobles looked at her aghast, entirely unsure of what to do for this weeping woman.

It was Pil who put it into words. ‘Good grief, my lord, it is to you that we flee!’ he spluttered, looking towards Ylena. ‘This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk.’

‘Fergys Thirsk’s daughter! My son’s bride?’ the older man roared.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Ylena said, recovering herself. ‘And I bring the gravest of news.’

‘I am sorry we meet under these circumstances,’ Crys said, extending his hand towards her. The smile froze on his face whilst puzzlement creased his brow. ‘So where is Alyd?’

The duke reached for her arm. ‘My son Alyd. Why is he not with you?’

Ylena felt her world sway from the euphoria of finding the duke to despair at what she must now share with him. ‘No, my lord, he is not with me,’ she admitted carefully, the hairs tightening at the back of her head. ‘Forgive me, sir…’ She glanced tearily towards the baffled expression on Crys’s kind face. ‘It is why I am here…to tell you that Alyd is dead.’

The silence that met this statement was vast and of sufficient weight to crush the breath out of Ylena. Her pity for these men of Felrawthy was palpable. As much as she mourned Alyd, she had now accepted his death, knew the only way forward was to seek vengeance. It terrified her, but even more frightening was knowing that Celimus was hunting her down. He would not stop; she knew this. She could run forever and he would not give up — Wyl had said as much when Alyd had spoken of fleeing before the journey. So it was better to turn and fight him as best she could. Nothing could bring back those she loved, but a measure of satisfaction could be gained by helping to bring down their murderer. Alyd’s father and brother were yet to grasp the significance of her words let alone know the worst of it.

Jeryb stared at her, his eyes stormier now, brow furrowed and angry. ‘Dead you say?’ he finally asked.

Ylena nodded, too numb to show her emotion. ‘I am so sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘There is so much to tell, sir. I hardly know where to start, but you must know that you are all that stands between me and certain death too.’

‘We cannot speak of this here,’ the duke said, closing his eyes in grief. ‘I will hear it all but not here. If we ride hard we can make Tenterdyn by nightfall.’

Crys reached over and squeezed Ylena’s hand for reassurance. It was precisely the sort of gesture Alyd would have made, never afraid to touch or show emotion. She hardly dared look at Crys for fear of breaking down. ‘Tenterdyn is our family home,’ he whispered. ‘You will be safe with us.’

Crys turned to the novice. ‘Can you ride, Pil?’ The young monk nodded. It seemed that Crys Donal had taken control. The duke looked incapable of saying another word. Crys rested a hand on his father’s shoulder as he sorted out arrangements.

‘Good. Then go outside and tell Parks to find you a mount on my orders. I shall bring the Lady Ylena. Are you happy to ride with me, my lady?’

‘Yes… yes, of course,’ she replied, dreading being close to the man who so resembled her dead husband.

EIGHTEEN

WYL KNEW HE HAD pushed the mare hard. He finally slowed her from a gallop to a canter, cooling her down to a trot which the brave horse would hold for a little while yet before permitting herself to walk. He stroked her neck in silent thanks and she tossed her mane as though in response.

The small stream he had expected to find made itself known by a soft gurgling and he angled the chestnut mare off the road, ducking beneath the overhanging trees before emerging into a pretty glade. The horse was happy to stop now. Wyl nimbly alighted and led her to the water where she drank greedily. Fretting for Ylena, Wyl wished he could have continued on, but he knew he was already well ahead of any party sent by the King. He was counting on Celimus not discovering the disappearance of Leyen until later this morning, and even then the King might not sense anything untoward and thus not react at all. Perhaps Jessom and Celimus would simply assume she had set off about her duties. They might think her lack of a formal farewell odd, but would hardly dwell on it.

No, they were not the issue here. The problem was Aremys, but again Wyl comforted himself that he had a lead of the whole of the night and most of the morning on the mercenary. By the time Aremys discovered Faryl’s disappearance, Wyl could be halfway to his destination.

With this thought he forced himself to allow the mare some rest time. He unsaddled her and gave her a bag of feed and a quick rubdown before settling himself against a tree to think. He had not counted on falling into a doze quite so readily and so would have heard the approach of the horse much earlier than he did. Leaping to his feet he released the double blades of Romen Koreldy and moved into a fighting stance. A crashing through the undergrowth signalled the approach of man and beast. Wyl had no idea who it was but he was determined they would die. He crouched lower, ready to strike.

Aremys burst through the trees with a roar. Wyl realised who it was and hesitated. The mercenary took that moment to leap from his horse and landed heavily on his prey. Their bodies crunched to the ground, rolled and then Aremys grunted. He lay still for a moment, on top of his victim, crushing the air from Wyl who felt battered from the impact.

‘Didn’t count on the knives, Faryl,’ Aremys sighed and rolled off to show a dark patch of blood already enlarging on his shirt.

‘You stupid fool!’ Wyl shrieked.

‘I asked for it.’ Aremys grinned then his face contorted and he closed his eyes. ‘Ah, but it hurts.’

‘Be still!’ Wyl ordered, using the other knife to cut away the shirt. ‘You’re lucky it’s your arm and not your foolhardy chest.’

‘And I thought you were accurate.’

‘I am.’

‘Why did you hesitate?’

‘Shut up and tell me what you’re doing here,’ Wyl said angrily, knowing all too well. He tore a piece from his own shirt and dipped it into the water so he could clean the wound.

‘Following you, of course.’ Aremys sounded reproachful. Despite the pain he enjoyed Faryl’s ministrations and her hands on his body. He especially relished looking up into those fathomless eyes so filled with secrets. ‘Why did you leave without me?’

‘I don’t work with others. You know that.’

‘Not even on your King’s instructions?’

‘Especially then. He wants the job done cleanly and I don’t need anyone else making errors.’

‘Except you’re not going to do it, are you?’ Aremys stated, staying her busy hands with his good arm. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘About what?’ Wyl cried, hating his screechy woman’s voice and the closeness of the mercenary.

‘About why you have no intention of killing Ylena Thirsk.’

Wyl sat back and tossed the bloodied rag aside. ‘It’s quite deep and going to need sewing up. You’re fortunate nothing serious is severed. Do you want me to bind it for now?’

‘Please.’

Wyl tied a tourniquet to stem the bleeding then dressed the wound with a fresh piece of linen. ‘It will hold only for a short while. You need to see a physic quickly.’

‘Forget my damned arm, woman! I want you to talk to me.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘I can’t do that. We’ve been given a task — a paid one — by the King of Morgravia and I see no reason why I shouldn’t carry it out.’

‘Then you’re already a dead man,’ Wyl replied in a much softer voice.

Aremys had no doubt Faryl meant what she said. ‘Are you planning on using the other knife on me then?’

‘If I have to,’ Wyl said, removing himself from such close proximity to his companion.

‘So her life does mean something to you. Why are you protecting this noblewoman when Celimus assures us she is an enemy of the realm?’

Wyl laughed. It was a bitter sound and made Aremys wince. But it also seemed to open the floodgates and Wyl began talking angrily.

‘She is barely seventeen years of age. She lost her mother at birth, her father when she was but an infant, and her brother…’ His voice broke. Wyl cleared his throat. ‘Her brother, Wyl Thirsk, was murdered at the King’s command because of Celimus’s long-held jealousy over the fact that King Magnus loved Wyl more than his own son.’

He continued, his voice lower and harder with the rage driving it. ‘Ylena Thirsk was widowed within hours of her wedding. She witnessed the beheading of her innocent husband, whose only crime was to love her and cheat Celimus of a bedmate. She was made to kneel in her husband’s still-warm and gushing blood as her own neck was laid on the block.’

Aremys looked shocked. ‘How can you know this?’

‘Because I was forced to watch it!’ The words rushed out now, angry, bewildering, not permitting Aremys the immediate question which sprang to his lips. ‘Her life was saved only because I agreed to blackmail. Either her life was forfeit before my very eyes or I could protect her by undertaking a mission set by the King.’

‘Which was?’ Aremys muttered, entirely confused now and not sure whether Faryl was speaking of herself or someone else.

‘To contrive a meeting with King Valor of Briavel. The name Thirsk meant something to Valor — he respected my father even though they were lifetime enemies. It was the only reason he agreed to allow a Morgravian into his palace.’

Aremys shook his head — why was Faryl speaking as if she was Wyl Thirsk? But she was still talking in that flat monotone and he was loath to interrupt her.

‘Celimus used Wyl Thirsk to get an audience with the King to discuss his daughter’s marriage to the King of Morgravia and lull the Briavellian Crown into a false sense of security. Meanwhile, he had secretly ordered the death of King Valor, as well as the slaying of myself, both to be performed in the King’s study as I negotiated for his daughter’s betrothal to Celimus.’

Wyl fell quiet, his head moving in a sad shake as he recalled the events once again. Aremys held his breath, remained silent. He desperately wanted to hear the end of this chilling tale.

‘You mentioned a man named Koreldy?’ Wyl suddenly said, looking up.

Aremys nodded.

‘I lied. I do know him… did know him. He was a member of that party to Briavel and saved Thirsk’s life you could say. Together he and Thirsk certainly saved the life of Princess Valentyna, now Queen of Briavel.’

Again Aremys was lost. He knew Thirsk was dead so how could his life have been saved? Sensibly he maintained his silence, allowing Faryl to speak on.

‘Koreldy took Thirsk’s body back to Pearlis to make sure his name was cleared of any traitorous act Celimus might accuse him of to cover up the ambush.

‘Because of Koreldy’s actions, Celimus was forced to give General Thirsk a full ceremonial burial and his name remains unsullied. And Romen Koreldy had made a promise to the dying Thirsk that he would rescue and protect his sister, Ylena, from Celimus.’

Aremys nodded as the broader picture became clearer, grateful that Faryl had stopped confusing herself with Thirsk. It was such odd behaviour.

‘When Koreldy tracked Ylena down she was imprisoned in the dungeons of the castle. This is a noblewoman, Aremys, who grew up in the corridors of Stoneheart, who was ward of King Magnus and had always enjoyed his full protection.’ Wyl sighed. ‘Magnus loved her as a daughter and she was treated like a princess. What Celimus perpetrated on that young woman during her incarceration is unspeakable. He surely damaged her mind. My sister is no longer the same bright girl I knew.’

There it is again, Aremys thought. What does she mean?

‘Koreldy rescued her, under the guise of wanting her for himself. Celimus trusted him as his own man, believing it was Koreldy who had slain Thirsk. I suspect Celimus enjoyed the irony of knowing Thirsk’s killer would also rape his sister. It is the kind of cruel twist his mind would love,’ Wyl said bitterly.

‘So now you are trying to protect her? Why?’ Aremys ventured.

‘Because she is innocent. Because I hate Celimus. Because she is the last of our line and I have sworn on my own life to protect her.’

Aremys’s confusion was complete but still he tried to make some sense of this tale, if just for Faryl’s sake. ‘Where is Koreldy — is he with her?’

‘He’s dead,’ Wyl said, standing.

‘How?’

‘I killed him,’ Wyl replied, moving towards his horse to resaddle her.

Aremys struggled to sit up. ‘Help me, damn it!’ he yelled.

‘No. You’re on your own now. Go get yourself fixed up. I’ve told you all I’m going to. Now I ask you to leave me in peace. I suggest you head home to Grenadyn as was your original plan. Don’t go near Ylena Thirsk or I promise I will finish what I began.’

He stood. ‘Then you’ll have to kill me, for until I have the truth, Faryl, I have no reason not to pursue my prey. I am not involved in the Thirsk woman’s sorrows no matter how sad her tale is.’

‘Well, you have been warned. I will not hesitate next time.’ Her eyes glittered with menace.

‘Then answer me this: why did you say Fergys Thirsk was your father?’ Aremys saw Faryl become very still. Her back was to him but she was no longer interested in her horse. Her long arms dropped to her side.

‘And you said that you were blackmailed by the King, that you witnessed the death of Ylena’s husband — yet it was clear when he met us that Celimus had never clapped eyes on you before! Which one of us is going mad here?’

Now Faryl turned and he felt the full weight of her glare.

He was not to be deterred. ‘You make it sound like she is your sister — but how can that be, Faryl? How can that be?’ he shouted, equally angry now and determined to have an answer.

The movement was so fluid and so fast that he could not have avoided it even if he had full use of his arm and half a day’s warning. Within a blink the assassin had a knife at his throat and had twisted his injured arm up behind his back. The pain was agonising — Aremys knew the wound was bleeding again. He was amazed at Faryl’s strength. He struggled but it was useless in his state and he felt the blade slice into the skin at his throat — more blood, he assumed, and he fell still in her grip.

She growled into his ear, ‘Because, damn you, Aremys of Grenadyn, and your constant interference, I am Wyl Thirsk.’

Wyl shoved the burly man away. Aremys staggered forwards, clutching his arm, but managed to turn and face his companion. Faryl looked like a wild animal — he half expected her to pounce again and felt sure that if she did it would be for the last time and he would certainly take his final breath on this earth with a knife slashing across his throat.

She was breathing hard and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Leave me, Aremys!’

But he could not. He was too shocked. Stupefied by her angry words, he risked her wrath still further. ‘Faryl … please?’ His voice was gruff with his alarm and emotion.

‘My name is Wyl,’ came the bitter reply and Faryl turned away to hide her grief.

He left her alone for a few minutes in order that both of them might steady themselves. Finally he walked towards her, clutching at the wound in his arm which was really protesting now.

‘Please, explain it to me.’ He was begging, he realised, and added, ‘I want to help.’

‘Help?’ she said sadly. ‘All I ask is that you leave Ylena be.’

Aremys swallowed. ‘I promise you I will not permit a hair on her apparently pretty head to be harmed — not as long as I can draw breath to protect it.’

Faryl or Wyl — whoever it was — turned slowly and he saw a new gleam in the feline eyes. He read it as hope.

‘On your honour?’

He nodded wearily. ‘I’ll make a blood oath if you wish it.’

‘And in return?’

‘Your whole story.’ He held up his hand against the retort that was about to fly back in his face. ‘And I will help you to achieve whatever it is you are setting out to do.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged, confused. ‘Because it was wrong of me to turn you over to Jessom.’

‘You owed me nothing. I’m sure he paid well.’

‘Not enough for my loyalty. You have that — not that I really understand who it is I pledge such loyalty to,’ he said, rubbing his face.

Wyl reached for the bladder of water and handed it to Aremys. ‘Here, drink some. Then you had better sit down and listen well.’

If Aremys thought he was a man who had seen and heard it all, he was sorely mistaken. As the full tale of Wyl Thirsk unfolded, the mercenary’s head began to spin with the startling notion that he was now in the company of three people.

When Wyl had finished his story, both men sat in silence and watched the bees buzzing merrily about them, crawling in and out of the bright yellow and orange wildflowers at the edge of the stream. Sparrows chittered overhead and a frantic blackbird, clearly with a new nest of fledglings to fatten up, busied itself digging for worms nearby.

Spring is almost here, Aremys realised absently. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, still not trusting himself to say much more just yet.

‘Now I will definitely kill you if you betray me,’ Wyl threatened, feeling awkward yet vaguely relieved that the story had been shared.

Aremys breathed deeply. ‘I have pledged my loyalty to you. It is not given lightly — no man has ever had it before.’

‘I am grateful that you consider me a man,’ Wyl said with relief.

The mercenary snorted. ‘And I wanted to sleep with you.’

Wyl’s shock was evident and they both laughed in embarrassment which, surprisingly, helped to diffuse the awkwardness.

Aremys did not want to let the laughter go. ‘You know, you’ve got the greatest tits.’

Wyl lifted one of Faryl’s eyebrows. ‘Apparently.’

‘I don’t suppose —’

‘Certainly not!’ came the indignant reply and more healing laughter. ‘I don’t own them — I’m… er… I’m simply the caretaker.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘A boy called Fynch whom I trust implicitly. An old woman, a seer, who first sensed this strange magic within me. Her niece, Elspyth, who I hope has already found Ylena,’ he said wistfully before adding, ‘and a brave warrior from the Razors.’

‘A Mountain Dweller?’

‘His name is Lothryn and I believe he gave his life to save mine.’

‘You believe? You don’t know if he’s dead?’

Wyl shrugged. ‘I hope he is.’

Aremys eyed his companion with surprise.

‘I suspect death is far preferable to his probable fate at the hands of Cailech,’ Wyl answered, obvious sadness in his voice.

Aremys did not push on that topic. ‘So Queen Valentyna thinks you’re dead?’

Wyl smiled wryly. ‘Well, I am really. Her friendship was with Romen Koreldy. Faryl of Coombe is his murderer, not that I imagine anyone knows that yet, although the suspicion will be there.’

‘And the Queen knows nothing of this enchantment which has touched your life?’

Wyl shook his head. ‘I believe Fynch has tried to talk to her about it, but Briavellians are even more closed on magic than Morgravians. It was not so long ago that we Morgravians hunted down, tortured and burned suspected witches — magic still frightens us. Briavel has never threatened its people, because they simply do not believe that such power exists. No, I don’t think she could comprehend the truth.’

‘I’m finding it pretty hard myself,’ Aremys admitted. ‘But I believe you — there is too much that is odd about you not to believe it.’

He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that the person sitting before him was once the infamous Romen Koreldy from his own island.

‘Do you ever feel them?’ he asked.

Wyl looked up at him. ‘Romen and Faryl?’

‘No, your tits.’

At this Wyl exploded into laughter and Aremys loved seeing Faryl’s face light up in such a rare showing of pleasure.

‘It’s amazingly good to hear you laugh,’ the big man admitted.

‘None of us have had much to laugh about in recent weeks.’

‘I’m sorry, I did mean the others,’ Aremys admitted sheepishly.

‘Yes, they are always present but more as a spiritual remnant of themselves. I can tap into some of their memories, although those fade very fast, but strangely I possess their skills and much of their learned knowledge. Still, there is plenty that is lost to me. Wyl Thirsk just takes over,’ he said.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Get your arm stitched up.’

‘Wait. Before I turned you over to Jessom, you were headed for Baelup. What is there?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Wyl said, sighing. ‘I was trying to track down Myrren’s mother. I still will once Ylena is safe. I’m hoping the mother may lead me to where I might find out more.’

‘You’re hiding something,’ Aremys said. ‘Remember, all the tale — you promised.’

Wyl nodded, struggling against his reluctance. ‘I have learned that the man Myrren’s mother was married to was not Myrren’s true father. I need to find her blood father. The old seer from Yentro I spoke of — Elspyth’s aunt — said he would tell me more about this so-called gift I’ve been given.’

‘Is it dangerous for you to travel to Felrawthy?’

Wyl shrugged. ‘No more than to Baelup.’

‘But you’d prefer to be tracking down Myrren’s father rather than chasing across the realm for your sister who, you admit, may already be in safe hands.’

‘I can’t be sure about that, not with Celimus hunting her down.’

‘But he’s not. I am. Celimus is under the assumption that he’s sent off his agents and I suspect he will not dwell on it further for now.’

Wyl looked puzzled. ‘What’s your point?’

‘I will go after Ylena. You go and find Myrren’s father.’

There was a silence. Aremys knew what Wyl was thinking. ‘You can trust me. I will protect her with my life, now.’ Then unexpectedly he added, ‘I had a sister but she died in an accident. She had been left in my care, but I preferred to go hunting. Angry that I was not permitted to do so, I left Serah in what I thought was a safe place in the woods.’

Wyl was listening intently now — so it was not just he who had secrets. ‘Go on.’

‘She was killed. A wild pig gored her. I’m not sure it wouldn’t have killed both of us, but I have still never forgiven myself for deserting her,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure my family ever did either,’ he added quietly.

‘Forgive me, Aremys. That is a shocking story but I am still uncertain why you feel obliged to fight my cause,’ Wyl said.

‘Perhaps if I share the whole truth with you, it might be clearer,’ the mercenary replied. ‘My father is a noble. We were visiting Pearlis many years ago as a family. I would have been around ten, my sister just four summers old. Celimus was perhaps eight.’

‘Celimus?’

‘Yes, I am afraid we both have reason to hate the King of Morgravia.’

‘And?’ Wyl encouraged, mindful of Aremys’s blood-saturated sleeve. However, the bleeding seemed to have been staunched.

‘My father and brothers were invited to hunt with the royal party. My mother, bless her, was asked to bathe with the court ladies. None of us had seen such resplendence as Stoneheart offered so she asked me to look after Serah for a couple of hours. Play with her, she said. Keep her safe.’ Aremys looked to the sky and grunted. ‘As soon as mother’s back was turned I took Serah to the woods where I wanted to be. I was furious that I couldn’t go on the hunt and blamed Serah. Along came Celimus and his friends. They told me they were going to beat sticks in the woods higher up where the wild pigs roamed to see if they couldn’t coax out their own game to hunt.’ Aremys shook his head. ‘It was stupid but we were just boys, eager to be grown-up and keen for our fathers’ respect. It didn’t occur to me that Serah wasn’t safe. I joined the prince and his friends and, suffice to say, we did flush out a pig and made him angry enough to stampede straight into Serah’s path.’

‘Shar’s wrath, man! And Celimus doesn’t know who you are?’

Aremys shook his head. ‘I wasn’t important enough to remember, and besides, at that age my parents called me Remy. He hasn’t made the connection. I spent years planning how I would kill him. I blamed him, you see. By the time I was old enough to do it, I realised the folly of youth. I was not going to kill the heir to Morgravia and I am certainly not going to kill its new King. Instead I bleed him of the money he loves so much.’

It all fell into place now for Wyl. ‘You!’

Aremys looked abashed. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘You told them where the taxes would be coming from,’ Wyl stammered. ‘You guided Rostyr and his men.’

‘It’s true. And I shall continue to find ways to make the King’s life difficult, whilst simultaneously helping myself to his coffers by doing some of his dirty work.’

‘But those seven men?’

‘All deserved to die. They were corrupt.’

Wyl could barely mask the sarcasm. ‘A selective assassin.’

‘You could say.’

Wyl smiled grimly. ‘Well, I am not so forgiving as you, Aremys. I aim to bring about the downfall of Celimus.’

Aremys grinned back. ‘And I will help you. I hate him as much as you do. Do you believe my loyalty now?’

Wyl nodded. ‘Let’s get you sewn up and then go find my sister. Together.’

NINETEEN

THE DONAL ESTATE WAS a series of elegant buildings running off the main two-storey house. It sprawled within a glen, protected on all sides by picturesque hills and flanked by a small forest in the north.

The family had a long and close history with the Crown and a reputation as fearless defenders of the north. In days gone by many Briavellian Kings had thought to storm Morgravia through its north but had met solid, seemingly tireless resistance from Felrawthy. Like the Thirsks to the south, this family boasted an impeccable bloodline of warriors.

Although it was not a family known for its fertility, once Jeryb assumed the mantle as duke he had no intention of following in the tradition of siring a single heir only. His lovely wife had given him one son but he had always hoped for a large brood of children.

It had become a joke in the early days of their marriage. ‘It just takes practice, my love,’ Jeryb would say, a sparkle in his eye.

The young Aleda would smile forthrightly back and reply that they would just have to practise each evening then until they became really good at it.

And the twins, Daryn and Jorge, followed this rigorous routine with young Alyd arriving as a special surprise five years later, by which time Aleda had suggested to the man who loved her so much to practise a little less.

‘For I think we have the hang of it now,’ she had declared, to Jeryb’s high amusement.

Jeryb had fought alongside his trusted leader, Fergys Thirsk. Not only had their two wives found enjoyment in each other’s company whenever they met, but the two heads of the families knew they could trust one another — and in a battle, trust was the most precious of commodities.

Fergys relied entirely on Jeryb to hold the north against the increasing agitation from the Mountain People. He knew of no noble more loyal to the Crown. Although Jeryb rarely managed to travel south except for highly formal occasions, his relationship with King Magnus was strong. Once, over a warm ale on a frigid night on yet another battlefield, with the smell of blood in their nostrils, they had talked of how their sons would hold the realm as strongly as they had over the years.

Now General Thirsk’s daughter was about to experience the generous hospitality that Jeryb Donal had always been pleased to offer her father. Ylena clung to the waist of the kind, bright-eyed man who reminded her too much of someone she had loved. She had not bothered with the more elegant side-saddle position but had lifted her skirts carefully to sit astride the horse. Pil had helped her rearrange them neatly. Crys had left instructions with their men to make their way back to the duchy and then he and Ylena had made haste to follow the duke back to Tenterdyn. Jeryb had set off first, with just a couple of men as escort, riding at breakneck speed to bring news to Tenterdyn and Aleda Donal of what had befallen their son and his beautiful betrothed.

‘Welcome to our home, my lady,’ Crys said gently over his shoulder. ‘You will be safe here.’

His voice was kind and so reminiscent of another’s. Ylena smiled. No one seeing her could have failed to be arrested by her beauty despite the grime of several days’ travel.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Are you?’ she replied.

‘Too shocked and distraught at your news to think properly,’ he admitted. She appreciated his candour. ‘The worst is yet to come, I fear. Telling my mother the full story will not be easy, although my father will have prepared her. Alyd was her favourite, you see.’ He looked around and chanced a thin smile. ‘Not because he liked it that way. He was the youngest… the baby. Everyone spoiled him and adored him. As you know, it was easy to do both.’

She forced back the tears which had sprung to her eyes. ‘I am ready. I have not come here to hide, Crys. I have come to ask your father to help me fight the person who carried out this atrocity.’

‘You’ll find willing warriors here, my lady, for Alyd’s sake.’

‘Wait until you learn who our enemy is, sir,’ she said, more bitterly than she had intended.

Crys kicked the horse into a trot down the hill, raising a hand to his father who had emerged from the house.

Aleda met them alongside her husband. Her face was pale and lined with building grief but she found a brief smile of courtesy for their guest.

‘Welcome, child,’ she said bravely, reaching to hug Ylena, whom she had only known previously as an infant.

Both women felt the gravity of the moment, the rush of emotion which cared not for circumstance or timing. It boiled over and they gave in to it, sobbing in each other’s arms, two strangers linked by the love of the young man they had lost. The men could not bear to watch the upsetting scene and disappeared into the house.

Finally Aleda pulled away. ‘I am glad you came here, Ylena.’

‘I have nowhere else to go, my lady. Forgive me, but my story is more brutal and upsetting than you can possibly imagine.’

‘We shall hear it, child, in all its painful, unmasked truth. But come now, I want you to bathe and rest first.’

Ylena looked at the handsome older woman with disbelief.

‘You will tell your tale more succinctly if you are refreshed and rested. I can certainly wait a little longer to hear your news.’

Ylena liked Alyd’s mother immediately, admiring the strength she sensed the woman possessed. It had taken much courage to greet her son’s bride so graciously knowing what she had come to explain to them.

They walked arm in arm, drying the tears from their cheeks as they entered the double doors of the mansion known as Tenterdyn.

Aleda looked towards her eldest child — Jeryb was nowhere to be seen. He grinned crookedly and she saw not only her husband reflected back in the expression but also the youngest son she suddenly ached to hold again. She nodded, tight-lipped. ‘This girl needs a bath and a rest and then we will all talk.’ Her look brooked no argument. ‘Let your father know, please, and call the boys in,’ she added, referring to his brothers. ‘We shall sit down in an hour or so.’

With Ylena settled privately in a chamber and left to her toilet, Crys followed his aristocratic mother down into her private reading room, as she liked to call it. It was actually more her escape from her brood of lively sons and their booming father. Here she indeed read, but also did her quiet thinking. It was a brightly washed room of yellows and greens, hung with tasteful tapestries of her own design. The furniture was soft and welcoming, the view from the windows was spectacular, and Crys loved to share time with her here, although on this occasion he was not looking forward to their conversation. A servant stepped in with a tray, poured them each a goblet of sweet wine and left.

‘You look tired, son,’ Aleda said, before sipping at her goblet.

‘Has she told you anything yet?’

Aleda shook her head. ‘I don’t want to hear it anyway.’

Crys saw the pain flicker across his mother’s face and then how it was checked and masked. He knew all too well that she did not like anyone to read her thoughts.

‘Here, my dear. Come and sit down,’ Aleda said to Ylena when she joined the gathered family in their main chamber. The gown she wore was loose on her — it was one of Aleda’s — but she looked every bit the noblewoman she was.

‘Crys, call for some spiced ale.’

Her son, entranced by the woman his brother had chosen to marry, moved swiftly. Aleda motioned her guest towards a comfortable armchair. The room felt suddenly crowded.

‘Thank you,’ Ylena said, mustering her courage. ‘Let me tell you everything.’

‘Let us wait for Crys,’ the older woman said gently, squeezing Ylena’s hand. ‘He must hear this too.’

A hint of a smile flickered across Ylena’s hauntingly beautiful face. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘For I fear I will not want to tell it again.’

Crys returned, his expression grim. He glanced towards his father, who caught the look and roused himself from his silent shock in the corner.

‘Tell us, my girl,’ the duke commanded in his deep voice. ‘Tell us everything.’

Ylena spared them none of the horror of their son’s death or of her own traumas, including learning of the death of her brother and the sacking of Rittylworth and murder of its brethren. No one interrupted her and by the time she had finished speaking a frigid silence had gripped the room.

‘Alyd was executed, you say?’ Crys asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.

His father looked suddenly every one of his three score years and ten. His mother, pale and rigid, bit her lip, the only indication that she was fighting her own demons. His brothers stood by, stunned into silence.

Ylena swallowed, fighting the tears for their sake. ‘Alyd was killed before my eyes. They used an axe,’ she added bitterly. ‘Didn’t even give him a noble death.’

Aleda felt sick to the marrow of her bones but she pushed aside her despair. She wanted to hear it all before she began to grieve. ‘And you were married?’ she said.

Their guest nodded. ‘As I explained, it was the only way we could outwit Celimus. He intended to bed me, claiming Virgin’s Blood. His intention was always to hurt Alyd and, in doing so, to draw Wyl into the confrontation so he could use that to start dismantling Wyl’s power over the Legion and his standing in the realm.’

‘Felrawthy will rise!’ boomed the duke. He turned to his eldest son in whose handsome face he saw a painful echo of his youngest, now headless and rotting in some unmarked grave in Pearlis. ‘We will avenge Alyd and Wyl Thirsk for this atrocity.’

TWENTY

AT AROUND THE TIME Ylena and Pil were first entering Dorchyster Green, Jessom was standing in a courtyard sharing with his King what little information he had been able to unearth on Leyen. Deep down he knew he was reaching with this but Celimus had clearly threatened him and it was easier to appease him with some pretence at intrigue than to admit he had no further information. This was all about survival now, and rather a busybody noblewoman’s back be flayed than his.

‘And you think the Lady Helyn could be a traitor?’ Celimus spun around, aghast at the intimation.

‘Not at all, sire,’ Jessom replied smoothly. ‘I think she may be an unwitting accomplice — if indeed there is a crime which Leyen should answer for. We still have no real idea of whether Leyen is guilty of working against the Crown. I have no fear that Lady Helyn does so.’

The King made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘But still I am suspicious. Until we hear differently from Aremys, I am obliged to consider Leyen’s actions curious.’

Jessom merely nodded.

‘Tell me again. Leave out nothing.’

The Chancellor began over. It was no use protesting. ‘On your advice, your majesty,’ he said diplomatically, avoiding the fact that he had been threatened, ‘I began some enquiries into Jorn’s activities on the night in question. It turns out that after escorting Leyen to the gatehouse, he returned to her room and gathered up the garments she had been lent for that night.’

Celimus stopped him with a finger in the air. ‘How do you know this?’

‘He was seen leaving the castle and heading into Pearlis, your majesty.’

The King’s alert mind was in full swing. ‘Was he acting in a guarded manner?’

‘No, sire. I learned this much from some of our own men who were returning from an evening in the city. They met Jorn, recognised him and teased him — as soldiers are wont to do.’

‘And?’

‘The lad seemed in no particular hurry. In fact, he mentioned that he was making a delivery to Lady Helyn, so there was nothing secretive in his own mind about his journey, it appears.’

‘All right. Go on,’ the King replied, showing no remorse at the boy’s death.

‘I checked with Lady Helyn’s manservant, who concurs that delivery of a gown and cloak was certainly made in the early hours of the morning following our supper. The man, Arnyld, said Jorn did not tarry at the house. He handed over the garments with a simple thank you from Leyen then left immediately.’

‘No other detours or errands?’

‘Not that I can track down, sire.’

‘Ah,’ Celimus said, leaning forward, ‘now we come to it.’

‘It seems Leyen did more than finalise her thanks verbally. Arnyld mentioned that a note was found in the pocket of the cloak, almost by chance, much later.’

‘You see,’ Celimus said, pacing now, ‘it is the words “almost by chance” that prick my curiosity. Do you think the note was deliberately hidden?’

Jessom shrugged slightly. ‘I cannot guess, sire. Leyen may not have wanted to bother Jorn with trying to remember anything more detailed than a courteous thank you.’

‘So what did that note contain?’ the King asked eagerly.

The Chancellor shook his head. ‘According to Lady Helyn, nothing of consequence. She said it was merely a polite courtesy and she believes she must have sent it out with the day’s rubbish.’

‘And you believe her?’

‘She very kindly spent some time hunting for the note in my presence, just in case her memory was not serving her correctly, sire. She called Arnyld to task over it and he too searched. There was no sign of it.’

‘Hmm, perfectly plausible, I suppose.’

‘As I thought, sire, which is why I have not pushed any further.’

‘How was she when you spoke with her?’

‘Charming. As I said, keen to help you if she could and apologetic for her hasty action in ridding herself of the note. I sensed no guile, sire.’

‘I’d still like to speak with her.’

‘I anticipated as much, my lord. She awaits your pleasure.’

Celimus smiled thinly at Jessom’s smooth anticipation. ‘Show her in.’

Lady Helyn moved gracefully for her size. She sketched a perfect curtsy to her sovereign. ‘Your majesty, this is indeed a rare pleasure,’ she said.

‘Come, Lady Helyn, walk a short way with me. Let me show you my new floriana garden.’

Clever, she thought. He knows how much I appreciate nature’s gifts. ‘Of course, your highness, I would be honoured,’ she replied, thanking the gods who protected her for keeping any trace of anxiety from showing in her voice.

She took the King’s proffered arm and allowed him to guide her out of the courtyard and into an exquisitely perfumed garden, still under construction in places. ‘Oh, sire, this is magnificent,’ she breathed, genuinely impressed.

Celimus turned on a dazzling smile for this important lady of his court. He knew he must tread carefully. Lady Bench’s wealthy influential husband would not take kindly to his King browbeating his wife for seemingly inconsequential information. ‘It is not yet nearly finished, of course, but I am glad to show it in its early stages to someone who loves the work of Shar.’ He showed her into a superb rotunda containing a small stone table and benches. ‘I have ordered some parillion juice which I hope you will enjoy?’

‘A favourite of mine, thank you.’ She inhaled the perfume about her. ‘The floriana display is magical, sire. Such colours! My, my.’

Celimus was nothing but charm. ‘Thank you, Lady Helyn. My gardeners tell me they are the most stubborn of plants. What was it one of them said now…’

He cocked his head in thought and she was instantly reminded of his mother. All cold beauty she recalled, not a skerrick of warmth had helped that woman’s heart beat. But stunning she had certainly been. No woman in Pearlis, or indeed the realm, could hold a candle to that one. And the son carried all of her grace and poise, the heartstopping looks. Yet it was an eternal pity that he possessed so little of his father.

‘Pardon?’ Celimus said. ‘I missed that.’

Lady Helyn flinched. Had she spoken aloud?

‘Your highness, my apology. I was thinking how incredibly like in looks to your beautiful mother you are,’ she quickly said and diplomatically followed it up with, ‘may Shar bless her.’

He smiled. ‘That is generous, my lady. I am reminded often of how special she was.’

His companion nodded her head graciously, relief coursing through her.

The King continued, ‘Ah yes, it comes to me now. The head gardener calls these flowers Shar’s Folly.’

‘Oh, and I can understand why, my lord,’ Lady Helyn gushed. ‘They are impossible to grow and yet look at your glorious display. I admit I did not realise you cared for such things.’

Now Celimus’s expression became soft, almost apologetic. He sighed. ‘It is true, my lady, that my passion runs to the hunt, my horses, and my realm of course.’

‘And your people, sire,’ she added.

‘That goes without saying,’ he replied evenly. ‘But more recently I have developed a new passion… for a certain woman, my lady, who makes my heart burn with desire. It is she who has made me appreciate some of the gentler aspects of life,’ he admitted. ‘This new garden is for her. It is one of several I am creating in her honour.’

There was no avoiding the issue. ‘You speak of Queen Valentyna, my lord?’

‘Indeed. I hope we will be married by spring’s close. I know the union will herald great joy to both realms, Lady Helyn, which brings me to why I wished to see you today.’

Lady Helyn was heartily glad they were interrupted by the arrival of the fruit juice. It was perfectly chilled, the beautifully crafted silver goblet dripping with icy water like dewdrops. ‘So cool and refreshing, your highness,’ she said, eager for a last chance to think over her options.

Leyen’s note had been shocking to say the least. If what the young woman claimed was true, then Lady Bench was sitting with a madman at this moment. A King out of control. His lust for power, for other realms, for yet more riches, had overruled every sensible thought. According to Leyen, Celimus had plotted the assassination of King Valor of Briavel, leaving his daughter vulnerable to hostilities from Morgravia. An even greater shock was learning that Celimus had also contrived the murder of that fine young man Wyl Thirsk. If ever a son was set to follow in his father’s footsteps, this was him, she thought. To see his life taken so early, so brutally, was a matter for sincere grief for all Morgravians, but to learn that his death may have been deliberately orchestrated by his own sovereign had left Lady Helyn shaken.

Leyen kept the frightening news coming. Now Celimus was after the sister, the beautiful Ylena. Helyn could barely believe the written accusation that the young woman had not only witnessed her husband’s murder but had been herself incarcerated in Stoneheart’s dungeon.

Leyen’s prose was brief — like a soldier’s — yet detailed. She had summarised that it was the King’s intention to marry Valentyna and then destroy her and Briavel. Leyen admitted that she was the only one who knew the truth, the only person who stood in the King’s way.

It went on to ask her to be watchful and to warn that one day the realm she loved might need her family to make difficult choices.

There were moments since she had read that note when Lady Bench had believed that it was all a terrible hoax. Yet her shrewd judgement of character had told her that the Leyen she met was an honest woman. Either that or she was a supreme actress, but Helyn Bench could not fathom what she might gain by lying.

She swallowed another gulp of the delicious juice, not tasting it.

‘Not too sweet?’ Celimus enquired, dragging her thoughts back to the present.

‘It is perfect, my lord. Where were we?’ she asked, in an attempt to sound innocent of a matter she now felt deeply embroiled in.

‘Mmm, yes,’ the King replied distractedly, as if it was not the major topic on his mind right now. ‘I believe we were talking about why I asked you to come today.’

‘That is right, you were, my lord. How may I serve you?’

‘Well, you see, it is a matter of security.’

‘Good grief, I can’t imagine any of my petty gossip or court knowledge could assist in matters so lofty, your highness,’ she said, laughing gently.

No further parrying; Celimus, she realised, had decided to make his play. ‘You lent garments to a guest of the palace,’ he began.

She nodded. ‘Yes, a lovely woman by the name of Leyen.’

He smiled in agreement. ‘That’s her. Did you spend any time with her, madam?’

‘Indeed, a few hours. We met at the bathing pavilion and I can’t resist a new face in the palace, your highness. I pride myself on knowing all newcomers within hours of their arrival,’ she tittered, affecting the gossipy voice she used with her ladies.

‘What did you learn?’ he asked, ignoring the affectation.

She stopped her chuckling and allowed a frown of puzzlement to take its place. ‘About Leyen? Not a lot, your highness. She struck me as a particularly private person. I did learn that she was supping with you that evening and had nothing suitable to wear.’

‘Yes, the gown you lent was most becoming.’

‘My daughter’s. I also sent around my maid that evening to dress her hair. A messenger returned the gown and cloak several hours later with thanks.’

She decided to take the risk and lead this conversation towards its end. She was not sure her nerves could withstand his penetrating gaze for much longer. ‘I know that Chancellor Jessom was especially interested in a note we found in the cloak much later on the following day.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you have reason to suspect Leyen of something, my lord?’

‘I do, Lady Helyn. I have reason to believe she may be plotting against the Crown.’

She knew contrived shock would not work now. The situation required the most delicate of navigation. She looked at Celimus quizzically, deliberately pausing as if to consider before speaking. It all depended on how she carried herself in the next few moments. Either he would accept her explanation or she might find herself a guest of his majesty’s dungeon.

‘No, sire,’ she soothed. ‘That young woman had nothing but good to say of you, my lord. She expressed her wish that you would marry Queen Valentyna and admitted to being a courier between the two realms. She would not say more — in fact she admonished my curiosity with a reminder of her loyalty to Morgravia’s King and reminded me that as your private agent she was not permitted to reveal anything further.’

‘She did?’

‘On my word, my King.’ Shar forgive me, she thought.

The gaze did not falter although she sensed he did not disbelieve her.

‘And you trust her?’

‘I have no reason not to, sire. I found her to be direct in her manner, determined to serve you well.’

‘Did she say farewell?’

‘Not in person, sire. It was all in that brief note of thanks — I do wish I’d kept it, just to reassure you that it held nothing more than polite courtesies. If that young woman has any grudge against you… well, I did not pick it up and there are few with sharper instincts than I — if you will permit me to say so, your highness.’

Please believe me, she begged inwardly as she waited for his unhurried response.

He took his time, levelling a narrowed gaze at her as if he could see into her soul. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath it. Finally he blinked, graciously took her hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you, Lady Helyn. You have put my mind at rest. Jessom here will see you out.’

The Chancellor materialised from behind them, smiling obsequiously in that oily manner of his. Her knees felt weak with relief. She was glad she was still seated. ‘I am pleased, your highness, to have eased your mind,’ she said, finding the courage to test her knees and stand. ‘We all look forward to the nuptials, my lord,’ she added.

The King gave her a wolfish grin before permitting her to leave. Lady Helyn fought the urge to run as she left the palace, forcing herself to keep an unhurried pace, smiling at people she knew, even stopping once and annoying the Chancellor whilst she passed on a new titbit of gossip to a person she had not seen in a while.

Now, sitting back in her carriage, she felt her heartbeat finally begin to slow and permitted herself tentative congratulations on the fine performance she had shown her King. It hit her suddenly that she was now a traitor to Morgravia — in lying to her sovereign she was no longer loyal to the Crown.

I may not be loyal to this man’s Crown, she thought, but to Morgravia I remain true.

She would need to talk this over with her husband, whenever he deigned to return home. Until then, she would take Leyen’s advice and remain watchful.

Lady Helyn Bench was not a lover of travel as her husband was. She felt sure that many of the reasons Eryd found to be gone from Pearlis were contrived, but she did not really mind. She had known from their first meeting that he was a solitary figure at heart who far preferred the open road and his own company to the crush of people and his wife’s gossipy intrigues in the capital.

Eryd was wealthy, indeed powerful. His voice counted at court — with both kings, old and new — and when he put his weight behind a particular matter it was considered worth taking note of. Moreover many nobles listened to and took guidance from the steadfast, seemingly incorruptible Lord Bench. He had made his riches through buying and selling exotic spices and magnificent gems from the northern islands. He could, in truth, procure virtually any merchandise from anywhere, ranging from high-quality tobacco to a magnificent horse if that was what was required.

Eryd was the complete opposite of his plump, stay-at-home wife who enjoyed spending his wealth on everything from lavish parties to her prized pond fish. They were an oddly matched yet loving couple whose affection for each other had never waned. Her constant chittering might have driven most men of his ilk to their grave, yet Eryd rather enjoyed Helyn’s comforting noise when he returned home, as well as her fussing. Likewise, Helyn did not mind her partner being so elusive; she was more than capable of handling the most formal of occasions without a husband’s support and she relished the time alone to pursue her own interests.

And so the Bench household was usually one filled with love and laughter, music and reading, intrigue and storytelling. Power throbbed in the Bench family, which was as generous with its money as it was with its time for friends and acquaintances. The couple seemed to want for nothing and were envied for their secure relationship as much as their wealth.

However, anyone passing beneath Lady Helyn’s window on this particular evening might have told a different story at the bathing pavilion the next day. Eryd was not happy and raised voices carried on the still night — thankfully unintelligibly, for the argument had ensued in Helyn’s dressing room which was well cocooned by her dozens of gowns and wraps, skirts and coats.

‘This is sheer madness,’ Eryd roared. ‘I have never heard such folly.’

‘Haven’t you, darling?’ Helyn responded in the distracted tone she reserved just for him. Realising he was not to be put off so easily, she stopped her search through her wardrobe and looked at him, exasperated. ‘Don’t wave that pipe at me, Eryd. I am not one of your workers to do your bidding.’

‘No,’ he said, less loudly. ‘But you are my wife and you will listen to me.’

‘Of course I shall listen. I don’t have to do what you want though.’ She flounced out of the dressing room into her chamber.

Eryd, still shocked by her news, tried a less dictatorial approach. ‘Helyn, my love… I beg you not to meddle in the politics of this realm.’

‘Why not? You do!’

He looked at her with a pained expression. ‘That’s not fair, my love.’

She made a sound of disgust, cutting across whatever martyr-like statement was coming.

‘This is madness,’ he repeated, feeling suddenly helpless.

‘I agree. I will do no more than keep my ear to the ground for information that might assist.’

‘Towards bringing down your King!’ he said, aghast.

‘Hush!’ she cautioned, speaking more quietly now. ‘You of all people should grasp the import of what we have been told.’

‘If it’s true,’ he countered, frustrated by her easy acceptance of the word of a stranger.

‘Yes,’ Helyn answered, ‘if it’s true. And that’s what I’m going to find out, because if it is… oh, Eryd, what will become of our realm?’

He sighed and sat on her bed next to her. ‘Civil war.’

‘That’s right. I think Leyen is trying to prevent that, although it all seems so odd.’

‘Working against the Crown,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s treachery, Helyn.’

‘So is the murder of innocent high-ranking nobles — not to mention the King of Briavel,’ she hissed. ‘I can’t stand by with this information and not do anything.’

‘You don’t think it could be some sort of horrible mistake?’

She smiled sadly. ‘I hope it is.’

‘How can you trust a stranger?’

She shrugged. ‘Years of experience with liars, my love. Call it intuition — my very own and particular talent. Leyen struck me as very direct; nothing dishonest about her. Secretive, but not dishonest. There was something very vulnerable about that woman. She knows things. Is scared by them. I know she’s working for the King, and I also know, following what stopped just short of an interrogation, that the King is determined to find out what she might have told me. Now firstly, why would she tell me anything — a complete stranger, as you say — unless it was true? Why would she risk writing something so damning — it could easily have her executed — if she didn’t know it to be true? Secondly, and even more intriguing, why would Celimus have me especially called in on the pretext of a chat when really he was fishing for information on Leyen? What she knew, what she might have shared with me. His behaviour virtually attests to his guilt.’

‘Why indeed,’ Eryd muttered, beaten by her logic. ‘This is dangerous, my love.’

She nodded. ‘I do know it.’ She leaned over and kissed her husband. ‘Thank you for listening.’

‘Do you think the King still believes you are involved?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I was at my sparkling best. But you are right, I must tread with great care.’

‘Let’s say you do find it’s all true…’ He stopped. It was a question he was perhaps not ready to ask.

Helyn said nothing, all but holding her breath, wondering if her husband’s heart could stand the shock of what she was thinking.

Eryd answered his own question. ‘Betray Morgravia?’

His voice was leaden with the fear she also felt. She had no explanation or soft speech of comfort to help him understand. She too was reeling beneath her calm exterior. Lady Bench would far prefer to be focusing her energies on the current rumour of the seduction of one woman’s husband by her sister, but Leyen’s note, the trust she had placed in her new friend, was irrefutable. She could not ignore it.

‘I could never betray Morgravia, my darling,’ she said, eyes misting as she stroked his stubbled cheek. ‘But this new King of ours… I just don’t know. If any of what Leyen entrusted to me has an ounce of truth, then he is not a King we would want to be loyal to.’

Eryd took his wife’s chubby hands and stared at her intently. ‘He may be new and young but he is not to be trifled with. From what I can tell, beneath the vain and seemingly shallow veneer lurks a mind sharp enough to cut and bright enough to blind. You did well to throw him off your scent, but do not be fooled by him… not ever.’

TWENTY-ONE

ELSPYTH ARRIVED ON THE outskirts of the duchy by dusk. A middle-aged travelling monk called Brother Lewk with a donkey in tow took pity on the lone, clearly exhausted woman and suggested she ride the beast along the road as far as the town of Brynt, the largest in Felrawthy. Elspyth, believing the monk was indeed a gift from Shar, gladly accepted his generous offer. She enjoyed his thoughtful company as he walked alongside and regretted it when they crested a rise and he pointed out Brynt below. To the north lay the sprawling pastures of the duke’s private lands.

‘That’s where you’re headed, my girl,’ the monk said, ‘although you are most welcome to travel into Brynt with me if you care to.’

Elspyth smiled wearily. ‘I must keep moving, father, but I do thank you for your company and my fine steed.’ She climbed off the beast and patted its coarse hair, marvelling at the serenity in its large dark eyes. I’d give anything right now for your simple life, my friend, she thought.

Turning, she looked into the genial grey eyes in a gently frowning face. ‘I shouldn’t miss him for a day or so you know,’ her companion said. ‘Why don’t you take him? I imagine the duke will have opportunity enough to have the little fellow returned to me. I’ll be at Brynt for several days yet.’

Elspyth felt her heart fill. Perhaps there was hope for Morgravia with people like this in it. She could hardly refuse, knowing she was in no state to walk many more steps. ‘I am surely blessed to have met you, father. Thank you for this. I shall ensure he is well fed, watered and returned tomorrow.’

‘Oh, no hurry, child. He certainly doesn’t hurry for anyone,’ he said, face crinkling into the merriest of smiles. ‘Shar guide you in your travels.’

And so it was with some surprise that the noble Donal family welcomed yet another bedraggled and fatigued young woman, this one arriving by donkey. Crys was at the guardhouse, briefing the man on duty regarding new security and the locking of Tenterdyn’s gates. As the woman slipped off her mount and landed unceremoniously on her backside outside the gates of Tenterdyn, Crys Donal smiled for the first time since hearing the shocking news of his brother’s untimely death.

A gloom had settled over the Donal family home since Ylena’s story had been told. Ylena had once again retired for a much-needed rest. With the physician’s approval, a mild soporific had been administered and she was released from her memories as a blanketing sleep claimed her. The others had no such relief and were left to pick over the horrific account of Alyd’s brutal beheading — without trial, without even so much as the conviction of a crime.

Even more chilling was the revelation that his head had been placed in the dungeon with his wife, and when Ylena had informed them that she had carried the remains of their loved one to Felrawthy, the Donals were shattered. Ylena had left it to Crys to withdraw Alyd’s head from the sack, refusing to gaze upon the tragic sight again.

The viewing had left each of the family shaken and withdrawn. Jeryb took his leave to shut himself away in his study where he intended to ponder the right path for revenge. His words left his family in no doubt that Felrawthy would shortly engage in civil war against the Crown. It was an unthinkable scenario. Crys was still churning over the notion in his mind as he helped the young woman up from the ground.

A grin escaped, in spite of his bleak mood. ‘A theatrical arrival,’ he commented.

‘My apologies, sir,’ Elspyth replied, a little fractious. ‘I have been travelling a long time.’ She disengaged herself from his arms.

‘So I see,’ he said, taking in her ragged appearance but not smiling this time as he could see it had niggled her. ‘Please forgive my poor manners. I am Crys Donal, eldest son of the Duke of Felrawthy.’

Elspyth looked at him and felt disarmed as she properly appreciated his looks and quality clothes. More people resembling her companion emerged from the house and crossed the courtyard towards her — they were a handsome family, she noted. But no one looked especially pleased to see her; in fact everyone looked downright miserable.

‘Crys,’ said the tall, regal-looking woman, ‘where are your manners?’

‘I was just apologising for the loss of same, mother. I’d introduce you if I knew who was paying us a visit.’

Elspyth blushed and smoothed her grubby garments with dusty hands. ‘I’m sorry. My name is Elspyth. I am a friend of…’ She was momentarily confused: Wyl was the friend but Romen was the man he’d walked as. She chose: ‘…of Wyl Thirsk,’ she said firmly and saw alarm spread across the faces before her.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ she whispered to Crys.

He shook his head sadly. ‘No. Just more shock for an already distraught family. Elspyth, may I introduce Aleda, Duchess of Felrawthy, my mother. My father, Duke Jeryb…’ Elspyth found herself involuntarily curtsying as the duke regarded her ‘…and this is one of my three brothers, Daryn.’

Elspyth smiled tentatively towards the young man.

‘The other, Jorge, is with his beloved horses, I presume, and my youngest brother,’ Crys added in a different tone, ‘we have learned only today is dead. Forgive us our sober welcome.’

The duke took charge. ‘But perhaps you already know of this if Wyl Thirsk is your friend?’

Elspyth looked at him directly, sensed his keen pain and softened her tone. ‘I do, sir. I am deeply regretful for your family. Alyd was your youngest?’

He nodded.

‘Did you know him?’ the duchess asked. Elspyth could see her eyes were red but not sore from tears. She fancied this was a strong woman. ‘I did not, my lady, only of him.’ The duchess nodded, knuckles white where her hands gripped each other.

‘Er, may I ask, please, if Ylena Thirsk has made contact with your family?’ Elspyth ventured.

It was Crys who answered. ‘We met her by chance at a town about half a day’s ride from the estate.’

‘So… she’s here?’ Elspyth could hardly believe her good fortune.

Aleda nodded. ‘Exhausted and mercifully sleeping upstairs. Please, come inside,’ Aleda added. ‘You look travel-weary, my dear. Let us organise some refreshment for you.’

Crisp orders were given and before Elspyth knew it she was luxuriating in a bath with scented oils. It felt like a healing, an opportunity to clean away the grime but also to cleanse her wrecked emotions and focus her thoughts. On the road, fatigue and hunger had sharpened her sense of rage at all that had happened to her and those she liked and indeed loved. Now, immersed in the fragrant water in the comfortable surrounds of a beautiful chamber, she felt some of that anger float away.

Despite the dozens of questions she sensed they wanted to ask, the duke and his family were extremely gracious to allow her this comfort time as soon as she arrived. In truth, it was the duchess who would not hear of any discussion until Elspyth had enjoyed the opportunity to bathe and feel like a woman again. She liked Aleda very much, even though she hardly knew her, and smiled now, recalling the glare the duchess had given her men when they had tried to interrogate her as soon as she stepped into the house and accepted a cool refreshing drink.

There was a soft knock at the door. Aleda entered. ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, my dear?’

‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ Elspyth said. ‘I have never felt more spoiled.’

The older woman gave a sad smile. ‘You’ve probably never felt more tired or tested either,’ she said softly, setting down a lamp to brighten the rapidly darkening chamber.

Elspyth nodded, felt the tears burning. ‘It hasn’t been easy.’

‘I gathered as much and I apologise now for my husband’s gruff manner. He is suffering, you know… we all are.’ She snapped herself from her bleak tone. ‘Will you be up to talking with us later?’

‘Of course, my lady. It is why I’ve travelled this far.’

‘Good girl. I shall make arrangements for dinner. Perhaps you could rest now for a while? Ylena, as I mentioned, has been forced to sleep, but she should be up and around shortly. You’ll like her. We all do.’

Elspyth saw the duchess grit her teeth to stop the emotion flowing over.

‘How is she coping?’

‘She’s rather amazing to tell the truth. I can tell she’s deeply fearful of Celimus and which of his killers might be tracking her. But she’s a Thirsk and that family’s blood runs thick with courage.’

Elspyth smiled. ‘I know what you mean. If she’s anything like her brother, then she’ll be looking to make Celimus pay.’

Aleda frowned. ‘You speak of Wyl as though he lives. You do know what happened to him, don’t you?’ she offered hesitantly.

Elspyth felt trapped. She nodded for want of how to answer the duchess without lying. She changed the subject quickly. ‘I am so sorry about Alyd, duchess.’ She did not know what else to say; even the little she had said was hollow comfort.

The duchess forced a shaky smile. ‘I can’t bear to think on it just yet.’ She rose and went to the door. ‘Rest, my dear. We shall see you later. And you must call me Aleda, please.’

Later came all too soon for Elspyth but she felt a lot stronger for the peace and quiet she had enjoyed in a soft bed from where she could gaze out the window to the heather drifts on the surrounding hills. Aleda had arranged for clothes and other toiletry requisites to be brought to her, and for the first time in a very long time Elspyth sensed her old resilient self was in command again.

The three older members of the family were gathered in the reception room. A fire added some much-needed cheer; near to it sat a novice monk named Pil. She learned through Crys, who showed a new appreciation for their freshly bathed and rested guest, that it was Pil who had been Ylena’s companion on her journey north.

‘And what will you do now, Pil?’ Elspyth asked, kindness in her voice as she recognised a fellow sufferer unwittingly trapped in this strange web created by the witch, Myrren. She shuddered inwardly at the anticipation of having to say more about Wyl Thirsk’s strange life.

The young monk shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I could not think beyond bringing the Lady Ylena to Felrawthy. I should like to return to my Order, but there is nothing at Rittylworth to return to,’ he said, his sadness evident.

Elspyth nodded, knowing all too well about the state of Rittylworth. She took the proffered goblet of wine from Crys and smiled at him before turning back to the novice.

‘Pil, I hope it’s not out of place for me to mention this, but I met a wonderful man on my way here. A monk, like yourself. He travels, spreading the word and doing the work of Shar as best he can from town to village, county to duchy. It was his kindness that saw me reach Tenterdyn as swiftly as I did. I have promised to return the donkey he lent me — perhaps you might take the beast into Brynt where Brother Lewk is staying for a few days? You may find that the two of you have something in common.’

Pil’s eyes shone as he understood her meaning instantly. ‘Would he allow it?’

She grinned at his pleasure. ‘You mean for you to accompany him in his work?’ He nodded. ‘Why should he refuse you, Pil? He’s not a young man, I might add, but he is learned and wise. I suspect both of you could do far worse for a travelling companion.’

The young man beamed. Having viewed the smouldering remains of Rittylworth she imagined he had not had much to be bright about lately. ‘Oh, I shall definitely seek him out, Elspyth. I do thank you.’

Elspyth enjoyed the warmth it gave her heart to be able to help someone with a few simple words. She sipped her wine and felt a new sort of warmth slip down her throat. Raising her glass to Crys, she saw his eyes sparkle at her over his own glass and realised he was flirting with her. She hurriedly looked aside. If the younger brother was anything like him, she could see why Ylena had been in such a rush to marry him. As she was thinking this, she noticed all those about her suddenly stiffen. She followed their gaze to the doorway where a glorious young woman stood.

‘Ah, Ylena, my dear,’ said the duchess. She moved elegantly across the room and, putting an arm around her guest’s shoulders, guided her in. ‘We want you to meet someone … a friend. This is Elspyth. She was a companion of your brother and has travelled a long way to meet you.’

Ylena’s gaze settled on Elspyth who felt suddenly plain and awkward amongst such noble company. Ylena was a rare beauty and not at all what she had expected. Wyl had certainly mentioned his sister’s prettiness but this poised young woman was exceptional.

‘How good of you to come all this way,’ Ylena said and bowed to Elspyth.

‘My lady.’ Elspyth followed suit, not quite so elegantly, feeling the relief of knowing she had kept her promise and found Ylena. ‘I am so glad you are safe. Wyl sent me to ensure that you reached Felrawthy.’

Ylena’s brow creased with a frown. ‘When did he do this?’

Elspyth took a deep breath. Ylena’s simple question had cut through all the hesitant politeness and niceties. The time had arrived: she must tell them Wyl’s story. Wyl had asked her to keep his secret from Ylena, but Elspyth had decided it was wrong to do so, that his sister needed to hear the truth.

She gathered everyone’s attention by her grave look. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I have a long story to tell you all — and not an easy one. It will shock and perhaps even frighten you, but I must share it so you will understand my reason for being amongst you and why Ylena must remain under your protection.’

She watched them cast alarmed glances to one another, and then the duke nodded. The servant topped up the wine glasses and was then asked to leave.

Pil cleared his throat. ‘Should I remain for this?’ he asked, uncertain of his place.

‘Not if you are horrified by the notion of magic,’ Elspyth said cryptically, and began the long story from the moment a young soldier, a General in fact, stepped into a seer’s tent one night with his friend, Alyd Donal of Felrawthy.

The duke rose imperiously. ‘You expect us to believe that Wyl Thirsk was killed by magic?’ he blustered.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ Elspyth said calmly. ‘Perhaps I haven’t explained it well. Wyl Thirsk was struck down by a man called Romen Koreldy, who —’

‘Yes, yes! Whom Thirsk apparently became — I hear quite well,’ the duke retorted, angry and disturbed by this stranger’s news.

Elspyth opened her mouth to reply and closed it again. A brittle retort would not aid understanding here.

‘Father, please!’ Crys said from the fireplace.

‘Jeryb…’ It was Aleda’s placating tone. ‘I cannot imagine this young woman has trekked from Deakyn to Felrawthy in order to make a jest at your expense.’

The duke muttered something under his breath.

Pil’s complexion had paled. ‘This is mystifying,’ he admitted.

‘Yes, it is,’ Elspyth replied softly, eyeing each in turn. ‘It is, however, the truth.’

Her gaze came to rest on Ylena, who, so far, had made no comment regarding her brother. Now she did. ‘My brother is alive?’ Everyone could hear the muted shock in her voice.

Elspyth’s heart was pounding; she suddenly wondered if it had been a good idea to contradict Wyl’s instructions. She nodded slowly.

‘And you say your aunt saw this… this affliction in him?’

Elspyth nodded again. ‘She is a seer. She called it the Quickening,’ she said, risking further rebuke from Jeryb. But none was forthcoming.

Ylena looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘Do you know, I can remember the night you speak of. It was after the tournament… the day following my marriage with Alyd.’ Her listeners tensed at the mention of Alyd’s name but Ylena’s voice was steady. Aleda was proud to see this young woman so in control of her emotions. She alone knew how much her son had loved Ylena, having read his gushing letters many times. He had loved her since they had first met, when he was still a youth and she a child. And Alyd had impressed upon his parents how devoted she was to him. He had plans to set up their estate nearby and had joked that the fine tradition of Thirsks to the south and Donals to the north would continue as Ylena produced more fine sons for Felrawthy. That would not happen now — not through Alyd and Ylena anyway, Aleda thought, sorrow knifing through her again. She returned her mind to Ylena’s voice.

‘They went into Sideshow Alley. Young men, letting off steam, celebrating. Alyd was drunk.’ At this she laughed bitterly. ‘Poor fool — I believe he was more intoxicated with life than ale. Wyl brought him back to my chambers and, after settling my brand new husband, we talked late into the night. My brother told me what had occurred in the tent that night. If I recall correctly,’ she screwed her face in thought, ‘the seer’s name was Widow Ilyk.’

Elspyth nodded so that everyone could see their two stories matched.

Ylena continued. ‘Wyl was disturbed, very unsettled by what she had said. Neither of us had forgotten the episode with Myrren,’ she explained. ‘Although I was not present, I heard of it from Gueryn — that’s our guardian, the man you mentioned earlier. He told me that Wyl’s eyes had changed colour. It had frightened him because it smacked of things magical and sinister, but he forgot about it eventually and frankly so had I until this moment.’

The silence after she had finished was heavy.

Crys, gazing somewhat helplessly towards Ylena, broke it. ‘And this Romen Koreldy is now…?’

‘Dead! And dear Wyl with him,’ Elspyth answered with feeling. ‘A woman, apparently, a hired killer. Goes by the name of Hildyth, although I suspect it’s a false one. I have her description.’

‘Then detail it and we shall have it circulated,’ said Crys, keen to show his determination to help Thirsk’s sister. ‘All of Felrawthy’s loyal should be on alert. We don’t know who hired her or if she might strike again.’

‘Oh, I think we can safely guess who hired her.’ Aleda’s tone was acid. Her glance met Ylena’s; they both knew who was responsible for killing the man they loved.

Elspyth obliged. ‘She is described as not beautiful but an intensely striking woman. Tall with auburn hair and feline eyes apparently.’

‘Sounds hard to miss,’ Crys commented to no one in particular.

‘Koreldy is dead?’ Ylena suddenly blurted. ‘But he saved my life.’

Elspyth turned sadly towards her and once again took her hands. ‘Wyl saved your life, Ylena. He was Romen.’

Ylena’s eyes filled with tears and no one could blame her. Everyone’s heart went out to this courageous woman who was bearing up under so much terror in her young life. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered.

‘Brother Jakub said there was something different about Romen this time,’ Pil said, eyes shining with awe. ‘I noticed it too. If it weren’t for the idea of magic, Elspyth, I’d know you were talking truth.’

‘I am. You all have to trust me now. Wyl, moving in Romen’s body, escaped with me from Cailech’s dungeon. It was during our journey through the Razors that he admitted all of this. It was no jest. He spoke like a man beaten.’

The duke looked sharply at Elspyth. ‘Wait a minute. What are you talking about, escaping from Cailech? Do you mean the King of the Mountain Kingdom!’

‘Yes, my lord. I told you that none of this would be easy to hear. I understand how much of a shock it is. I will explain everything, but it means nothing now that Wyl is dead. Romen is no more.’

‘Then we have an axe to grind with both King Celimus and now this Hildyth,’ Ylena said angrily. No one in that room denied her words.

Aleda took a breath. ‘I think we should eat now, and we’ll hear more of what Elspyth has to tell us. Come, Ylena, dear. You look pale, child.’

As the two women left the room, Crys shook his head. ‘She is Alyd’s widow,’ he said, hoping his interest in Ylena did not show. ‘We shall look after her now, Elspyth,’ he reassured. ‘What about you?’

She sighed. ‘Oh, I think now that I’ve fulfilled my promise to Wyl to see his sister to safety, I shall travel home.’

‘To Yentro?’ he qualified.

She nodded. No one needed to know her intentions from there on. Too many would try and talk her out of it. As it was, she had kept much of the full story to herself. There was little point in relating much more of the strange events for the duke was already sceptical. Crys might be persuaded, but he was anxious to avenge his brother. He would no doubt soon urge his father to ride on Pearlis with their men.

‘My lord,’ she said, addressing the duke.

The gaze levelled at her was direct and bright. ‘Yes?’

‘Wyl sent this.’ She hesitated momentarily before handing the duke the crushed letter she had dug from her pocket.

He took it. Both she and Crys waited in suspense while he broke the seal and held the parchment to the candlelight to read it more easily.

‘Father?’ Crys ventured.

The duke looked contemplative. ‘He confirms the death of Alyd but speaks of none of this magic. He signs off as Thirsk and asks that we don’t rush into revenge. He wants us to hold until he comes. But he’s dead — or this Romen fellow is. You told us yourself.’ The duke turned on Elspyth.

‘But I heard that news from strangers. We can’t be absolutely sure it is reliable information. I would urge you to wait.’

‘For what?’ he asked, his voice struggling against his own emotion. ‘My son has been murdered. Do not ask me to stand by and not take action.’

Elspyth held up her hands in a warding motion against his anger. It was a gesture loaded with sorrow to echo his own grief. ‘I have passed on Wyl’s caution, my lord. It is not my place to suggest anything further.’

He grunted. Crys noted her glance of irritation with a shrug of apology. But none was required. Elspyth, given the chance, would suggest Felrawthy storm Pearlis this very night, if it were possible. She had good reason to hate Celimus herself and could think of nothing better than riding alongside this powerful duke and the loyal men he could muster at a single request to overthrow a hated sovereign. She did not begrudge Jeryb his anger.

Crys did, however. Rage helped nothing, particularly levelled against this plucky woman who had suffered plenty. That said, he knew how deeply the news of Alyd’s death had cut his father. ‘Mother is waiting,’ he said diplomatically.

Elspyth accepted his gracious release and left the duke to brood alone on the letter from a dead man.

TWENTY-TWO

THE FAMILY AND THEIR guests shared a meal during which Elspyth recounted her story of incarceration in and then escape from Cailech’s fortress. The tale was accompanied by much muttering and shaking of his head by the duke. Only Ylena’s eyes shone — Elspyth guessed this was with pride for Gueryn’s steadfastness and ultimate sacrifice, but especially for Wyl. She did not enlighten them about her feelings towards Lothryn; that was her secret and of no consequence to anyone in the room.

The duchess had suggested the food be kept simple that night. No one’s appetite was keen after news of Alyd’s death, or learning that Wyl had lived but then died in Romen’s body. Duke Jeryb would not be drawn on his plans, not even by his patient wife. Inevitably a bleakness settled once again across the household, sucking Elspyth into its maw as well, driving the conversation towards the inconsequential and ultimately to quiet.

It was no wonder then that when the sound of horses’ hooves echoed through the still night the men leapt to their feet. Jeryb silenced the alarmed women and motioned for Crys to find out from the duty guards who now had arrived at Tenterdyn. The Donal men drew their swords — just in case — and Aleda was heard to mutter to her husband that they should have taken the precaution of raising more men at arms when Ylena first arrived.

They waited, the twins watching through the window as their elder brother crossed the main courtyard with long strides. His path was lit by torches. Earlier the duchess had considered it a shame that Tenterdyn’s gates should be locked for the first time in the family’s history, but now she thanked Shar’s wisdom for suggesting to her husband that he do just that.

‘He’s coming back,’ one of the boys said over his shoulder. It seemed that everyone held their breath.

Crys finally re-entered the chamber, a blast of cool air whirling about him. He appeared startled. His attention was riveted on Elspyth. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but I think the Hildyth you spoke of is at the gate literally begging to be admitted.’

Elspyth could see he was not making a jest.

Crys qualified his claim. ‘Shoulder-length golden-brown hair. Tall. Dressed in mannish style. Eyes unmistakably like a cat. It’s her all right.’

Elspyth shuddered. She was not the only one to do so. Ylena fairly blazed with a still, silent anger.

‘Is she alone?’ the duke demanded.

‘No, sir,’ his son replied. ‘She is accompanied by a big man, just short of a giant he looks. He goes by the name of Aremys Farrow.’

‘And their reason for coming here?’ Aleda asked, her thoughts fleeing to the young woman under threat.

‘She says she wants to see Ylena.’

‘Of course she does!’ Elspyth said, heart pounding. ‘She’ll have orders to kill her too! Are we safe? Are there enough guards?’

‘No one can enter Tenterdyn, child, without my permission. We are safe and well guarded,’ the duke replied with calm. ‘My love,’ he said, looking towards his wife, ‘I did take the precaution you spoke of. We have twenty men riding towards us now.’

Aleda felt no little relief. ‘What shall we do until then?’

‘I shall see her,’ Ylena said calmly.

Pil’s expression was a mask of terror. ‘Sir, I beg you,’ he whispered to the duke.

Jeryb came to his rescue in a deep and very firm tone. ‘No, Ylena, you will do no such thing. You came here seeking my protection and I am compelled to provide it, not only because of who you married, but because of whose daughter you are. You will do as I say. We need cool heads now. I shall speak with these people myself,’ the duke assured her.

‘Come, boys,’ he said and his three sons fell into step with the man they worshipped, particularly on occasions such as this when he commanded such respect.

‘Be careful, husband,’ the duchess called after him but there was no response.

The women waited, fidgeting at the window. Pil stood with them and they watched the four remaining men of Felrawthy cross the courtyard with purpose. Aleda was relieved to see her husband lead the boys up into the small tower of the gatehouse.

‘Ah, good. He is being careful.’

‘Your husband would not risk any of them.’ Pil knew he was reassuring himself; he felt more disturbed than anyone at this turn of events.

There was a protracted wait before they saw the four emerge again from the tower. The duke must have given an order, for the two younger lads hurried to lift the heavy timbers that barred the gate.

‘What is he doing?’ Elspyth cried.

‘Give me a sword!’ Ylena cried in her terror. She looked around for a weapon and grabbed a carving knife from the table. She stepped towards the door and hid behind it.

‘Shar preserve us!’ Pil swore, as they watched the heavy gates being swung back.

‘Wait,’ Aleda cautioned, fighting back her own fears. ‘Jeryb must have learned something. He would not permit them otherwise.’

Twilight had given way to full nightfall and they watched by torchlight as a giant of a man strode into the courtyard. In his wake walked another: man or woman they could not tell right now, but this person was smaller, leaner. Nevertheless the stride was purposeful. This must be the cat-eyed woman of whom Crys spoke. Their horses walked behind and Aleda watched, stunned, as the second figure clasped her husband’s hand.

However, she calmed her companions with a look that implied they must trust Jeryb. She nodded encouragingly to Elspyth behind her, who was clearly fretting, but Ylena had disappeared in terror behind the door, unable to see Jeryb’s cordiality toward the strangers. They heard voices talking over each other as new guests entered the house. The duchess looked towards the door again at the sound of her husband’s tread.

‘Aleda,’ he said, entering and shaking his head. ‘I have the most curious news.’

He could share nothing further as a tall, rather striking woman stepped into the chamber and took off her hat. Auburn hair tumbled to her shoulders.

‘Elspyth!’ Wyl cried and strode towards his shocked, confused friend. ‘It’s me!’ he laughed.

From behind the door Ylena leaped towards the woman, one intention on her mind: to kill the person who had murdered Koreldy and thereby her brother Wyl also. All she saw in her rage was the wide mouth and feline eyes sparkling.

‘Ylena, no!’ Elspyth screamed and then there was a riot of movement. Aremys launched himself towards Wyl and even the duke put his arm out to take the blow. All to no avail. Ylena was slight but fast and she had been raised in a warrior family. Although her life at Stoneheart under Magnus’s rule had been one of pleasure and indulgence, she had never forgotten the lessons Wyl had taught her as children together in Argorn. She saw them all moving towards her, avoided their reaching arms and struck.

‘Murderer!’ she shrieked and threw herself forwards with the full force her body could inflict, punching the knife into the neck of the smiling assassin.

‘Oh, my darling sister, what have you done?’ the woman cried, clutching at her neck from which blood was spraying. Ylena heard the screams and cries of dismay around her but felt only triumph as she looked into the shocked eyes of the dying woman.

Elspyth caught the body as it fell and was instantly drenched in blood; in fact the whole room seemed splattered with it. Crys and Daryn grabbed Ylena’s arms but she had tossed the knife aside and crumpled to the ground, her breath coming in deep gasps. She was determined to watch the light die in the woman’s hated brown eyes.

Except it did not.

With horror, Elspyth, holding Faryl’s head on her lap, saw the eyes flash to an ill-matched sky grey and deep greenish brown. Beautiful hues individually; shocking as a pair. And then she felt the woman’s body stiffen in its final death throes, her spine arching impossibly. She guessed what was happening, could almost feel it herself with her sensitivity for magic. She wanted to scream.

Ylena did it for her. Huge, gut-wrenching shrieks escaped Alyd of Felrawthy’s wife and her body twisted on the floor. The spirit of her brother fought the transference with all he had, somehow hoping to save his beloved sister — but it was not enough. Myrren’s gift was too powerful.

Suddenly it was Wyl giving voice to Ylena’s deranged screams as he bellowed his rage at taking the life of his own sister. Crys and Daryn held on to the young woman. Confusion reigned. Jeryb was yelling orders whilst Aleda stared in horror at the brutal death scene, rivulets of Faryl’s blood coating her cheeks. Aremys had knelt in disbelief by his friend’s body.

‘Let her go!’ Elspyth shouted above the din. Crys looked even more confused at this order.

‘Leave her! It’s not Ylena any more!’ she screamed, tears streaming down her bloodstained face. ‘It’s Wyl!’

The brothers stood back, thunderstruck by her words.

Wyl writhed in agony, not from physical pain but from the greatest anguish he would ever feel. He had killed his sister, had taken the life of the very person he had strived so hard to protect. Swirling into her anger which only barely covered her intense fear, he glimpsed Ylena’s confusion, tasted her hollow triumph.

He threw his head back and screamed again. The sound chilled everyone to their very core. Wyl pushed away Elspyth’s outstretched hands and fled the house.

Once through the gates, he moved blindly — a demented female figure in a blood-spattered silk robe and soft slippers on her feet. Wyl hurled himself up a hill, seeking oblivion in the inky darkness, consumed by hatred and grief. His own wrath mixed with the well of despair Ylena had left for him. He cursed and raged for what seemed an endless time, until he realised his throat was raw. The sobs had ceased; all he could hear now was the haunting call of an owl and the furtive scratching of a mole.

His new body trembled. Wyl didn’t know if it was from shock or the cold night. He did not care. Nothing mattered any more. The last of the Thirsks had lost the fight. He wanted to die too, but it would have to be by his own hand. He could not risk another’s life.

‘I’m sorry,’ a voice said gently through the blackness. There was not even the faintest of moonlight this night. Heavy clouds scudded darkly across the heavens obliterating even the stars’ illumination. But the voice was known to him; the voice of a friend. ‘I just wasn’t quick enough,’ Aremys added, his words laden with regret. ‘I failed you and my promise.’

Apart from the involuntary trembling, Wyl could not move … did not want to move ever again. ‘She was so bright. Like one of Shar’s own stars. She deserved none of this,’ he croaked in his new, all-too-achingly familiar voice.

‘The innocent never do, Wyl. Yet they always seem to suffer.’

‘What was it?’

Aremys knew what he referred to. ‘A carving knife, for pity’s sake.’

‘A lucky thrust,’ he said ruefully.

‘But just as deadly as Faryl’s stiletto.’

There was a bitter laugh as Wyl accepted this notion. ‘What possessed her?’ he asked, voicing his private thoughts aloud. He required no answer but Aremys still replied.

‘Fear that Celimus’s assassin had come to kill her, just as she killed Romen.’

‘I shouldn’t have come. You were right — I should have left Ylena to you, while I went on to find Myrren’s mother. I should never have declared myself. How did they know of Faryl?’

‘Your friend, Elspyth — she heard of Romen’s death on her travels and that a woman of Faryl’s description was thought to be the killer. She pieced events together and then told the Donal family and Ylena. She blames herself for not considering Myrren’s gift might extend beyond the one transference.’

Again the harsh laugh. Wyl realised he had not sufficiently impressed upon Elspyth the need for secrecy. ‘It’s no one else’s fault,’ Wyl said softly. ‘The errors are all mine. I was reckless. I should have let you go in first, tell everyone what had occurred… prepare them.’

‘For whatever it’s worth, Wyl, I’m not sure anyone would have believed it.’

‘Elspyth would have. Ylena might have… given time.’

Wyl heard the big man shift, made out a bulky shadow near a small clump of slender trees.

‘You cannot undo what is done,’ Aremys offered, his voice as gentle as he could make it. He waited for an angry rebuke.

It came. ‘My sister is dead, Aremys!’ Wyl yelled. ‘And yet she lives. All of my family… dead. Alyd, Gueryn, Lothryn… even Koreldy — someone I liked — all dead. All because of me.’

The big man grabbed Wyl and pulled him to his feet. He had not counted on Ylena’s body being so light and she all but flew up into his arms. He set Wyl down again, knowing he was lucky he could not see the anger he was sure was blazing in her eyes.

Still he pursued it. ‘There is nothing you can change about what is done. Nothing! But you can track down this manwitch fellow and learn more about his daughter’s gift. Perhaps it can be reversed — perhaps it can be stopped?’

‘Will it ever stop?’ Wyl asked pleadingly in his sister’s voice.

‘I don’t know, my friend. But I make you this promise here and now: I will help you in any way I can. You must help yourself, though. None of us understands this magic in you. The only way forward is to discover its secrets. And the manwitch is the only lead you have right now. Go to him.’

‘Where do I look?’

‘Find the mother, as you had planned. Start there.’

They heard heavy footsteps and looked around to see the duke, breathing hard from the exertion of climbing the hill. A tiny lantern swung at his side.

‘Are you all right?’ he wheezed, knowing it was an absurd question under the circumstances. He raked a hand through his silvered hair. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re all worried about you. The shock of all that has happened, including this foul magic upon you, is taking its toll. What’s more, my good wife has taken charge of proceedings and she can be quite terrifying in full flight. This was my chance to escape.’

Wyl stepped forward and took the old man’s hand in the Legion’s clasp. ‘This is the hardest one, sir. Giving up my own body was a hundred times easier than taking this one.’

‘I am sorry, son. I… I really am at a loss for words. I must accept this tale because I trust that this is really you, but I understand none of it.’

Wyl shook his head. ‘I’ve had more time to get used to the curse.’

The duke sat heavily on a small mound. ‘Forgive me, this has been a trying couple of days.’

‘It is I who should seek your forgiveness,’ Wyl said, seating himself next to the duke. ‘I know your whole family is suffering, sir. Alyd was the best. His loss is a constant pain in my heart.’

The old man nodded in the dark. ‘We will grieve later, Wyl, for your sister and for my son. The King is my concern right now. May we speak freely?’

Wyl nodded. ‘Aremys is as much a part of this as I, sir.’

Aremys felt relieved to hear it and joined them, seating himself uncomfortably atop the heather.

‘Tell me everything,’ the duke commanded, ‘from the beginning.’

Later, seated at the scrubbed dining table, Wyl faced the rest of the family and their guests. Still shocked, their faces were devoid of expression. Elspyth was trembling. She would not permit Wyl to touch her but her hands instinctively flew to her mouth when she saw him, her eyes betraying all the emotion of these days past and the recognition that Wyl had survived once again. She began to weep and the sound quickly turned to heartfelt sobs, her small frame lurching with each one.

There was a thick silence in the room as everyone felt her grief. Crys would have liked to put his arms around her, but it was Wyl who enclosed Elspyth in an embrace, holding her tight and kissing her hair.

‘It’s all right, Elspyth,’ he said soothingly in Ylena’s voice. ‘I’ll explain everything.’

Aremys bowed in awkward silence to the duchess; she smiled just as awkwardly back. It was the most either could do without formal introduction. He moved to stand beside Pil. ‘I’m Aremys,’ he whispered for want of anything better to say into the uncomfortable atmosphere.

‘Pil,’ came the reply. ‘I travelled with…’ He hesitated, not sure if he could still call her Ylena.

‘With the sister?’

Pil nodded, too distressed to say any more.

‘I’ll brew some tea,’ Aleda said. ‘It’s good for shock,’ but only got as far as the hearth.

Elspyth finally pulled away to look upon the woman holding her. ‘Is it really you? It happened again?’ she asked, wanting to cry more.

He nodded. ‘Faryl, or Hildyth as you seem to know her, killed Romen as instructed. Little did she know he was cursed.’

‘I saw it with my own eyes and yet I don’t want to believe it. Forgive me, but I must insist you prove who you are,’ Elspyth said, suddenly cautious.

‘He already has, my girl,’ the duke said. ‘Only a Thirsk would know what he told me at the gatehouse and then on the hill.’ He scratched his head. ‘I think what we all need is not tea but a sherlac, my dear,’ he said to his wife. ‘This is all very confusing and too wild for my old mind.’

The duchess smiled indulgently at the man she loved. She felt she could never be happy again, but in looking at him she decided that perhaps love alone would get her through this nightmare of death, deception and magic.

Wyl looked at Elspyth. ‘No, you’re quite right. What can I tell that only Wyl Thirsk could know?’

She thought a moment. ‘When we escaped from the mountains…’ She had meant to go on but a smile crossed Ylena’s face and the soft voice took over.

‘…we had no money. Or so I thought,’ Wyl continued. ‘But you had a purse which you kept beneath your skirts. We stayed at the Penny Whistle in Deakyn and you bought me a horse with all that was left of your money. I left you to somehow make your way to Rittylworth, your heart bursting with grief for a good man, a brave man, we had to leave behind. I am so, so sorry.’

Her smile of elation dissolved to tears. ‘Oh, Wyl — so much to tell.’

Aleda decided it was time to take hold of the emotionally charged situation and spoke to the woman who, a short time before, had been her son’s widow, but now it seemed was someone else. ‘You are most welcome again… er, Wyl Thirsk. I hardly understand any of this. It is too horrific to contemplate, but…’

Wyl bowed formally to the duchess, a woman he had admired since childhood. ‘I remember my father telling me how generous you were to my mother when they were first married, my lady. He never forgot how you helped her choose a gown for a summer ball when she was feeling especially young and daunted having married the man our King called his closest friend. She knew how the Queen laughed at her but you reminded her that she was the reason why Fergys Thirsk never lost a battle. You told her, my lady, that he could not bear the thought of not coming home to the most beautiful and cherished woman in the world.’

Wyl cleared his throat of the sorrow in his voice. ‘I wish we could have met in less confusing circumstances, my lady, so I could thank you for your kindness.’

Now it was Aleda’s turn to feel betrayed by her eyes. She returned a gracious curtsy. ‘I would like to have met you as yourself, Wyl Thirsk. Now, I think I need to lie down a time, to think quietly and grasp that this is possible.’ She thought she may weep openly at her next thought, but voiced it anyway. ‘Our son Alyd worshipped you.’

‘He was the best friend anyone could ever have, my lady. I am so much less for losing him,’ Wyl replied, softly. ‘I shall avenge his death,’ he added even more softly, but the coldness in his voice left no one in any doubt.

TWENTY-THREE

BEFORE TAKING TO HER own bed, Aleda insisted on making her guests comfortable. Wyl’s sister’s body climbed back into the bed she had left just hours earlier, but it was Wyl not Ylena who agreed to swallow the proffered cup of warmed, sweetened milk.

‘What have you put in this?’

‘Something to help you sleep,’ Aleda said kindly, fluffing the coverlet about him.

It felt similar to how his own mother used to tuck him in at night. ‘I wish I could wake up and discover it’s all been a nightmare and everything is as it used to be,’ he admitted.

She nodded. ‘So do I.’

He knew she spoke of her adored son. Wyl took her hand. ‘I am sorry I could not save him.’

Aleda’s eyes watered but she did not give into the sorrow — not yet. ‘He worshipped both you and Ylena. I know his years at Stoneheart were happy because of the Thirsks and I thank you for that. Listen to me, Wyl,’ — he noticed she did not hesitate to call him by his real name and he loved her for it — ‘we cannot bring them back with our tears, but we can make ourselves worthy of them by avenging their innocent deaths. You may blame this Myrren woman for your despair, but there is one true villain here.’ She jabbed her finger in the air.

‘Celimus,’ he breathed drowsily, beginning to feel the effects of Aleda’s drug.

‘Let us never forget it,’ she said.

‘I will kill him, my lady.’ His words in Ylena’s voice were as cold as the snow that fell on the moors in winter.

‘And may you feel the weight of my hand behind the blade you wield — and Alyd’s, and Ylena’s, and all those other people you have spoken of… even that woman, Faryl.’

It was Wyl’s turn to feel his eyes brim. Aleda was well aware it was for Ylena Thirsk that these tears welled.

‘She was a brave young woman, son. I am not sure she would ever have come back to being the sweet innocent you remember. She had been through so much and that had drawn out a strength in her that might have surprised you. Despite her fear she showed great courage in escaping Rittylworth and getting herself here on foot. She was every bit a Thirsk and a sister to be proud of. I shall mourn her as the daughter I always wanted. Even in the short time we knew each other, we shared enough to form a special bond.’

Wyl did not want to cry. He looked away. ‘Do you believe in life after death, my lady?’

She smiled bravely. ‘I do. And they are together now, Wyl, in Shar’s kingdom. And we shall continue the fight on their behalf.’

‘Thank you for all your kindness,’ he said, slipping away towards sleep. ‘What about Faryl’s body?’ he murmured.

‘We will take care of it,’ she assured. ‘Dream peacefully, Wyl Thirsk,’ she added and kissed him softly.

Wyl’s dreams were anything but peaceful.

He saw a barn. Its doors were closed. From behind them came the fearful noise of a man screaming. His demented shrieks sounded as though they were filled with gut-wrenching pain.

Then the thought Help me came crashing into Wyl’s mind.

Wyl did not know how to cast a message back. He tried, begging the man to tell him who he was, where he was. But nothing seemed to get through. The terrible wail continued and the more Wyl tried to escape it, the louder it became until it filled every recess of his head, every ounce of his being.

He ran — or thought he did — but it followed. When he stopped and tried to face it, he found he had run nowhere but was still looking at the closed barn. He realised now that dark magic lay behind those barred doors.

A new voice urged at him. It was mellow, kind, and seemed to be coming from far away. Turn towards me, son.

I can’t, Wyl thought, straining against the first man’s screams in his mind.

Be strong. Turn away from it and look towards me.

It took all of his will and courage, but as soon as he tore his eyes away from the barn doors the shrieking ceased.

He felt his body go limp with relief, realised he was breathing hard. Who are you?

I am he whom you seek, the voice said, gently.

Myrren’s father?

Yes.

Where are you?

Come to me.

How? I don’t know where you are.

You will find me. There was a pause. He heard the man mutter something unintelligible, then: I am where no one else dares go.

Why can’t you just tell me?

Trust the dog, he said, his voice fading.

Come back! Wyl cried but the speaker had gone. Wyl had wanted to ask who had been screaming but it was too late. He had not even asked Myrren’s father for his name.

His dreams continued. A new vision swirled before him. He saw Valentyna this time. She was approaching him and his heart leapt. She looked as exquisite as ever in a blood-red gown and yet her expression was haunted. He tried to smile, wanted to reach out his hands towards her, but he could not.

Forgive me, she whispered and then he screamed.

Wyl woke with a start, his mind blank. He could not remember what had frightened him. His nightgown was damp and his eyelids were sticky. He pulled his legs from under the sheets and felt the touch of the rug beneath his feet — his shapely feet. The night’s events came back. He was Ylena. He felt a wave of dizziness and disappointment that the truth had not been a nightmare he could escape from. He was living the nightmare.

Shivering, he moved unsteadily towards the basin of water on the dresser and splashed his face, taking care to gently rub his eyes. The feel of Ylena’s face beneath his fingertips was so different to Faryl’s. Her cheekbones were rounder, her forehead narrower and her hair was long and golden. Wyl moved a nearby burning candle to the mirror then stared at the illuminated reflection. He noticed how similar her mouth was to his own. He could not understand how he had missed this previously. It reassured him.

‘I failed you,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me.’ The echo of the words from the dream made him now recall it. Who had been seeking absolution in that vision? He could not recall now. He thought it might have been a woman… perhaps Ylena.

The face looking back at him was sad but beautiful despite the sorrow in it. She looked too thin, so wan. Much of what had made Ylena such a sparkling person, jubilant with the joy of life, had been buried. What remained was barely a shade of the young vibrant woman he had known.

He grasped within for anything of the Ylena he had so loved. It took some time and patience but he finally coaxed her essence free and felt it fill him with its warmth.

‘I knew you couldn’t leave me completely,’ he said to his reflection as memories came roaring back. Childhood memories and a great joy in life. Loving him, Magnus and Gueryn… and then later Alyd. Wyl cherished the moment of feeling her love for him, then locked away the swirling thoughts of Alyd. Those were private and belonged to Ylena alone.

Darker images of death and blood, burning and crucifixion coalesced now. He felt savaged by their intensity and gripped the dresser in anger at what his sister had witnessed and endured. Rittylworth was his final punishment, for he had brought destruction to the gentle community.

‘I shall kill the King for you alone, beloved,’ he whispered to what was left of Ylena. ‘Be at peace now.’

He felt stronger for saying his threat aloud. Tying his now grubby robe back around himself, feeling awkward in Ylena’s body, he let himself out of the bedroom and crept down the stone stairway.

In the scullery he found a familiar figure hunched over a steaming mug of strong dark tea.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he said, startling Aremys.

The big man looked up. ‘No, no chance of that. Want some?’ he asked, eyeing the new Wyl carefully.

‘I like honey in it,’ Wyl replied and, from somewhere, found a thin smile as he sat.

The mercenary nodded, glad for the activity. He moved behind Wyl’s new slim back to pour another mug.

‘Am I that hard to look upon, Aremys?’

‘No,’ his friend replied, not turning from his task, ‘I just liked Faryl. I have to get used to you as your sister.’ Now he did glance around and a look of sympathy passed between them.

‘How are the others taking it?’

Aremys shrugged. ‘The duchess is extraordinary. I gather they’ve only today learned about their son’s demise and here she is fretting over you. The duke is angry, confused. I don’t know about the lads.’

‘They do believe me though?’

‘Oh, no doubt,’ Aremys assured, handing Wyl a mug. ‘It takes some getting used to, Wyl.’

‘As if I didn’t know it,’ he shot back.

‘I mean, understand their position as they come to terms with it. Would you have believed this tale if it wasn’t happening to you?’

Wyl did not answer immediately. Then he rested his chin in the cup of his hand and shook his head slowly. ‘No,’ he answered, resigned. ‘So how will they?’

‘Well, your friend Elspyth believes, and the Mountain man, Lothryn, you said did. Fynch, the seer,’ he was holding fingers up in the air as he listed them. ‘And you convinced me and I’m a cynic, Wyl. All of us trust you.’

‘Why did you believe me?’ Wyl persisted.

‘Because of the knives — no one throws like Koreldy to my knowledge — and your strange behaviour towards the King. There were other things too…’ He shrugged and then grinned. ‘The mere fact that you could resist me confirmed you were a man.’ Wyl guffawed. As always Aremys’s timing for jest was perfect. ‘So you’ve just got to trust that they’ll believe you. You’ve already told them too many things that no one else but Wyl Thirsk could know.’

‘True,’ Wyl said, blowing on his tea to cool it.

‘I’m sorry it had to be her, Wyl,’ the big man finally found the courage to say.

‘Me too,’ and a glance to his friend said that he did not wish to talk about it any more.

They brooded over their drinks in a companionable silence both had learned to trust. The soft crackle and spit of the fire which Aremys had rekindled from the embers felt safe and comforting. Wyl warmed Ylena’s elegant fingers around the hot mug, fighting the revulsion he felt at seeing them.

‘What now?’ Aremys finally said.

‘Like you said, I must find Myrren’s father.’

Aremys sipped and nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking…’

‘Dangerous,’ Wyl commented and returned the relieved grin that played around his friend’s mouth. Perhaps they would survive this.

‘You cannot travel alone.’

‘Oh no, you don’t want to sleep with Ylena as well!’ he said in mock horror.

The bear-like man’s amusement rumbled deep in his throat. It was reassuring to hear mirth after so much ugliness. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no, of course, if you’re offering…’ He caught Wyl’s glare on Ylena’s lovely face. ‘I think you need a companion, is what I meant.’

‘You don’t think I can take care of myself in this guise?’

‘I know you can, but you will still be a target. If I were to travel with you, it would prevent the interest that might be levelled at a young noblewoman abroad alone.’

Wyl considered it. Aremys was right, and even though he had already made plans to begin his search alone he might well be vulnerable as Ylena. And in truth, he could use the quiet company of the big man.

‘I agree,’ he finally replied.

Aremys looked up in surprise from his tea. ‘What, not even going to fight me on it? Throw some knives at me or something?’

‘No. You’re definitely right. I don’t have time for the obstacle of unhealthy interest some might take.’

‘Well, that’s that then,’ Aremys growled, relieved. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I had a dream last night.’

‘Oh?’ his friend said, lifting an eyebrow.

‘A vision perhaps.’ Wyl sighed and pulled at his ear. Aremys had seen this identical, almost nervous habit when he was Faryl and assumed he may well have displayed the same habit as Koreldy since it was probably Wyl Thirsk’s trait. That felt reassuring for some reason.

‘There’s been too much talk of magic, I know, but this was real… It felt that way, at least.’

‘Tell me,’ Aremys said.

‘A voice — the manwitch — told me to go where no one else dares go.’

‘Well, that’s certainly specific. We’ll find him easily then.’

Wyl gave him a gentle glare. ‘It’s what I was told.’

‘All right, where could that be?’

‘Across the ocean?’ Wyl hazarded.

‘Which one?’

Wyl shrugged. ‘All right, the Razors. Most wouldn’t think to be heading into the mountains, especially not in this climate with war brewing.’

‘And it was definitely a man’s voice?’

Wyl nodded. ‘His accent didn’t suggest he was a northerner, if that’s what you’re getting around to. He sounded Morgravian if anything — like I used to. A southerner.’

‘For a Morgravian, Briavel would be somewhere not to trespass.’

‘Except there’s been trade between the realms for many years now.’ Wyl shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think it’s Briavel.’

Aremys stood and stretched. ‘Well, there’s always the Wild.’

‘The Wild? To the east of Briavel, you mean? There’s nothing there, is there?’

‘How do you know? None of us have visited.’

‘But isn’t it supposed to have some curse on it?’ Wyl added. ‘They say you can’t return from it.’

Aremys nodded slyly. ‘They say it’s enchanted. Sounds exactly like the sort of place cursed people would go.’

‘That’s not funny,’ Wyl bristled.

‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ his companion said evenly. ‘Sounds like a neat match to me though — an enchanted place where a manwitch might live.’

Wyl closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to find some sense of ease. ‘Well, I have no better idea.’

‘Then we’ll go take a look.’

‘How do we get there?’

‘You’re not going anywhere without me,’ Elspyth said from the doorway. She shrugged at them. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I heard voices.’ Then she hesitated, looking at Wyl, emotions marching across her face unconcealed.

Wyl walked around the scrubbed table and hugged his good friend. She wept a little but he had finished with tears; his eyes remained dry.

‘Don’t cry, Elspyth. We do them no good with tears.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘This is all my fault though. I hate myself. I should have stayed quiet, should have kept your secret —’

He hushed her mouth with his soft female hand. ‘Don’t.’

‘It’s just so much sadness rolling into one huge sorrow,’ she admitted.

He hugged her hard again, wanted her to accept his forgiveness. ‘Did anyone bother to introduce you to my friend Aremys, by the way? He knows everything.’

‘I’m sorry, Aremys, we met under difficult circumstances,’ she said, holding out her hand and remembering it covered with blood only hours earlier.

The big man took her small hand in his and squeezed gently. ‘I understand from Wyl how lucky he is to have you for a friend,’ he said, pleasing her with his gentle words, ‘even though you are a blabbermouth.’ A look of hurt crossed Elspyth’s face.

‘Take no notice,’ Wyl assured. ‘Aremys loves to tease.’

She narrowed her eyes towards the big man, saw the levity in his expression and accepted the jest. ‘May I have some of that?’ she said, nodding towards his tea.

‘Surely,’ Aremys said, smiling back to reassure her that he had not meant to hurt. He was glad to busy himself once again.

‘So where are you going now?’ Elspyth asked the angelic-looking woman before her, an accusing tone in her voice.

‘I have to find Myrren’s real father, Elspyth, before I can tackle anything. I have to know more about this magic within me.’

‘I understand,’ she replied tightly.

‘It does not change the oath I swore to you. I will return to the Razors and find him.’

‘He spoke to me, Wyl,’ she said, a tremor in her voice from remembering his anguish. ‘There was pain and darkness around him. He was frightened. There was someone else too but I couldn’t see him — or perhaps her.’ She shrugged. ‘There was magic somewhere, I’m sure of it.’

‘What did he say?’ Elspyth’s words had jogged Wyl’s own memory of the dark dream he had experienced during the night.

‘He called to me,’ she said, wistfully.

‘That’s all?’

She frowned in thought. ‘No. There was more. He said something like: Tell Romen I will wait. And then he added something strange, cryptic — I can’t fathom it.’

‘Go on,’ Wyl urged.

‘He said to tell you that he is no longer as you would expect.’ She watched Ylena’s face frown, which did nothing to detract from her prettiness.

‘That’s it?’ Wyl said.

‘Mmm,’ she nodded, smiling fleetingly in thanks to Aremys who set the tea down before her. ‘What could that mean?’

Wyl stood gracefully and began to pace. If the two others in the room had known Fergys Thirsk, they would have realised Wyl had caught his father’s habit of movement when in thought. ‘I have no idea, but strangely I too dreamed tonight… well, I think I did. You’ve just reminded me of it. I don’t know who spoke to me but whoever it was seemed to be in terrible pain, screaming for deliverance from it. A man.’

‘He’s torturing him,’ she said bleakly.

They both knew the torturer she referred to.

‘If he’s trying to reach us, then at least we know he’s alive,’ Wyl reassured.

Aremys joined them at the table. ‘Is this the Lothryn you have spoken of?’

They both nodded.

‘I have never given up on the hope that Cailech would keep him alive,’ Wyl said.

‘But you also believed torture would not be enough for Cailech — not his style, you said,’ Elspyth countered.

‘That’s true. The pain could be something else, of course.’

‘Like what?’ Aremys queried.

‘Magic,’ Elspyth murmured.

Wyl shot a glance towards her; he had not wanted to say it himself.

‘Why not?’ she said, angry now as she allowed the thought to take shape. ‘Cailech has that evil Rashlyn hovering around him. Isn’t he a practitioner of magic? Just looking at his wild appearance and mad eyes made me go cold.’

‘Amongst other nasty things, yes,’ Wyl admitted. He drained his mug. ‘I don’t want you rushing off into the Razors on your own, Elspyth. I know it’s crossed your mind,’ he added.

She blushed. ‘I cannot sit by and do nothing.’

‘Cailech will kill you. No parley, no niceties at all. Trust me on this.’

‘And you would know?’

Wyl nodded, wondering at the tension between them. It had felt different when he was Koreldy, more comfortable. Elspyth would probably have felt less awkward if he had changed again into a man rather than this fragile beauty who was his sister. ‘Yes, I do. Cailech is ruthless. He will have you killed on sight.’

‘So what makes you think you can get through his defences, Wyl Thirsk?’

‘Because I am no longer Romen Koreldy, that’s why. How intimidating do I look, Elspyth, with my long golden tresses, my silk gown and soft hands?’

Understanding dawned on her face and acceptance that she really had to stop seeing the woman and appreciate the man’s struggle inside. ‘Of course. He will not know you at all.’

‘It’s our only weapon. Be patient… trust Lothryn to hang on.’

Aleda swept into the kitchen. ‘I heard voices,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘No matter the hour, let’s get some food going. How are you, my dear?’ she added, looking in her kind way at Wyl.

‘Stronger, thank you,’ he admitted and she smiled back at him.

‘That’s the Thirsk in you, child. I told Jeryb you’d find your grit before morning.’

Wyl stood alone with the duke. Ylena’s femininity had been diluted with riding trews and her hair pulled back sternly into a single plait. Try though he might, he could not make her feel as masculine as Faryl. It was impossible to hide her ethereal beauty nor make her movements any less elegant. It pained him on a number of levels but he would just have to get used to being Ylena.

Aleda had given Wyl a purse — it was a small fortune. ‘Buy yourself some clothes and provisions. You must keep up the noble guise,’ she had said. ‘Forgive us all that has happened, Wyl. I feel somehow responsible.’

‘Don’t,’ he had assured, wanting to refuse the money. He knew he could visit any one of many hides he remembered from Faryl’s memories. However, he realised Aleda was trying to help in the only practical way she could right now and so he had accepted her gift with grace.

‘You have been a rock of strength, Aleda,’ he had said as he hugged her goodbye. ‘Thank you for believing in me amongst all this nonsensical magic.’

‘You are living proof of it, son. I shall struggle to make sense of it in weeks to come, I am sure. In the meantime, I trust you now to keep your promise and help us take revenge for Alyd and Ylena.’ These were her final words before she left him with her husband. No tears; Aleda was the bedrock of the family and she would not succumb to emotion when there was a fight to be fought.

‘Crys will see her safely to the border,’ the duke said now, nodding towards Elspyth who sat talking with Pil.

‘I know she will be safe once she crosses into Briavel,’ Wyl replied.

Crys strolled up. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take Elspyth all the way to Werryl?’ he offered.

Wyl shook his head. ‘No. Too many spies, Crys. Your family cannot risk being linked to Briavel openly. Just see her safely to the border. The letter I’ve given her will take care of the rest.’

Crys nodded. ‘Shar keep you safe.’

‘Perhaps we need a password… er, just in case the curse happens again,’ Jeryb suggested.

Wyl held the duke’s gaze. He was right of course. ‘What would suit you, sir?’

The tall man looked towards the sky in thought. ‘Carving knife — innocuous enough and I am sure none of us could forget that.’

‘I know I won’t, sir,’ Wyl said, eyes darkening at the memory.

The old man shook his head. ‘After all these years of fighting… now Felrawthy conspires with the enemy.’ His voice was thick.

‘Briavel is not the enemy, my lord,’ Wyl reassured. ‘Our own King is the enemy. Valentyna and Briavel are our only allies.’

‘Fergys Thirsk would turn in his tomb,’ the duke said, disgusted.

‘No, sir, he would not. My father would agree with our strategy.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’

‘As sure as I stand here.’ They both smiled wryly at the comment. ‘Everyone has agreed on the story then. Ylena was not here, and although Faryl visited she left immediately. It keeps Tenterdyn free of suspicion. In the meantime, you must not give Celimus any hint that you are no longer loyal to him. I know you are expecting your mustered men soon, and no doubt others from the border, but make an excuse if questions are asked. Whatever lies he tells you, sir, accept them for what they are. Show him nothing — no emotion. He will surely concoct some fabrication for the disappearance of your son.’

‘Why can’t I just kill him?’ The duke’s voice cracked with the emotion powering his question.

‘Because you or whoever you give the job to, sir, will never get out of Stoneheart alive. Legionnaires are sworn to die for their King… and they will. You and your family will be tracked down and slaughtered, and then he will go after your men. Please believe me when I say he is ruthless. You have no idea of his ambition, sir — you have been away from the capital for too long.’

‘Fighting the Crown’s battles!’ the duke growled but his voice had no bite to it.

Wyl continued. ‘He has amassed a private guard of mercenaries too — he is well protected. No, duke, trust my counsel that it is far better you play Celimus at his own game. I have much less to lose than you: leave the killing to me.’

‘So I must sit tight and not raise my hand.’

‘As we agreed this morning, sir. Assemble a guard around Tenterdyn by all means but keep it as innocent-looking as possible. Parley with the King. See what he has to say. And if you can infiltrate the Legion in the meantime and spread the word, all the better. Work out who is loyal to our cause. And, sir, beware of Cailech. He is unpredictable and far stronger than most of us have realised.’

‘You really believe he will raid Morgravia?’

‘Not yet. But he is capable of anything. Be warned: he is cunning and highly intelligent. He will not do anything obvious — perhaps he may not do anything at all — but you need to keep your men alert. In fact, you might use Cailech as your excuse for assembling men at Felrawthy. Celimus will agree with that.’

‘And I should offer my services to the King?’ Jeryb said as though tasting something bitter.

‘Reinforce your services to him. It will throw him off your scent, sir.’

The old man sighed, heavy with his troubles. ‘What happened to good old-fashioned war?’

Wyl extended his sister’s milky white hand. ‘We fight a different war now, sir. We do it with intrigue… and magic.’

Jeryb grimaced. ‘Shar’s guidance over you and your strange, impossible life, Wyl,’ the duke said. ‘I shall wait for word.’

‘Be strong, sir,’ Wyl said, feeling the old man’s need for revenge. ‘You shall hear from me.’

Wyl crossed the elegant courtyard with its large pots of winterberry bushes making bright splashes of colour against the deep-coloured stone. It reminded him of Stoneheart. He went to where Elspyth stood by her horse. The duke had provided all of his guests with good horses for their various journeys.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked as he drew close.

She nodded. ‘Angry.’

‘I will get word to you.’

‘You know I want to head back to Yentro.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I know you want to go straight into the Razors.’

She pursed her lips. ‘You don’t own me, Wyl. I shall do as I please if it comes to it. I feel sick over what’s happened to you, but you are going your own way — where you know you must. What about me?’

He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, Elspyth, you’re right. I don’t want to talk about last night again. I can’t fix what’s happened — not yet anyway — and I lay no blame. But I cannot lose you too. Don’t you see: this is about keeping you safe, not ignoring your needs.’

‘And Briavel is all you can offer?’

‘For now, yes. It’s important. Important for your safety and important for our cause. You want Celimus to pay — so do this. Go to Valentyna and live under her protection. I will come to you there and then we can work out what we’re going to do about Lothryn.’

Elspyth glared, knowing what he said made sense but hating him momentarily for being right and for caring about her. Too few people had cared for her as much as he did. ‘And I can tell the Queen nothing of you?’

‘Nothing! And you need to keep my secret this time. She won’t understand anyway. Just be her friend, if she permits it. You know what to say. You’ll be safe there, until I come for you.’

‘You will come?’ She took his arm to reinforce her query.

Wyl nodded, feeling Ylena’s plait bounce at his back. ‘I promise you. It seems I cannot die, no matter how hard I try,’ he said half jokingly, but there was too much grief in his tone for Elspyth to smile. ‘Not yet anyway,’ he added and squeezed her shoulder.

He looked now to Pil. ‘In all the whirl and drama of last night I did not get the chance to thank you for all you have done for our family.’

Pil regarded him shyly. ‘I wish I had done so much more, kept her safe.’

Wyl took the young novice’s hand. ‘You did plenty. I was the one who failed her, not you.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Pil admitted. ‘You were Koreldy when he came to Rittylworth?’ he asked, unable to let the topic rest.

‘I’m afraid so. Forgive me for the duplicity.’

Pil shook his head. ‘I thought he was different. I was much younger of course when he first came to us so I put it down to me being more grown-up, seeing him through adult eyes.’

‘I would appreciate it, Pil, if you would keep this to yourself.’

‘I think I’d be locked up as a halfwit if I told this tale,’ the novice admitted. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

Wyl changed the subject. ‘You are clear on the story we are all sticking to?’

Pil looked unhappy but nodded. ‘The woman, Faryl, visited but left soon after when she found Ylena had not been here.’

‘Good.’ Wyl could see the youngster was not comfortable with the falsehood and may fail to keep to the story. ‘We lie for good reason, Pil. And now you go to seek the monk in Brynt?’

‘To return his donkey, yes. His name is Brother Lewk. If you ever have need of my help, it is yours, although I don’t know how we will find one another.’

‘Who knows, our paths may yet cross again,’ Wyl said. ‘Be safe, Pil. May Shar’s light shine upon you always.’

The young novice paid his respects to the family and other guests, then climbed on to the patient beast and rode out of the gates.

Elspyth also prepared to leave. ‘So we must part again, Wyl,’ she said, determined not to show her fear or grief at the separation.

‘Once again I ask another journey of you, another favour,’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘Thank you for believing in me.’

She pulled out of his embrace to regard him in his new, far prettier body. ‘I am trusting you. Do not let me down.’

‘I won’t. Oh, we have a code by the way. It was the duke’s idea.’

Elspyth nodded. ‘I see, so we know it’s really you and don’t try to kill you should you approach us in the guise of our enemy.’

‘Precisely. The code is “carving knife”. I think the duke retains a sense of humour in spite of himself.’

Elspyth gave him a thin smile. ‘Take care, Wyl. I shall look after your Queen for you.’ She liked that her comment made him look sharply at her. His Queen. Even as a woman his care and love for Valentyna was written all over his face.

Aremys arrived. ‘We’d best be going,’ he said.

‘Where are you heading?’ Elspyth asked.

‘Where most do not dare to go, apparently,’ Aremys admitted, giving her a look which suggested he had no idea. He reached around her tiny frame and dared a hug. ‘Be safe, blabbermouth.’

They had decided to travel as the Lady Rachyl Farrow from Grenadyn and hope to Shar that King Celimus did no thorough investigation should the name ever bubble to the surface of his memory.

‘Farrow is your family name, right?’ Wyl asked as Aremys sipped a decent ale and he had to make do with a watery version. They had stopped at an inn in Brynt, as befitting a noble lady.

Aremys nodded. ‘At least I can give you all the background information you need.’

‘You’re sure Celimus would not remember?’

‘Our families go back, but he was young, as was I. You could simply be a baby sister.’

‘Born after your own true one, you mean?’

The big man sipped. ‘Or another one. Stop worrying, the Crown has had little to do with Grenadyn really. It’s just that our fathers fought together, got to know one another. To Celimus, Grenadyn is a backwater where they breed good horses — that’s about all he’ll know of it.’

‘So, do I look all right then?’ Wyl asked, straightening the bodice of the gown he’d changed into at the inn.

‘Every bit the noblewoman,’ Aremys said, looking at Wyl’s new clothes. ‘I think you should be married actually.’

‘I can’t wait to get out of these skirts and into my riding trousers tomorrow.’

‘Well, suffer now for all our sakes.’

‘What happened to Faryl’s body by the way?’

‘The boys buried it somewhere remote.’

‘Good, so if the King’s men come looking…’

‘They’ll find no trace and suspect she’s on her way to Briavel or wherever. Who cares?’

Wyl stared into his mug. ‘Pil might yet undo us.’

‘You think so?’

‘He is a man of Shar. The lie about Ylena and Faryl does not sit easily with him.’

‘I wonder how easily he’d sit in the King’s dungeon.’

Wyl grimaced. ‘No point worrying, I suppose. It’s out of our control now. I wonder why the manwitch wouldn’t tell me where we have to go.’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t,’ Aremys said.

Wyl frowned. ‘I don’t see why not, but now I recall, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with much information, not even his name. I’ve been thinking it has to be the Wild.’

‘That’s certainly a place where no one goes.’

‘Do you know much about it?’

Aremys sighed. ‘Not really. They say it’s haunted — alive in some way. You know how superstitious Morgravians and Briavellians have been in the past.’

‘Ah, the old stories. And you believe this?’

‘Enchanted is probably the better word.’

‘They say no one returns from it.’

‘I’ve heard that. I believe it could be true, don’t you?’

Wyl shook his head sadly. ‘Until I became Koreldy I would have scoffed at the notion. But I have to believe in magic now. I always thought the Wild was just a fable built around an uninhabitable wilderness.’

Aremys drained his cup and stretched. ‘If it was harmless, it would already be part of Briavel or similar. Whatever it is, it’s managed to keep all the hungry land ravagers at bay.’

‘There’s something else,’ Wyl said, draining his own cup more delicately.

‘Tell me.’

‘Knave.’

‘The dog you spoke of… so?’

‘Well, apparently he will find me, and guide us, I guess.’

‘Stranger and stranger,’ Aremys admitted, wiping his mouth dry of ale. ‘Do we just wait then?’

‘No, we keep moving. He’ll find us, I suspect.’

‘Can you trust Elspyth?’

‘Yes,’ Wyl said emphatically.

‘I didn’t mean it that way. I meant, will her love for this Lothryn get in the way?’

Wyl shook his head. ‘The worst of this is having to rely on others, Aremys. I am relying on Elspyth to get word to the Queen; and for the duke, in all of his pain and anger, to stay firm and hold the north, and act loyal to the King when all he wants to do is gallop with his army towards Pearlis; and I am relying on Valentyna to keep her nerve and not capitulate to Celimus, whilst hoping Cailech does nothing rash.’ He made a sound of agony.

‘Then don’t,’ the mercenary said, his gaze firm. ‘Rely on no one, Wyl. That’s my creed. You cannot orchestrate the lives of others like some sort of omnipotent being. Do what you must do and deal with the problems as they unfold. I don’t trust that Elspyth will be able to wait if you take too long; I don’t trust your Queen will be able to stave off Celimus for very much longer or that Cailech won’t take matters into his own hands. And who could blame Felrawthy for taking vengeance? All you can do for now is concentrate on one priority — you can’t be everywhere at once. You want answers to this curse of yours, then let us find those answers. Let us seek out this manwitch.’

‘Why are you doing this for me, Aremys?’

‘Because frankly, I have nothing better to do.’

TWENTY-FOUR

KING CAILECH TOOK THE baby in his arms. He felt a rush of such affection in his heart that his breath caught. He hushed the child’s soft whimpering, admiring his healthy long-limbed body. He had seen the child kick his legs furiously when happy or distressed and had laughed joyously at his son’s lusty cry. He would be a strong king one day, his father thought with pride.

Cailech stroked the child’s downy golden hair and smiled indulgently at the dimple in his cheek that marked him so clearly as the son of a king, for Cailech’s own dimple had been cherished when he himself was an infant. His mother had told him it was a sign that Haldor had blessed him and he would lead a special life.

‘Aydrech,’ he cooed. Cailech had never felt such intense love. This sense of ownership, this bonding with a helpless infant created from his own seed was so powerful it threatened to overcome him. ‘My son,’ he whispered and kissed the baby softly, his heart smitten. He knew in that instant of tenderness that he would never love anyone as much as Aydrech. His heir.

Voices pulled him from his adoration and he reluctantly handed the baby back to its wetnurse as the wild-looking Rashlyn approached.

‘Ready?’ the King asked.

The barshi simply nodded.

‘Bring the boy,’ Cailech ordered the woman and she fell in behind the two men.

They reached a dusty area surrounded by wooden palings known as the breaking ring. Cailech climbed the stairs to a raised platform. His son was carried up behind and promptly set to suckling contentedly at the woman’s concealed breast.

The King’s attention was diverted now; his eyes hungrily sought his prized new beast whose brilliantly shiny black coat twitched in the harsh sunlight. The wild stallion snorted, nostrils flaring in warning, and stamped its feet angrily.

‘He is magnificent,’ Cailech breathed, inspired at the sight. ‘Truly magnificent.’ It was far more than he had dared imagine.

A special horse-breaker, the best in the mountains, bowed. ‘Sire, would you like me to begin?’

‘No. He’s all mine,’ Cailech said, leaping down lightly from the platform and glancing towards Rashlyn who barely smiled.

‘As you wish,’ the horse-handler replied. ‘A word of warning, my lord,’ he risked, ‘this is a very aggressive beast. He will take some special handling.’

Cailech nodded and took the proffered gloves and rope. ‘We won’t be using the hobbling method, Maegryn.’

The man immediately looked worried. ‘Please, my lord King, it is all this one would understand.’ When he saw the immovable set of his leader’s jaw, he nodded. ‘At least allow me to take the first session.’

Cailech put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He towered over him. ‘Be easy. This one will not hurt me. And I do not wish to win him through pain. We will break him the old way — by trust. He and I must trust one another. He must know what it is to fear me but without pain. That is the greatest conquering of all, don’t you think?’

It made no sense to the man. ‘Sire, you —’

‘Hush, Maegryn. I know best,’ Cailech assured as he entered the breaking ring.

Onlookers gathered as word spread that the King was personally breaking in a new stallion, a fiery one. Cailech slapped the rope against his thigh and the horse glanced towards him with a wild and angry look in its dark eyes. It had been kept isolated for days and now it was outside in the fresh mountain air it was brimming with unspent energy and fury. The King could see the whites of the beast’s eyes — a sure sign that the creature was just short of demented at being penned in.

It snorted. Cailech knew this was a threat, knew he must answer it.

‘Hah!’ he yelled and slapped the rope again, making a loud crack against his soft leather riding trews.

The horse began to paw the ground. Another sign. Dangerous this time.

Maegryn tipped his head towards some helpers. They were ready to leap into the ring and distract the angry animal should it charge their King.

They watched Cailech stand to his full height and raise his chin high. He had inherited the talents of his father who had been a skilled breaker of horses. Those who understood the process knew that with this simple movement Cailech was throwing down the gauntlet to the horse, inviting it to test its nerve and resilience against him. This would be a fight of stamina and mental strength — male against male — the different species hardly mattered. The horse knew exactly what was being offered and knew only one of them could win leadership.

The King took a short aggressive step towards the stallion, holding the rope aloft. It held its ground but flinched momentarily, which to Maegryn’s experienced eye was an indication that it was unsure about this challenge. The beast would proceed with caution, he realised with relief.

Cailech whipped the rope outwards this time, towards the horse’s rump. Incensed, it began blowing fiercely through its nostrils and pawed the ground. Cailech shouted, distracting it with his voice and diverting its attention with the rope which licked at its back now.

The animal screamed, not from pain but anger. It moved towards the King — the last warning before it might decide to pummel him with its hooves. The other handlers tensed. One even raised a bow, its arrow tipped with the sap of the falava bush. A skilled shot in the rump would sedate the horse, although it would not act instantly. They would need to get the King out of that ring immediately if the scene turned ugly.

Once more Cailech stood his ground and repeated the process.

This time the horse reared. Although Cailech stepped back he yelled more loudly this time, whacking the animal hard with the rope. Stung, the beast backed off. Man and horse regarded each other. It was as if no one else was present. Cailech could hear nothing but the angry breathing of the beast. He slapped his thigh with the rope once more. The horse reluctantly began to move around the ring.

Those watching let out their collectively held breath. It was a start.

The breaking continued relentlessly over the next few days. Four suns later the stallion stood sweating and trembling from its exertions. The wildness was still in its eyes but now it respected the man who stood tall before it. He too was perspiring but his cold green gaze never left the horse’s majestic face.

Now, sire! Maegryn thought, filled with admiration for his King’s performance. And as if Cailech could hear his private thoughts, he watched him suddenly round his shoulders and body in a manner which, in the language of horses, conveyed safety and companionship. The stallion whinnied softly in answer. Until now Cailech had forced his domination and the horse had faced away from its adversary, preferring little or no eye contact. Now it turned directly towards him and eyed him. Its magnificent glare was still defiant, but its body language told Maegryn that the King was no longer rejected. In fact, he was accepted.

Another long day of this routine continued before finally the stallion, nicknamed Proud by the Mountain Dwellers who had watched the exciting drama unfold, lowered its defiant head in deference to its breaker, walked over to Cailech and nuzzled at his shoulder.

As soon as this happened, Cailech straightened. ‘Tie him to the snubbing post,’ he said, not prepared to lose the moment.

‘Perhaps we should wait, my lord,’ Maegryn ventured.

‘Now!’ Cailech replied. He left no room for argument.

Rashlyn approached the King as the men moved in cautiously to halter the horse. He handed Cailech a skin of water. ‘Well?’

‘Impressive.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now we make him fully trusting,’ Cailech said, taking a long swig and handing back the skin. ‘I shall be riding him by this afternoon,’ he said fiercely.

Rashlyn nodded, his sly grin evident beneath the flurry of hair.

‘Ready, my lord,’ Maegryn called.

Cailech stepped back to the black horse. It was blowing and trembling, angry and confused again, this time at being tied to the fence.

‘Put on the saddle,’ Cailech said.

This was easier said than achieved but the men working the horse were swift and experienced. After this was done, Cailech carefully approached the stallion which was still hitched to the post. He kept a continuous murmur of soothing words flowing towards the beast so it would feel comfortable about the person coming close. And then, in one smooth movement, Cailech leapt nimbly onto the horse’s back. Alarmed, it instantly tried to buck and jump, squealing with rage and as determined to unseat its rider as Cailech was to remain in place.

The stallion finally calmed, but only through exhaustion, too spent for even one more effort. The King could feel its entire body shaking with despair as well as fatigue. It had done its utmost. It had failed.

As Cailech slid from the saddle, the horse turned its head. He was ready for the bite — a last-ditch effort to inflict pain on the victor. The King back-handed the horse in the face with all the strength he had left and the beast squealed in obvious shock and agony.

‘Unsaddle him!’ Cailech commanded, rubbing the pain from his hand. He had not wanted to do that, but it was necessary. Only he and Rashlyn knew how much emotion had driven that blow.

Maegryn was shocked at his sovereign’s aggressiveness towards an animal he had claimed he did not want to hurt, but he was also relieved. King and horse had been trying to outdo each other for too many days. The horse had lost that battle, which was as it should be, but the handler was keen for the beast to have some rest from its exertions. In truth, he believed this strange horse would prefer death to subservience.

‘I will ride him this afternoon,’ Cailech said. ‘Have him readied.’

‘Sire?’ Maegryn asked, shocked for the second time in as many minutes.

‘His name is Galapek. I will ride him without a saddle.’

Maegryn dared not contradict the madness that had the King in its grip. ‘As you command,’ was all he permitted himself to say.

Cailech strode away, Rashlyn at his side. ‘I will be taking my son out alone this afternoon,’ the King said.

‘On the stallion?’ Rashlyn asked, surprised.

‘Have Aydrech brought to me at the edge of the lake directly after the midday meal. I want him to know this horse.’

‘Is this wise, my lord?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ Cailech replied, his stride lengthening, forcing the barshi to all but skip alongside.

Rashlyn was not sure whether the King referred to son or horse. ‘I do not recognise the name you have given the beast.’ The sorcerer was not of the mountains.

‘It is in the old language of our forefathers.’

‘Oh? What does it mean?’

‘Traitor,’ the King snarled and left the practitioner of magic in his wake.

Maegryn brought the stallion to the King. ‘My lord, please let me saddle him,’ he beseeched, fearful at what the proud beast might do if it sensed how dangerous this situation was for Cailech.

‘Take off the halter. I ride alone and bareback.’

Maegryn blinked. He could not contradict the King even though he knew his leader was wrong. This huge horse was more than capable of killing. But the handler wisely understood that so was his King, and it would be his own neck being snapped at the end of a noose if he risked angering Cailech.

‘I will mount him first, then you are to remove all restraints,’ Cailech instructed.

Maegryn gave the King a leg-up and was relieved that the horse protested only slightly by moving its back end around. He held his breath and looked towards his sovereign, who nodded. The handler removed the halter and the stallion shook its head at the sense of freedom.

‘Leave us,’ the King said and Maegryn departed reluctantly, still fearful that anything that might go wrong would come back to haunt him.

Once he was alone, Cailech laid his head against the stallion’s strong neck and, as he stroked it, he whispered. ‘Now you are mine for good. Come, my friend, let us ride together once again.’

And the man once known as Lothryn, now called Galapek the traitor, took his first unhappy steps as King Cailech’s four-legged servant.

Watching from a distance Rashlyn smiled thinly, admiring his work.

Gueryn lay on the pallet in the dungeon, to where he had been returned once his wound had healed. He had spoken to no one since then. The dungeon-keeper was a nice enough fellow who regularly changed the straw and brought fresh food and water. He had tried talking with the prisoner but Gueryn had pointedly refused to respond. Nowadays that same man entered and left the cell in silence.

Today was different though. When the man arrived he walked straight over to Gueryn and prodded him. ‘Come on, we’ve got orders to exercise you.’

Gueryn stirred. No amount of pride would permit him to refuse the opportunity to walk in daylight and breathe fresh air. Cailech had promised neither, so this was quite a development. Obviously the King had paid attention to Gueryn’s threat and was as determined to preserve his life as he himself was to end it.

It was more logical then to try a different tactic, for it was obvious that Cailech wanted him kept alive for a reason. So his protest now was silence. They would get nothing from him. More recently Gueryn had realised that deep down he wanted to live too… if just to hear news of Wyl — if he still lived — and Ylena. He would stay alive and alert until he could somehow contribute towards bringing this Mountain Kingdom down.

After so long without exercise, walking sounded easier than it was and it took two men to support him. When they emerged from the dungeon it was not into broad daylight as Gueryn had expected but into the inkiness of night. An unbelievably beautiful starry sky greeted Gueryn back to real life. He inhaled the piercingly cold but most welcome night air and immediately began to cough.

‘Take it easy, old man,’ one of his aides murmured.

Gueryn growled something unintelligible through the cough.

‘What was that?’ the Mountain man enquired, amused.

‘I think he’s telling you your fortune, Myrt,’ the man on the other side of Gueryn said and laughed.

Gueryn cleared his throat now that his initial attack had settled. ‘I said I’ll knock you senseless next time you call me old.’

Both men laughed and Gueryn chuckled too. It felt suddenly permissible and even rather empowering to share a jest with others, even if they were the enemy.

‘How old are you?’ Myrt asked.

‘Two score and five,’ he replied, shuffling awkwardly between them.

‘Then you’d better start acting like it,’ Myrt said. ‘The King wants you fit and healthy, not dying in his dungeon.’

‘I gathered. How thoughtful of him.’

‘Well, now that your wound has fully healed, it’s time you got your body well.’

‘I’ll do it, just so I can enjoy fighting some of you when my chance comes again.’

Myrt chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. Can you manage on your own now?’

‘Let me try,’ Gueryn replied gruffly.

He doubled up to cough again but soon enough was able to totter more freely, if laboriously.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ he said to his captors who smiled back.

‘Dyx up there will see to it you have another nasty wound if you try,’ Myrt warned, nodding up to where an archer watched from a higher vantage point.

Gueryn nodded. He hardly had the strength to hold himself upright but in that moment he decided he would work his body hard from now on and regain its former strength. He had to make himself useful to Morgravia… if just as a rather pathetic and captive spy.

As he began on another pitifully slow circle around the two men who hardly seemed to notice the cold that bit so cruelly into his bones, he heard the name of Lothryn and his attention was immediately caught. He moved more slowly still, veering slightly closer so he could eavesdrop on the conversation without appearing to be listening. He turned his head away, maintained a blank expression and relied entirely on his good hearing.

‘…so have you seen him?’

‘No,’ Myrt replied. ‘And he’s not in the dungeon, I’ve checked.’

‘So where is he?’

Gueryn, facing away from the men, assumed Myrt must have shrugged.

‘Not dead, surely?’ the other man queried, bewilderment in his tone.

‘Loth always warned us the King is unpredictable. No one, not even Loth himself, can gauge his moods but he was the only one who seemed able to talk with Cailech when he was dark of spirit.’

‘But they were so close, as good as brothers,’ the man said, aghast.

‘Loth betrayed us, Byl. Don’t you understand? That’s about the worst sin that he could have perpetrated on the King, next to murdering one of our own. Cailech demands loyalty above all else.’

His younger, less experienced companion grunted. ‘Seems odd then that he’s permitted to summarily execute one of our best.’

‘They’re the rules. Loth would have known the penalty when he broke them,’ Myrt said unhappily.

Gueryn thanked Shar for his keen hearing and had to stop himself swivelling around when a third voice came out of nowhere.

‘He is not dead,’ the voice said. Gueryn continued his revolution of the space, working hard to keep his face devoid of all recognition as a figure melted out of the shadows. It was the hideous medicine man who had saved his life but watched with bright eyes as they took Elspyth’s.

‘He is amongst you,’ Rashlyn said with a trace of glee.

Out of the corner of his eye Gueryn saw both Mountain men bristle at the approach of the wild-looking man. It seemed only Cailech suffered the fellow gladly.

‘I haven’t noticed him,’ Myrt replied carefully.

‘Oh, indeed you have, you just haven’t realised it,’ Rashlyn said. He glanced Gueryn’s way and changed the subject. ‘I see he can walk unaided now.’

Gueryn turned his back; he imagined the two men nodding.

‘This is good. We need him healthy,’ Rashlyn said.

‘Why?’ Myrt asked, desperately wanting to know more about Lothryn.

‘Ah, that I cannot divulge. But your King has plans for him.’

Gueryn felt his stomach clench. He despised the evil nature of this man.

‘Can you get a message to Loth for me?’ Myrt asked, ignoring the sorcerer’s evasiveness.

Rashlyn laughed; a snigger filled with guile and knowing. ‘No, I can’t do that. Have you admired the King’s magnificent new stallion by the way?’

‘The best I’ve ever seen,’ Myrt agreed, frustrated by the barshi’s irritating leaps from topic to topic.

‘And do you know what Galapek means in the old language?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you should try and learn more of your ancestors’ tongue,’ Rashlyn answered and walked away smiling.

‘Now what’s that all supposed to mean?’ Byl asked.

‘Search me,’ Myrt replied. ‘His mind is as frenzied and unreliable as his appearance. He gives me the creeps. Superstitious or not, I don’t know how Cailech can stand him near.’

‘Looks like our prisoner has had enough,’ Byl suggested, noticing that Gueryn had stopped his pacing.

‘Come on then,’ Myrt called to Gueryn. ‘Let’s get you back to your cosy guest room.’

Gueryn said nothing more, other than to thank the men for the rare treat of being outside.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Myrt replied. ‘We’ll force you to do it each evening until you feel fit again.’

After the men had left, Gueryn allowed his mind to embrace the disturbing nature of what he had overheard from Rashlyn. Myrt and his friend might not have understood the sly message underlying the medicine man’s words, but Gueryn was classically trained. His great-grandmother, originally from the Outer Isles of the north, had been married off (more like traded, his grandmother had told him) to a noble in Morgravia. She had accepted her new life but never fully relinquished her cultural background, particularly its language, which she had religiously taught to her daughter, who had in turn instructed her own grandson.

Gueryn knew all too well what the word ‘galapek’ meant in the old language of the north. Traitor. An odd name for a stallion.

He shivered in the damp cell and pulled a blanket about him. What was the medicine man inferring — that Cailech had named his new stallion after his best friend? Or was it more convoluted than that?

Rashlyn had said Lothryn was alive and amongst them. Yet neither of those men, presumably friends of Lothryn and close enough to the King to be familiar with him, had seen the courageous Mountain man. Further, Rashlyn had insinuated there were things none of them could understand. What was the link between the horse and Lothryn?

Gueryn drifted off into unhappy sleep as he pondered this, promising himself he would make more effort to talk with his guards tomorrow night during the walk. Now he too wanted to know where Lothryn was.

Meanwhile, in the stable, a man trapped by the powerful shapechanging magic of Rashlyn threw his magnificently sculpted new body angrily against the timber and screamed for deliverance.

TWENTY-FIVE

KNAVE COULD FEEL THE pull of Wyl’s thoughts. He already knew the Quickening had happened again and had startled his companion the previous night with a terrible howling.

Fynch was far too sharp not to recognise this keening from the last time Knave had made this sound; then it was undoubtedly to signify that Romen had been killed and that Wyl had become Faryl. He had to assume now that Wyl had died once more and come back to life again — that he was now walking in a new body. The fear of not recognising Wyl in a different form gnawed at Fynch, but he was too distracted by his own fear to allow that notion to gain too much space in his mind right now.

He and Knave were sitting at the edge of dense brush on the northern border of Briavel, known aptly as the Thicket. For those unfamiliar with its more mysterious purpose, it was simply a barrier to discourage any unsuspecting traveller from heading into the famed and sinister Wild. Beyond the Thicket line was a small tributary that eventually joined the major River Eyle which bisected Briavel and Morgravia. This body of water, ominously known as the Darkstream, was the only access into the Wild.

‘Are you sure, Knave?’ Fynch whispered once again.

The dog nuzzled his face. It was answer enough. Knave would not let anything bad happen to him. As it was, the dog had somehow managed to get them from Baelup to the north of Briavel with dazzling speed. Fynch knew Knave used magic; had accepted it now.

‘How do you do it?’ he asked his friend, who stared back at him with dark liquid eyes. ‘I mean, I curl up with you in one spot and I wake up in another. Do you carry me?’ he wondered aloud, scratching gently at the dog’s ears, which was hugely appreciated by his companion. ‘Or do you just “send” us from one place to another, like I “sent” to Myrren’s father?’

Knave groaned with pleasure. It was the only answer Fynch was going to get to his musings. ‘I guess I shouldn’t put it off any longer,’ Fynch said, hoping to find some comfort in the rallying words. Knave nudged him this time. He wanted Fynch to move. ‘I’m frightened,’ the boy admitted.

He knew of the Wild from his mother’s stories around the fire at night. She had terrified him with dark tales of what must happen to the intrepid explorers who took fate in their hands and put their names down to enter the Wild. That’s right, he remembered — all travellers choosing to use this tributary had to register. It was how the authorities monitored who had gone missing over the years. Fynch felt his legs go watery at the thought. What if they were never seen or heard of again? How would Wyl know where to find his body? What would happen to Valentyna?

Knave growled softly, urging him to move. Fynch unravelled the thong of Romen’s he had taken to wearing about his own tiny wrist. He tied it now to a branch, casting a prayer to Shar that someone might find it — that someone being Wyl, if Wyl should even know to come looking here!

Fynch took a steadying breath, summoned his courage and stepped into the Thicket. It was dusk outside but beneath the tangle of yews it was all brooding shadows, making it look and feel as dark as the night. Was it his imagination that the branches bent as if to touch him? He tried to assure himself it was a fanciful thought. He decided to keep his eyes fixed on Knave, who now led the way through the foliage with seeming ease. There were no bird calls, no animal sounds. Not even an insect chirped. The heavy silence made Fynch curve his shoulders inward and wrap his thin arms about his body. Then he heard the rush of water nearby, close to their path, it felt like. He broke into a trot to keep up with Knave who was pushing more quickly now.

Fynch suddenly realised he was unconsciously casting a repetitive thought. I mean no harm, he was saying over and again in his mind. Perhaps it was his susceptibility to magic that convinced Fynch the Thicket answered him, although he could no more articulate what was said than he could sprout wings and fly.

After some time casting his mantra, the Thicket no longer felt threatening. The whispers — which was the only way Fynch could describe them — became increasingly gentle and warm. What had initially struck him as sinister now felt oddly friendly and, he had not imagined it, leaves were softly trailing against his face no matter how agilely he ducked and weaved. And with each brush of a leaf or a twig, he felt a tingle pass through him. There was no time to stop and consider it though. He was all but running after Knave now.

Finally they emerged on the other side. It had felt like an age had passed during their passage through the dark, gloomy Thicket, but as they reached open air once more and the weight of its presence had lifted somewhat Fynch realised the journey had taken barely minutes.

The Darkstream had indeed kept them company through the trees and now they saw it properly. It did not flow as quickly as Fynch had expected nor was it nearly as wide as it sounded. It was sinister, though, its waters dark and intimidating. Across a small wooden bridge, surrounded by the first rocky mounds which would become the Razors, there stood a hut. A cheerful column of smoke drifted from its chimney. A path led from its door to a jetty nearby, where a trio of small rowboats bobbed in the water, neatly tied to wooden poles. It was an unexpected homely scene and yet the gurgle of the deep waters that passed by warned Fynch that this was not a safe place.

Knave walked a few paces across the bridge then looked back at Fynch. The boy gathered he was supposed to follow. Again he felt he might be imagining the tingle that passed through his body as he stepped on to the timbers of the bridge. It passed as quickly as it arrived and Fynch was left wondering what his fears were doing to him. He found grim amusement in the thought that the bridge should yell out ‘Friend or foe?’ as it might have done in the old fairy tales. And then behind the door of the hut should be a troll.

He knocked at that door now. No troll. It was the normal voice of a man, friendly enough, calling that he was coming as fast as he could.

‘Now then,’ the man said, pulling open the door at last. ‘Shar strike me down, look at the size of that thing!’ he said, his hand going to his chest.

‘He won’t hurt you, sir. He’s just big,’ Fynch reassured, relieved the person looked nothing like a troll.

The man looked at him somewhat quizzically and his pudgy face puckered in a genial manner. His ruddy complexion added to Fynch’s notion that this was a good-natured soul, who might enjoy a tipple and perhaps some company on the rare occasion it presented itself.

‘Come in then, boy. My name is Samm. Your… beast, or whatever it is, can wait outside.’

‘He is a dog, sir.’

‘Whatever, don’t dawdle and let the cold air in, child.’

Fynch glanced towards Knave, who had already settled on his haunches. The dog knew what to do, so Fynch followed the man’s large backside into the hut. The smell of soup reminded him he had not eaten in a long time, despite his canine companion bringing him freshly killed rabbits most evenings. He imagined it was about now that this seemingly friendly soul would throw him into a cage and fatten him up for cooking in the soup pot later — then shook his head free of the silly stories from childhood.

‘Well now, lad, what brings you through the Thicket?’

Another deep breath. ‘I must travel into the Wild, sir. I need to hire one of your boats.’

‘I see. And why do you need to do this?’

‘No offence, sir, but is it required that I have to answer your questions, sir?’ Fynch asked earnestly.

‘That you do, son. Without my approval, you’ll be heading straight back through those trees.’

‘It was my impression, sir,’ Fynch began carefully and seriously, as was his way, ‘that the boatkeeper may not refuse anyone to journey on the Darkstream.’

The man sighed and his grey eyes gleamed deep within his fat face. ‘This is true. You are well informed.’

‘So you cannot deny me passage?’ Fynch qualified.

‘Not if you have coin to pay, no. I can, however, do whatever I might think of to dissuade you from the journey, young man. You are so young to be here.’

‘I seek someone,’ Fynch replied in answer to the original question.

‘Someone who is lost?’

Fynch nodded. This was not strictly true and he hated to tell lies. Somehow not speaking made it easier.

‘Family?’

‘Possibly.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Old enough.’

It was obvious the man did not believe him.’ You understand how perilous this place is, boy?’

‘I do. I have my dog to protect me.’

At this the man laughed. ‘Priceless. Come and sit by the fire, lad. Let me fetch my ledger.’

Fynch did as he was told, relishing the warmth. ‘Do you live here alone?’ he called to the man who was rifling through a chest.

‘Yes. Have done all my life.’

‘No family?’

‘No.’

The man mumbled as he looked beneath books and clothes, ‘Raised myself in the foothills… a travelling monk taught me my letters. He stayed a while and left when he felt I knew enough to get by.’

‘How long have you been the boatkeeper?’

‘I’ve always been the boatkeeper. Ah, here it is,’ he said, blowing dust off the large black book he had pulled from the bottom of the chest. He carried it to a desk. ‘Can I interest you in a bowl of soup, child? I’ve more than enough for myself.’

Fynch grinned awkwardly. He could use some hot food and he could tell Samm did not want to give any explanations. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He wondered if it was poisoned; that might be how the seemingly friendly man entrapped his unwitting guests. He had to stop this.

‘Polite one, aren’t you? There’s a bowl on that shelf. Help yourself whilst I find my place in this book.’

The soup was simple vegetable broth but it pleased Fynch greatly and was far from poisonous. He ladled out a small bowlful and sat at the rickety table to enjoy it.

‘Bread?’ the man asked, not looking up.

‘This is more than enough.’

The boatkeeper grunted as if to suggest it was hardly anything.

‘Right then, lad…’ He cleared his throat as he began his official speech, fixing Fynch with a steely gaze. ‘I am obliged to tell you that the Law of the Wild was set two centuries or so back. Both Morgravia and Briavel agreed upon it. All of their peoples have access to the Darkstream but no rescue parties have ever or will ever be sent in search of the missing. They are always presumed dead. Do you understand?’

Fynch looked up from his food, his brow furrowed. ‘I understand, sir, but if no one ever returns from the Wild how come you always have boats? They don’t look new to me.’

‘A sharp lad you are too — what’s your name?’

It could not hurt, he figured. Celimus was hardly going to check the records out here. ‘Fynch.’

‘Pleased to meet you, young Fynch.’ Fynch nodded, unable to do much else with a spoonful of soup in his mouth. ‘Now, to answer your clever question — the boats always find their way back.’ He regarded his guest and smiled. ‘Upstream and against the current.’

Fynch was wide-eyed now. ‘Magic,’ he said with reverence.

‘I’m not saying one way or another,’ the boatkeeper replied. ‘My job is just to record whoever sets off from here and charge the fee.’

‘Taxes on death,’ Fynch mused, taking the last spoonful.

‘Hardly; more a formality really. Not much money to be made from here. The last person who took the Darkstream registered more than two decades ago — probably closer to a quarter of a century if my memory serves me correctly. A woman it was and her fee is the same as yours.’

It fired Fynch’s imagination to think of some brave woman facing the Wild alone. ‘I wonder what or whom she sought.’

Samm cocked his head to one side in thought. ‘They never say — just like you. Oh, but she was lovely as I recall. Such a waste. I nearly talked myself hoarse trying to convince her to stay. But she would not be persuaded otherwise.’

‘She obviously badly needed to go there.’

‘Broken heart perhaps.’

‘What happened?’

Samm sighed. ‘The pretty lady never returned, of course, but her boat did. Ah, here’s her name: Emil, that’s right. Never heard that name before. Her hair was as dark as the stream and she had a milky complexion.’

Fynch felt as if the soup soured instantly in his belly. ‘Did you say Emil?’

The boatkeeper nodded. ‘Aye. Odd one, isn’t it?’ He looked up. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Fynch said hastily. He felt light-headed. Emil was the name of Myrren’s mother. It could be a coincidence, even though it was a far from common name.

‘Was she from Morgravia?’ he asked as casually as he could, setting down his spoon.

‘Er… yes, Pearlis it says here.’

Too much of a coincidence then. Myrren’s mother was also originally from Pearlis and the timing fitted too neatly in Fynch’s sharp mind. Myrren was around eighteen years of age when she died. Her death occurred six years ago. No, much too coincidental. So at least one person had returned from the Wild: Emil had made it back and raised her child. There was hope for him yet.

‘Is something wrong, lad?’

‘No. Your soup is delicious, sir. I was contemplating a second bowl,’ Fynch said honestly. ‘But I won’t, thank you.’

‘You eat like a bird!’

He was glad to have thrown Samm off the scent. ‘So I’m told.’ He grinned. ‘Can I travel at night?’

‘I wouldn’t advise it. Best leave at first light. It also gives you the night to think on it.’

‘I won’t change my mind.’

Samm smiled kindly. ‘I understand. Have a good night’s rest. You’re most welcome to bunk down here with me. It will be dark in moments anyway.’

‘Can I pay you now?’

‘Tomorrow’s soon enough.’

‘I will be going, Samm,’ Fynch said firmly.

He grinned. ‘Is your dog all right out there?’

‘Nothing bothers Knave. Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Don’t mention it. I don’t get conversation often — no human company around here,’ he admitted. ‘Settle yourself in then, lad.’

Fynch did not sleep well. He mainly dozed, feeling the touch of Knave on his mind. That was reassuring, just in case Samm did turn out to be some sort of ghoul who ate people who crossed his bridge. He woke at first light, glad to be up and moving, although his mind felt dull. His body fidgeted in nervous anticipation of the journey ahead.

He roused Samm, put on a pot of water and politely shared some porridge with his host. In answer to Samm’s gentle questions, none of which Fynch considered too pointed, he slid around the truth and gave the impression he was from Briavel and had on occasion worked at the castle.

‘Will you give me no reason for your journey, son? It seems such a waste.’

‘Maybe I shall return, Samm,’ Fynch said brightly, trying to avoid the question.

‘I must ask again whether you understand the terms of your departure. There is no rescue party once you step into the boat and leave the jetty.’

‘Truly, I understand,’ Fynch said, very seriously.

‘Then you owe me a crown.’

Fynch handed over the coin. ‘I’m ready, thank you again.’

Samm took it and neatly recorded the details in his ledger. ‘I’ve put your home as Werryl — would that be right?’

Once again Fynch nodded, loath to speak a lie.

‘I’ve put together a small sack of food for you and a rug for the cold. You look too scrawny to last a day,’ Samm grunted, embarrassed. He pointed towards a small table by the door.

‘Can I pay —’

‘No, it’s nothing. I have plenty. Go on with you then, boy. And may Shar and that black beast protect you.’

Samm stood and Fynch followed suit, eager to be gone now. He took the sack and opened the door to where Knave awaited, stretching. Together the three of them walked to the jetty.

‘Take your pick,’ Samm said, gesturing at the boats.

Fynch climbed into the nearest one, Knave following. ‘Bye, Samm. I won’t forget your kindness.’

‘Be safe, Fynch, lad,’ the man said sadly, knowing the child would be carried into the wilderness and would not return. He untied the rope. ‘May Shar watch over you.’

And they were gone, the stream’s current pulling them towards two huge willow trees whose overhanging canopy formed what looked like an archway into a dark tunnel. Fynch turned to wave as the willows gobbled the boat into their shadows but Samm had already gone.

TWENTY-SIX

AS FYNCH WAS TURNING back towards the willows, his fear of the unknown intensifying, Elspyth was doing her utmost to convince herself that Wyl had made the right decision. She was not happy at heading off once again on a journey towards a woman she did not know — a Queen no less this time. She was glad for the company of Crys, despite his sorrow.

‘Your mother is marvellous, so resilient,’ she ventured when she could no longer stand the awkward silence between them. Too much had occurred in the day and night previous for them to talk much, and they would hit the Briavellian border within an hour.

‘I never really think about it,’ he replied. ‘I think we all take her strength for granted, particularly my father.’

She took the opportunity to touch on the hardest topic of all. ‘Crys, I haven’t had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about your brother. I feel so awkward, not knowing him and yet feeling like I do somehow, through all of you.’

He smiled sadly at her. ‘Thank you. He was just such a good lad — one of those rare people who can always see the positive side of life. Father had high hopes for him at Stoneheart too; once Wyl made him his deputy, his future was secured.’

Elspyth understood. ‘The fourth son, you mean?’ Crys nodded. ‘How did it happen that he left your home and was sent to the capital?’

‘Bit of a long tale, really. Let me see if I can simplify it. Father and Fergys Thirsk go back a long way; they always had a lot in common in terms of position and shared similar outlooks on life. Also my father was intensely loyal to King Magnus, so the family connection to Stoneheart and the Crown was already strong. The King made a trip north not long after General Fergys died and naturally he stopped at Tenterdyn. I think my father must have mentioned he was not sure what to do for Alyd and the King suggested he send him south — apparently he said he knew another young lad around the same age who could use the company.’

‘Wyl?’

‘That’s right. My father was happy to keep the families close through another generation — although we didn’t bank on Alyd falling in love with Ylena.’

‘I gather they were the perfect couple.’

He nodded. ‘My parents only knew of Ylena as a small child, but her reputation as a young woman sparkled before her.’

‘I’m surprised your family did not visit Stoneheart more frequently,’ she mused.

‘Well, Magnus and my parents hadn’t seen each other in a long time. He was a little in love with my mother in their early years, I think. Perhaps my father never trusted the King around my mother.’ Crys winked.

‘Truly?’

‘No, I’m teasing. It’s true that the King had a terribly soft spot for my mother when they were all very young, and to his death he considered her with great affection, but he knew how much she loved my father. I think the reason for the long length of time between their visits is that Felrawthy really holds the north for the Crown. Traditionally, Father has always overseen the Legionnaires who guard the Razors.’

‘I see. So that’s why Jeryb wasn’t at Stoneheart for the tournament.’

‘Yes. We were all furious not to make it — Mother desperately wanted to see Alyd and the tourney was a great excuse to pay a visit south. But the border has become more threatened in recent years and Father would not risk it.’

‘You know Cailech and his men slip into western Morgravia regularly?’

He glanced at her. ‘We have suspected as much.’

‘I’ve seen them. No one minds them much in Yentro. They keep themselves to themselves; trade a bit and disappear almost as fast as they arrived.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘They have excellent scouts. We can’t even catch them in Morgravia, let alone track them into the mountains.’

‘You wouldn’t want to — they know them too well.’ Elspyth frowned. ‘But why did our soldiers kill those children? It enraged Cailech and he’s vowed revenge of the most horrible kind. That is why Gueryn le Gant was captured and tortured.’

Crys slowed his horse. ‘Elspyth, it wasn’t our men who killed those children, nor was it our men who travelled with le Gant.’

She pursed her lips. ‘It’s always Celimus behind it,’ she said bitterly.

‘The King orchestrated all of it — through his own henchmen, of course. I’ve never seen my father so angry as the day he received orders to send le Gant in with that scrawny bunch of men. They weren’t even proper soldiers. Le Gant insisted my father stay out of it or risk disloyalty to the Crown. He said in as many words that Celimus had planned to separate him from Wyl and that he suspected treachery somewhere.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Do you think he’s still alive?’

She shook her head. ‘Gueryn was nearly dead when we left him. If a Mountain Dweller’s arrow didn’t find its mark that night then his fever would surely have killed him.’

‘I gather Wyl doesn’t want to believe it?’

‘It’s the fear that Cailech might have kept Gueryn alive as bait which makes Wyl determined to go back to the Mountain fortress — that and for another brave man called Lothryn.’

‘I’ve heard you mention him before. You always say his name tenderly.’ Crys glanced towards Elspyth, who blushed.

‘Do I?’

‘Mmm.’

They rode in silence for a few moments.

Elspyth broke the quiet first. ‘I am in love with Lothryn.’

‘I worked it out.’

‘Oh?’

‘Most women can’t resist me,’ he said mock archly and grinned.

‘It must be your modesty,’ she replied, but liked him all the same for it.

‘He’s a lucky man, Elspyth.’

‘He’s very special,’ she admitted softly. ‘It is taking all my courage to ride south and away from him.’

‘And all of ours not to wage war on the Crown,’ Crys added, bitterness strong in his tone.

‘What will happen do you think?’

‘Wyl’s beseeched my father to keep up the pretence. I hope he knows what he’s doing.’

‘You must trust him… as I do,’ she replied. ‘He needs to be able to rely on us.’

‘But what is his plan?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. He is trying to find the father of the woman who cursed him with this magical life.’

‘It is all too strange — I can hardly bear thinking on it to tell the truth. How bizarre to become a woman.’

‘Imagine how he feels! He was Romen Koreldy when I met him. Since then he has become this Faryl woman, and now look at him.’ She shook her head. ‘That poor sister of his.’

‘What can he hope to achieve as a woman?’ Crys wondered aloud.

‘Don’t be so quick to doubt!’ she cautioned. ‘Women are far more cunning than you give us credit for. Wyl’s new facade means different doors may well open to him that were closed to himself or Koreldy.’

‘You forget that Celimus knows Ylena. If he has been hunting her, then he will have her killed on sight.’

‘I’m sure Wyl’s aware of that, which would explain why he’s so determined to find Myrren’s father. Perhaps he can give some answers to this gift.’

Crys interrupted their conversation by holding his hand up. ‘We’ve reached the border,’ he said, pointing towards a sign.

‘So I just ride my horse across the imaginary line?’

‘Yes. Security between the realms has been stepped up since the death of Valor — they’ll soon pick you up. There are guards everywhere.’

‘What about before?’ she queried, referring to a time prior to Valor’s demise.

‘Well, merchants could come and go fairly freely. But these days you need a permit for trade, or good reason for the crossing if you’re not a merchant.’

‘And what’s my reason?’ she asked, worried now.

He grinned. ‘I can always get you past the guard from Morgravia’s side. You just have to hope that letter from Wyl gets you through Briavel’s scrutiny.’

‘Or?’

‘You’ll be coming back with me — and nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ He grinned at the innuendo in his words.

Elspyth found his wit infectious. If not for Lothryn, she might well have fallen prey to this man’s obvious charm. ‘You have been very kind to me, Crys. I hope I can repay you some day.’

‘Well, marry me then,’ he jested and pulled a face at her scolding expression. ‘All right, my apologies. Come now, let me get you safely across.’

As he gestured for Elspyth to follow, he heard the sound of a rider coming at a breakneck gallop. ‘Wait!’ he hissed to her. ‘I can see my father’s standard, something is wrong.’

The rider came into view. They could see the lather flying off the animal which had been all but run to death. ‘It’s Pil!’ Crys exclaimed.

Elspyth felt the chill of fear crawl up her spine and ooze throughout her body until every hair seemed as though it were standing on end. No one rode this fast unless pursued or outrunning danger. She could see the wild look in both man’s and beast’s eyes as they approached.

Pil pulled the horse up too sharply and in its pain and panic it reared throwing him to the ground. It ran away into the nearby trees, terrified and exhausted.

Elspyth and Crys leapt from their own mounts. ‘Shall I go after the horse?’ Elspyth said, knowing how the Donal family prized their animals.

‘Leave it,’ Crys ordered through gritted teeth. ‘Pil, what madness is this?’

Elspyth could see the strength and leadership of the duke now in his eldest son. It was an attractive quality he had not formerly revealed, deferring to his father. Its reassurance cut through her fear. ‘Take a deep breath, Pil,’ she urged.

The novice’s eyes were wide and scared. He rubbed at his newly bruised elbow. ‘Shar’s blessing, I found you.’

‘What’s happened?’ Crys demanded.

‘They’re all dead,’ Pil blurted. ‘Your family.’

Elspyth felt Crys’s body go rigid next to hers. ‘What are you talking about?’ he growled.

Pil looked towards Elspyth; his words came out in a rush, tripping over one another in his terrified eagerness to explain. ‘Brother Lewk wanted to pay his respects to the duke and duchess. I said I’d take him back to the estate. When we arrived…’ His voice broke.

‘Tell me all,’ Crys said, pain spreading to all reaches of his body from the ball of emotion which unfurled in his heart.

According to the novice, it was Aleda who first heard the sound of galloping horses. She wondered aloud to Pil and his companion Brother Lewk if it could be the men at arms arriving, but as the troop entered the courtyard it was clear they were not of the Legion although they bore the King’s standard.

‘The duchess sent us into the house to hide,’ Pil said. ‘She told us to go up into the attic so there would be no trace of the presence of any guests at all. Daryn had come to warn her that the men were looking for the woman, Faryl, or any woman fitting the description of Ylena.’

Angered by the soldiers’ audacity Aleda had swept across the courtyard to join her husband where he was talking with the leader.

The young novice told them how, from their hiding spot in the attic, he and Brother Lewk had watched as heated words were exchanged by the two men.

‘The man didn’t even climb down from his mount,’ Pil recalled. ‘He just addressed your father from the saddle.

‘The rider kept pointing at the duke, issuing orders it seemed, but the duke stayed calm. He must have offered an invitation for them to search the house but that’s when it all went wrong. I have no idea what happened but I suspect the man said something to your father which your brother, Daryn, could not tolerate,’ Pil said to Crys, whose stony expression did not flinch. ‘He bravely — or perhaps unwisely — grabbed the leader and pulled him down off the horse.’

‘Stupid boy!’ Crys cried. ‘Daryn never could keep a cool head.’

‘Pandemonium broke out, my lord,’ Pil said. The new title was not lost on his audience. ‘One of the riders fired an arrow into Daryn’s chest. He dropped like a stone. Your mother screamed and fell to the ground beside him to cradle him. He may still have lived for a few moments, my lord; I could not tell for your father had already drawn his sword. He didn’t stand a chance. He fought bravely but they brought him to his knees.’

‘Stop!’ Elspyth interrupted, tears blinding her. ‘Crys, I —’

‘I will hear it all!’ Crys yelled, ignoring his own free-flowing tears. ‘Say it!’ he commanded.

Pil shivered and nodded. Jakub had always warned him to stick plainly to the facts when conjuring an important event. He told precisely how it had unfolded, hating every painful word and its effect on Crys.

‘They beheaded him, my lord duke. It was not clean. I had to look away. They held your mother, made her watch. When it was done, they took her and tore off her clothes. They raped her one after another in the courtyard. Your other brother, Jorge, suddenly appeared from the stables, but he died also, fighting for her dignity.’

At this, Crys fell to his knees and screamed out, beseeching the heavens for deliverance from this nightmare.

Elspyth threw herself on top of him, arms around him, weeping as hard as he was. She could understand his pain, wanted to absorb it for him. He cried in her embrace for a lengthy time whilst Pil sat in horrified silence, head bowed between his knees.

Finally they heard Crys’s voice, croaked and muffled.

‘Pardon, my lord?’ Pil said gently.

‘I said, how? How could they know?’ the new Duke of Felrawthy screamed. He moved so swiftly that Elspyth fell backwards as he grabbed the monk in a vice-like grip, their faces barely inches apart.

Pil stammered out the final crushing item of information. ‘Brother Lewk, my lord — he’s a spy.’ He began to weep now. ‘I led him to your family, asked them to make him welcome. I tried to keep up the pretence, to stick to the story we’d all agreed on. But, my lord, I could not lie to a man of the cloth. I didn’t mention about Wyl being Faryl of course, but I admitted that I had escorted Ylena to your family.’

Crys looked as wild and angry as an injured beast. He shook off Elspyth’s touch and pushed Pil away then ran blindly towards the shadow of a few trees.

‘Leave him,’ Elspyth said. She could feel the tension in her jaw, causing her temples to throb as she asked, ‘And the duchess?’

‘I don’t know. I have no idea whether she lives or died.’

She felt sickened. ‘Everyone else is dead, you are sure?’

He nodded, although a sob escaped. ‘I don’t know what happened to the twenty men, but they didn’t arrive in time to help anyone.’ ‘The duke is definitely dead. Jorge was hacked down and Daryn’s body did not move after Aleda was pulled from him. The arrow had hit in the region of his heart.’

‘Shar’s despair… all of them, all of them gone,’ she whispered, shaking from the trauma of realisation. ‘I led you to Brother Lewk. It is all my fault. Again. I did it! I am a curse!’ she wept, feeling herself losing control.

‘No, Elspyth. How could you know he was an impostor? I fell for it too. Anyone would have.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘I fought him. I sensed him watching me closely when the first of the deaths occurred. Something about him suddenly felt wrong. It all began to add up — the fact that I sang a well-known hymn on the way to Tenterdyn with him and he didn’t know the words. Plus he said he’d visited Rittylworth, yet couldn’t remember Brother Bors — everyone knows Brother Bors, he was over ninety years old.’ Pil shook his head. ‘I suddenly realised I’d been duped. When I saw them hurting Aleda, I began looking around for a weapon. I knew it was stupid — how could I fight them? Yet I needed to do something. But he grabbed me, and that confirmed his betrayal. So I fought him, fought him with everything I had. I knocked him unconscious, more through luck than anything, and then I fled. I climbed out of the window and ran across the rooftop as I had once before with brave Ylena. The soldiers never knew I was there of course so I was able to get to the stables, steal a horse and come after you and Crys.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Brother Lewk?’

She nodded.

‘I… I think he was just stunned.’

‘Then he will tell them about you and they will come after us,’ she said, newly panicked. She leapt to her feet and ran after Crys.

‘Go away, leave me!’ Crys roared, rounding on her.

‘Listen to me,’ she begged. ‘They will be coming after us, Crys, I’m sure of it, and they will slaughter what remains of Felrawthy. You are its duke now. You are all that’s left. We will avenge them, but not unless we get you to safety.’

He laughed bitterly. It was a horrible sound. ‘Duke of Felrawthy, you say?’

Elspyth looked around at Pil. ‘Get the horses readied. Yours is over there,’ she said, taking charge. ‘Crys, look at me. We have no time for recriminations, not yet anyway. We must flee and save our lives.’

He groaned. ‘Elspyth!’

His broken expression tore at her heart. ‘I know,’ she wept, reaching for him. ‘I know. But you have to be strong now. You will get your war with Celimus, but you have to —’

She never finished what she was about to say. He took her into his arms and sobbed into her hair. She shook her head towards Pil and he obediently led the stray horse back towards the others, leaving them alone. It felt frightening to hold this man so close. Their emotions were strung out and tragedy and pain can bind as much as cleave souls. Elspyth felt a dangerous stirring in them both but particularly Crys. She pulled away, shocking him with her sudden movement of rejection.

Gazing directly into his hurt handsome face, she spoke softly. ‘Come now — we must get you to safety.’ She hoped he would recognise her affection for him — perhaps not right now whilst he hurt, but later when he was rational and understood her heart was already claimed.

‘Where?’ He looked lost.

‘Briavel. They wouldn’t dare follow us there.’

He nodded, capitulating to her strength and suddenly glad to be led. He understood how Ylena must have felt not so long ago. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, a grimness in his voice that had not been there before.

TWENTY-SEVEN

CELIMUS SAT ATOP A white mare. His new prize in the royal stables. He called her Grace which was befitting: she was light, elegant and the swiftest horse he had ever ridden. He was still breathing hard from the gallop during which he had given her the rein and allowed her to show her superb speed. Cooling her carefully now he walked her towards the shade of a tree where they would wait for Jessom and his falconer who would be a while yet catching up. He bent to stroke her and she tossed her mane, keen to be off again. ‘Not so fast, bright one. There is business to be done yet,’ he cooed.

The King took a draught of water from his flask and surveyed the beautiful landscape about him.

‘I must have an heir for all of this, Grace,’ he said, tapping her beautifully muscled neck. ‘I want him to have two thrones.’ He laughed. ‘Why not three even?’ he added, throwing the Mountain Kingdom into the ring. ‘He shall be called Emperor — after me, of course. Empress Valentyna shall be his mother and I shall teach him to mock the pretender, Cailech, whose head I shall have preserved and spiked outside Stoneheart for eternity.’

He drank again, noticing the two riders finally appearing over the crest of a small rise. They arrived, panting.

‘Sire,’ the falconer said, ‘we are ready. I have your three favourite birds and we are positioned down there, your majesty.’ He pointed into the distance where two men could be picked out.

‘I won’t be long,’ Celimus said to the falconer, who dismissed himself with a nod to his King and a glance towards Jessom who was still catching his breath.

‘I think we should introduce a new rule, sire,’ Jessom commented once the man had departed and he felt more composed, ‘that you should not ride without at least one guard.’

‘Bah! This is Morgravia, man. I have my bow with me,’ the King said contemptuously.

‘Nevertheless,’ Jessom replied somewhat imperially. It was his favourite retort.

‘I won’t be babysat. I am a King.’

‘My very reason for suggesting the higher security, your majesty. Your status demands it.’

Celimus nodded reluctantly. He knew his Chancellor was right.

‘Did you want me to watch you work your birds or shoot arrows at deer, my lord, or is there another reason I am abroad in this thoroughly fascinating landscape and freezing my balls off?’

The King laughed. Jessom’s timing on when to jest with his sovereign was always masterful.

‘I am meeting someone. Not for castle ears.’

‘Ah,’ his man replied knowingly. ‘Do you want me involved in the conversation or hidden, sire?’

‘You may remain. Here he comes now,’ he said, nodding towards a lone rider.

‘Excellent timing,’ Jessom said, shivering at the bite of the spring morning. ‘Who is he, my lord?’

‘His name is Shirk. He ran an errand for me.’

It was all Jessom needed to know. Shirk was clearly one of the King’s newest henchmen, sent off to tackle unsavoury tasks which could not be given to the Legion.

They watched him approach. ‘Lady Bench?’ Celimus enquired of his Chancellor whilst they waited, his glance not moving from Shirk.

‘Having a large party in a few days, I gather, sire. Her husband is on one of his rare visits to Pearlis, though I imagine he won’t remain long.’

‘He’s a wanderer that one. However, my father suggested I should listen to his advice. Much as I detested my father his strategy was sound. I have found Eryd Bench, so far, to be reliable counsel.’

Jessom nodded and remained quiet, waiting for the next question.

‘So nothing out of the ordinary for Lady Bench, then?’

‘Not that I can tell, your highness. I am having her household watched day and night as you requested, sire. There have been no odd comings or goings.’

‘Good. Keep her under watch.’

‘Another week, sir?’

‘That should do it. Ah, Shirk.’

‘Your highness.’ The newly arrived man bowed in his saddle.

‘This is Chancellor Jessom. You may speak freely.’

The man nodded at Jessom. ‘Thank you, sire. Shall I report?’

‘Go ahead,’ Celimus said, looking down towards the falconers as if it did not matter one way or the other to him.

Jessom noticed the man’s clothes were of sufficient quality to need reasonable coin. A well-paid mercenary then, he presumed.

‘We found no sign of the Lady Ylena Thirsk, your Majesty, nor the woman, Leyen, who you described.’

The Chancellor saw the King’s jaw clench in disappointment. He wished that his King had asked him to handle this particularly delicate mission. It needed finesse. He could only imagine the damage he suspected he would be left to mend.

‘But?’ the King asked, his tone still deliberately casual.

‘The family — that is, the Duke of Felrawthy’s son — was not co-operative.’

‘I see,’ Celimus said. ‘Something to hide then. And did you handle it as I recommended?’ he asked, choosing his words with care. Jessom feared what was coming. Surely nothing had befallen the aristocratic duke and duchess?

‘Yes, your majesty. Precisely as you required. The duke, duchess and their sons are dead.’

Jessom flinched. He tried to set a blank expression on his face but was sure he was unsuccessful. This was a dire revelation and he had no doubt whose hand had pulled the strings of the puppets who had done the deed. His normally controlled thoughts spun frantically. How would they cover this new atrocity? This was well beyond even his slippery and dark notions of manipulation. Jessom enjoyed power but he was not a bloodthirsty man and would not order anyone injured or killed unless he could justify it in his mind. He could not come up with one scenario which justified the slaughter of the loyalists in the north who had single-handedly shielded the realm from invasion.

In Jessom’s short experience Duke Jeryb had shown himself to be steadfast and true to the Crown with a bright intelligence and an information channel to the King which could only be admired. He ran his Legionnaires with a firm but fair hand and even Jessom, from his much removed position, sensed that the Legion admired the duke and his fine family in the same manner that they had admired the Thirsks. Killing the youngest son had been a horrific mistake. Fortunately it had been covered well, but here they were still dealing with the repercussions of that murder. The remains of the Donal boy could reappear to undo them all. He could not imagine how they might now explain away five more deaths in the same family, and yet already his mind was racing towards how they might do just that.

‘You are quite sure?’ Celimus said, fixing the man now with his unnerving gaze.

Jessom noticed the man hesitate and blink. It was a telltale sign that perhaps all had not gone according to plan.

‘Well, the duke’s head is no longer attached to his body,’ the man replied, with an unsure grin, which quickly vanished. ‘His wife — well, she’s dead, I’m sure of that. I know one of the men checked and the —’

‘How did you deal with her?’ Celimus asked, his voice seemingly innocent but his intense stare suggesting otherwise.

‘As you required, sire. We humiliated her.’

‘You raped her.’ Celimus said the words for him.

He nodded. ‘Yes, your majesty. Each of the men took a turn with her.’

Celimus was unfazed. ‘But someone checked her pulse,’ he said.

Again the man nodded, dumbly this time, Jessom noted. The man was clearly not so sure of the duchess’s current state of health.

The King let it be for now. ‘The sons — all three of them dead?’

The mercenary looked up sharply now, turning from his King to Jessom with a beseeching expression.

Jessom helped him out. ‘There are three sons. The heir is Crys — you could not miss him. Golden-haired, tall. Handsome, they say. The other two are darker, more like the mother. One is Daryn, the other Jorge.’ This was the Chancellor’s first and only contribution to the conversation but his words made the mercenary visibly pale.

‘I see,’ the King said, understanding all too well. ‘Which one didn’t you deal with?’

‘The handsome one, your highness,’ he stuttered. ‘There was no sign of him.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Celimus kept his disgust in check. Jessom felt a little sorry for the well-dressed man before them for it was now very clear — to the Chancellor anyway — that the mercenary’s days were sadly numbered.

‘Yes, my King.’ The man tried for crispness but failed, perhaps already sensing his own demise. ‘Our spy, posing as a monk, managed to corner a stranger. His name was Pil, a novice. But the youngster escaped over the rooftops.’

‘You’ve caught him though?’ Celimus enquired. Jessom felt genuine pity for the cornered mercenary. The King’s voice, so well controlled, managed to imbue a horrific sense of threat all the same. He was a master at it.

‘We have given chase, your highness. We should have him by now.’

‘A novice you say? What was he doing with your spy?’

The man began to shrug but shook his head instead to avoid offence to a sovereign known for his erratic moods. ‘I don’t know the answer to that, sire, but he introduced Lewk into the family. Lewk — that’s our spy — felt he could learn more about whether the two women had been at Tenterdyn.’

‘And did he?’

‘Yes,’ the man uttered triumphantly. ‘The women had been there. It was the novice who brought the noblewoman to the family.’

Oh, you poor fool, Jessom thought. This should have been the first item on the report. He feared for the man’s next few minutes.

‘Shar’s wrath, man!’ Celimus bellowed, leaning forward in his saddle to strike the man hard across his face. The mercenary toppled from his horse. The King leapt down from his own mount, all feline grace, and in one smooth movement kicked Shirk so hard he could not get to his feet. He lay there coughing, groaning in pain.

‘Where are they?’

In obvious agony the man spluttered his answer. ‘The woman, Leyen, goes by the name of Faryl, sire. According to the novice’s information, she did not tarry long at Tenterdyn. There was no trace of the noblewoman. The young monk said he had delivered her and departed the duke’s hospitality almost immediately.’

‘Lies!’ Celimus roared. ‘Felrawthy protects her! I was right to suspect the duke. He was not loyal to me,’ he raved.

Jessom thought otherwise. The duke had given no reason to date to be considered anything but loyal to the Crown. The truth of the death of his son might have changed that, but so far all that had been kept secret. ‘Sire —’ he attempted but was rewarded with a glare so fierce he closed his mouth and sensibly opted to remain silent.

‘Get away from me,’ Celimus spat at the injured man. ‘Crawl away from me, down the hill. Do not let me look upon your face again.’

Shirk did as commanded, leaving his horse, no doubt eager to be away from the King’s wrath. Unhurried, Celimus reached behind and unstrapped his bow.

Jessom felt pity for the man on all fours retreating down the incline. He had not been disloyal, simply careless. But then Celimus suffered no fools about him.

He sighed. ‘Would you like to see me in your study, sire, after I clear up here?’ Jessom enquired, knowing the answer, his mind already racing towards how he would tackle the damage in the north.

Celimus nocked his arrow and took aim. ‘Immediately,’ he said and loosed his anger towards the man who had failed him.

Jessom watched his quarry alight from their carriage. He had decided to handle this particular item of business himself. Crossing the road, lifting his robe slightly so it would not trail in the general muck and damp of the busy market cobblestones, he angled his direction perfectly and artfully bumped the shoulder of the man.

‘Do forgive —’ Jessom began a solicitous apology then feigned an expression of delighted surprise. ‘Lord Bench, what a pleasure. I’m so sorry for knocking you just now. I was in a hurry to cross the street.’

‘No harm done, Jessom.’ Eryd Bench waved off the apology.

‘Lady Bench,’ Jessom acknowledged with a short bow.

‘Chancellor,’ she said, nodding, her hand tightening ever so slightly on her husband’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry you couldn’t attend our recent supper.’

‘Not as sorry as I, my lady,’ Jessom replied. ‘I am afraid our King keeps me on a hectic schedule,’ he admitted, permitting a rare smile.

She felt its insincere touch, knew he suspected something. Also knew that so far he had nothing to level their way. ‘Oh, such a shame, Chancellor. I know how you like lamprey too — it was on the menu.’

He made a soft noise of despair at missing out. ‘Are you home for long, Lord Bench?’

‘No, not this time. We are about to take a family trip actually.’

‘Oh?’ Jessom enquired, already knowing the general gossip. ‘Where are you off to — somewhere warmer I hope?’ and he chuckled, pulling his cape closer around his thin shoulders.

‘No, indeed.’ Bench smiled ruefully. ‘I am headed north in fact to meet a wonderful shipment of exotic goods coming into Brightstone. Helyn and Georgyana thought they might accompany me this time.’

‘Yes, I’ve decided it’s high time I saw what my husband does on these trips,’ Helyn offered with one of the chortles she reserved for intrigue.

‘And where will you stay?’ Jessom asked, all politeness.

‘Normally I’d stay at an inn, but with the ladies along we have a small holding up north, not far from Yentro and Deakyn in fact. Been in the family for donkeys years. I thought we might make them more comfortable in the house.’

‘Indeed,’ Jessom soothed. ‘A lengthy trip?’

Eryd knew he was being interrogated, as his wife had been not long ago. ‘Not sure yet. With my family in tow, I suppose we can take our time. I thought we might travel up via the east. Perhaps catch up with that old rogue Jeryb and his marvellous brood before my shipment comes in.’

Jessom was alarmed but did not show it. ‘Brr, it is cold out today. Can I offer you both a nip of shorron to warm our insides?’

Neither of his companions cared to spend a moment longer with him.

‘Of course,’ Eryd answered. ‘I am never one to say no to a glass.’

‘We shall have to be swift, my love,’ Helyn warned, wishing Eryd had declined. ‘I have lots to purchase today for our trip.’

Eryd patted her hand in reassurance and the trio headed towards the nearest shorron counter where the hot, bitter liquor was served in warmed glasses with a dollop of honey to sweeten its passage. Shorron was a local specialty of Pearlis so there were bars and counters aplenty. In summer the drink was serve chilled but its warming, softly aphrodisiac effect was best felt on a crisp, cold day.

Jessom ordered three shots. ‘Would you mind, Eryd, if I suggest you don’t travel to Felrawthy,’ he said quietly as they waited. Helyn had already fallen into conversation with a friend at the counter.

‘Why ever not?’ Lord Bench asked, wondering at the Chancellor’s sudden familiarity.

‘Bad news up north, I’m afraid. Our King will announce it to the court tomorrow in fact. We only heard this morning.’

‘And what is it?’ Eryd felt a chill crawl through him.

‘We have received sketchy reports that the duke might have been killed.’

‘Shar save us!’

Helyn turned at the exclamation and excused herself from her friend. ‘Eryd?’ she said, coming over.

‘That is not all,’ Jessom said sorrowfully. ‘We have had no confirmation yet but the same source reports that all in the family are presumed dead.’

‘This cannot be right,’ Eryd blustered, the chill extending to all parts of his body.

Jessom shook his head. ‘We are not sure, as I say,’ he said carefully. ‘I have sent some reliable men to check. It is shocking, I know. The King is devastated, as you can imagine. He relied heavily on the duke’s counsel regarding the north.’

‘Not to mention his protection. But how could such a thing happen?’ Eryd said.

‘Drink this,’ Helyn said, piecing together the disturbing news. She handed her husband his shot.

Jessom tipped back his head and downed the liquor, feeling its burning warmth. Eryd followed suit, genuinely appalled at the news. Helyn toyed with hers. She suspected — as did her husband — that they were being fed untruths, and yet the story was so shocking it would have to be based in reality, which meant that marvellous family up north probably had suffered.

‘Everyone dead, you say?’ Eryd asked.

Jessom nodded. ‘We await confirmation. The barbarian King’s men apparently. The family was expecting reinforcements of their own and had left the gates open at Tenterdyn. It was so easy. We shall know more in a couple of days. I just think it’s best you don’t take your family to the scene of carnage in case it is true. The region is clearly dangerous now.’

‘Cailech! Why would the Mountain King be bothered with Jeryb?’ Eryd spluttered, signalling for a second shot.

‘I think the self-crowned madman of the north must have decided that the duke was his main obstacle. By dealing with Felrawthy he probably believes he has effectively crushed Morgravia’s northern defences.’

Helyn could hardly help her snort. ‘You believe that the Mountain King has actually invaded and might head south?’

Jessom put his hand to his lips to signify that they must be careful what they said. ‘King Celimus suspects as much. The duke had confirmed many sightings of Cailech’s men in our northern lands. I fear, madam, that it is only a matter of time before the Mountain King feels confident enough to try for an invasion.’

‘Well, thank you for the warning, Chancellor,’ Eryd said, holding out his hand in farewell. ‘This is dire news indeed. We shall certainly steer clear of that region.’

Jessom blinked slowly and nodded before he shook Eryd’s hand. Helyn decided he reminded her of a vulture. ‘I am glad, Lord Bench. Be safe on your travels.’ He bowed and turned to Helyn. ‘Lady Bench, my respects to your lovely daughter. May Shar guide you all on your journey.’

‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly, pulling her hand away as quickly as she dared from the vulture’s touch.

They left, Eryd’s second glass of shorron untouched. Jessom drank it himself, pleased with his morning’s work. He felt quietly confident that he could call off permanent observation of the Bench family now. He would have their party followed on their departure for the north, and if they took the westernmost road towards the port of Brightstone rather than the road which veered east towards Felrawthy, it would satisfy him — and no doubt his King — that this family was no threat.

Outside, Lady Bench hurried to keep up with her husband’s long and presently angry stride. ‘Do you believe him?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘That Felrawthy has fallen? Yes. Not how it fell, though. Cailech is not that bold. Jessom forgets I know the north better than most. No, this is darker work. I think Leyen’s warning, and your suspicion about our King, is right.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Nothing! Just observe for now — it’s what you’re best at.’

King Celimus pondered all that Jessom had told him. ‘I am inclined to agree: the Bench family is no threat. Their watchers can be released. Now, I want you to have a letter couriered to Valentyna for me. It is obvious that Leyen or Faryl, whatever her name is, has not succeeded in dealing with Ylena and perhaps may not follow my other instructions to head to Briavel. We shall have to rely on Aremys to deal with the Thirsk woman. I’d prefer it if you copied this one yourself.’

‘Of course, sire.’ Jessom fiddled with parchment and quills, searching for the right one. ‘Ready, my lord.’

Celimus strolled to his study window and glanced down into the courtyard. ‘My dear Valentyna,’ he began. ‘No, wait! Make that, Valentyna, my dearest,’ the King corrected. He listened as Jessom scratched away at the paper then continued slowly: ‘I do hope this finds you in good health, although no doubt as busy with matters of the realm as I find myself. Perhaps you have made some time to get to know the exquisite filly I gifted you? I gather she arrived in fine spirits at her new home and I know she has found the most generous and caring of owners. I would be interested to hear whether you liked the name I chose for her — she is the latest offspring of one of my finest brood mares. I am sure that you and she will enjoy sharing good times in that beautiful woodland surrounding Werryl.’

He paused, waiting for Jessom to catch up.

‘Darling Valentyna — I hope that’s not too forward?’

‘No, sire, it’s perfect,’ Jessom replied, faithfully recording his monarch’s love letter.

‘Darling Valentyna,’ Celimus repeated, ‘I hope you know that it is my heart’s desire to formalise our union without unnecessary delay. Since meeting you I have thought of nothing else but our marriage and the bringing together of our realms in peace and harmony.’

Jessom scratched furiously. ‘And now a gentle threat, sire?’ he prompted softly.

Celimus chuckled. ‘You know my mind too well, Chancellor,’ he said. ‘Indeed, we must spice this note with a warning. Let me see now,’ he pondered, watching the comings and goings in the yard below. ‘Ah, yes. Time threatens our peace, my dear one. The upstart of the north — King Cailech, as he hails himself — has spilled the blue blood of Morgravia with his slaughter of the Duke of Felrawthy and his entire family. I am sure you will grieve with all Morgravians at the tragic loss of this fine and noble line. We are taking steps to shore up our defences in the north, but I sense that Cailech grows confident and with the smell of Morgravian blood in his nostrils will now push south. My fear is that when he meets our resistance — and it will be fierce, I promise — he will turn his attention to Briavel. I cannot — nay, will not — permit this savage to threaten you, my darling, or your land. Once sworn enemies, we must now cleave together. Let me help to keep you and Briavel safe. I will pledge my entire Legion to the defence of both our realms as soon as you confirm our marriage.’

He turned and beamed at Jessom. The Chancellor wondered how Valentyna could ever resist that radiant smile. ‘Brilliant, sire. Perhaps we should suggest a date?’

‘Yes! Read back the last line.’

Jessom did so.

‘Good. Go on and say, I have set a date of the last day of spring. I see you as a spring bride when the land is bursting with life again. It is how you make me feel, Valentyna, filled with a sense of new beginnings.’ He paused again to consider how to finish his letter.

‘My man carries accompanying paperwork for your signature and, once returned, I will begin to make preparations for our splendid wedding day, a day when all Morgravians and Briavellians will rejoice together. And our enemies will fear us, my beautiful one. No one will ever threaten our new empire.’

He clapped his hands gleefully. ‘And then you can finish as you see fit.’

‘I shall get this away immediately, sire.’

‘Have the courier await the reply. A few days’ turnaround no doubt?’

‘Weather permitting, my King.’

‘See to it, Jessom.’

The Chancellor began clearing his papers.

‘What’s happening at Felrawthy by the way?’ the King asked.

‘I have sent some reliable men to clear away all evidence.’

‘The bodies?’

‘Will be burned.’

‘Excellent. But you will leave some signs to suggest this was the work of the Mountain Dwellers?’

‘Already taken care of, sire.’

‘Thank you, Jessom. And I want news of your assassins soonest.’

Celimus felt happy and in control. In this mood he felt it was appropriate to take his pleasure with a woman.

‘Have the Lady Amelia sent up.’

‘As you wish, sire. I believe her bruises have healed,’ Jessom murmured as he bowed and departed.

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE MEN STOOD AROUND the pit looking deeply disturbed. Some scratched their heads nervously, others fidgeted and tried to hold their breath. No one was sure what to say. There were supposed to be four bodies but they counted only three stinking corpses.

‘Fetch someone who was here,’ their leader growled. A man was brought before him several minutes later. ‘How many corpses were there?’

The man looked surprised. ‘Four — three men, one woman.’

‘Well, we’ve got only the three men. The duke and the two sons you managed to deal with.’

The sarcasm was not lost on the man and he responded with defiance, not cowed by this second group who suddenly appeared today with new orders from the Chancellor. ‘The third son was not at Tenterdyn. The woman definitely was.’

‘Well, she’s not now!’ the leader roared. ‘Do you want to explain that to the man who is paying us a lot of gold to do this?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

The leader sneered. ‘I’m suggesting, you idiot, that the woman was never fully dead. She might have looked it but she’s got away… or someone helped her.’

The other man bristled at the insult, remembering how revolting it had felt to rape the dead woman. It was clear then she had taken her last breath. ‘She was dead I tell you,’ he snarled back.

‘Well, you find her corpse and let the paymaster know when you do. I shall be reporting that we disposed of three male bodies only. And I reckon it’s not just your purses you men should be worried about.’ He winked at the first man, who understood perfectly the underlying threat. ‘Burn the three men,’ he added, ‘and I suggest your people start searching Brynt and its surrounds for a dazed woman. Try the chapels, the hospices, anywhere they offer succour without questions. She will go to ground.’

Not far away Aleda grimaced as she heard this conversation come to a close. If only they knew that she was barely a few yards from where they had done their ugly work.

She had regained consciousness during the early evening of the day of the attack. With her wits had come memory and all the horror of what had passed. It was only then that she became fully oriented and realised she was lying on top of one of her sons in a pit covered by branches. Dusk allowed some dying light to filter through the leaves and twigs overhead and she screamed to discover Jorge beneath her. His eyes were open and it seemed to his mother that he wore an expression of anger, even though she knew that in death it was not possible to hold any look. He had died fighting for her honour. She began to weep and scrabbling further discovered her other boy, Daryn, as cold and lifeless to the touch as his brother. She remembered now how he had been cut down before her.

To her despair her darling husband’s headless body lay at the bottom of this pit of death. She saw his head tossed carelessly at his feet. Her sobs grew louder. They would have laughed as they threw it in, she imagined. She had cradled the bloodied head of her husband in her lap and cried for hours as she stroked his dearly loved face.

When her sobs finally subsided realisation had hit and she looked around frantically. ‘Crys!’ she shrieked. It was the absence of her eldest son that gave her the courage to claw her way out of the pit. She fell several times, sobbing and scrabbling at the earth that caved in on her and covered her beloved menfolk. Finally she made it and lay at the lip of the pit, keening with sorrow and trembling from her exertions. She did not notice her bleeding knees or torn fingernails.

Perhaps Crys still lives, she comforted herself, desperately pushing away the fear that he might have been taken and tortured by their attackers. And then she remembered Pil and Brother Lewk and wondered why their bodies were not here amongst the dead. Aleda ran her hands through her hair, streaking it with more mud, and slowly permitted herself the knowledge that her body was badly hurt. The pain was not easily described. It felt deep within and, with a woman’s instinct, she knew the injuries may yet kill her. It was almost night now, so she could only see the blood on her skirts as a dark stain but she knew it was there, remembered all too well how it was earned. Death was not her fear now. Time was. She was happy to die, would welcome the sight of Shar’s Gatherers, if not for the painful hope that Crys may still live… may still need her.

She could hear Jeryb in her mind, encouraging her to flee. ‘Get away from here,’ he said to her. ‘Hide!’

Exhausted, she re-covered the pit and, weeping more lightly now, remembered a hide that Crys had once made just slightly uphill. He had boasted that he could see the northern route from there, just in case the Mountain People ever came raiding. He was much younger then and she had laughed indulgently at him but his father had praised him for his endeavour and foresight. ‘You can never be too well prepared for raiders, son,’ he had said and ruffled the youngster’s hair.

Her eldest son still used the hide occasionally when tracking animals and had kept it clean and dry. He had invited her to sit in it once and Aleda had marvelled at the cosy comfort. It was sheltered and relatively warm for their harsh climate, and he always kept it stocked which amused her. Food had always been high in her growing son’s mind.

She had crawled towards that haven and lay in its safe womb for two days, trying to heal, thanking Crys silently for the waterskin there. There was no food, but the water had kept her alive. Aleda had heard the men come back, heard their banter and ugly jokes at her family’s expense. And now she could see them as they dragged the bodies of her beloved menfolk towards a fire and, without ceremony, threw them on to the flames to burn. They could not burn her memories, though, Aleda thought, fanning her fury in tandem with the fire as its flames licked higher into the air. She knew who was responsible for this — a king, yes, but not the Mountain King. Celimus would be sorry his cold and beautiful mother ever conceived him, Aleda promised herself as she watched her family burn.

She waited another half day in the hide, just to be sure the men had gone. It was too late to retrieve anything from the pyre. They had scattered it, destroying as much evidence of the fire and its contents as possible. All her men were dead — bar one, she prayed. She clung to the hope that Crys lived and, as she crept back to the family house to find warm travelling clothes and medicines to help kill the pain of her injuries, Aleda tried to imagine where her son might find sanctuary. He was no longer safe in Morgravia; neither was she for that matter. He had been escorting Elspyth to the border with Briavel. Perhaps he had returned to Tenterdyn but seen the devastation in time and fled. But where to?

There was nothing for it. She would have to travel to Briavel and find Elspyth. Perhaps the young woman’s final encounter with Crys might reveal something. Hopefully Elspyth had succeeded in gaining the protection of Queen Valentyna. Aleda, in her befuddled state, even began to beg Shar that Crys had seduced Elspyth — it was obvious to all that he had been entranced by the woman from Yentro — and that they had travelled on together into Briavel. But Crys would not desert his family. It suddenly dawned on her she was not just chasing the last remaining heir of Felrawthy but also its new duke. Did Crys even know?

With only a small bag to carry, it was not worth looking in the stable for a horse. The attackers had stolen everything; the house itself had been ransacked of all valuables. None of it mattered. Grazing in a nearby field was the same donkey that had brought Elspyth to them. She would take that. She assumed Brother Lewk had fled in such a hurry that he would not be back for the animal.

She led the animal to the stables, found a saddle that would do and, as fast as her aching body allowed, got the animal ready for the long trip to the famed city of Werryl.

If Wyl Thirsk believed in the Briavellian Queen, then so must she.

Aleda lost track of time on her journey. She could no longer remember when the attack had occurred, how many days it had been since death came to Tenterdyn. All that mattered now was staying alive long enough to make it to the famed palace at Werryl and keeping the donkey fed, rested and watered so she could achieve her goal.

She had been clear-thinking enough to pack oats and water. She knew the animal could forage along the way for grass and foliage that had survived the winter frosts. She herself was warmly dressed; besides, her anger and fierce single-minded determination prevented her feeling the cold’s pinch on her face. She intended to ride the donkey for as many hours a day as she could before her body fell from the saddle.

She had bled again but ignored it. She did her best to keep her strength up and forced herself to eat. Sometimes she managed only a few mouthfuls but persevered. Her body — if it was going to heal, which she doubted — needed nourishment. She had also had the foresight to grab some family documents and a small portrait of herself and Jeryb. These would be required, she assumed, in order to prove her identity, for right now she looked anything but the wife of the second wealthiest man in the kingdom of Morgravia. She also carried the sack with its gruesome contents that Ylena had brought with her to Tenterdyn.

Once Aleda had crossed the River Tague, she felt a small measure of her burden lift. She knew she was on enemy territory now, yet it was to this enemy she was turning for safety. She moved towards the east for some hours, knowing she would be picked up by the Briavellian Guard soon. She hoped so for her strength was rapidly dwindling; even her sight felt as though it was narrowing. But she had to hold on, had to find word of Crys.

TWENTY-NINE

THE CURIOUS-LOOKING TRIO OF travellers waited at the Werryl Bridge while word was sent to the Briavellian Commander of the arrival of a novice monk, a noble from Morgravia and a young woman from Yentro claiming to have a special missive for Queen Valentyna.

Liryk recognised the noble’s family name; it was not one to be ignored. All the same, he shook his head. ‘Ask them to give us the document and we will consider their request.’

‘I’ve tried that, sir,’ his captain replied. ‘They are quite firm.’

Liryk considered. The Queen’s mood had plummeted into nothing short of despair since the death of Romen Koreldy. She masked it well for strangers but those close to her knew their sovereign was emotionally scarred. She carried on her duties with vigour and dedication but she was withdrawn and strangely detached from all of them.

‘Tell them it is impossible. The Queen is indisposed and they can either pass over the letter and await instructions or they can leave.’

His captain clicked a bow and, rather than leave it to one of his minions, went out to meet with the Morgravians himself.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve been advised to tell you that Commander Liryk will not permit you entry. He insists on seeing the paperwork you speak of and then your request will be considered.’ The soldier saw the woman’s shoulders slump. All three looked exhausted and disappointed.

As fate would have it, Valentyna chose that moment to emerge from her private study and stroll out on to the battlements. She noticed the trio on the bridge speaking with her captain. The woman seemed to be looking at him imploringly.

‘Who are those people?’ she enquired absently of Liryk who had welcomed her with a broad smile.

‘Morgravians, apparently, your highness, requesting entry to Werryl. Captain Orlyd will bring news of them shortly.’

She looked down again. Their clear fatigue piqued her interest. ‘Do we have their names?’

‘The young noble’s name is known to me. A proud Morgravian family, but for all we know this man could be an impostor.’

Valentyna frowned. ‘Why are they here?’

‘Our patrol picked them up at Greenfield. They impressed our men as honest, offering the information that they were from Morgravia with a missive for you, your highness.’

This struck the Queen as odd but she held her tongue and waited until Captain Orlyd had reappeared.

‘Ah, Orlyd,’ Liryk said.

The man’s eyes flicked warily towards the Commander as he bowed to his sovereign.

‘What news of those people, captain?’ Valentyna asked, the kindness in her tone encouraging the young officer.

‘Your highness, they beseeched me to tell you that they are friends of General Wyl Thirsk. They… they mentioned Romen Koreldy,’ he stammered, embarrassed. He was one of those entrusted with the secret of Koreldy’s death and subsequent burial at Werryl.

Both men saw Valentyna’s eyes widen and the flash of colour that suddenly erupted on her cheeks at the mention of Romen’s name.

‘Bring them to me,’ she ordered, flustered. ‘I shall be in my solar.’

Liryk sighed and nodded. ‘Search them carefully,’ he ordered Orlyd.

Two soldiers escorted the travellers across the famous Werryl Bridge. Former Briavellian Kings watched them pass by, their carved stone forms towering over them. Crys, despite his bitter sorrow, could not help commenting on the city’s spectacular setting, with meadows all around and the river rushing beneath them. He told their guides how he had heard about Werryl from occasional travellers who passed through Morgravia’s north, but no one had ever done its beauty justice. The men smiled, enjoying his sincere appreciation of their city.

On the other side of the bridge their horses were led away and Elspyth, Crys and Pil were asked to follow the captain through the huge gate that yawned before them, giving entry to the famed city of Werryl. Elspyth marvelled at its sparkling beauty and soaring towers of whitestone, exclusive to this region. It struck her that where Stoneheart was all dark and brooding majesty, this palace was bathed in a light of its own, reaching towards the skies. She did not remark on it though; instead she lowered her head and gratefully followed the soldier to their audience with Wyl’s Queen. She could think of Valentyna no other way.

‘Let me do the talking, Crys,’ she cautioned in a whisper. He nodded. Pil trotted silently alongside, dazzled by the beauty around him.

They ascended an ornately fashioned staircase. An older man met them at the top. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said and dismissed Orlyd.

The old man bowed slightly. Elspyth appreciated his graciousness towards them. ‘I am Chancellor Krell. I will escort you to meet her majesty,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should hold off further introductions until you have been presented to our Queen and Commander Liryk. Come now, you all look terribly tired. Let me organise some refreshments.’

He signalled to a page and quietly issued some orders. The boy hurried away. Krell gave the trio a reassuring nod. ‘I have decided you look famished too — we’ll rustle up some food so none of you collapse at her majesty’s feet.’

Elspyth grinned. She liked him straightaway.

‘Why did her majesty suddenly agree to see us?’ Crys asked.

Krell smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps her highness should answer that herself. We are here.’ He knocked at the door, then opened it for them.

Elspyth knew for certain why the Queen had invited them in — it was the mention of either Wyl’s or Romen’s name. She knew Valentyna was attractive because she had pushed Wyl for a description during their long walk from Straplyn to Deakyn, which felt like a lifetime ago now. But expecting the description to reflect the embellishments of a man in love, she was completely unprepared for the tall, statuesque beauty who turned as they entered. Wyl had not exaggerated in the slightest.

‘Your highness,’ Krell said, ‘this is Elspyth of Yentro, Crys Donal of Felrawthy, and Pil, novice of Shar and lately of Rittylworth Monastery.’

Valentyna nodded thanks to her Chancellor. ‘Be welcome, all of you. Krell, have we organised some refreshments?’ She knew he would have but the polite enquiry would help to ease introductions.

‘On its way, your majesty.’

‘Thank you. Come in, all of you,’ she motioned as they straightened from their various bows. ‘Do sit, please. I understand you have made a long and tiring journey.’

A little stunned to be in the same room as this dazzling woman, they sat silently.

‘Now, forgive my informal welcome,’ Valentyna said, smiling wryly at her garments. ‘These are the Queen of Briavel’s working clothes,’ she added, arching an eyebrow and making Pil chortle briefly, which was precisely the effect she was hoping for. They all looked so tense, she could hardly imagine what news was about to be delivered. ‘This is Commander Liryk,’ she said.

Their gazes turned towards the man standing near the solar window. He nodded at Crys. ‘I know your father,’ he commented. ‘A fierce soldier, a good man.’

‘Knew him, sir,’ Crys said. He had not meant it to come out so viciously but his emotions were not in control right now. ‘He was murdered a few days ago, along with my mother and my two brothers.’

Elspyth’s heart sank. She had hoped to handle the news with a bit more diplomacy but it was out now. She risked a glance at the Queen who threw a look of sympathy towards her, as though she sensed this was not how Elspyth had planned their meeting.

‘What?’ Liryk roared. ‘Felrawthy dead?’

Elspyth knew she had to take control; she could not let Wyl down again and allow Crys’s mouth to run away with details the Briavellians would not accept. This had to be told properly in order to win their help. She stood.

‘Crys, please. Your highness, we have a shocking tale to tell you. Perhaps if you’ll allow me…?’

Valentyna nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said, waving away Crys’s attempt to begin an apology. The Queen, Elspyth could see, was very concerned for the young noble. Elspyth glared at him to stop him saying anything else damaging.

‘My companion is having to deal with much heartache,’ she said. ‘Please forgive us this sudden intrusion and how odd this must all look. Commander Liryk, Crys Donal is the new Duke of Felrawthy.’

The Queen sat down, sensing the import of what she was about to hear. ‘Tell us everything,’ she said, as Krell ushered in serving staff with trays of food and drinks, both hot and cold. ‘But first you must eat.’

She smiled encouragingly at Crys, but it was Pil, smitten by this utterly gorgeous woman who was a Queen but sat before him in the plainest of garb, who beamed back at her.

In between mouthfuls, Elspyth told her audience their sorry story. When she had finished speaking she could not help but lean over and squeeze Crys’s hand. He had not eaten or drunk anything.

‘All dead,’ Liryk muttered angrily. ‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Pil witnessed all that I have spoken of. He can confirm that the duke and his twin sons are dead.’

The young monk nodded bleakly.

‘They would not have permitted my mother to live,’ Crys said, emerging from his silence.

‘And you are absolutely certain that these men were hired by King Celimus?’ Valentyna asked, her voice as cold as the grave.

Liryk squirmed. This was everything they did not need as negotiations progressed towards the marriage of Morgravia’s and Briavel’s monarchs. ‘Your highness,’ he began but Valentyna held up her hand and returned her penetrating dark blue gaze to Elspyth.

It was unsettling to have such intense attention levelled at her. Elspyth suddenly felt as though no one else’s opinion mattered to the Queen but hers. She recalled how Wyl had mentioned how Valentyna could make you feel as though you were the only person in the room.

‘From what I gather, your majesty,’ she said carefully, ‘Celimus is capable of anything.’

‘That’s not absolute certainty, though, is it?’ the Queen replied, her gaze steady.

Elspyth blinked. She could tell Wyl’s whole story and shock these Briavellians but she had sworn not to break the promise, had seen the damaging effects of having done so once before. ‘No, but Aremys and Faryl, both assassins in the employ of Celimus, confirmed it was his doing. They were ordered to kill Ylena Thirsk.’

‘Your majesty, we cannot go on the word of hired mercenaries. They would say anything, do anything, for gold,’ Liryk warned.

Elspyth bristled. ‘We did not pay them!’ she said angrily to the soldier, then pulled back her claws. ‘Forgive me, your highness. Aremys can be trusted.’ She delved into her pocket. ‘I have a letter for you. It is from…’ and she hesitated, almost saying Wyl. ‘From Ylena.’

‘Wyl Thirsk’s sister?’ The Queen frowned, taking it from her.

‘Yes, your highness. Aremys took her to safety,’ she said, despairing at her own ability to lie so easily. She eyed the others, daring them to contradict her.

Krell stepped back into the room and glided towards the Queen at her nod. He bent to whisper something to her.

‘Excuse me,’ she said distractedly to her audience. ‘Apparently there is an urgent messenger from Morgravia.’ She tucked Wyl’s letter away. ‘I shall return shortly. Please make yourselves comfortable and eat more. We won’t keep you long from your beds,’ she finished kindly.

In her absence Liryk felt obliged to continue the discussion, despite his shock at learning of the death of Jeryb Donal, a formidable enemy who had respected the laws of war. Like his former General, Fergys Thirsk, the duke was not one to pursue a battle for the sake of it.

‘I am very sorry to hear of your loss, son,’ he said into the awkward silence.

Elspyth was glad that Crys was gracious enough to acknowledge the Commander’s commiserations.

‘Can you enlighten me as to how you know for sure these were men sent by your King?’ Liryk pressed, hoping they could not.

Crys glanced towards Elspyth and caught her glare. ‘Well, because they apparently said as much. They were trying to track down Ylena Thirsk, who had been removed from Stoneheart by Romen Koreldy.’

Pil nodded. ‘That’s right. Koreldy brought her to the monastery seeking shelter and sanctuary. She had been abused by the Crown, and I don’t put that lightly, sir,’ he qualified. He flushed at everyone’s attention suddenly locked on to him. He too had been sworn to secrecy about Wyl and was terrified he might slip up. ‘Romen left her with us.’

‘And then the King’s men burned Rittylworth you say — its monastery too. Whatever for?’ Liryk asked.

Pil’s eyes misted as he thought of his destroyed home. ‘They were Legionnaires, sir, under orders to raze the village and teach it a lesson for harbouring a traitor. It was Ylena they were calling a traitor, although they would have to be especially brainwashed soldiers to believe that of Thirsk. Ylena was sure they were mercenaries masquerading as Legionnaires for this reason.’

‘None of whom were traitorous to my knowledge,’ Elspyth said, realising too late that it was a mistake to say this because she apparently had not known Wyl Thirsk. However, the Commander was sufficiently confused not to pin her down on this point. She suspected Valentyna might have and knew she would have to be still more careful when the Queen returned. She wished she could just come clean but they might throw them all out for being halfwits if she were to suggest that Wyl Thirsk now walked in the body of his sister.

‘The men were also looking for the woman known as Faryl of Coombe,’ Crys added. ‘She had been at Tenterdyn, but did not stay once we told her we had not seen Ylena,’ he said carefully. ‘Faryl had most recently come from the King and she too was tracking Ylena Thirsk with a view to killing her. We learned this through Aremys who arrived shortly after her departure, also looking for Ylena but to protect her not kill her. It is too much of a coincidence that these assassins, paid by the King, should be followed by more men bent on finding Ylena Thirsk.’

‘And this Aremys you speak of — if he is a hired mercenary why does he want to help Ylena?’

‘He is a friend of Romen’s,’ Elspyth cut in before either of her companions could respond. ‘I… er… gather they were both of Grenadyn,’ she added, recalling something Wyl had mentioned.

The Queen re-entered, her expression grim enough to be set in stone. Both Liryk and Crys stood immediately and bowed. Pil leapt to his feet too late. Elspyth was not sure what the correct protocol was, having never been in a sovereign’s presence.

‘Relax, everyone,’ Valentyna said, pushing away some stray strands of hair. ‘We have much to discuss. You need a rest first, though. Please follow Stewyt who will show you to some rooms where you can sleep for a few hours and refresh yourselves. Commander, I have called a meeting of our senior nobles. Krell is gathering them now. We meet this evening. The news from Morgravia is extraordinary.’

Elspyth lay restless on the bed in a small chamber that smelled of fresh herbs and offered a beautiful view of orchards. She knew she would not sleep. She felt as she had that day in Cailech’s fortress, when her emotions had churned inside her. Although she was desperately tired, she could not drift off as she so wanted to. The refreshing bath and the generously provided clean garments made her feel even more awake in fact and so she welcomed the soft tap at her door an hour or so after she had been shown to her room.

It was Stewyt again. ‘Her highness wonders if you would care for some company, Miss Elspyth,’ he said with a small bow.

Elspyth was both surprised and delighted by the invitation. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll just fetch my shawl.’

She followed the lad along the corridors and stairways of the palace. This time she did notice its elegance, so different to the duller grey of Stoneheart. It was built of the cool whitestone of Briavel which seemed to pulse with its own inner light, reflecting and intensifying the glow of flames from the sconces and cressets. Its architects were aiming for beauty alone in this palace of exquisite archways and wide, sweeping flights of stairs. Colour was everywhere in tapestries and carpets, paintings of previous kings and floral decorations. Elspyth had never been in a palace before but she knew from conversations with people who had visited Stoneheart that Morgravia’s royals lived in a far more sombre place than this.

A sound of pleasure esaped Elspyth as they entered an area which contained a series of recesses which had been artfully painted to show glorious scenes, presumably from Briavel’s folklore. ‘Aren’t they brilliant!’ she exclaimed. ‘I feel as though I can see forever into the landscapes.’

Stewyt beamed. ‘This is a special kind of art, peculiar to Briavel, Miss Elspyth. It’s called Pretence.’

She glanced at him quizzically. He continued. ‘These are more than a century old. There was a movement of art in our realm called the Pretenders. They created scenes from our old stories and legends which is why they have this fantastical quality. And you mentioned the perspective.’ He nodded at her. ‘Their work tricks the eye into believing you are looking through a window on to a spectacular outdoor scene.’

‘I adore them.’

‘Thank you. It will please her majesty to hear this,’ he said graciously, then added as they turned a corner, ‘Our Queen loves music… and dancing.’ They passed a chamber through whose slightly ajar door Elspyth glimpsed a quintet of musicians practising. It was a wondrous sound of strings which echoed down the new wing they were currently travelling. Elspyth realised that they were not heading deeper into the palace.

‘The Queen will meet you in the herb gardens,’ Stewyt said and held open a door for her that led outside.

They found Valentyna picking lavender. She had changed into a deep purple gown and again wore no adornments. She needs none, Elspyth decided, admiring the Queen’s natural beauty.

Valentyna looked up at the sound of their arrival. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you came,’ she said to Elspyth, smiling warmly as if welcoming an old friend. She handed the lavender stems to the page. ‘Thank you, Stewyt. Would you have these sent up to my chambers, please.’ She turned back to her guest. ‘Walk with me, would you? It is a beautiful afternoon and these gardens do wonders for my spirits.’

Elspyth hardly knew what to say as she fell in with the Queen’s graceful step.

‘I thought you might find it easier to speak freely without the men,’ Valentyna admitted conspiratorially.

‘Thank you, your majesty. Crys is having to face so much — it’s certainly difficult talking about it all.’

‘I can’t imagine what he’s going through, losing his family in such horrific circumstances.’

‘Do you believe us, your majesty?’ Elspyth asked in her direct way.

The Queen paused beneath a lemon tree. She inhaled its fragrance. ‘Yes,’ she replied softly.

Elspyth let out her breath. She felt like crying with relief.

‘Do you know that Romen Koreldy is dead?’ Valentyna asked, just as directly.

Her companion nodded. ‘Word travels fast.’ Her mind raced as to how she could know this. Before she could find an explanation the Queen spoke again.

‘From whom did you learn this news?’

Elspyth felt trapped. This was a test clearly. She wanted to be as honest as she could with this woman whose sanctuary they sought, but she could not betray Wyl’s wishes once again.

‘Originally some Briavellian merchants told me. I was travelling with them. But it was confirmed by a woman called Faryl,’ she said, making her decision, trying to be as truthful as she would with Valentyna.

‘And how did she hear of it?’ the Queen asked, bending down to smell some basil. It seemed a reasonable question but there was a tension there that told Elspyth how loaded it was.

‘I gather she was in Briavel when it happened, your highness.’

‘I see. That’s interesting. Would you describe her to me? I do have good reason for asking.’ The Queen handed Elspyth a sprig of mint to smell and smiled disarmingly.

Elspyth took a deep breath. ‘She is tall and strong-looking, a handsome woman. She has a very direct golden-brown gaze,’ she said, recalling Faryl in better detail as she concentrated on remembering those terrible few minutes after Wyl had entered the room at Tenterdyn.

Valentyna put her hand on Elspyth’s arm. ‘Ah yes, her eyes have a feline quality, don’t they? And her hair is an auburn colour, not unattractive but unfashionably short for a woman at shoulder-length.’

Elspyth blushed as the Queen turned her now-hard blue gaze on her. ‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘That sums her up rather well.’

Valentyna’s look darkened. ‘I believe, Elspyth, that this Faryl you speak of is the Hildyth who murdered Romen. No one else believes me here. It is not something that matters to them, but it matters very much to me to know who perpetrated this.’

‘She… she is in Celimus’s employ. Aremys confirmed that she is an assassin, your majesty, paid for by the King of Morgravia.’

Valentyna raised her face to the sky in obvious despair. ‘I knew it,’ she muttered. ‘She killed him as he made love to her,’ she added in a choked voice.

‘Please, your highness, let us sit,’ Elspyth suggested, taking the Queen’s arm and encouraging her towards a low stone bench surrounded by sweet-smelling bushes.

‘Thank you,’ Valentyna said when they were seated. There was a slightly awkward pause as she pushed away the one stray tear that threatened to roll down her cheek. ‘May I tell you a secret, Elspyth?’

‘Yes, your highness.’

‘I was in love with Romen Koreldy but we never made love, not like he did with that murderous whore, Hildyth.’

‘He was an easy man to fall in love with,’ Elspyth admitted, unsure what was expected of her during this moment of candidness from the sovereign.

‘How well did you know him?’

‘We met each other in Yentro. We were captured together by men from the mountains.’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘He told me everything of his time in the north.’

Not everything, Elspyth suspected. ‘Then you have heard him speak of me, your highness?’

‘Yes, I know of you, Elspyth. This is why I do believe you about this terrible business at Felrawthy. But you see, all of my advisers and the nobility of Briavel so badly want me to marry Celimus. I need to give them proof that he is as sinister and treacherous as you tell us.’

‘And the death of your father is not sufficient, I presume?’ Elspyth said bitterly, then grabbed the Queen’s hands and swung to her knees before her. ‘Oh, your highness, forgive me,’ she begged. ‘That was cruel. You have been very fair with us — I just feel so frightened and desperate.’

Valentyna smiled softly at the bowed head of Romen’s friend, wondering how he had not fallen for this pretty, feisty woman who had come into his life before she had.

‘You are forgiven, for it is a fair accusation,’ Valentyna replied. ‘But you need to understand that we cannot risk war with Morgravia, Elspyth. This is diplomacy at its most frustrating. It seems my father’s death must be overlooked in order to win peace for Briavel.’ She paused before adding, ‘Romen mentioned a Mountain man called Lothryn.’

Elspyth flinched at the name and saw recognition of that reaction in the Queen’s imposing gaze. Honesty was required here. She nodded. ‘A very brave man who put our lives before his own because he did not believe we deserved to die. He defied his King, probably paid for it with his life.’

‘Romen said that you and Lothryn are in love.’

‘I… we were… are, your highness,’ Elspyth admitted, deeply disconcerted that Valentyna knew so much about her. ‘I will never love another.’

Valentyna’s expression showed a ghost of a sad agreement. ‘Then you will know how hard this is for me. I too can never love anyone as much as I loved Romen Koreldy in the short time we knew each other, but I am being forced to marry the man who organised the slaughter of Romen, the assassination of my father, and the murder of Wyl Thirsk who tried to warn me about Celimus.’

‘Don’t marry him, your highness,’ Elspyth warned. ‘Do everything in your power to avoid it. Did you read Ylena’s letter?’

‘I did. She wants me to wait for her and says that she will help me.’ The Queen gave a short hollow laugh. ‘What can a young helpless noblewoman from Morgravia on the run from her own King — who wants her dead — do to help the cause of the Briavellian Crown?’

Elspyth agreed, it did sound futile. She desperately wished she could tell the Queen the truth that Ylena was brave Wyl, had been Romen. ‘Trust her is all I ask. She begged me to implore this of you and to offer my service to you.’

‘Yes, she mentioned that too. I am glad of your friendship, Elspyth, really I am, but can you appreciate how odd all this is?’

Elspyth nodded, returning to sit beside Valentyna.

The Queen sighed. ‘The worst of it is that I do want to trust her! She sounds like a man writing to me if you can believe that — as though her own brother, the General, is talking as he did during our only meeting. Romen made me feel safe and secure; Wyl Thirsk did too when he ordered me to accompany Fynch to make our escape from the mercenaries who killed my father. And now his sister conveys the same sense of strength.’ She shook her head. ‘I miss Fynch. He has gone away too, you know. Did you ever meet him?’

Elspyth held her breath at what Valentyna had just said. Without knowing it the Queen had already hit on the truth. Her senses served her well. ‘No, but Romen did speak of him.’

‘He is a very special person. Odd, most might think, and incredibly serious, but there is something about him I can’t really explain. It is as if he is all-knowing, or at least more enlightened than I often feel.’ She turned to look at Elspyth directly. ‘Do you know what Fynch believes?’

Elspyth shook her head slowly, could guess what was coming.

Valentyna raised her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. ‘He believes that Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy are somehow linked. I don’t mean through friendship either. He claims there is a spiritual link, as though they may be one. Are one, in fact, though he stops short of saying it. Now what do you say to that?’

Elspyth squirmed, the truth aching to escape from her lips. She fought the temptation. ‘Queen Valentyna, I hope you won’t be offended if I admit that I believe very strongly in spiritual connections. I do not doubt that souls who belong together will always find one another again, even after death. They will be reborn and search for each other.’

‘Do you really?’

She nodded. ‘I do, your highness. And that is why I believe you and Romen will find each other again,’ she added, coming as close to the truth as she dare.

‘But not in this life,’ Valentyna said sadly.

‘You never know, your highness. There are those who believe that sometimes if a life is taken early — before it is ready to be gathered by Shar — it stays close to the ones it loves.’

Valentyna smiled at her. ‘That’s a rather lovely way of looking at life. It lifts my heart just to hear you say it, even if I can’t believe it.’

‘Oh, you can believe it, your majesty. Allow yourself…take a risk and believe it.’ Elspyth seized her opportunity. She owed Wyl Thirsk this much. ‘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 said, her voice laced with gentle amusement.

Elspyth nodded. ‘Perhaps even a woman,’ she dared.

‘Because it might be him?’ Valentyna’s dark eyes flashed with both embarrassment and bemusement.

‘Yes.’ It was a risk but Elspyth was glad she had taken it.

The Queen surprised her by giving her a hug. ‘I shall remember that. Now come, I have avoided it long enough.’ Elspyth looked at her quizzically. ‘I have called a meeting of the nobility. It’s serious and that is why I am out here.’

‘Thinking time?’

Valentyna nodded, knew Elspyth would understand. ‘I feel as though I am about to enter a chamber to bargain for my life.’

Pil preferred to remove himself from the world of politics and asked to be excused to spend time in the palace chapel with Father Paryn, a man he took to immediately. Crys and Elspyth were invited to attend the meeting which brought together the nobles of Briavel. Respecting the sensitivity of the issue, Chancellor Krell would take notes from the meeting himself and dutifully make a copy each for two important nobles who were not able to reach the capital at short notice. Couriers would take the notes of the meeting to their respective destinations across the realm.

The Queen sombrely entered the chamber where the nobles were gathered. They had arrived a little earlier and were sipping on wine, which most barely tasted. The feeling of tension at being called to this unexpected meeting was overwhelming. Krell dismissed all the servants and, when privacy was assured, Valentyna introduced first Elspyth and then the new Duke of Felrawthy. Shocked whispers ran around the room; most there were familiar with the towering reputation of Jeryb Donal.

‘Gentlemen, these Morgravians are our guests and enjoy the full protection of Briavel,’ the Queen continued. ‘They risked their lives to bring us grave information, riding here in urgency and outrunning their pursuers, who we are presuming were sent to execute them.’ She allowed this fact to sink in. Then outlined succinctly the terrible events that had taken place in Felrawthy.

‘We are not just talking about a very high-ranking noble, gentlemen, but two of his heirs and his wife — all innocents. If it was not for the foresight of Elspyth here, there may well be no heir left to Felrawthy at all,’ the Queen finished.

‘There were four sons if I am not mistaken,’ someone said.

Crys cast a glance at the Queen before answering. ‘Indeed, sir, there were four of us. My youngest brother was murdered at the King’s pleasure in Stoneheart. Reliable witnesses have attested to this fact.’

Excited talk broke out and anything further Crys had planned to say was drowned out. Elspyth noted that Crys had benefited from his rest and refreshment. He looked composed and very focused. Perhaps the gravity of this meeting had reminded him of who he was now and his importance in the political landscape of his realm and indeed of Briavel’s. She chanced a small smile towards him and was thrilled when he cast a tiny wink her way and lifted his strong chin. She knew how deeply he must have dug within himself to find this strength and composure in front of these important strangers. The Duchy of Felrawthy is in safe hands, Jeryb, she thought.

‘Your majesty,’ said a deep and distinguished voice from the centre of the room.

‘Lord Vaughan,’ Valentyna replied.

‘With the greatest of respect to our noble guest, I must ask what the internal politics of Morgravia have to do with Briavel? Until you are married to King Celimus and formally link our two realms, I believe it may be unwise for us to meddle in or even concern ourselves with Morgravia’s domestic matters. Who the King’s men execute on his soil is surely his business alone, providing it is only Morgravian blood that is spilled.’

‘I appreciate your thoughts, Lord Vaughan,’ the Queen said. ‘The problem is that Morgravia has brought this problem to us… in more ways than one. I have only outlined one part of this tale, my lords. As I mentioned, a man of Shar, a novice but nonetheless a devout believer and practitioner, witnessed the shocking slaughter at both Rittylworth Monastery and at Felrawthy. He now seeks peace from these nightmares from our own Father Paryn. I do not for one minute doubt this young man’s word about what he saw. Peaceful men of Shar were cut down as they tended the monastery gardens; the senior monks were crucified and burned.

‘Pil escaped and with him took a woman called Ylena Thirsk, who will attest not only to the bloodbath at Rittylworth but to the execution of Alyd Donal of Felrawthy, her husband of one day. I am sure the significance of her family name is not lost on any of you.’

Angry mutterings broke out which she hushed. ‘Ylena Thirsk was taken to Rittylworth for sanctuary and safekeeping by none other than Romen Koreldy. I already knew of this because he told me about it during his stay with us. When the executioners came they were Legionnaires under the King of Morgravia’s express order to raze the village and its monastery and to kill the holy men.’

‘How can we trust this information, your highness?’ Lord Vaughan asked, sounding exasperated.

Valentyna ignored his tone and looked towards Elspyth who had half hoped she would be spared such scrutiny. She took a deep breath and begged her voice to hold firm.

‘My lords, I happened upon Rittylworth soon after the devastation. I saw the chaos the raiders had left behind, the cruelty of their work. I spoke with the dying head monk as he hung, still smoking, from his cross.’ Elspyth was pleased to see how many of the nobles looked away in pain at her words. ‘He could barely talk through his scorched throat but he confirmed to me that these were the King’s men, that they were searching for Ylena Thirsk and would kill her if they found her.’

‘It seems the King could not risk an all out revolt by the Legion which remains loyal to the Thirsk name. Instead, assassins were set upon Ylena Thirsk’s trail, gentlemen,’ the Queen continued. ‘Once again it seems she has escaped — this time with a man known as Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn. But the noble family who offered her safety did not escape the King’s attention and were punished in the most dire manner.’

She glanced towards Crys who took up the tale.

‘My youngest brother, Alyd, was beheaded as punishment for marrying Ylena Thirsk. The other members of my family were murdered because they offered her a haven. This is all at the hands of a mad King,’ Crys said, eyes burning passionately with hate for his sovereign.

Angry exclamations from the stunned audience prompted Krell to cast a warning glance to his Queen.

‘Gentlemen, please.’ She held her hand up. ‘Let us take some wine together and calm ourselves.’

The mood did not change, despite Valentyna’s best intentions, but at least the gathered nobles were prepared to hear her out and quietened as they drank fresh goblets of the fine wine.

Valentyna motioned to Krell who handed her a parchment. ‘This arrived today from Morgravia,’ she said. ‘It is a firm offer of marriage from King Celimus. He has set a date of the last day of spring.’

She could feel their joy at the reality of the wedding like a separate pulse in the room. It nauseated her.

‘He continues by warning me of a very real threat from King Cailech of the Mountain Kingdom.’

‘Briavel and Morgravia are stronger united, your majesty. Celimus is right,’ said a man from the northern province, who felt Cailech’s threat more keenly.

The Queen nodded without commitment to his sentiment. ‘Celimus goes on to explain that he has proof of this threat, claiming that the Donal family of Felrawthy were slaughtered mercilessly by Cailech’s men.’

Crys stepped forward angrily. ‘That’s a lie!’ Elspyth reached towards him but he shook her arm away. ‘Cailech is too wise to risk his people now. It’s easier to let Morgravia and Briavel tear each other apart… can’t you see?’ he roared, looking around the room. ‘The Mountain King has never set foot in Felrawthy. Our men would have known about even the slightest incursion into the east and we would have been well warned of any raiding party. The northern defences established by my father were second to none. Believe me when I say that this is Celimus contriving excuses, poisoning Briavel’s collective mind to alleviate himself of suspicion so that the marriage will go ahead.’

The Queen nodded; Crys had summed it up perfectly. She looked around the room, trying to gauge the mood.

‘My lords, Wyl Thirsk warned me of Celimus’s more sinister intentions when he brought the marriage proposal to my father. He counselled that Celimus may not be as interested in peace as he is in acquiring the rich and fertile lands of Briavel. It is my belief that he wishes to rule us, gentlemen, merely paying lip service to our own proud sovereignty. He is empire building, sirs. Why else would King Valor have met such an ugly death? Celimus wanted us vulnerable and desperate for peace.’

She hoped this subtle mention of her father might win the support she wanted but instead all eyes averted their gaze from her own. There was uncertainty in the air.

‘We must not turn from the prospect of peace, your majesty,’ one of the oldest nobles declared plaintively. Valentyna’s heart sank. She knew in that instant that she would not escape marriage to the King of Morgravia. These nobles would prefer to accept rule from the usurper if it meant no more of their brave bright sons had to march towards a hopeless war. She felt the tears of realisation prick at her eyes and blinked them away. How could she blame them? Her father had refused to risk her life, had given his own to save hers. Wyl Thirsk too had died saving her life. Why should these fathers feel any differently and give up their beloved children for such a pointless cause? Her marriage to Celimus would bring the peace they craved and give their children prosperity. So what if that meant giving up King and Queen to the rule of an Emperor?

She felt her gut twist at the thought.

‘Peace at what price, my lords?’ she asked the room, eyeing each of them with her hard blue gaze. ‘Is this what you have fought for all of your lives, and your fathers and grandfathers before you? Is this what my father raised me to believe? To marry for peace and squander Briavel’s name and pride?’

She felt her heart hammering at the passionate words she spoke. It won the nobles’ attention — the men she thought she might have lost shifted uncomfortably at her accusation.

But it was the powerful Lord Vaughan who spoke for them all it seemed. ‘We need more proof, your highness,’ he said firmly into the silence.

‘What proof would satisfy you, my lords?’ she asked, her tone as sharp as a blade.

Lord Vaughan shrugged. ‘So far, your majesty, with respect it is hearsay and unreliable accounts. I acknowledge what Elspyth of Yentro told us of what she saw at Rittylworth but we need more. Bring us Ylena Thirsk. She more than anyone might convince us that Celimus’s intentions are as dark as you suggest.’

Valentyna saw heads nodding, knew her fate was sealed. Ylena Thirsk could not save her. No one could. She would be wed to the King of Morgravia in the same helpless manner that a baby lamb is led to its slaughter.

THIRTY

WYL AND AREMYS ARRIVED at the Thicket from the village of Timpkenny on the northeastern edge of Briavel. The village had struck them as an odd, almost nervous place that suffered from being the closest clump of humanity to where the Darkstream presumably joined the River Eyle. Much quiet superstition surrounded the Darkstream. It was not a fear of magic so much as a privately held belief amongst these northerners that the Wild beyond was enchanted and not a place for sensible people to roam.

No one could tell Wyl and Aremys where its ultimate source or indeed destination might be, but everyone they spoke to confirmed that the Darkstream was the only way to cross over into the Wild, once you had negotiated the Thicket. Aremys asked one man why he lived so close to a place that held such superstition. The man had shrugged, answering that the land of this region was uncannily fertile and the weather, though cold, was reliable. The rains always came and the summer never failed. ‘Our animals and crops thrive,’ he had said, shrugging again. ‘My family eats.’

Wyl and Aremys knew they should count themselves lucky for having experienced an uneventful journey north. They had travelled relatively swiftly from Brynt across the border, always heading towards the mighty Razors, then cutting east once the famed mountains began to rise up menacingly before them. Briavellian guards had picked them up not far over the border, but did little more than smirk when the travellers admitted they were hoping to find a quiet pass into the Razors to avoid Cailech’s fortress. This was the cover story they had agreed on.

The captain of the guard was not so easy to convince, however, when his men escorted them to his checkpoint.

‘There are several entries into the Razors from this part of Briavel but you say you are headed for Grenadyn. Surely it would have been easier for you to access the mountains from western Morgravia?’

‘Too much trouble brewing on the border over there, sir,’ Aremys had said. ‘It might be dangerous to take my lady via those routes.’

The officer had nodded thoughtfully. ‘You have made your journey three times as long, though.’

‘Sir,’ Wyl had interrupted, noting how the man instantly regarded him with softer eyes. He wondered if he himself had done this when addressing a good-looking woman. In truth he found it insulting that a woman should be considered with such instant sympathy — or was it desire? He had tried not to let his irritation show in his tone. ‘It is imperative that I return to my home in Grenadyn.’ The lie came surprisingly easily. ‘However, I wish to draw as little attention to myself as possible so am prepared to lose the additional week or so that this more circuitous route will take.’

‘And whose attention are you trying to avoid?’

‘Why, Cailech’s of course,’ Wyl had replied, with a hint of irritation now. ‘We have learned on our travels that the Mountain King is threatening summary execution for strangers.’

‘Morgravians only as I understand it, my lady.’ The captain eyed her and stifled a smug expression. ‘You could have sailed more easily to Grenadyn, surely?’

‘But we were nowhere near the coast, sir. I am sure you do not need to know my life story, Captain er…?’

‘Dirk, my lady.’

‘Captain Dirk,’ Wyl had said. ‘I appreciate your concern for our long journey, but I have employed Aremys as my guide and he knows the mountain routes well. We shall be fine,’ he had finished, hoping to bring an end to the man’s inquisitiveness.

‘Well, Lady Farrow, it is none of my business where or how you choose to go but —’

‘That is right, Captain,’ Wyl had interjected gently, as he thought Ylena might have admonished someone. ‘I understand that you are responsible for the security of this part of Briavel but as you can surely tell, we are no threat to the realm nor indeed to anyone within its borders. We are simply travellers passing through. I gather there is no law against that. I appreciate your concern for my safety but Aremys will see to it.’

The man had shown amusement for the first time. ‘I was only going to say that I thought you were not dressed sufficiently warmly for the Razors, my lady. It will be rough sleeping in the mountains. Are you really up to such a challenge?’

‘No need to worry,’ Aremys had chimed in. ‘It is my intention to make a stop at Banktown and buy what we need.’

Wyl knew there was little more the captain could do unless he decided to detain them, but he would need good grounds to prevent a noble passing through. Besides, it was now obvious that Aremys did know the region; perhaps the captain had not expected him to know the local towns and villages and was testing them. As it turned out he had nodded, wished them well and allowed them to move on.

Aremys had seen to it that they left the patrol in a northerly direction, as though heading deeper into the foothills and ultimately up into the Razors. He knew the terrain well enough and soon had them back on track, heading east across the relative obscurity of the lightly wooded hillsides. They had arrived at Timpkenny — their real destination — just before dark, taken a couple of rooms in a very ordinary inn and, in the morning, had sold the horses. Wyl knew the price they had managed to negotiate was just short of theft but they had no choice. It was on foot from here on as the famed Thicket would not permit horses to enter. After purchasing a few minor provisions they had set off.

Aremys and Wyl stared now at the dense Thicket without knowing that not so long ago a small boy and a large dog had sat and regarded this strange freak of nature from virtually the same position.

‘It suits its name,’ Wyl said. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘No. I’ve skirted around this region but never actually seen it.’

‘How do we get in?’

‘Push in, I suppose, although the old stories say it lets you in once you’ve made up your mind to enter.’

‘Lets you in, but not out?’

Aremys grinned at the beautiful woman who crouched next to him with a scowling expression. Strange as it was, he had thought of her as Wyl ever since Tenterdyn — not that he had ever known Wyl Thirsk. He had witnessed the magic of Myrren’s gift with his own eyes and suddenly anything and everything seemed possible. He had never considered whether he believed in magical powers or not — it was simply not an issue which had come up during his childhood in Grenadyn. That far north the old stories prevailed and were accepted as folklore. It was only when he found himself in the south of Morgravia that he noticed how wary of magic the people seemed to be.

Now he did believe in it, having seen Faryl change into Ylena. Stories about the Thicket and the Wild were suddenly plausible, not just horror tales to frighten youngsters. It was at this moment that he realised how vulnerable Wyl was as Ylena. Who knew what lay on the other side of the Thicket or what was to come? Would she be able to cope?

As if reading his thoughts Wyl nudged him. ‘Don’t stare at me like that. I know what you’re thinking and, big as you are, you’re no match for me, Aremys. I may look fragile in Ylena’s body but I assure you I am not.’

‘Did Myrren make you a mind-reader as well?’ Aremys asked, turning back to regard the thick mass of trees and bushes that confronted them.

‘No. You’re as easily read as an open book. Didn’t your mother teach you to mask your emotions?’

‘I thought I had,’ Aremys said, feigning hurt. They grinned at each other, although with little mirth, only anxiety. ‘To answer your question: no, apparently the Thicket only lets you travel from this side to whatever lies on the other side. That’s my understanding anyway. I believe legend has it that you cannot turn around halfway through and change your mind. Once committed and once permitted entry, you have to continue.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Wyl breathed. ‘And we’re not supposed to believe in magic,’ he added, somewhat sarcastically.

Aremys did laugh out loud now. ‘I think you and I know better after what you’re going through. Come on, if we’re going to do this we should start now. There are rainclouds set to burst.’

‘I’ll go first,’ Wyl offered.

‘Are you scared?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ Aremys sighed. ‘I thought it was just me.’

Wyl grinned. ‘Shall we hold hands then?’ he suggested with only a hint of sarcasm.

‘Oh no. Ladies first,’ Aremys offered in an overly polite tone.

Their banter was just another way of avoiding making the move. Wyl forced himself to step closer; as he did, he noticed something dangling from one of the low branches. His gaze slid past it momentarily as he scanned for the best entry point before recognition hauled his attention back. ‘Look at that!’ he said. He untied the item, elation burning through him. ‘This is Romen’s bracelet.’

Aremys shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I do!’ Wyl said fiercely, tying the thong around his now-dainty wrist. ‘Only one of two people could have brought this here and I suspect it wasn’t Queen Valentyna.’

‘Who then?’

‘Fynch!’

‘The gong boy you’ve spoken of? But he’s a child.’

‘Never dismiss him as just a gong boy… or a child. He is a gifted youngster and with enough courage for both of us. If we look hard enough I reckon we shall find paw prints close by. Fynch and Knave have already come this way and left this as a sign.’

‘Brave lad,’ Aremys murmured. ‘Well, if a boy can do this, so can we.’

Wyl nodded and bent to push his way into the Thicket. Before he entered fully he called over his shoulder to his companion, ‘Can you whistle?’

‘I guess that’s a fairly important question that needs answering right now?’ Aremys said, all but bent double to follow directly after Wyl.

‘It’s just that Ylena can’t. One thing I couldn’t teach her.’

‘Well, I really appreciate that critical information,’ his friend grunted behind him.

‘Aremys, whistle, damn you! I can’t, so you’ll have to do it for both of us!’ Wyl snapped.

‘Happy to indulge you, my lady. Just not sure why?’ came the response.

‘Because we don’t know what might happen in here. I don’t want us to be separated.’

‘Oh,’ Aremys said, understanding now. ‘All right. Any requests? I do a fine “Under the Gooseberry Bush”.’

‘Just get on with it, you fool!’ Wyl said, daring a laugh through his fear. The Thicket’s presence was ominous and he could not shake the feeling that danger was ahead.

‘Can I just mention, as we’re on the topic of Ylena’s strengths and weaknesses, that she’s got the best arse I’ve had the pleasure of being close to.’ Aremys’s muffled voice came from very close behind.

‘Whistle!’ Wyl ordered in his girlish voice. He knew what Aremys was doing. He was forcing the lightheartedness to combat their fear but it was not working; they were both frightened enough to feel their own hearts pumping hard in their chests. It felt as if the Thicket was drawing them in… but to what?

He marvelled at how Fynch had found the courage to take this path and then remembered that Knave almost certainly would have been with him to lead the charge.

Entering the gloom of the Thicket Wyl was immediately struck by its eerie silence which was sufficiently heavy to cause a sense of suffocation. He could not stand upright, for the branches were so low and tangled. He breathed hard and loosened a button at his throat. He knew it was afternoon outside yet it was dark enough beneath the yews that he could swear night was coming on. Nothing moved but them.

At that moment he felt a terrible pressure on his chest, as if all his breath was being sucked away. He could hear Aremys crashing into the Thicket behind and momentarily heard his bright whistling before the sound was suddenly cut off. And then he could breathe again.

Wyl swung around, presuming his friend’s quiet was due to shock at the silence and dark but he could not see his companion.

‘Aremys?’ He listened. Nothing.

‘Aremys!’ he yelled.

Only dread silence responded.

Valentyna finished dictating her response to King Celimus, the couched threat in his letter burning in her mind. It had taken much soul-searching on her part to reach the decision, but now it was finally made she knew it was the only one she could have taken under the circumstances. The nobles were not going to support her without Ylena Thirsk, and even then she could not imagine what the young noblewoman could say or do which might change their minds. Yes, she may argue convincingly that Celimus was every bit the snake Wyl Thirsk had once described him as, but Valentyna had seen the truth in their faces this afternoon, read it in their pained expressions, heard it in their voices made awkward by the tension: the Briavellian nobles wanted peace with Morgravia above everything. Even above her.

She was a pawn; the valuable key that might unlock the barrier between Morgravia and Briavel and enable them to live side by side as friendly neighbours, as allies.

Valentyna clearly understood that whatever lip service they had paid her this afternoon with regard to finding more proof, the fact of the matter was that they did not care. They did not want further proof. Whatever Celimus was and whatever his intentions, it apparently mattered not. If she were married to him then no more of their proud sons need die. Even if — Shar forbid — Celimus somehow contrived to make himself Emperor of both realms, he would no longer wage war on Briavel which meant their children were safe. And, after decades of warring, peace was what the Briavellians wanted more than anything.

It finally occurred to her that despite all the adoration she was expendable. The realisation was a deep pain in her heart and she felt breathless as its truth sank into her very soul. She was a figurehead Queen. Her own people might well accept Celimus as their sovereign once the marriage was realised. All the talk of finding Ylena, considering new strategies, even stalling the marriage any further, seemed so very futile all of a sudden. She must marry Celimus on behalf of Briavel and sacrifice her peace for its peace.

As these thoughts raged in her mind, Krell finished his scratchings on the paper and blew on it to dry the ink.

‘I shall add the royal seal, your highness, once you have signed it.’

He handed her the quill. She did not take it.

‘I am doing the right thing, aren’t I, Krell?’

He searched the anguished face that so echoed the beautiful woman who had birthed her, and he thought of her father and how proud Valor would be of his daughter right now. She was putting her realm before her own inclination and thereby ensuring its prosperity in the future. ‘Your majesty,’ he said gravely, ‘Briavel will flourish because of this important decision you have made today.’

Her smile was thin and wavered beneath the force of her will as she pushed away tears or sentiment. ‘I don’t want to marry him, Krell, but I know I must.’

‘If you will permit me, your highness…?’

Valentyna nodded. She trusted Krell implicitly and needed his assurances now more than ever before, because he had been so close to her father and because she knew how much he cared.

The Chancellor’s rheumy gaze fixed upon her. ‘If you are strong from the outset, child, Celimus will never make Briavel bow to Morgravia. You are a Queen in your own right; you must not lose sight of this. We need his peace, yes, but oh, your highness, he needs your sons! The bluest of royal bloods mingling. It is a royal fantasy, your highness, which both our dear King Valor and the great King Magnus probably dared only conjure in their wildest daydreams. Imagine your own blood reigning over two realms in years to come.’

She nodded again, tears rising now. ‘I agree. If my reign is remembered for nothing else, I will secure peace for Briavel and birth the heirs it needs to sustain peace in the region.’

‘That’s the spirit, your highness. Very few royal marriages are made by Shar — most are pragmatic and highly strategic. This is no different. Your father, may his soul rest quietly, would advise the same.’

The Queen smiled sadly. Krell knew what she was thinking. She had hoped to marry for love. What woman did not?

She could not help herself; it needed to be said. ‘And I must forget that Celimus designed the death of my father, the death of Wyl Thirsk, the murder of Romen Koreldy, the slaughter of those monks at Rittylworth and the noble family of Felrawthy… and no doubt countless others?’ Her chest rose and fell with the anger she was holding at bay.

‘My Queen, we have no proof that his hand was behind the weapons in any of those deaths.’

‘But we know it, Krell!’

‘Yes, your majesty,’ he admitted truthfully. ‘But as diplomats we must pursue this peace he offers or more of our young men are going to die. We stand to lose a whole generation if we go against him. Celimus, I fear, does not possess the qualities of Magnus; he will fight us until the last man of Briavel falls and then he will likely dissolve the realm as we know it, wipe out its name and make it an annexe of Morgravia.’

Valentyna did not want to say that she felt in her heart that he would annex Briavel anyway. ‘And still you would urge this marriage, knowing that I sacrifice myself to a man I could never love?’

‘Love is not the issue here, my Queen,’ Krell said firmly. ‘This is politics and your emotions must be set aside. Your decision is purely a diplomatic one… a sound one. You will be Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel and you must use that status to great effect. This is not Celimus, King of Morgravia and Briavel with his Queen consort. You are both equal sovereigns with equal say in the running of both realms. You alone can carve a path for this marriage to work. Put aside what you feel you are losing and consider only what you are gaining, your highness.’ He surprised Valentyna by suddenly kneeling before her. ‘You must leave behind whatever has gone before. Cut yourself free of those bonds and those sentiments. Start a new life with Celimus and see if you cannot be the one who makes the difference.’

‘To him, you mean?’

‘To him, to Morgravia and Briavel. Both realms crave this union and the harmony it will bring. Work hard for peace in the marriage, your highness, and you may well bring about surprising changes.’

Valentyna felt entirely trapped. There was nothing more she could do. All of the warnings she had heard from Wyl, from Romen, from Fynch and even more lately from Elspyth, haunted her, yet Celimus’s messenger had been ordered to wait for her response. Time was the enemy. The King was both impatient and impetuous — who knew what he might do if she did not answer in the positive. How long could she wait for Ylena and why would she? What difference would Ylena Thirsk make anyway, she asked herself, filled with frustration.

She made a small sound of despair before grabbing the quill and quickly signing her name to the acceptance of marriage to Celimus.

‘There,’ she said, unable to disguise the disgust in her voice. ‘Get it away with the messenger.’

‘Yes, your highness,’ Krell said, rising. He felt a sense of loss at his part in forcing this young woman to act against her instincts, but the alliance was necessary for the wellbeing of Briavel. He and King Valor had discussed on many occasions how insecure Briavel would be if faced with a battle on two fronts and Krell firmly believed that the threat from Cailech in the near future was real.

Wyl felt a cold tremor pass through him. Aremys had gone; disappeared. There was no sign that he had even followed Wyl fully into the Thicket except Wyl’s memory of his friend whistling the first few bars of ‘Under the Gooseberry Bush’. Somehow he knew it would be pointless to search. If the Thicket was as enchanted as he had been led to believe then it had made the decision to separate them.

He shivered. Magic.

And as that thought passed through him, a black dog melted out of the darkness and sat huge and still before him.

‘Knave.’

The dog leapt and Wyl felt a moment of exquisite fear that it was attacking. He should have known better; he found himself on his back and winded amongst the leaf mould with the dog towering above him, licking him.

‘Where’s Aremys?’ Wyl asked, pushing him away. He wondered how Knave felt seeing him as Ylena whom the dog had always favoured.

Knave growled low. It was an answer but not one Wyl could understand.

‘Is he all right?’

This time Knave barked once. Wyl convinced himself the animal had answered affirmatively. He had to believe that Aremys was somewhere safe and not wandering aimlessly through the Thicket.

Knave growled again and turned. Wyl knew the dog wanted to lead him somewhere. They set off, the black beast at a trot and Wyl behind, crouching, blindly following. There were moments when he felt convinced that the branches were reaching out to touch him but none actually did. The silence was oppressive with only Knave’s presence and his own pounding pulse to reassure him that life existed in this strangest of places. It felt to Wyl that they had been moving for a long time and he could hear the rushing of water nearby.

With that sound, images echoing his fears engulfed Wyl. Aremys lost in the Thicket, calling to him. Valentyna being raped by Celimus. Elspyth screaming for Lothryn whilst the man she loved begged Wyl for help. Romen, Faryl and Ylena walked towards him, arms outstretched like supplicants, their expressions as lifeless as he remembered from when he stole each of their bodies. He shied backwards from their touch. And then, worst of all, blood and gore surrounding Tenterdyn. He could almost smell the carnage. Just when he thought he would have to scream out for the dog to stop, that he had to go back, they burst through the other side, emerging into grey daylight and a soft drizzle of rain.

Wyl dragged in a lungful of the damp air, not caring that his cheeks were wet from his own tears rather than the misty rain. Knave was gone. Instead, through the murkiness he saw a small cottage on the other side of a short bridge. Its chimney smoked cheerfully through the gloomy afternoon and light glowed at the windows. Like a magnet the dwelling drew him to its warmth.

THIRTY-ONE

ALEDA WAS DYING. SHE knew it, but somehow it was all right, providing she could cling to life long enough to learn the whereabouts of her eldest son or at least that he was alive. That knowledge would allow her to pass over with grim happiness that the Donal name had not been completely stamped out. But right now each heavy step of the faithful donkey hurt her and her mind and body focused on simply remaining on its back. If she fell off now, she was sure she would have to lie there and wait in hope that the Briavellian Guard would find her before she took her last breath.

Shar was guiding her passage that day. A tinker, selling pots and sharpening knives from village to village, came across the blood-spattered, bedraggled woman with the torn fingernails. He could see she was just about ready for the Gatherers to take her to her god. He leapt from his small cart, calling to the horse to be still as he reached for a water skin.

‘Drink,’ he said, offering it.

Aleda did so. She had not taken water in hours. Perhaps she had forgotten to — she could no longer remember. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.

The tinker looked around anxiously. There would be no help here; they were in the middle of nowhere it seemed. He himself had crossed the border at around midday yesterday. Mind you, Brackstead was not far away, he was sure.

There seemed little point in taxing the woman with questions. She looked too ill to speak anyway. ‘Come on,’ he encouraged. ‘We have to get you to Brackstead.’

Aleda did not complain; she too wanted to keep moving. Who this kind stranger was mattered not — if he was going to help her to get another step closer to Crys, she would take it. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered again.

‘Don’t talk. Save your strength.’

They set off, Aleda feeling stronger just for the presence of another person. They had travelled less than a mile before they rounded a bend in the road to see the cheering scene of a large village laid out before them.

The sight of Aleda brought several people running to help.

‘I don’t know her,’ the tinker replied to their queries. ‘I found her just a mile back. Can we get her to a doctor?’

Someone sent a young boy running for the travelling physic. ‘You’re lucky he’s in our village today,’ the woman said.

‘Is there an inn?’ the tinker asked.

A man nodded. ‘Yes, The Lucky Bowman. Shall we go there?’

‘Please. She says she has money.’

It was a woman who ran the place. ‘Shar’s mercy,’ she cried as three burly men carried in what looked like a corpse.

‘The physic’s coming,’ one said and nodded to the others to head upstairs.

‘Room four,’ she called to their backs, before turning to the tinker, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable, and the older woman who had stayed with him.

‘They’ve just arrived, Nan, in terrible shape,’ the woman said, clearly excited by all the activity. ‘I’ve sent Rory after that travelling physic who was here today. There’s coin to pay for the room.’

‘I don’t even know her name. I… I just stumbled across her on my way here,’ the tinker admitted.

Nan nodded towards the door. ‘Here’s the physic — we can sort out her food and board later,’ she said kindly. ‘Take them up, Bel, I have to keep a watch on things down here.’

Bel was only too glad to remain involved in the day’s intrigue and she called to the physic, a middle-aged man with grey at his temples and a soft-spoken voice, to follow her. He stopped to confer briefly with the tinker who then took his leave, glad to be gone from all the attention and bustle.

Alone with his patient, the physic learned the full horror of what this severely injured woman had gone through and, even more distressing, who she was.

He gave Aleda a draught of a crimson fluid. ‘Rest now, Lady Donal,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We will get word to Werryl for you.’

At those reassuring words, Aleda gave in to the drug’s sedative quality.

The physic went downstairs to speak with Nan who in turn called for Bel.

‘She needs a carer,’ he explained. ‘You will be paid.’

Bel nodded. ‘You want me to stay with her until you return, right?’

‘She will not recover from her internal injuries,’ he said. ‘But yes, I need someone by her side. I have staunched the bleeding for now and she will sleep for several hours. When she wakes, I want you to brew up these leaves,’ he said, handing her a pouch. ‘They will give her strength.’

‘Food?’

He shook his head. ‘Furthest thing from her mind. Keep her water up, though. She will die of her injuries before she dies of starvation.’

‘How long can she hang on?’ Nan asked, not at all happy at the thought of a potential corpse cooling in one of her beds.

‘She’s got courage. That alone will keep her going twice as long as someone with a weaker disposition. A day or so perhaps.’

‘And where are you going for help, Physic Geryld?’ asked Bel, ever curious.

‘I will ride back to Werryl and bring help swiftly,’ he answered, determined to keep the patient’s identity a secret. He knew they had guessed her status as a noblewoman but he did not wish to give away private details to these village folk. ‘Your job is to keep her alive until then with the tea and your voice.’

Bel frowned. ‘My voice?’

‘Talk to her. Keep her alert when she’s awake. She will need her wits about her. I shall leave immediately.’

‘How long will you need?’

‘I hope to have help back here by tomorrow if I ride through the night.’

He returned to the room and was surprised to see that the Lady Donal was not sleeping, was agitated in fact.

‘I told you to rest,’ he said sternly.

Her eyes were glazing from the effects of the sleeping draught but she was fighting it. ‘Not until I give you something to take to Werryl. You must show it to the Queen, sir,’ she said emphatically, pointing to the sack which had been attached to the donkey.

He frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘The proof that she is contemplating marrying a madman.’

THIRTY-TWO

AREMYS CAME TO SLOWLY. Was someone kicking him? He could not be sure just yet. In fact he was not sure of anything other than the reality that he breathed. Everywhere else there was pain. There were also voices, men’s voices, and then he made out the familiar sounds of horses. He risked opening his eyes, trying for the life of him to remember why he was lying down in the open in such a freezing temperature.

‘Ah, so you’re alive then?’ someone said.

He grunted. ‘Just.’

‘Get Myrt,’ the voice said and Aremys heard footsteps retreat, crunching across fresh snow. It was a lovely sound; one he thought he remembered from childhood. ‘Can you move?’ the man asked.

‘Let me just open my eyes properly,’ he replied, squinting at the sharp brightness. A big scowling man, tall enough to match even his substantial height, came into view. He closed them again hurriedly.

More footsteps. A new voice, deeper this time. ‘Well, help him up, Firl.’

Aremys felt himself hauled roughly to his feet. His legs were unsteady and leaden, his mind clouded. He forced himself to open his eyes again but he ignored the man called Firl and regarded the older fellow with knowing grey eyes. The pain that sliced through his head was significant. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘My head aches.’

‘You must have fallen and hit it,’ the man suggested, presumably Myrt of the deep voice. ‘What is your name?’

Aremys reached up to scratch his head. Everything hurt. ‘I’d tell you if I could. I can’t remember a damn thing right now.’

Myrt sighed. ‘Get a blanket around him, someone. You, Firl, double with him,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Bruised and feeling sorry for himself, Aremys was helped none too gently on to a horse with the surly man called Firl — who clearly did not want to double with him — and began a journey to he knew not where, why or even where from.

Firl ignored him for the first hour or so. This did not bother Aremys; he was too concerned with keeping his balance and trying to remember his name. He was grateful for the blanket though.

‘Where are we?’ he finally asked.

‘Razors,’ the man responded bluntly.

Aremys never could suffer fools graciously. ‘Yes, I think I’ve worked that out. But where exactly?’

The sarcasm seemed to have little effect on the young brute. ‘East.’

He could tell he was not going to get much more out of this chatty fellow so he delved back into his own mind, which presently felt like tangled skeins of wool. Ignoring the growing headache he forced himself to concentrate in order to recall anything about himself. Nothing surfaced and he growled in his frustration.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

His companion spoke again with the same uninterested tone. ‘Firl. I thought we’d already established that.’

‘And the others?’ Aremys asked, struggling to keep his irritation in check.

‘Do you want me to list their names?’

‘Not if they’re all as uninteresting as yours.’ He felt the man’s body stiffen and was glad he had struck a blow. ‘I meant what are you doing out here?’

‘We’re a scouting party.’

‘For Cailech?’

‘Who else?’ the man said and Aremys, sitting behind, imagined him scowling.

‘Am I a prisoner?’

The man snorted. ‘Why don’t you make a run for it and see what happens? I’m a great shot.’

‘Look, Firl, I don’t even know what my name is let alone why I was lying flat on my back in the Razors. Why don’t you just shut your stupid mouth or I’ll shut it for you!’

Myrt overheard the raised voices and steered his horse over. He lifted his chin in enquiry. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘No,’ Firl mumbled.

‘Actually, yes,’ Aremys countered. ‘I want to know if I’m a prisoner and why. I’d like to know where we’re headed and why. I’d appreciate knowing why I’ve seemingly been captured by a scouting party, why I’m sitting with this oaf of few syllables and I’d love to know my own name!’ he roared, his headache pounding in tandem with his rising blood pressure and anger.

‘Hop up with me. Firl, you go on ahead,’ Myrt ordered. There was something of an admonishment in his expression towards his subordinate and it was not lost on the sulking Firl.

Aremys was more than glad to clamber up behind the superior. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled. ‘And for the blanket. I’m sorry for the outburst. I seem to have lost my manners as well as my memory.’

‘Either that or you’re a clever spy,’ Myrt said, clicking to his horse and moving forwards again.

‘Shar strike me! Is that what you all think?’

‘Why wouldn’t we? You are Morgravian, aren’t you?’

‘I… well… I don’t know,’ Aremys blustered.

‘You dress like one and curse like one.’

‘Then perhaps I am. I have no idea who I am. Mind you, I understand the Northernish you were muttering with your men earlier. Does that mean anything?’

‘Is that so? And what were we saying?’

Aremys told him.

‘All right, stranger, I’m impressed,’ Myrt admitted. ‘Most Morgravians wouldn’t understand a word of it, which is why we used it in front of you. Anything else?’

‘No, not really,’ Aremys said. ‘The mountains are familiar, although I can’t tell you why. No horse, no belongings save my sword.’ He shook his head. ‘No memory,’ he added mournfully.

‘Well, perhaps pulling out your toenails will help your memory,’ Myrt said and felt Aremys start behind him. He let out a deep rumbling laugh, enjoying his own jest.

‘Shar’s wrath, man! Will it come to that?’

‘Be easy. Did Firl tell you our business?’

‘Oh yes, we enjoyed a long and cordial chat.’ Myrt waited, unaffected by the biting wit of their new guest. ‘Only that you’re a scouting party,’ Aremys grumbled.

‘That’s right. Do you know Morgravia has all but declared war on the Mountain People?’

‘If I do I don’t remember.’

‘Then you’ll forgive us our suspicions,’ Myrt said. ‘Well, if you’re from Morgravia — which you probably aren’t — you’d know about our problems with King Celimus.’

The name was familiar and its mention sounded a distant series of alarm bells in his mind. Aremys pushed at them but had no success. ‘Why do you think I’m not from Morgravia?’

‘Because we picked you up on the Briavellian side of the Razors and your accent isn’t right. It’s Morgravian, all right, but it’s covering something else. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were from the northern islands.’

Again, a prick of familiarity but it was evasive. ‘I see. Maybe I am. I wish I could dredge up something to help my cause.’

Myrt nodded. ‘It will come. To answer your question: yes, you are our prisoner, but we shall treat you honourably until the King has decided what to do with you. I’m afraid relations with Morgravia are strained but your odd accent may save you yet. What shall we call you until then?’

Aremys pondered, unhappy at his situation but realising he had no option but to co-operate. He had no mount, no food, no memory and being alone in the Razors could kill him in a single night. ‘What’s a good Mountain name?’ he asked, following his better judgement.

‘How about Cullyn? It’s one of the oldest.’

He shrugged. ‘Fine.’

‘No such thing as a free meal in this troop, Cullyn. We’ll be on the ridges for a few days yet. What can you do to earn your keep?’

Aremys shook his head, feeling suddenly grateful to the big Mountain man. ‘I have no idea. You tell me.’

‘All right, then. We’re about to make camp here. You can provide the entertainment for tonight. How about you take on sulky Firl with the sword? I think he’d quite like a go at you.’

‘And me at him, I assure you.’

Myrt laughed. ‘I like your arrogance. Hope you haven’t forgotten your skills, Cullyn. Our Firl is one of the best in the Razors with a sword.’

‘Just promise me some ale and worry about your Mountain boy over there,’ Aremys said, grinning despite his pounding head.

A camp was settled and the horses corralled in a small copse of fir trees which would also provide the wood for the men’s fire. Myrt ran a tight troop and gave orders briskly. Some men were designated to prepare the food, others to gather the wood, some to take care of the animals and the younger ones to restock the water skins. He took Aremys and another man to hunt down some meat. Aremys pleased his host by shooting four hares without wasting a single arrow. Each man returned with a brace of small game which was quickly skinned and gutted, and before long was roasting over the coals.

They no longer spoke in Northernish, a language only used these days for secrecy. If Aremys’s memory was intact he would know that the language only survived because of King Cailech and his love for the Mountain culture. He had made an edict that it would be taught from elder to grandchild and keep itself alive. In daily life, however, the Mountain Dwellers spoke the language of the region, a common tongue from Briavel in the east to as far west as Tallinor. Aremys had recognised the Northernish because his wetnurse, an old woman of the isles, had sung to him in the old language, but that was a memory closed to him right now — he could not even remember as far back as the previous day when he was clambering through the Thicket. One moment he had been following the shapely bottom of Ylena Thirsk; the next a wave of magic had roiled about him thickening the air to a dull, almost solid wall. Then an even more powerful blast of the magic opening a cleft through which his unconscious body was pushed… and dropped on a northeastern ridge of the Razors.

Whilst the meat cooked and a hearty vegetable broth simmered in the pot, Myrt posted lookouts then called the remaining eleven men around the fireside for the evening’s early entertainment. There were fifteen of them in total, all strong-looking fellows but only Firl was tall enough to go eye to eye with the giant stranger.

‘How do you feel, Cullyn?’

‘Like hurting someone,’ he mumbled. A roar went up from the delighted audience, ready for sport.

‘All right, then. Do we have a sparring partner to go up against our huge guest here?’

Firl stood, cutting the air with his heavy sword. He held it two-fisted and snarled, ‘He’s mine.’

Aremys shook off the blue blanket which had been lent to him and drew his own sword. As he did so, the dyed wool reflected off the blade and he momentarily staggered under the fleeting blaze of memory. ‘Koreldy,’ he whispered, with no idea who the person was who owned the name, and for no reason he could explain he associated that name with a blue-tinged sword.

Only Myrt caught the word and he too paused in recognition of a name known all too well to Cailech’s trusted senior men. This was not the time to raise it with the stranger, he decided, and instead stored it away. It would be brought to light when it counted, before the King. Suddenly this man amongst them was important.

He cleared his throat. ‘Firl, Cullyn, this is not to the death. If either of you mortally harm the other, I shall kill the perpetrator myself. Do you understand?’ Aremys nodded. Firl just snarled. ‘Firl?’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Good. This is sport, for our entertainment, don’t forget it, either of you. First blood declares the victor — then we shall eat in his honour.’

Both men touched their blades together then Firl adopted the two-fisted stance of the Mountain race, one leg placed wide diagonally behind the other, knees bent, ready to strike. But it was Aremys who surprised them all, including himself, by holding his sword upright before his face, fist upon fist on the hilt. This was a stance unique to one region alone. Everyone recognised the formal Grenadyn salute before combat.

Myrt, more taken aback than any, wanted to halt the proceedings but it was too late. Each combatant hurled himself at the other.

Firl gave away much in bulk but he fought like a savage. Myrt could see straightaway, however, that his own man was no match for the stranger. Cullyn, or whoever he was, was clearly a superior swordsman with moves and speed that came only with a soldier’s experience. Firl was young and headstrong. He might feel invincible but his skills had been tested only amongst the Mountain men and, courageous though he was, he knew none of the finesse of the southerners who prided themselves on grace and speed rather than brute force.

Myrt could see that Cullyn was merely blocking rather than attacking. He was allowing Firl to wear himself out and, too immature to realise it, this was precisely what the youngblood was doing. His heart was generous and his spirit keen but the older soldier was virtually playing with him.

Aremys looked over at Myrt and winked. It was all Myrt could do not to laugh, particularly as Cullyn began to back away, supposedly defending his life, as the enraged Firl stomped forwards, blustering and roaring his anger, slashing with the heavy sword he used like a battering ram at times.

Despite his dislike of Firl, Aremys felt sorry for the youngster. He was brave, but would almost certainly lose his life young if caught in any serious fight with a Legionnaire. He could tell the man wanted to impress his companions against the arrogant stranger and, with years on his side, was ready to let him do so. It would not do to humiliate Firl — he would make no friends amongst the Mountain men then, and oddly he felt he could quite easily fit in with these soldiers.

After all, Myrt had been fair. With Morgravia an enemy, they could just have easily run him through as he lay in the snow, but instead they had given him warmth and transport, food and company, as well as safety. Not humiliating Firl — as much as he would have liked to — was the least he could do, if just for the leader, Myrt. And so he winked and the message was understood.

The fight continued until Aremys felt the pain of his headache begin to weigh heavily. He had been able to set it aside but hunger and the exertion of the contest brought it pounding to the fore again. Seeking the right opening, he feinted all too obviously. Even the less agile Firl could see it coming and he slashed. Aremys felt the welcome, if painful wound open up on the top of his non-fighting arm. He yelled appropriately and the audience roared appreciative applause for the youngblood, who grinned awkwardly but regarded his fighting partner with unease. Both stood before each other breathing deeply.

‘Good fight, Firl,’ Myrt said. ‘We eat in your honour tonight.’

Aremys nodded at Firl. ‘Well done,’ he said but the younger man just stared. Others rose to thump him on the back which meant Aremys could turn away from the unhappy stare. The lad was no idiot; he knew he had been allowed to win.

‘Come, let me bind that for you,’ Myrt said to Aremys. ‘And don’t say no, it’s too awkward for you to do yourself.’

Aremys gladly followed the leader towards a tiny spring that skirted the copse.

‘That was bravely done,’ Myrt said, kneeling beside his guest. ‘A lesser man would have felt the need to impose his superior skill.’

‘Nothing to be gained by that but an enemy.’

Myrt nodded. ‘A soldier with wisdom.’

Aremys looked at him. ‘What makes you say soldier?’

‘You fight like one. You’ve had experience — even you must have felt that.’

It was so frustrating not to know. ‘A soldier?’ he mused. ‘The sword felt comfortable in my hand, I’ll admit it. He’s your best, you say?’

‘I said it for his benefit. Firl’s a good man but he’s young and hot-headed.’

‘He’ll die quickly in battle, Myrt.’

‘Then teach him.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got nothing else to do right now. Teach him, teach the others.’

‘How to kill Morgravians, you mean?’

Myrt grimaced as he cleaned the wound. It was a surface cut, nothing serious, and even the victim wasn’t complaining. ‘Your loyalty does not lie there.’

‘And you know this?’ Aremys muttered.

‘Cullyn, I think I am right in saying that you are from Grenadyn originally.’

Aremys shot him an angry look. The naming of that place seemed to jolt some memory from long ago. It made him think of children… a young girl in particular. He could see her. All curls and chubby smiles. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. ‘Serah,’ he breathed, the sorrowful memory of a sister slotting into place.

‘What?’

‘I am from Grenadyn,’ he declared, knew it was right.

‘You remember?’

Aremys nodded. ‘I think so, yes. It would explain why I understand Northernish.’

‘And why you hold your sword in the formal Grenadyne manner.’

‘Hmm… now you’re just showing off.’

‘I miss little. Who is Serah?’

Aremys was not ready for this man — albeit someone he could not help but like and trust — to know too much. He suspected his lost memory possessed secrets and although he could not remember them just yet, if his memory was going to come back in dribs and drabs he would rather be in control of what he revealed in case it was dangerous knowledge. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied effectively. ‘Her name just drifted across my mind.’

‘You see, I said your memory would come back in time,’ Myrt said, pleased. ‘There, it’s just a nick. My thanks for your indulgence with the lad.’

‘He needs encouragement,’ Aremys admitted.

‘And training,’ Myrt said. ‘Perhaps we all do,’ he added sagely before returning the wink.

The meal out in the open and the cold, huddled around a campfire, was the best Aremys felt he had eaten ever. Although these were hardly friends, the men were convivial enough. Even Firl had relaxed and was treating him with a new cordiality, remarking on some of Cullyn’s moves and how he might like to learn them. It was the closest the younger man got to admitting he was no match for Aremys, but even that was not needed. The songs they sang he knew somehow, reinforcing to him that he was from Grenadyne stock and not Morgravian. That was reassuring; yet why did he feel the pull towards Morgravia and, more keenly, towards Briavel where he was now sure he must have been relatively recently? He had no explanation for why he had been in the Razors alone and without a horse.

The men explained it away by saying the horse had probably bolted; all were sure they would come across it dead soon enough. But Aremys had felt over all of his head and there was no bruising and no lump. Still, it hurt bad enough at times to make him feel nauseous. This was no fall from a horse. This was internal pain, but he could not explain it.

Another worrying fact was the tingling sensation in his fingertips. That was odd. He had felt it immediately on regaining his wits but had paid no attention initially. It was not painful, not even that uncomfortable, but it was not in his imagination — it was definitely there yet he had no idea what it was, why it occurred or even if it had been there before the unconscious spell.

The night closed in around them and they sang more mournful ballads now, suiting his mood. Serah haunted his thoughts. Serah and the name Koreldy, prompted by the blue glint of his blade. Was this the key to who he was? For now, though, he was Cullyn. It would have to do, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

THIRTY-THREE

WYL HESITATED IN HIS path towards the cheerful hut. He felt empty and angry, suddenly lost without Aremys who had disappeared without a trace. And now Knave had gone too. Late afternoon was reaching across the small clearing and Wyl shivered. There seemed to be no others around; just this cottage on the outskirts of a place of fear. He cast a glance behind at the black smudge which was the Thicket. It did not look so menacing from this side but he knew it held secrets. He had felt the thrum of its magic in that moment when his breathing had become so difficult and he had wondered if he might die.

Where could Aremys be? It was no good, he would have to satisfy his anxiety by at least trying to find his friend. He could not just leave him. He turned back the way he had come.

‘No, don’t do that, my lady,’ called a voice.

Wyl swung around to see a large man coming towards him across the bridge.

‘I’m Samm, the boatkeeper. I saw you hesitating just now and thought I should come out and provide a welcome. It must be hard for a lady travelling alone,’ he said looking about him. ‘You are alone, aren’t you?’

‘I…’ Wyl wavered between the truth and a lie. He opted for the latter. The fewer people who knew the better. ‘Yes, yes I am. My apologies, I am Lady Rachyl Farrow.’

‘Would you like to come in?’ Samm said kindly, gesturing towards his cottage.

‘Um, well, I think what I need is a boat to tell the truth,’ Wyl said, feeling his way now, unsure of the usual practice here.

‘I understand. Come in. Let me at least fix a pot of tea and then we can discuss your requirements.’

After a last searching glance at the Thicket and another roving look for Knave, Wyl accepted that he was alone on this journey now. He nodded to Samm to lead the way.

‘Why did you say that I shouldn’t go back into the Thicket, Samm?’

‘I felt something a few moments ago. Just thought it best to let it be. The Thicket can be contrary I’ve realised over my time and I’ve got used to its strange sighs and movements. There are occasions when it feels quite alive.’

‘And this was one of them?’ Wyl queried, crossing the bridge behind Samm.

‘Yes,’ the man replied simply.

Inside, Samm went about the business of making tea. ‘Why are you here, my lady?’ he asked gently.

Wyl opted for honesty. ‘I’m following someone. A boy.’

‘Ah, the lad Fynch.’

‘That’s right!’

‘And his strange black beast.’

‘Knave. He’s my dog actually.’ Wyl felt a surge of relief that Fynch had passed through safely.

‘Is the lad in trouble?’

‘No, not at all.’ He thought quickly. ‘He’s my brother.’

‘So you’re from Briavel too?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ he answered, desperately wondering how much deeper the lying would get. Already he was no longer from Grenadyn which was the original plan.

‘Your brother was seeking someone?’

‘Mmm, yes.’ He did not want to answer these questions. ‘Do you need any help with that?’

‘No, my lady. Here we go,’ Samm said, putting down a mug of tea. ‘Honey?’

‘Please.’

‘Family?’ Samm was not going to be put off, Wyl could tell.

‘That’s right,’ he answered, sipping the tea, desperately hoping to escape further interrogation. ‘How much for the boat?’

‘One crown. Is there anything I can do to dissuade you from going, my lady? Your brother will not return from the Wild. No one does.’

‘I must try though, Samm. He’s so young,’ Wyl said as plaintively as possible.

‘It is a one-way journey, my lady. People leave and empty boats return. His has already found its way back to its mooring. To lose two fine people such as yourselves so fast… well, it disturbs me. I always hope I can stop someone going.’

‘Not this time.’

‘That’s what Fynch said.’

‘I must leave before I lose the light. Thank you for your tea.’ Wyl stood and held out his small and pretty hand.

‘Why not go in the morning? Sleep on it?’

‘No, Samm. I really must get going.’

Samm sighed heavily and went foraging for his great black book. Following the same routine as with Fynch he intoned the terms and conditions of his visitor’s departure, his genial face heavy with regret that another young life was to be lost.

‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, having clearly spelled out his name to record in the book. ‘Just out of interest, Samm, who was the previous person to enter the Wild before Fynch?’

‘Funny, we had the same conversation, miss. It was a young lady like you. Her name was Emil Lightford, a scholar from Pearlis.’

The name meant nothing to Wyl but he nodded and smiled.

‘That was so many years ago,’ Samm said. ‘And now two of you in such a short time.’

‘Here’s my money,’ Wyl said, holding out the coin. ‘Do I take any boat?’

‘Whichever you like, my lady. Let me escort you. And don’t worry about steering. It navigates itself.’

Wyl smiled in nervous thanks and followed Samm down to the jetty. He selected the nearest boat.

‘That was your brother’s choice too,’ Samm said. ‘All I can offer you now is good luck.’

Wyl waved once then turned to face two huge overhanging willows whose drooping branches looked like tentacles waiting to grab him and pull him into their darkness. The absence of Aremys played heavily on his mind — another person who trusted him, loved him even, now gone. Wyl could only hope he was not dead, but perhaps he was. Why would the Thicket be selective, he wondered, then forgot the thought as the thick canopy of overhanging trees enveloped him. His eyes slowly adjusted to the murky darkness and he even risked sitting down on the small plank across the boat. There were no oars.

It was cold; Wyl hugged Ylena’s arms about himself. Just as he was starting to feel slightly less threatened by this journey a sheer rock face came into view around a slight curve in the Darkstream. It was huge — most likely part of the Razors, he thought, by the granite. A low arch was hewn out of it, very narrow, just sufficient to allow a single boat through. He held his breath, wished goodbye to all that he recognised as familiar and reflexively shut his eyes as the mountain closed its lips around the little boat and swallowed him up.

Initially there was only depthless black when he opened his eyes. It was disorienting and he held the sides of the boat to give him a sense of up and down in this dread place. If he’d thought it was cold before, it was freezing beneath the weight of the granite and his teeth began to chatter. Ylena just did not have sufficient flesh on her body to keep warm in such conditions. Shivering uncontrollably now, Wyl wondered whether Samm had been right: this was a one-way journey; no one ever returned. The tunnel would go on forever and its travellers would die of the trauma of being alone in the dark or freeze to death.

These macabre thoughts were his only companions as the journey through darkness lengthened until any sane person would have felt the first flutterings of panic. Wyl could not tell whether he was imagining it but the ceiling of the narrow tunnel seemed to lower. He felt too frightened to let go of his grip on the boat to confirm it. There was a curious battle going on inside him. Wyl was not one to be afraid of the dark or enclosed spaces, but through his increasing agitation he recalled that Ylena had liked neither. Even as an adult she had always kept a single candle burning through the night, and as a child her worst nightmare was of being locked in a cupboard. Was some residue of Ylena’s fear surfacing now? Whatever it was, it was getting worse. His pulse had quickened to panic point and his breathing was coming in shallow gasps. He did his best to quell the fear, to rationalise it, but the tunnel was surely closing in and the thick silence was working against him.

Ylena’s fear took full flight and Wyl began to scream. He stupidly tried to stand and instantly lost his balance. His hysterical shrieks were cut short by a new darkness, wet and drowning. He gulped for air as the Darkstream drew him into its fathomless depths, down towards death where perhaps he would come to rest next to Fynch and Emil… or whatever her name was… he could no longer remember. All he could focus on now was the ebbing of his life.

Perhaps it was for the best. His life — if he could call it that — was too dangerous, a weapon in itself. Who needed a sword or a bow when the mere act of succumbing to your opponent’s weapon was enough to kill? Wyl hated the curse that lay upon his life. He would welcome death now, a death that claimed no life but his own.

He let go of the last bit of breath in his lungs and his hold on life, and allowed himself sink into oblivion.

A savage yank bit through his shoulder and reawakened him to his struggle. His lungs were bursting for air, he had no idea which way was up and was too dizzy to think straight. Death was indeed close. Just moments ago he had anticipated seeing the friendly, welcoming faces of Shar’s Gatherers, assuring him that all would be well once their outstretched hands fell upon him.

But now there were no faces, no welcome. Just a fight for air and a monster, big with teeth, and strength that dragged at him. Survive, damn you! a voice cried in his head. They burst through the Darkstream’s surface.

‘Here, Knave!’ a voice called. It was Fynch and next to him another figure. ‘Quickly,’ Fynch urged. ‘Drag him over here.’

Wyl was pulled, near unconscious, from the black icy water.

‘Let me see him,’ the other person said.

‘Her,’ Fynch corrected, shocked. It was Ylena’s body which lay inert and pale before them. He helped Knave from the water and gritted his teeth as the huge dog shook his shining black fur free of the Darkstream. ‘This is Ylena Thirsk,’ Fynch admitted sadly.

His companion shook his head. ‘Let me help him.’

Moments later Ylena’s body shuddered and spluttered with a heaving cough, brought up the water swallowed and sucked in lungfuls of lifegiving air. Her eyes flew open. ‘Fynch?’ The coughing began again.

The boy nodded. ‘Hello, Wyl. We thought we’d lost you.’

Ylena’s expression was confused. She was shivering uncontrollably amidst the coughing. ‘Who…?’

‘It was Knave — he dived so low for you and was gone so long I worried for his safety too.’

Knave took this moment to loom into view and lick Ylena’s face. Fynch took Ylena’s slim, delicate hand. ‘Wyl, this is Elysius… Myrren’s father.’

Wyl, glad to have finally rid himself of the dregs of the Darkstream, regarded the strangest-looking person he had ever seen.

‘Don’t talk yet,’ Elysius said softly. ‘You’re shivering. We need to get you warm and dry very quickly.’

‘Where are we?’ Wyl asked. He must have been sleeping, he realised.

‘We’re with Elysius, where he lives… in the Wild,’ Fynch said. Wyl could see he was struggling with his emotions.

‘Well, it’s certainly good to see you again, Fynch,’ he said warmly. Sitting up, he opened his arms for the boy to fall into them.

‘What happened?’ Fynch wept. ‘How come you’re Ylena?’

‘Oh, a long and horrid story. I can scarcely believe it myself and hate even thinking about it. It only happened a few days back so I’m not very used to being her.’ He smiled awkwardly with her beautiful face and held Fynch away so he could look at him. ‘You’re amazing, do you know that, to get yourself all the way here?’

Fynch risked one of his rare smiles. ‘I got a fair bit of help from my four-legged friend over there.’

Wyl looked over to see Knave settled by the side of the bed and regarding him with those dark knowing eyes. Knave barked once and Wyl grinned. ‘Thank you for coming after me, Knave, I was all but finished down there,’ he said, flinching at the memory of the Darkstream. He turned back to Fynch. ‘I’m glad he keeps you safe. Where is Elysius?’

‘Preparing food.’ Fynch chuckled. ‘He’s a terrible cook.’

Wyl shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I really caught sight of him properly back there.’

Fynch grew serious again. ‘You did. He’s… well, he’s strange to look at.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘See for yourself,’ a voice said. Elysius had returned.

Wyl thought the man looked like one of Shar’s jests, the sort of creature one might see in Master Jensyn’s Freak Spectacular which roamed the realms, terrifying and amusing people with the tallest man, the ugliest woman, the boy with no face and suchlike. Elysius, however, struck him as being one of those freaks who would normally not be permitted to take a second breath beyond birth.

‘Which explains why I live in the Wild,’ Elysius continued, breaking the awkward silence.

‘Wyl!’ Fynch admonished under his breath.

‘You are not what I was expecting,’ Wyl finally said, lost for the right words.

‘Neither are you,’ Elysius admitted, a crooked smile splitting his strange face. ‘I had heard from your friend here that you were a hired assassin called Faryl of Coombe.’

Wyl was fascinated. Elysius’s head was too large for his dwarflike body which was big through the abdomen and sat atop ridiculously short legs. It struck Wyl that his arms were not the right length either; in fact everything about Elysius was out of proportion. Wyl recalled how he had once worried about being deeply unattractive with his red hair and freckles — here was someone to make him feel ashamed of such sentiment. Elysius was ugly beyond imagining. A massive forehead swept down towards a heavy jutting brow and a wide flat nose. When he smiled, as he did now, his mouth seemed to stretch forever, revealing huge horselike teeth. If this was not enough, his face was covered in unsightly lumps and both his eyes were milky white — to all intents, blind. Lank dark hair was carelessly tied back behind his enormous troll-like head. The only attractive feature of this person was his voice. It was all warmth and mellowness — that same voice which had soothed Wyl when he needed an anchor to stop his fears taking full flight.

‘It is not polite to stare, you know,’ Elysius said in his lovely voice.

‘I… I’m so sorry,’ Wyl said, wondering how the blind man had known.

Elysius felt for and took Ylena’s tiny fingers in his own oversized hand. ‘No, I think I am the one who should be sorry, Wyl. You have suffered greatly at my whim.’

There was another awkward silence as the gravity of what had just been said sat between them. It was Elysius’s fault that Wyl now lived in his own sister’s body, and before that had walked as Faryl and Romen.

Wyl took a slow breath. It was all in the past. They were dead. Even he knew that the magic of Elysius could not bring those people back. Keeping Valentyna safe and securing her realm was the only thing that mattered to Wyl now — that, and keeping his promise to Elspyth to track down Lothryn. His own life was inconsequential. He cared nothing for it.

‘Tell me about yourself… please,’ Wyl finally said.

‘Over some food. Come, join me at my table. Do you feel better?’

Wyl nodded. ‘Did you make me sleep?’

‘I did. Your body needed a rest after its shock. I’m afraid you have been out for many hours. It is night outside — too dark to see anything.’

Fynch led the way.

‘I’m not much of a cook,’ Elysius admitted, waddling after Fynch on his short legs. He really was something out of a horror tale.

‘So I have heard,’ Wyl said and then gave Ylena’s warm, reassuring smile when Elysius feigned hurt at the comment.

‘Fynch is plain ungrateful,’ he grumbled. ‘Starling-and-fish pie is delicious.’

Wyl threw a troubled glance towards Fynch who could only shrug.

The so-called starling pie was not nearly as bad as Wyl had imagined. He munched hungrily on the breads and delicious cheeses Elysius had also laid out.

‘Drowning must give you an appetite,’ Elysius remarked, enjoying seeing his guest eat so heartily.

Wyl grinned, feeling immeasurably better for the rest, food and convivial atmosphere. ‘I shall have to stop soon. Ylena will never forgive me if I ruin her figure.’

His jest was mild but it struck a blow at Elysius once again at the havoc his actions had wrought on Wyl’s life. ‘I owe you an explanation,’ Elysius admitted as he reached to refill the mugs.

‘Start from the beginning,’ Wyl said, swallowing a mouthful of the refreshing ale. ‘I want to know everything.’

Elysius sighed, sat back in his comfortable chair and began his story.

THIRTY-FOUR

VALENTYNA WAS PICKING AT a late supper with her Morgravian guests and her two most trusted counsellors, Commander Liryk and Chancellor Krell.

The new Duke of Felrawthy had, to all outward eyes, battled through the worst of his horror and grief. The wound no longer showed so openly on his face, although Elspyth, who had known him briefly before the trauma, could see he was a changed man. The pain would never leave his heart. He would hide it, because that was how he had been raised, but Elspyth felt her own grief that the bright expression which had come so naturally to Crys’s face now held a haunted quality. Another reason for her to hate Celimus. Still, for the Briavellians who were just getting to know the new duke, the intelligence, integrity and humour this young man embodied were testimony to his fine parents.

The supper conversation had been driven deliberately by Krell to steer clear of the subject of his young Queen’s impending marriage, even though it was clearly on everyone’s mind. He knew she had enough misgivings and fears of her own without being subjected to the weight of the Morgravians’ despair when they learned of her decision. Krell had taken it upon himself to speak quietly with the young woman from Yentro, who was the most vocal, and had tried to make her understand the fragile and highly complex position the monarch of Briavel found herself in. Elspyth had listened but he saw the pity and disgust she felt on behalf of her new friend, and knew he must do everything he could to dissuade this fiery girl from convincing the Queen that her marriage was doomed.

Supper had been his idea. Since the Morgravians’ arrival the atmosphere around the Queen had become tense. He felt that a light meal late at night in Valentyna’s private solar might help to alleviate some of the tension and would be an ideal opportunity for himself and Liryk to help these guests understand how important it was for Briavel to start living without the proverbial sword hanging over its head. It was his hope that talk might even touch on their departure, for as long as they remained with Valentyna, their discussions of Celimus would poison any chance Briavel had of achieving peace.

The novice monk, Krell noted, had closeted himself away with Father Paryn, choosing to share his meals and his time with the elder man of Shar. Perhaps Pil might choose to remain in Briavel; this was less disconcerting for Krell.

All was going well until Liryk was called away by the head guard on duty for the night. The Commander returned to whisper something in Krell’s ear and both men disappeared.

‘Chancellor?’ Valentyna enquired when Krell re-entered looking decidedly sombre.

‘An exhausted and disturbed Physic Geryld, your majesty, asking for an audience.’

‘Good grief,’ she said, standing. ‘He attended my father on occasion. Permit him to enter immediately.’

‘Perhaps, your highness, I might bring him to your study,’ Krell said cautiously, glancing towards the Morgravians.

Her gaze narrowed. ‘This is urgent, I gather?’ He nodded.

She thought of the study — there was no fire burning there this evening. ‘I think you should bring him here. If he is exhausted the man needs warmth and food. I cannot imagine why he would ride in so late.’

Krell did not look happy at her decision and disappeared.

‘We can leave if you wish, your highness,’ Crys suggested.

‘Please stay,’ she said. ‘I imagine this is some small domestic matter which we can sort out quickly. No need to disrupt everyone’s supper.’ She cast a smile his way.

Elspyth in turn gave him a wry look. It was clear to her that Crys was entirely captivated by the Queen. Who could resist her, Elspyth had to admit, looking at the statuesque monarch who would surely dazzle even if she wore hessian rags.

Krell and Liryk re-appeared, escorting the fatigued physic who carried a leather sack. Valentyna wondered why no one had offered to take it for him. ‘Physic Geryld,’ Krell announced unnecessarily, a stickler for detail.

Elspyth and Crys had already withdrawn to the back of the room to stand in the shadows. They felt like intruders even though Valentyna had gone to such lengths to make them welcome.

‘Your majesty,’ the doctor murmured, struggling to bow in a genteel fashion. ‘Forgive my intrusion.’

Valentyna threw a glance of concern towards Krell who hurried to help the man to a chair. ‘Please, Physic Geryld,’ she said, ‘sit by the fire and warm yourself. You look half frozen, sir.’

He shook his head and remained standing. ‘No time, your highness. I bring grave tidings. May I speak freely?’

‘You may,’ she said, holding her breath now. This felt ominous.

‘A woman is dying in the village of Brackstead, your majesty. She has but hours to live. This is no ordinary soul — she is of noble rank, a Morgravian no less, who begs your help. She tells a tale so horrid, my Queen, that I could not trust anyone else but myself to deliver it.’

Elspyth and Crys both stepped forward from the shadows. A Morgravian! This concerned them as much as the Queen.

Liryk muttered something under his breath about how many more Morgravians were going to seek shelter in Briavel but cut it short when he caught the warning glance from his Queen. ‘Go on, sir, please,’ Valentyna said.

The physic shivered. ‘Actually, I will take that seat, your highness, if I may. I am not used to such wild rides at night.’ He smiled nervously and sat, feeling the fire’s heat.

‘And you will take a cup of something, physic, please,’ the Queen said, motioning towards Krell who obliged.

The doctor took the cup and swallowed its contents; the powerful liquor offered an almost instant revival. He cleared his throat and looked at his sovereign.

‘The woman is the Lady Aleda Donal of Felrawthy and she is gravely injured from a terrible attack on her family.’

A stunned silence claimed the chamber then Physic Geryld felt himself lifted in a firm, unshakeable grip.

‘Where is Brackstead?’ a young man implored him, his tone just short of threatening.

‘Who, sir, are you?’ the doctor asked, confused.

‘I am the Duke of Felrawthy, the dying woman’s son.’

Valentyna restored some measure of calm. ‘Let him finish, Crys, please,’ she cautioned.

Crys knelt by the doctor, murmuring an apology.

‘It’s all right,’ Physic Geryld assured, taking the young duke’s hand. ‘Son, it is for you alone that she clings to life. She needs to know that you are alive and safe. We must go to her, but first there is more to tell.’

Valentyna steeled herself. She was not sure how many more shocks she could cope with after the last few days. All of them led back to the hateful man she was to marry. Anger threatened to overwhelm her again — as it did every time she permitted the marriage space in her thoughts. She fought it back. There was time still… for what she did not know, but time anyway before she would have to face him again, say his name, make her vows.

‘Tell us, sir, and then we must make immediate arrangements for Brackstead.’

Physic Geryld nodded. He was beginning to think more clearly now that the liquor had worked its special enchantment to warm him.

‘Celimus will know she has survived,’ Elspyth muttered before the doctor could speak again.

Both Liryk and Krell wished they could shut up the woman of Yentro. She was too poisonous to be around the Queen. This whole situation was turning more dangerous by the minute.

‘Your majesty, please,’ Krell counselled softly.

Valentyna looked towards the doctor. ‘Please speak, sir,’ she said kindly, not wanting to push him too hard.

‘There is something, your majesty, which I was charged by the Lady Donal to bring to you.’

Valentyna nodded, deliberately expressionless so her anxieties did not betray her. ‘What is it, physic?’

‘I do know not, your highness, she would not say. She merely asked me to tell you that what she has sent is proof that you are marrying a madman — or words to that effect,’ he said awkwardly, embarrassed now.

Liryk rolled his eyes and Krell shut his with despair.

‘Where is this proof?’ Valentyna asked, angry herself as the physic’s harsh message touched a nerve.

Physic Geryld picked up the leather sack he had carried in. ‘This is what she gave me, your majesty. I have not looked inside.’

Crys gasped as he recognised the sack Ylena had brought with her to Tenterdyn. Valentyna stilled him with a glare.

Liryk could not help himself. ‘Well, tip it out, man.’

Crys felt sorry for the doctor who was having to absorb everyone’s shock and frustration. He knew precisely what was in that leather sack. They had not had time to deal with it in the chaos that had occurred at Felrawthy.

‘Allow me, sir,’ Crys said. ‘Although I could tell you what it is without looking.’

The Duke of Felrawthy reached inside and pulled out the head of his most beloved brother. ‘This is Alyd Donal, your highness. What is left of him anyway after Celimus had his pleasure.’

Pandemonium broke out.

Valentyna had organised their immediate departure for Brackstead. She insisted on meeting with the Lady Donal herself. After the shock of seeing Alyd Donal’s remains she felt compelled to offer her sympathies and promise this family that she would give protection to the Donals’ remaining son and whatever help she could.

She sat now on her favourite horse, dressed in simple riding clothes. She wished the horse had not been a gift from Celimus but it seemed he knew how to navigate his way with a woman. No fabulous jewels or sumptuous ermine cloak for Valentyna. He had worked out quickly that she was not a woman to be won with ornaments or finery. She had clapped eyes on the filly and fallen in love. The King had even had the audacity to name the horse on her behalf. She wished she hated Bonny’s name but she could not. It suited her. Feisty and intelligent, the filly was bonny indeed and very much to her liking.

Chancellor Krell had beseeched her to leave the matter to her guard, but the Queen had refused.

‘Krell, this woman has almost certainly given her life in order to reach me,’ Valentyna argued. ‘She had no idea her son was here so her intention was purely to speak with me. I am not, as perhaps you suspect, scavenging for excuses to renege on my decision. But let me tell you this: I will reconsider my position if I find firm proof that King Celimus is directly responsible for all of these deaths.’

Krell had noted the set of her jaw; precisely the same as her father. Nothing was going to change this decision and he was better off leaving it as an unfinished battle to fight another day rather than lose now, as he surely would if he persisted.

‘As you wish, your highness.’

She had softened her manner. ‘I am a sovereign, Krell. I must not be wrapped in fine linen simply because I am a woman and, for some bizarre reason, considered more fragile than a male. My father raised me to rule and rule I will, as I see fit. It would be imprudent of me to leave this woman to die without making an effort to grant her the audience she has given her life for.’

He had nodded. ‘Be safe, my Queen.’

‘Liryk is bringing enough manpower to take on the Morgravian army it seems,’ she said, trying to lighten his mood.

There was no smile in return. ‘Do not jest, your highness. I hope you never have to face such a thing,’ and he bowed and removed himself.

Valentyna recalled his words now and his rare anger, albeit couched in polite words. He was most unhappy with her. So be it. Be true to yourself first, her father had always said. Follow your instincts even if counsel wishes otherwise.

And that is what I am doing, she reminded herself. Following my instincts.

One small consolation for Krell and Liryk was that the Yentro woman was not riding out with them. She had taken herself off to check on Pil, muttering something about waiting for Ylena.

‘I don’t care what she does,’ Liryk had admitted privately to the Chancellor, ‘so long as she’s not around to whisper in the ear of our Queen.’

‘I can’t agree more,’ Krell said. ‘I don’t doubt she has been through much but none of it is our concern. We must keep the Queen focused on her marriage and this Elspyth is a serious threat to it.’

Liryk snorted. ‘And you don’t think riding off to Brackstead to hear more about his unsavoury activities isn’t?’ he scoffed.

Krell ignored the sarcasm, accepting that both his and Liryk’s nerves were frayed. ‘I cannot stop her in this, Commander. Just keep her safe and bring our Queen home as fast as you can.’

The soldier nodded. ‘Hopefully the Morgravian noble’s already dead,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing more for her majesty to learn.’

‘Yes, but we still have the business with the head and no doubt the Thirsk woman will arrive at some point with another sordid story,’ he said, disgusted. ‘This is none of our business,’ he added, more to himself than to Liryk.

Liryk sighed. ‘Time to go.’

‘May Shar guide you,’ Krell said.

He did not mention to the Commander the idea which was forming in his sharp mind. It was laced with its own perils but the Chancellor was feeling uncharacteristically ruffled by events. He was a man used to being in total control, both of his own emotions and his office. Suddenly all of the activities of recent days had sent events spinning beyond his reach. The Queen was making firm, independent decisions and, although she still looked to him for his counsel and indeed his friendship, here she was riding off impetuously on behalf of Morgravians.

When the very first messenger from Celimus had brought news of Wyl Thirsk’s imminent arrival, King Valor had wondered aloud to Krell what in Shar’s name the enemy was doing in sending a diplomatic envoy. Krell had not forgotten the look of awe on his majesty’s face at the notion that the special emissary being sent from Morgravia might well be coming to bring a marriage proposal. That Briavellian sons might live to old age without facing battle and that their sons could be raised never knowing the threat of war or its loss seemed impossible and yet wonderful in theory. All it would take was the joining of the two realms in marriage. And Krell wanted to see Valor’s hope come true. He did not like Celimus; for all his easy charm and grace, his honeyed words and grand style, the man was sly. His eyes were cold and calculating, Krell felt, and something dark lurked within. But in spite of this, and as much as he too loved Valentyna, he knew she must make this sacrifice for her people. Unlike Thirsk and the other critics, Krell did not believe Celimus would seek to destroy her majesty or her realm. He truly believed Valentyna had the capacity to affect Celimus for the better, to change him. Together they would begin a mighty dynasty to rule over both realms, not unlike the famed union of the great western realm of Tallinor with the marriage of King Lorys to his beloved first wife, Nyria.

The fact that Krell had won the Queen’s acceptance that this marriage was her duty and had seen her signature on the parchment now on its way back to Morgravia was balm to his troubled soul. But these new events unfurling threatened to damage irrevocably the pledge of marriage. He could not let it happen. He, Krell, would have to do something to save the situation.

His mind was made up. Another messenger would be sent, a private one. Two heads are better than one, he told himself, and the recipient would surely assist in easing the passage towards this marriage, perhaps help him to put out the fires that kept erupting and threatening to destroy the two realms’ plans for peace.

As the Queen and her entourage thundered across the Werryl Bridge in a bid to reach Brackstead before the Lady Aleda breathed her last, Krell was summoning a page.

‘Have a courier readied at once.’

‘Yes, Chancellor Krell,’ the lad said. ‘What message shall I give him, sir?’

‘Tell him it is a letter to Chancellor Jessom of Morgravia.’

THIRTY-FIVE

FYNCH WAS JUST AS fascinated to hear Elysius’s tale as Wyl was and even though he had faded quietly into the shadows whilst the conversation between his two companions continued, he continued to drink in the details as if he was parched.

‘I am Myrren’s father,’ Elysius said, ‘but my story begins much further back, when I was a youngster growing up in the far province of Parrgamyn.’

‘Where Queen Adana was born?’

‘That’s right. And a similar cruel streak to that which ran in that woman also ran in the veins of my younger brother. I do not know where he is now, somewhere in Morgravia, I suspect, but I sense the malevolent swell of his dark magic and his dangerous activities.’

‘How did you both come to be in this part of the world?’

‘Our parents were part of Adana’s retinue when she was sent to Pearlis to marry King Magnus. My father was one of her father’s most trusted advisors and was asked by the King of Parrgamyn to accompany the young Adana on her journey to Morgravia. He fought the duty because my father despised the woman for her determination to wipe out all those gifted with magic. His family was his secret burden.’

‘Because you were empowered,’ Wyl finished.

Elysius nodded. ‘Yes. It came from my mother’s side and was very strong in us boys, which is odd. It normally transfers through women rather than males, but my mother told me once that there was a wildness to our magic which she could not account for.’

‘So you came to Stoneheart.’

‘We didn’t live there. Adana set up a household for her own people in Soulstone.’

‘Oh, of course,’ Wyl said, remembering the story now. ‘Did she prefer the country palace?’

Elysius snorted. ‘No. She never had a kind word for anything Morgravian. But she preferred to keep her own people away from Stoneheart itself. She hated Pearlis and Morgravia’s King. She had grand ideas of running a separate court; it was obvious to all that she could hardly bear to spend any time near the King. Then Celimus came along and that changed her life dramatically. Even though King Magnus didn’t have much time for the boy, he certainly wouldn’t agree to his heir being carted off to Soulstone. He wanted him in the capital. From what I gathered from my father, this enraged Adana and life between the two royals became strained enough that its chill reached all the way south.’

‘And how old were you by now?’ Wyl asked, trying to work out Elysius’s age which was unreadable in his strange face.

‘We were lads. I was sixteen, my brother fourteen.’ He sighed softly as he was transported back to those early days. ‘Myrren’s mother was so much older than I. I could almost wish I had never set eyes on her during one of the rare visits we made to Pearlis with our father. He was often called upon to advise Adana but he did not like taking us boys into the city with him.’

‘Was he worried about your magic?’

‘Not me, Rashlyn.’

Wyl felt his mouth dry in an instant. Elysius sensed the change in his guest’s demeanour. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You said Rashlyn?’

The man nodded.

‘I have met him.’

It was Elysius’s turn to be surprised. ‘I lost trace of him when I was banished.’

‘He works for the King of the Razors.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Cailech!’ Elysius declared, quietly shocked. ‘So that’s where he is. What use is he to the Mountain King?’

‘Plenty, apparently. He bears the title of barshi, which means wise or magic man in the old tongue of the north. They are close. But more than that, I sense your brother has a somewhat unhealthy hold over the King.’

Elysius bared his horse teeth in a grimace. ‘Rashlyn is very dangerous. He is the reason I appear to you in this guise.’

‘Guise?’

The manwitch smiled ruefully. ‘There is so much to tell you,’ he said, realising his tale was disjointed, leaping from one amazing fact to another. Still, he knew it would all come out in the end and Wyl would make sense of it. ‘I was actually quite a handsome sort once, tall and strong. Myrren’s mother, Emil, was a fine-looking woman whom I met whilst running a couple of messages to her husband, who was physic to Adana. He was older than her by a number of years and I think she found herself lacking in amorous activity, you could say.’ He grinned. ‘She was attracted to me from the moment we met.’ He shrugged. ‘What young man with urges beyond his control would say no? She possessed a brilliant scholar’s mind too.’

Wyl’s eyes widened with understanding and he glanced towards Fynch whose attention was riveted on their host. Whether he understood the nuance of this particular thread of Elysius’s tale Wyl could not tell, but he had no time to linger on sensibilities right now. ‘And she became pregnant,’ he stated.

‘Immediately. We were together only once,’ Elysius admitted, ‘but then she became obsessed with me. It was sad. I do believe she did actually love me, and in a way I loved her, but there was no future for us. My father discovered the truth and was horrified — not just because of my indiscretion but there was the threat of passing on my abilities to a child, you see.’

‘Which you did.’

‘Only marginally. Myrren was not a witch in the true sense, Wyl. She had some powers, but mainly of the healing sort. If she’d had the chance to follow in her father’s footsteps — I mean, the man she called father — she would have been very talented at medicine.’

Wyl was astonished. ‘Not a witch! But the gift…?’

‘Is all my doing. I channelled through Myrren.’

‘As you channel through Knave?’ Fynch chimed in, his first words in such a long time that his host had all but forgotten the quiet lad sitting in the corner.

Elysius nodded. ‘Yes, son. That’s right; as I use Knave to be my eyes and body elsewhere.’

Wyl sat back speechless. He had truly believed Myrren to be a witch, and ever since Knave had revealed mysterious powers, he had been sure that Myrren had possessed magics which she had managed to keep secret for many years. He said as much.

Her father shook his head sadly. ‘She was innocent, poor child.’

Still trying to absorb this revelation, Wyl pressed on. ‘But why me?’

Elysius shrugged. ‘You were the only one who showed her any pity that day. She did not deserve to die, especially in the way she did, for that young woman never exercised her weak powers on anything but doing good for others. If not for her eyes, which she unluckily inherited from her great-grandmother, no one would have been any the wiser. I was angry, Wyl. She wanted revenge on those who were hurting her and I wanted to give her that.’

‘So you used me.’

He nodded. ‘I could tell you were the only person in that chamber who possessed nobility in the true sense of the word. I could count on you.’

‘To do what?’ Wyl asked, his voice rising in anger.

‘To kill the man who crafted her death,’ Elysius answered quietly.

‘Lymbert?’ he said, aghast.

Elysius shook his head. ‘Lymbert was only the instrument.’

‘As I understand it then, Lord Rokan called for her death,’ Wyl continued, his anger still high. ‘And King Magnus permitted it.’

‘No, neither of them. Yes, they were partly responsible but they were not the key to Myrren’s suffering. One person alone encouraged the King to sign her death warrant. One person alone truly enjoyed her agony.’

‘Celimus,’ Fynch whispered.

They both looked towards the boy and Elysius nodded. ‘Yes, Celimus. Through Myrren I heard him boasting about how he had coerced his father into allowing the torture. You were there also, Wyl, but I think you were too young, too alarmed, to concentrate on the prince’s bragging.’

‘No… no, I do remember now. The priest was saying a final prayer and above it Celimus was boasting that the trial had been his idea,’ Wyl recalled, frowning.

‘That’s right. And then Myrren singled him out, demanding to know why a prince of the realm would be present for such mummery.’

‘And he said it was in the name of education, using me as his excuse,’ Wyl followed up despairingly, remembering it all again as if it was yesterday.

‘Myrren sensed your hatred for the prince, Wyl. She was not able to call upon pure magic but her power gave her a highly developed perception of others. It allowed her to look into you, you could say. My daughter knew that you were true and that you despised the young man who had forced you to be present to watch the ugly proceedings. She learned who you were that day and that you had the ear of the King and the status to wield power. She chose you. But it was I who used you, son. Forgive me. If I could take it back, I would.’

‘You mean you can’t?’ Wyl asked plaintively. He had secretly harboured the hope that if he could find the manwitch, then he could reverse the gift.

Elysius shook his large head with deep regret. ‘No. It must run its course.’ Their host pursed his wide lips and stood, clearly upset. He began clearing the table. Wyl’s temper flared and boiled over.

‘Leave it, damn it!’ he cried, reaching for the man’s elongated arm. ‘I must know!’

Elysius looked down to where Ylena’s fingers dug cruelly into his thin arm, the pressure of her anger chasing away the blood to leave blanched spots.

Wyl pulled away as if stung. ‘Forgive me, Elysius. This is a terrible burden… a curse,’ he moaned, remembering all those who had died or been lost as a result of Myrren’s gift.

The little man returned to his clearing-up and silence spread uneasily through the large room, punctuated only by the clatter of dishes. Wyl sat glumly whilst Elysius busied himself making a pot of tea. Soon the silence eased itself into something less awkward, with Knave’s odd grunts and sighs a welcome interruption. Elysius sat himself closer to Wyl when he returned to the table and surprised him by taking Ylena’s uncared-for yet still elegant hands between his two enormous palms. His milky eyes seemed to regard Wyl despite their limited sight.

‘There is nothing to forgive, son. The apology is all mine. I deeply regret all the terrible events that have occurred in your lifetime and wish I could change the magic which is within you, but I can’t. Once cast, it is its own master. No one can control it.’

‘But how do I stop it?’ This time Wyl’s voice held nothing but helplessness. Fynch had to look away, unable to bear the look of defeat on Ylena’s face or his own sense of loss at this news.

‘It will stop,’ Elysius answered gravely.

Fynch held his breath at the words and saw Wyl search his host’s face. ‘Tell me how,’ he whispered.

‘It will stop when you become the person you are meant to be, the person Myrren wanted you to be.’ Wyl swallowed. He thought he already knew the answer; did not want to believe it. Elysius spoke the very words Wyl did not want to hear: ‘The sovereign of Morgravia.’

Wyl’s emotions were not his to command at this moment and he let out a long cry of such deepest despair that Fynch began to softly weep in his corner.

‘No,’ Wyl begged. ‘Please, Elysius…’

The manwitch bent his large head low. ‘I am sorry.’

When Wyl pushed the chair away and disappeared out the door, Elysius told Fynch to let him be.

‘The dog will go with him. Wyl can come to no harm in the Wild with Knave nearby.’

It was hours before Wyl returned, subdued but composed. Elysius knew he had not gone far, barely steps in fact from the small dwelling he had built himself many years ago. He understood Wyl’s need to be alone, to deal with the confusion and the terror.

Elysius had long since carried Fynch, sleeping, to the same pallet Wyl had used earlier. It was still not dawn.

‘I imagine you have questions for me,’ he said gently to Wyl. ‘Put on the pot, we’ll have another jar of tea each, I think.’ As Wyl silently moved to oblige, Elysius added, ‘I’ll tease up the fire again.’

Knave padded up quietly to sneak a warm spot at the hearth. Water was set to heat whilst the embers were prodded and encouraged to flame again. New kindling erupted into larger flames and a fresh log was thrown on to catch. Satisfied, the manwitch made himself comfortable in the creaking rocking chair he had also crafted.

‘Now, ask me whatever you will,’ Elysius said. He could feel the barrage of queries shored up in Wyl’s mind.

‘How do you see?’

‘I am virtually blind. I use others. Knave is my favourite, but I can use birds or other beasts.’

‘People?’

‘Only if I am prepared to open my magic to them.’

‘Which you don’t, I gather.’

‘No. It is too dangerous. Animals take nothing from me.’

‘But you used Myrren for this purpose,’ Wyl accused.

‘Only during her incarceration, and yes, I had to relinquish some of my powers to her. She took just enough to dull the pain of her torture.’

Wyl nodded, seemingly satisfied with that line of questioning. ‘Your brother — I gather from what you’ve said it was he who made you look this way?’ he said, trying hard not to give offence.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he hated me. I was just slow to understand.’

‘Why did he hate you?’

‘I would not share with him the secret of communicating with beasts and birds. It was evident to me from a very young age that Rashlyn was unstable.’ Elysius scratched his large chin. ‘More than that, in truth: I knew Rashlyn was mad. He was cruel beyond imagining for a child. As he matured, he became worse.’

His curiosity piqued, Wyl could not help but ask more about the strange dark man in the mountains. ‘How come he didn’t possess the magic you do?’

‘We have different skills. My magic is based in nature and living things. Rashlyn has… well, other talents. His magic is frightening and, with his twisted mind wielding it, it becomes the darkest of weapons.’

‘But he could learn your magic?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the manwitch answered. ‘As I could his, and he offered me all of it, every answer to every question, if I would give him the secret of the beasts.’

‘I wonder why he wanted it so badly.’

‘To command them, I suspect.’

‘To what end?’

Elysius smiled but there was no mirth in it at all. ‘He would rule the entire land if he could.’

Wyl looked at him incredulously. ‘You mean as a sovereign… a usurper?’

‘Why stop there? Why not Emperor? Why not Lord High King of the three realms for just a start? He would look to Parrgamyn and further. With all that power at his disposal he could control all of us.’

‘Why hasn’t he tried to do something like this already? Surely if he can call up storms, he can wreak all sorts of havoc.’

Elysius nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think my brother is losing his wits. I sense that his periods of lucidity are becoming shorter. He will seek to influence instead, and this is perhaps why we find him in the Razors working with Cailech. Rashlyn always did crave power. Youngest son, you see. And as much as my father was uncomfortable with my magic, he loved me and I him. His relationship with Rashlyn was strained from early childhood. My father sensed the darkness in his youngest son, often talked to me about it and asked whether I could somehow work my powers to stem my brother’s.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

Elysius flinched. ‘It seemed cruel at the time I was asked. He had so little going for him and I seemed to have it all, I didn’t want him as my enemy. As we got older I realised my mistake but by then it was too late. He was far too suspicious of me. I am surprised he took as long as he did to exercise his power over me, to tell the truth. We had little love for one another.’

‘Could you not,’ Wyl searched for the right words, ‘prevent him from using his magic on you?’

‘Shield myself from his powers, you mean?’

‘I don’t know what would be the right expression,’ Wyl admitted.

‘It has taken me years to learn his “scent”. That is probably the easiest way to describe magic, as a sensation of the wielder’s characteristics.’

‘And so you can what… feel him using his powers?’

‘You could describe it that way, yes,’ Elysius replied. ‘He is up to dark mischief, Wyl, and it bodes badly for all of us — for Morgravia and Briavel, even for the Mountain Kingdom he apparently serves.’

‘Can he sense you?’

‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I use my magic fleetingly these days. I also suspect that the Thicket filters sentient activity in one direction. I can sense him, in other words, but he can’t sense me.’

‘Why would he not have recognised the enchantment when I walked in Koreldy’s form?’

‘Because of the Thicket — it has subtle powers, most of which even I am not privy to. It is my belief that it has protected you.’

Wyl had the feeling that Elysius was not being entirely forthright here. If his sense of perception served him right, he would say that the sorcerer was holding back information. He could continue probing but decided it was more important right now to focus on the important details of Elysius’s story, which would affect his decisions for the future. Rashlyn was not important to Wyl now — or so it seemed to him — and he returned to the tale of how Elysius ended up in the Wild. ‘So tell me, what happened after your father asked you to hinder your brother’s magic?’

‘I lied that I could not. I was too young and stupid to realise that decision would come back and bite me. My father’s relationship with Rashlyn was non-existent by the end.’

‘The end?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, we’ve been jumping about, haven’t we? After my father discovered my affair with Emil, he banished me to Parrgamyn to live without my family. Leaving Morgravia was punishment enough, but to be without my family — he knew how much it would hurt. My parents did not know that Emil was pregnant, of course, but Rashlyn suspected as much. He also guessed that I would not return permanently to our place of birth. I rather liked Morgravia and I especially enjoyed the south where it is green and filled with meadows and woodland. Parrgamyn is more arid, you see.’

Wyl nodded.

‘Anyway, in my anger I carelessly boasted to Rashlyn I would jump ship and escape back into Morgravia. I thought he might help me. Quite the opposite: he began to blackmail me. Told me I must give him the secret to the beasts or he would tell our father of my intention.’ Elysius laughed but again there was little amusement in it. ‘I refused to relinquish the secret, no matter what his threat.’

‘So what happened?’ Wyl prompted, absorbed by this tale.

‘He weaved a dark and evil concoction of spells which capsized the ship I was on. I imagine he hoped I would drown with the rest of the unfortunates on that voyage, but his mind works in a cunning fashion, Wyl. Rashlyn took the precaution that, should I survive, I would never be able to live in normal society again. Death would have been easier and my brother knew this; he understood my love of poetry and literature, knew I would suffer without the social contact I thrived on.’

‘And this is the result of his work… this guise you wear?’

Elysius nodded. ‘We had barely got out of the port into deeper waters to sail around the Razors towards Grenadyn when the vessel began to break up and sink. There were ninety souls lost that day. I miraculously remained afloat on a spar, although the freezing waters of the north would have surely killed me. With my last remaining strength I summoned a wind and cast my luck with it.

‘I remember very little of that wild night but when I regained consciousness I had washed up on a tiny beach in the far north… and I looked like this and had lost most of my senses of sight, taste, smell.’

‘Have you somehow seen yourself,’ Wyl wondered aloud.

The man nodded. ‘The creatures explained in great detail. I knew I was different from the moment I regained consciousness, but their descriptions pained me nonetheless,’ he said softly.

Elysius fixed his non-seeing gaze on a far away spot and recalled that difficult time. ‘With a sea eagle’s help I navigated my way into the foothills of the Razors and then, using a variety of animals as my lost senses, I skirted the mountains for several weeks. I was in such shock. I had nowhere to go and was so terrified of being seen that I had to avoid all humanity. My friends, the animals, whispered to me of a place — an enchanted place — called the Wild, where no human dared go. “Take me there,” I begged them… and so they did. I have lived here since.’

‘The spell cannot be lifted?’

‘Not with any magic I own,’ he answered ruefully. ‘Though I have tried, Wyl, I have tried.’

‘We are both cursed then.’

‘You speak true,’ Elysius admitted. ‘You are only the third person I have seen since I came here.’

‘And Fynch is the second, so that means… ah yes, of course, Emil. I remember now, the boatkeeper gave me her name but I didn’t make the connection. So Myrren’s mother came to you?’

‘Yes. She braved the Thicket and the Darkstream to find me.’

‘How did she know where to find you if everyone thought you were lost?’

‘I shouldn’t have, but I used a seer I knew to seek her out.’

‘Widow Ilyk!’ Wyl cried, immediately hushing himself for fear of waking Fynch.

The manwitch nodded. ‘I knew she was safe to use because her powers were weak. Whatever enhancement I added by opening myself up to her would not make her dangerous — I believed she would take only what she needed to make herself more skilled in her craft, but then I was still rather young and desperate to make contact with Emil so you could say my power of reasoning and subsequent decisions were juvenile.’

Wyl wrapped Ylena’s thin arms about her body and shivered. ‘Tell me about the widow.’

‘Well, she and I had met on several occasions during her visits through the southern region and once in Pearlis. I had always liked her and so I took the chance. I cast myself wide and was able to reach out and find her. I could not do the same for my brother who was well shielded by then. Naturally she was amazed to hear my voice in her head, but she was a believer in magic so I suppose she overcame her fright rapidly. She agreed to find Emil and give her a message. In return she took some of my power — not very much, she too was not greedy — which allowed her to become gifted with her sight into people’s lives.’

Wyl sipped the strongly brewed tea. ‘Extraordinary.’

‘Emil came when she received the message. She was shocked and terrified, of course, by the state I was in. I learned of my daughter, and she learned that the child she had borne might be cursed with the same magic. She could not bear to look upon me and all my hopes of finding some love or companionship again evaporated the moment I felt her revulsion. With some help from me she was able to navigate her way back through the Thicket without the boatkeeper noting her return and we have had no further contact. I am presuming she never told anyone that I am still alive.’

Wyl shook his head. ‘I imagine not. How did Myrren react to learning her father was not her real one?’

Elysius grimaced. ‘It was as if she had suspected as much all her life — and yet how could she? Nevertheless, she took the news calmly when I finally found the courage to speak with her in the dungeon — it felt almost like relief that she knew the truth. The next time we spoke it was very brief and after her torture, so she was near enough dead. She told me she wanted vengeance on the prince through you. I think she believed you might relish the opportunity. I could not refuse her.’

‘Her gift seems to be more suited to her uncle’s magic if you don’t mind me saying so, although perhaps you both share some powers?’

‘You are right on both counts. There are certain skills we can both wield. And it might be that Myrren did inherit some of our combined magic, and when she took my power perhaps she corrupted it with the sort of dark twist Rashlyn would use. She made the conditions of the gift, not I. I simply channelled her the power to achieve her desire.’

‘And so I have no choice in this? My destiny is mapped out as to who I must become,’ Wyl said into the gloom. A slash of brightness through the window suggested dawn was not far away.

‘You also have no choice in how the gift plays out. An accident could kill you once and for all, Wyl, so chance comes into it. Remember this: you cannot force or invite death. It does not work that way. Myrren’s gift has its own momentum, its own force you could say. You do not control it; it controls you.’

‘So if I threaten Celimus, invite him to stick his blade into my belly, the gift won’t work?’

Elysius shook his head slowly. ‘What is more, it will make you pay a penalty, because I could not risk you running around inviting people to kill you. Now that I know you, I realise you would never do such a thing. Power is not what you crave. Still, you cannot welcome death through someone else and thus manoeuvre it to your own ends; that was my condition to Myrren — that and the fact that the gift is subject to the whims of the world around it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am not someone to use his power for dark purposes and this vengeance had a blackness that goes against the spirit of my magic. So I maintained that, although you could not control the gift yourself, it was subject to choice.’

‘Other people’s choices, you mean?’

‘Exactly. Death must visit you because the perpetrator decides it, not because you or the gift do. Other people will influence how the magic applies itself, in other words.’

‘And that made it all right in your mind?’ Wyl asked, aghast, his tone leaden with disgust.

Elysius felt the anger and frustration of his victim. ‘It made it easier, Wyl, that’s all. I thought that if others had some choice in the matter, you might be spared.’

Wyl laughed humourlessly. ‘And as you can see, I have been spared.’

Elysius remained quiet. There were no words of comfort to offer.

‘And it will stop when I rule Morgravia?’ Wyl said into the thick silence.

‘Yes. This I do know. It was Myrren’s greatest desire that Wyl Thirsk rule the realm that caused her death.’

‘Because she knew I would stop the persecution of witches once and for all?’

‘Because she knew you would stop the torturing of any souls and, especially, stamp out the persecution of empowered people,’ Elysius said softly.

Wyl sighed. ‘Of course she wasn’t to know that the same King who permitted her death would campaign to stop all further persecution. She could have saved me a lot of trauma.’

Elysius nodded. ‘Magnus was a good King, despite allowing my daughter to die.’

‘Elysius, is there anything remotely positive about your daughter’s gift to me?’

‘Only one factor — an odd one. Myrren was determined that any child of yours would truly be yours.’

Wyl frowned with confusion. ‘But what does she mean by that?’

Elysius shrugged. ‘If I understand her correctly, it means that when you father an heir to the throne of Morgravia, no matter whose body encloses you the child will truly have Thirsk blood running in its veins.’

It was cold comfort for Wyl but comfort nonetheless in an otherwise cheerless tale.

THIRTY-SIX

ALEDA HAD SLEPT AS deeply as the doctor had predicted. When she surfaced it was into a dulled confusion; she did not recognise where she was but there was a woman staring at her. She felt weak, knew her time was upon her.

‘Welcome back,’ the woman murmured, her expression one of relief.

‘Where am I?’

‘Safe. In a town called Brackstead.’

‘In Briavel?’ Aleda asked anxiously.

The woman soothed her. ‘Yes. My name is Bel. Let me help you to sit up. You need to drink this — all of it.’ She held out a mug.

‘What’s this?’

‘A special tea. Physic Geryld insists. I’ll tell you about him.’

Images flooded back as her mind cleared. ‘Did he go to Werryl?’

‘Hush,’ Bel said. ‘Physic Geryld rode to Werryl for help.’

‘I have to find my son,’ Aleda whimpered.

‘You’re in no state to do anything.’ Bel did not want to tell her that she would probably never leave this bed. ‘Let’s wait for news from the capital.’

Aleda already knew her fate. She was too weak to sit up. ‘If I can last that long. I can feel the bleeding has begun again.’

‘You must hold on,’ Bel urged. ‘Please… drink.’

Aleda struggled with a few sips then let her head fall back on to the pillow.

‘You must keep drinking the tea if you want to live,’ Bel urged, terrified of losing the woman and being blamed.

‘I have nothing to live for. My family is dead, murdered. You can’t know what that feels like,’ she groaned.

Bel fell into an awkward silence and hoped the noblewoman slept. She might even have dozed herself until a noise disturbed her.

‘Riders!’ she said, sitting up.

There was a cacophony of excited voices from below. Then footsteps, a man’s tread, heavy and eager, thundering up the stairs. The door burst open.

‘Mother!’ Crys cried, his voice thick with emotion, and then he was across the room in a few strides, his head buried in his mother’s arms. A smile of pure joy stretched across the older woman’s face. ‘My boy.’ She was so weak she could only whisper. ‘You made it.’

The Queen was not far behind Crys. Bel, in her excitement and confusion at being burst in upon, did not realise who the tall woman was as she was summarily escorted from the room by Liryk.

Crys wept into Aleda’s chest only momentarily, sensing that he would lose her very soon. He looked up into the face which had always made him feel safe and loved. ‘Pil found us, told us… Elspyth made me ride to Briavel rather than home.’

She could see his despair at having made that decision, knew he wondered whether he could have saved his family if he had ridden in the other direction. ‘You chose right — thank Shar for Elspyth’s clear head. You live, Crys, and you are now Duke of Felrawthy. Make that count.’ Aleda refused to dissolve into the tears she felt were just as determined to fall. ‘They never gave us a chance. They were sent by Celimus to slaughter us and you would be dead too if you had returned. But you must fight back now, son. Rally an army, as Ylena advised, and make that treacherous sovereign of ours pay for what he has done to our family and to the Thirsks.’

Crys marvelled through his grief that his mother could set aside her pain and loss in her final moments of life to talk to him about duty. He could almost hear his father’s voice joining with hers, urging him to live up to the family name, but this time to fight against rather than for the Crown. It was a chilling thought.

‘I love you,’ was all he could say to his mother in the moment before she died with bittersweet joy in her heart that her son lived and Celimus might yet face retribution.

At first the commotion was only about the sudden arrival of Briavellian soldiers. The folk of Brackstead were thrilled to see the purple and emerald colours so rich and bright on a cold spring morning. Then word got around that Commander Liryk himself was in town. Whatever was happening at The Lucky Bowman was obviously of great import for the highest-ranking soldier in the realm to descend upon the inn without warning.

‘It’s to do with the stranger,’ Bel offered knowingly to any who would give her an ear. She had been thanked for her time and paid handsomely, then asked to leave. ‘I should know, I was asked to look after her. She’s noble for sure and with a Morgravian accent. What she’s doing travelling alone is anyone’s guess, and that youngblood who suddenly appeared was apparently her son,’ she said, nodding as if she had solved the puzzle. When pushed it was obvious Bel knew very little more; nonetheless she enjoyed far closer attention than she was used to as the locals clamoured for news.

When an observant onlooker suggested he was sure it had been their young Queen riding into town and leaping off her horse with long-legged agility and a toss of her ponytail, the tempo of the conversation increased to near boiling point. Such high excitement had not been experienced in Brackstead since King Valor himself had dropped in for an ale on his way back to Werryl from the north three years back.

Confirmation had to be sought. Bel considered it was her duty, now that she had been elevated to such stellar heights, and she accosted the irritated innkeeper whose rooms had been suddenly cleared of patrons by the Briavellian soldiers on account of the official-looking people in room four.

‘Just tell us, Nan,’ Bel urged. ‘Or I’ll never be able to get them to leave the place,’ she added conspiratorially, as if she held such sway over the townsfolk.

Nan remained tight-lipped for a moment longer before realising that her friend was right. A crowd would just keep gathering and hindering proceedings if she did not come clean. ‘Yes, yes, all right. It is her.’

Bel swung around to the waiting people. ‘It’s true! Our Queen is here!’

A roar went up and Nan understood all too clearly her mistake. The frenzy was too high, no one would leave. Her admission had only made it worse as runners were sent off to take messages to more of the townsfolk.

She sighed. ‘Reduced-price ale for everyone but it’s served outside,’ she said to Bel. ‘Anyone not drinking will have to leave,’ she warned. ‘I might as well make myself a penny or two if you’re all going to clog my footpath.’ More cheers as Bel passed on this news. ‘But, Bel, you’d better keep them quiet for now. They’ve asked for hush and that’s from the top.’

The woman’s eyes widened with excitement. As she turned to relay the instructions to an eager audience, Nan stomped back inside and dropped a curtsy to Commander Liryk who happened to be blocking her way.

‘Sir, I’ve done my best but they’re not leaving until they see her… er, the Queen. I’ve offered cheap ale and they in turn have promised quiet.’

‘Thank you,’ he said gruffly.

He had no doubt Valentyna would oblige her people eventually and took one more look around the inn to check all entrances were guarded and all windows blocked by burly men. Once satisfied he gave the word for the Queen and her companions to come down to the common room. She was resting her hand on the Morgravian duke’s arm, no doubt offering condolences. He appeared composed — stoic, in fact, Liryk noticed — which was to be expected of a duke of the realm.

‘Please, Crys, be at ease. The regret is mine that I did not have the chance to meet her and offer my thanks,’ Liryk heard Valentyna say. ‘She brought proof, that’s enough,’ she added. The Commander of Briavel had to wonder what this new turn of events would mean for their realm and its hopes of uniting with Morgravia.

Crys Donal, still struggling to come to terms with the death of his family, let alone having his mother die in his arms after such a courageous and tragic journey into enemy territory, was hiding his grief admirably. His father would be proud. Hearing himself addressed as Duke of Felrawthy was still a bitter sound to his ear and he had asked the Queen to call him by his given name rather than his title, even in this company.

He was glad she had obliged so readily and could hardly believe how adeptly Valentyna had turned the awkward situation into something more bearable. Her ability to put people at ease was a true skill. She had used it well with himself, Pil and Elspyth when they had turned up so unexpectedly with such shattering news, and she was using it again now to ensure that everyone remained calm.

He watched her stretching out her stiff limbs and yawning, issuing requests for food and warm drinks, making everyone relax. It was a deliberate and calculated move and he admired her judgement and stored it away as something he must learn himself. His father had tended towards a more authoritarian style of managing his people but Crys appreciated the pragmatic way Valentyna dealt with those around her. She remained very much in control — she was their sovereign, after all — but she listened to people, and even in the short time he had known her Crys could see that she strived to ensure everyone’s needs were acknowledged.

As he was thinking this he saw Liryk step up and mention to her majesty that the townsfolk were eager to see her. She nodded and said something back and Crys knew that she had agreed to do what would please her people without considering her own fatigue.

She turned towards Crys now and he snapped himself out of his thoughts.

‘I haven’t yet formally offered my sympathies,’ she said and took his hand.

‘At least I saw her… had the chance to hold her as she died,’ he said bravely. ‘Which is more than I could do for my father or brothers.’

‘Do not torture yourself,’ the Queen said. ‘I speak from experience. It makes no difference and will not bring them back. You must take up where your fine father left off and fill his boots.’

He smiled. ‘As you had to.’

He sensed the sadness behind the soft smile she gave back. He felt as if he was the only person in the room with her right now. ‘Yes. And his boots felt very large indeed at first. Allow yourself to make mistakes; forgive yourself when you do. And follow your instincts, Crys. I have no doubt that your parents have groomed you your entire life to take on this challenge, as my father did for me. The know-how does not come easily but we are both more ready than either of us trust, I am sure.’

It seemed that Valentyna knew precisely what to say at the right time. She made him feel strong when the detracting voices inside were doing their best to weaken him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, wishing he could kiss her and not just out of gratitude. The same voices told him immediately to get that idea out of his head.

‘You are welcome,’ she replied. ‘And no matter what happens, Briavel will always be a friend to the Duchy of Felrawthy.’

And with that final comment which lifted his spirits and filled his heart with hope, the Queen of Briavel released his hand and called for a hearty breakfast to be served once she had had the opportunity to say hello to the people of Brackstead and apologise for the lack of warning in descending upon them.

Her comment regarding the need for food made people nearby grin. It was a well-known fact in Briavel that their Queen, despite her lean figure, possessed a fierce appetite. The guards loved her for it, all the more so on the nights she strolled on to the battlements and never failed to show interest in what was on for supper, more than happy to crouch with them and share a small bite of whatever they were eating or drink a mug of ale with them. Somehow it never felt unseemly; she had the knack of making everyone feel comfortable in her presence whilst never relinquishing her grace or regal bearing.

Later, over that same breakfast, Valentyna and Crys spoke of the tale Physic Geryld had related on Aleda’s behalf.

Crys shook his head. ‘The hide, the timing … it all fits. That area would also be the logical place to do their ugly work of burying and later burning the bodies.’ He did not want to say that not so far away was also buried the corpse of Faryl of Coombe, a spot chosen for its remoteness. It seemed Celimus’s mercenaries had selected well.

Valentyna put her face in her hands and sighed. ‘You are quite sure it was the King?’

‘I wasn’t there, your highness, so I cannot be absolutely sure. However, all the shocking events which led up to this seem to be coming together into one nasty campaign from a new King determined to stamp out anyone else’s threat to his power. He must be demented if he feared my father — there was no more loyal duchy to the Crown than Felrawthy, other than Argorn perhaps. And yet Celimus has done his utmost to destroy both the great loyalists to the north and south. He thinks he has achieved it, but I live to fight on and this time it won’t be for him. It will be against him.’

And against me, Valentyna thought miserably, should I marry Celimus. ‘So your mother brought the — pardon me for mentioning it again — the remains of your brother to me,’ she said aloud. ‘Who brought them to your family?’

‘Ylena, my lady, from Rittylworth. The head was left with the monks by a man called Romen Koreldy.’ Crys saw the Queen react to the name. ‘Do you know him?’

Valentyna nodded. ‘I did. He is dead, no use to any of us now.’ She tried to make her words sound offhand but they came out forlornly. ‘I am pleased he rescued Ylena Thirsk.’

Crys dared not explain Ylena’s fate.

‘Where is she now, do you think? You said she was at Tenterdyn with your family.’

The lie came easily as Wyl had instructed. ‘She was taken away at the same time Elspyth and I departed, by a man called Aremys Farrow. He is a Grenadyne, knew Koreldy apparently.’ He saw the Queen’s brow furrow in thought and knew her next question before she asked it, so kept talking. ‘Apparently Koreldy asked that Aremys look in on her at Rittylworth.’ Crys shrugged, hoping he was being convincing. ‘I suppose when he saw what had happened there he came looking for her at Tenterdyn. Presumably Koreldy had mentioned that she had married one of the Donals.’

‘So where would this Aremys have taken her?’

‘He cautioned that if any of us knew where they headed we could be in danger from Celimus, who might target yet more death and destruction.’

The Queen nodded. ‘It seems he was right.’ She was thinking of the note Elspyth had brought, but her thoughts were disrupted by a new voice joining the conversation.

Liryk cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions, your highness.’

‘No?’ the Queen said. ‘How can you look me square in the eye, Commander, and tell me it is otherwise regarding the man I’m supposed to marry?’

She instantly regretted her barb, knowing it was wrong of her to belittle this good man who had only her wellbeing at heart, and in front of strangers, Morgravians especially. ‘I am sorry, Commander Liryk,’ she hurriedly continued. ‘You are right, of course. I must think on what I have heard.’

The damage was done though. The old soldier looked mortified and did not acknowledge her contrition. Valentyna could do nothing to repair his injured ego at present. Instead she stood.

‘Well, there is nothing more we can do here. We travel for Werryl immediately. Liryk, please make arrangements for the Lady Aleda to be transported to the palace chapel where Crys will have the opportunity to pray to Shar for his mother’s soul.’

‘Thank you, your highness,’ Crys murmured.

‘I wish I could do more,’ Valentyna said, taking her leave.

THIRTY-SEVEN

AREMYS WAITED OUTSIDE THE great doors into Cailech’s private rooms. He had not recovered himself fully, although tantalising glimmers of information teased at his mind and he believed it was only a matter of time before his memory was restored. One stroke of luck was that he had finally remembered his identity, but he had no intention of revealing it just yet to the Mountain People. Much as he liked Myrt and his men, he remained suspicious of their intentions for him. Until he knew more, he would keep his secrets.

With the arrival of his name a flurry of other memories had flooded into his consciousness, mostly from earlier years. More recent events remained vague; he now knew he had been on a journey with someone when his memory was lost, but he could not remember either the person or their destination. Aremys decided he would just have to trust now that his mind was intact and when it had fully recovered from the blow or whatever had so damaged his recall, it would return his memories to him.

For now he was Cullyn and he would need his wits about him. Myrt had cautioned him not to play the innocent victim with the King. Aremys’s damaged memory had reminded him that Cailech was known as the Fox on Grenadyn… for good reason. He would heed his new friend’s warning.

Myrt emerged. ‘The King will see you now. Remember what I said.’

Aremys nodded and followed the Mountain man into a vast light-filled chamber warmed by an open fire at one end. He was entranced by the view from the tall windows.

‘This is Cullyn, my lord, although that is not his real name,’ Myrt said to the yellow-haired man who sat at one end of a table, eating.

Aremys bowed low. Royalty made him feel anxious but this King looked anything but regal. He wore no outward signs of his status and stood to greet the stranger, wiping his hands on his breeches. ‘Welcome, Cullyn… or whatever your name is,’ he said.

‘King Cailech, I am honoured,’ Aremys replied, straightening from his bow.

He had height and width on the King but then Aremys did on most men. This one, however, was not in any way cowed by his size, more amazed if anything.

‘Haldor’s arse, but you’re huge, man,’ Cailech said, good-naturedly. ‘A Grenadyne, I hear?’

‘Yes, my lord. We think so.’ Aremys grinned. ‘Apparently my accent gives me away. Plus I held my sword in Grenadyne fashion. It seems I understand Northernish and… well, I just know I’m not from Morgravia or Briavel.’

‘So what were you doing in the Razors just north of the Briavellian border?’ Cailech enquired, straight to the point.

Aremys shrugged, genuinely baffled. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord. Not yet anyway. I am hoping my memories will not stay blurred for long.’

Cailech held his gaze, granite-faced. It was a test, Aremys knew it, and much as he felt inclined to look away from that searching scrutiny he forced himself to hold the penetrating stare from a King used to finding out what he needed to.

‘And you fight like an experienced soldier, I hear.’

Aremys was not sure how to answer. ‘I don’t remember any training, my lord, although I suspect there must have been some in my past. Yes, sire, I am good.’

‘A mercenary perhaps?’

He nodded this time. ‘That’s probably true,’ he agreed. ‘I have been thinking as much myself.’

‘Join me,’ the King said.

Aremys was taken aback. One moment Cailech was interrogating him, the next inviting him to eat with him. He sat. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, confused. ‘But I am not hungry.’

The King gestured that it was of no matter. He resumed his meal and nodded to a man who immediately poured Aremys some wine. ‘Try this, it’s my favourite,’ Cailech encouraged.

Aremys did and it was delicious. He told the King so.

‘It was also Romen Koreldy’s favourite when he was here,’ Cailech said conversationally.

‘Koreldy?’ Aremys frowned. ‘Who is he, my lord?’

‘I thought you knew him,’ Cailech replied, not looking up from his baked waterfowl. ‘Myrt tells me you mentioned his name.’

‘Did I?’ Aremys asked, looking around for Myrt. Even Cailech believed him — if this man was shamming then he was one of the better actors. ‘When?’

Cailech nodded towards Myrt who was standing near the window.

‘Wait!’ Aremys interrupted deciding to come clean. ‘I do remember now. I said Koreldy’s name when I was preparing to spar with Firl.’

Myrt nodded.

‘So you do know him?’ the King continued, pleased that this newcomer was apparently being honest.

‘I must do, but I can’t dredge up from where. It was …’ he searched for the answer ‘…that’s right, it was something to do with the sword that reminded me of him. Is he a Grenadyne?’

‘He is,’ came the reply.

Aremys shrugged. ‘That’s how I know his name then. I have no other recollection, other than the prompt from the sword of all things.’

‘He carries a sword of bluish hue, my King,’ Myrt said softly.

Cailech said nothing in response.

Aremys nodded, recalling a blue sword. ‘Yes, that is so. But I don’t know if I know this or am recalling something I’ve been told, as I remember nothing about the man, sire. Is he important?’

‘To me, yes.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Koreldy and I have unfinished business to settle,’ Cailech said, his unfathomable eyes glinting over the rim of his goblet. ‘To your full health returning, Cullyn,’ he said, raising that goblet now.

‘I’ll drink to that, your majesty,’ Aremys replied. ‘What is your plan for me?’

Cailech resumed his eating. ‘Well, with no memory to draw upon I presume you are in no hurry to be anywhere right now, so why not remain with us? Myrt tells me you can help by teaching my men some sword skills.’

Aremys could see no harm in it. He rather liked the Mountain Dwellers and could not help but like the direct man who ruled them. ‘I shall be glad to. Do I remain as your prisoner?’

Cailech smiled now. ‘I think guest is a nicer word,’ he suggested.

Aremys understood. It was true: he had no idea where he should be or why, so he might as well accept the hospitable imprisonment of the Mountain King and make the best of it until his memory returned fully.

‘Oh, and Cullyn, with regard to the Morgravian King. Do you have any thoughts on him… any memories coming to mind?’

It could not hurt to be honest with this question, Aremys decided. He knew within himself that he hated the man called Celimus but could not remember why. ‘I hate him, sire… I think. When Myrt mentioned his name, my hackles rose. It must mean something, though I am yet to learn what.’

The King nodded thoughtfully. ‘That makes two of us. I hate him enough to do battle with him. But I fear a war right now would be wasting my men.’

Aremys looked startled. ‘I am sure my limited recall serves me faithfully when I suggest that to take on the Morgravian Legion would be suicide for your men. The Legion are well-drilled soldiers. I know your people are tough and do not lack for courage, but I would avoid out and out war with Morgravia.’

‘Unless of course we could bring them into the Razors. If we fought on our own territory, we would win.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Aremys agreed and believed it. ‘But Celimus would not be lured, sire. He’s too smart.’

‘Then you have met the man to have this opinion, I presume?’

Aremys scratched his head and frowned. ‘You must be right — I suppose I have met him to feel so assured of his ability.’ There were thoughts niggling at the fringe of his mind; they were just out of reach for now which was frustrating, but Aremys reminded himself to hold faith, his memory would return.

‘Do you have another suggestion?’ the King asked, more as conversation than genuine expectancy that the injured man could offer advice.

‘Yes! Parley. As long as you’re talking, no Mountain Dweller is losing his life.’

Cailech fixed Aremys with his hard gaze again. There was humour in it this time though, because the stranger had taken him by surprise. ‘Go on.’

‘Why fight — for what reason? Do you truly want Morgravia?’

‘I might,’ Cailech said, not prepared to share his thoughts.

‘No, sire. Why would you want Morgravia? Your people belong here in the mountains. But what if trade was free and your people could come and go across the border without fearing an arrow? That would be worth striving for — not dying for though.’

Myrt smiled to himself in the background. Cullyn was turning Cailech’s own creed back on the King. He had preached a policy of negotiation for all of his early life and thus had united the tribes of the mountains.

Aremys pressed on. ‘And by the same token, sire, Celimus might think he wants the Razors, but in truth why would he want the Mountain Kingdom? What is he going to do with it? No Morgravian would survive easily up here, save a few hardy northerners perhaps. And he certainly isn’t going to move his palace here, my lord. It’s pointless. From talking with Myrt — and I mean no offence, sire — I believe this is two obstinate kings, neither prepared to give ground. Why not get together and work out a solution? Spill no blood. Who knows what good might come of it?’

It was a long speech for Aremys, but as much as he knew he hated Celimus, he did not for a moment believe the Mountain Dwellers were a match for the Legion. A new thought struck him. ‘And should you escalate these skirmishes I’ve been told of, my lord King, then if I was Celimus I would unite with Briavel to crush you. Between the Morgravian Legion and the Briavellian Guard, your people will die, sire, and in numbers no matter how brave they are. You are a nuisance, for want of a better word, and Morgravia might well put aside its differences with Briavel if it meant getting rid of the nuisance from the north.’ He had no idea where this assurance had come from and could only assume that his knowledge was returning at a rapid rate now.

He expected a harsh reaction from Cailech, but the King nodded. ‘You speak sense, Cullyn. I just want to teach the upstart King a lesson, let him know we are not the simpleton barbarians he believes us to be. In truth, I could not leave my beloved mountains.’

‘But that’s precisely what you would have to do, sire, to conquer him. And anyway, there are many ways to skin a rat, my lord.’

At this old northern adage the King laughed, green eyes twinkling with his mirth. ‘You mean there are other ways to teach the southerner a lesson.’

Aremys nodded. ‘Precisely. It doesn’t have to be by proving you are mightier. Intelligence is the key here, sire. Prove you are the King with the vision for peace.’

‘Do you think Morgravia and Briavel will unite?’ Cailech asked suddenly.

Aremys could not guess at this. ‘It was a theory, your majesty, but one with merit.’ He shrugged. ‘If I were the Morgravian King and facing war with you, I would seek to do the same. I think I’m right in saying that the Briavellians are a more tolerant people but they have their own suspicions about the Mountain Dwellers. Faced with fighting you, yes, I think they might strike up a tentative bargain with Morgravia to work to defeat you.’

‘And that’s precisely what the King is doing, Cullyn. Your instincts are sharp but your faded memory has not reminded you that Celimus is petitioning Queen Valentyna of Briavel in marriage.’

At his words, old memories resurfaced and slotted into place. A man called Wyl suddenly came to Aremys’s mind. He could not see him in his mind’s eye but he was thinking orange-hair… a General. Morgravian no less, but try though he might he could not put a face to the memory. He kept seeing a woman’s eyes… feline and sensual. The naming of the Queen had prompted this memory of the Morgravian, as if the two were connected. He shook his head to rid it of the disjointed thoughts — he would have to consider them later.

‘All the more reason to parley, King Cailech. Seek friendship, seek trade, seek peace. You will be the winner; it is your people who would benefit more than the Morgravians, in truth.’

‘I like your style,’ Cailech said, after draining his goblet. ‘What do you suggest?’

Aremys thought about it and the King did not seem to mind the pause. ‘Do not be too proud,’ he said finally. ‘Lead the talks; show his people and your own that it was you who had the vision rather than he. Celimus is not trustworthy so you must tread carefully. And should the talks fail, then no one can accuse the Mountain King of acting in anything but a chivalrous manner. They will know you held out the hand of peace.’

Cailech stood, impressed and a little startled. He needed to think this audacious idea through, perhaps have the Stones read.

‘I like you, Cullyn of Grenadyn. We shall talk more. Join me later for a ride. You must see Galapek, my new stallion.’

Rashlyn moved the Stones about before him. He was alone and he was baffled. They spoke to him of change. Big change, but he could make no sense of it. He cast again, looking specifically for any indication of his greatest fear — the death of King Cailech. He had saved Cailech’s life once previously, when Koreldy had threatened it all those years ago, now he regularly searched the Stones for answers to Cailech’s longevity.

Alas, change once more was all the Stones would yield. What did it mean? Without Cailech he had no power. He must not allow the King to be threatened in any way and yet here was Cailech murmuring about escalating his dislike for the Morgravian King war.

Rashlyn moved restlessly to the window of the chamber he liked to work in, well removed from the hustle and bustle of daily life in the cave. In his increasingly rare lucid moments, such as now, Rashlyn knew he was losing his mind. It was a slow and tormenting process and he hoped this inability to get more out of the Stones was not part of that disintegration. He pulled angrily at the wild beard he hid behind and admitted to himself that spells that once were so easy for him to devise were now challenging. Oh, he was still brilliantly skilled but the talent was beginning to elude him and he alone knew it. Stranger still, he was beginning to recall in vivid detail memories of playing with his brother in childhood.

Elysius! Curse him! Rashlyn felt sure he must be dead. He felt no remorse for causing his brother’s death. Emil had met Rashlyn first and had flirted recklessly with the plain young man, picking her target perfectly for it was obvious he was starved of female attention. As much as Rashlyn desperately wanted to touch, to kiss, to lie with a woman, none would have him willingly so Emil was a revelation for him. Even the whores of Pearlis thought twice about taking Rashlyn’s money. There was something about his wild eyes and disturbing manner that frightened them. And they were right to be scared. Rashlyn’s insecurity had caused the death of two prostitutes on separate occasions when he was unable to see their brief paid coupling through to the normal close. Embarrassed to the point of anguish, he had lashed out with his powers and murdered both cruelly and painfully.

Since tasting the power of killing he had wanted more, needed more. He wished he had killed his brother sooner, then Elysius would never have met Emil. As soon as she clapped eyes on his handsome brother, the humiliation for Rashlyn was complete — her passing interest in him was done. So be it, he had decided, I will find my pleasures in other, darker ways. And he had.

More recently, he had come to the startling realisation that death was easy to inflict; it was the crafting of a spell to prolong an agonising life that was the challenge. It gave him even greater power to control someone through his magic and manipulate them in unthinkable ways.

The transformation of Lothryn from man to horse was the culmination of years of practice in his wing of the mountain fortress where no one could hear the screams of the rabbits and squirrels he selected for his experiments.

He had hated his brother for his looks and his easy manner with others, but mostly he had hated him for his ability to work magic with animals. For as helpless as they seemed to Rashlyn when he had them pinned down or trapped, he had no control over them in any other way, no relationship with the natural world at all.

He hoped Elysius had fought death hard before the sea consumed him. And if by chance he had cheated the waters, then he hoped his brother had died a pitiful death as a freak in some far corner of the realm. Perhaps he had been set upon by a gang of frightened people — he hoped so, for Rashlyn had certainly seen to it that Elysius could not risk appearing in public.

Rashlyn had not felt his brother’s magic since that dark day of death, but then he could not be confident that his waning power could detect a magic as subtle as Elysius’s at work. It was an artful and delicate power, and so potent it took his breath away. He had feared that as Elysius matured he would have learned the key to cloaking his magics — and perhaps he had… perhaps he was alive and practising his art right now?

Since his brother’s presumed demise and his own defection to the Mountain Kingdom, Rashlyn had devoted his energies towards unlocking the secret of power over the animals and birds, the mountains and the trees. One could rule the world with that sort of power at your call. His own skills simply made him a sorcerer, which was why he had attached himself to the far-thinking, highly intelligent King of the Mountains. Using him as his cover and, indeed, his tool, Rashlyn envisaged himself manipulating great power… and not just in the Razors. But right now Cailech was being rash. He was howling for Morgravian blood — too soon in Rashlyn’s opinion. The King had this notion that Rashlyn’s magic would serve to keep him utterly secure and prevent casualties amongst the Mountain Dwellers.

Rashlyn needed more time to shore up his defences, to work new spells. He could hardly explain to the King that his magic was failing him. He remembered how he had only just managed to maintain that glamour of the woman from Yentro. A few moments more and the vision would have crumpled, revealing its deceit to the Morgravian soldier. And the breathtaking spell on Lothryn which so impressed his King — that had been achieved brutally. There was nothing subtle or beautiful about that enchantment, even though the result seemed so miraculous. It was an abomination. Elysius would never have created something so tainted, but he was not Elysius, he was Rashlyn, the unloved, unwanted madman of the family.

He considered Lothryn now, wondering at the pain he was probably suffering. If Elysius had constructed the shapechanging spell, Rashlyn knew in his heart he would have done so effortlessly, without the smashing and distortion of limbs, breaking of the mind or any of the torturous pain Rashlyn had forced upon the courageous man. It was not that Rashlyn regretted Lothryn’s pain. No, his despair was all selfish: he wanted his magic to be subtle, like the magic of Elysius. Instead, it was messy and clumsy.

Would Lothryn die? Rashlyn had no idea if the man’s spirit would survive the trauma and keep the beast alive, or whether it would wither and kill Cailech’s beautiful new stallion.

Rashlyn comforted himself that this time of anxiety and soul-searching would be brief. The madness would descend any moment now and his mind would once again swirl back into its dark and twisting pathways where there was no remorse, no sympathy, no love for anything but power and corruption.

Next to shapechanging Lothryn, tapping into Cailech’s mind was Rashlyn’s most recent diabolical act. He had learned how to manipulate the King’s thoughts and influence his decisions to suit his own base ends. But he could not wield this magic unless the King stood near him and was receptive to that manipulation. There were times when Cailech was utterly closed to him. That was his weakness.

The door opened and Cailech entered as if at a silent signal. No one else but the King ever came to his rooms and he was the only person anyway who would never feel the obligation to announce himself with a knock. The sorcerer felt the familiar drag downwards from rationality into his other, deranged self.

‘My King,’ he said, not turning yet, using the moments to compose himself. ‘I was just admiring the day.’

‘We must speak,’ Cailech said, clearly agitated. ‘I want you to do a reading for me.’

‘I just have, my lord King.’

‘And?’

‘The Stones predict change.’

‘Oh? What sort of change?’ Cailech’s body language was suddenly intent and eager.

Rashlyn noticed the flush at his King’s cheeks. Something had created high excitement in him, he realised. ‘This they do not tell me. I have cast the Stones several times, your highness, and each time they simply prophesy change.’

Cailech surprised his barshi by clapping his hands and laughing. It was a cheerful response to something which would normally disturb him. Rashlyn frowned, unsettled by this reaction.

‘Perfect!’ the King muttered. ‘Do you have any wine here?’

‘Er… why yes, of course. Let me pour you some,’ Rashlyn offered, intrigued. He poured for both of them and waited for the inevitable toast.

‘To change,’ Cailech obliged, holding up his cup before swallowing the contents.

Rashlyn copied his King and put his cup down. ‘So you are happy with my prediction, your highness?’

‘Yes. It confirms what I must do.’

‘And what must you do, my lord?’

‘Go to Morgravia,’ the King said, as if the barshi should have known something so obvious ‘for a parley with King Celimus.’

‘This is a jest, surely? The Stones suggest no such thing,’ Rashlyn spluttered, all politeness deserting him.

Cailech hardly noticed. He put a gleeful finger in the air. ‘Ah, wait, hear me out,’ and he told him of the capture of and his subsequent meeting with the man known as Cullyn.

‘And you trust this man? This stranger!’

‘Oddly, yes,’ Cailech replied, unpredictable as always.

‘Wait,’ Rashlyn cautioned. ‘Say no more until I have consulted the Stones about him.’

Cailech nodded and settled back with a second cup of wine whilst his barshi set about casting the smoothed rocks with their odd engravings. He remained silent as Rashlyn threw the eleven stones across the floor and squatted to read them. He stood up again after a long time.

‘Well?’

Rashlyn shook his head slowly. ‘The Stones are confused. They tell me that he speaks the truth but —’

‘Ha!’ Cailech interrupted, delighted.

‘But… he holds back on things. I cannot tell what these are.’

‘He has lost his memory, man, that would explain it. And anyway, we all have secrets — even you, Rashlyn,’ Cailech said, sounding even happier if such a thing were possible.

Not you, sire. I can read your mind as if it were an open page, the man of magic thought sourly, knowing this was not wholly true. ‘I would recommend caution, my lord.’

‘The Stones themselves predict change. Change of scenery, change of heart, change of ideals, change of plan. Not war with Celimus, Rashlyn, but trade as equals, prosperity together. I am ashamed I wasn’t the one to think of it first. It is inspired — I can’t wait to tell Lothryn about it. Do you think he hears me, understands me?’

Rashlyn sighed inwardly. The King’s mind was made up. He would go right into the dragon’s den. So be it. ‘I think there is enough of his spirit still left in the horse, though I cannot promise it will remain so.’

‘Excellent,’ Cailech replied, ‘for he would approve of this plan.’

‘My lord King, may I ask how you intend to orchestrate such a delicate parley?’

‘Not me — Cullyn, or whoever he really is. He will make it happen.’

Rashlyn nodded and changed the subject to something he could control. ‘About the prisoner, my lord, the Morgravian soldier…’

‘I’m not planning to give him back as a peace offering, if that’s what you’re leading up to.’

‘No, sire. But may I have him? For my experiments,’ the barshi said, reaching out with his probing spell and entering Cailech’s mind.

Later that afternoon Aremys, with Myrt, Firl and a couple of other Mountain men, including Maegryn, in attendance, met with the King on horseback.

‘Isn’t he magnificent?’ Cailech said to his guest.

Aremys had to admit that, intact memory or not, he did not believe he had ever set eyes on a finer horse. ‘Fit only for a king, my lord,’ he said and could see the comment pleased Cailech. ‘May I?’ he asked, wanting to touch the sleek black coat of the stallion.

‘Of course,’ the King replied and Aremys hopped down from his own chestnut mount. He walked around the black horse which tossed its head. Aremys whistled. ‘I have never seen a prouder stallion,’ he said, stepping gently towards the animal in order not to startle it.

‘Here, Cullyn, give him this,’ Maegryn said, tossing an apple towards Aremys, who deftly caught it. ‘He’s picky, he doesn’t like the green ones, they make him sicken.’ The men laughed.

Aremys held the apple in his flat palm and raised it towards the horse’s mouth. He was captivated by the animal and enjoyed watching it snaffle the fruit greedily. But as its velvety lips brushed against his hand, Aremys felt a tremor of shock pass through him. It felt like a dam had burst in his mind and a river of information — his memories — flooded in. He staggered backwards, holding his head.

It was Cailech who reached him first, leaping down from Galapek. Again Aremys was struck by the man’s lack of pretension. He could just imagine Celimus caring enough to even look his way!

‘Cullyn, man! Are you ill? What’s happening?’ the King said, reaching for Aremys whilst holding the reins of his horse.

Aremys was not ready to reveal too much. His cautious nature forced him to take stock of his situation first and consider his position fully. ‘I… I’m sorry, sire, my head suddenly hurts.’ In this he was not lying; it throbbed.

‘Take him back,’ Cailech said to one of his men. ‘If he’s well enough, he can ride with us tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Aremys repeated, stunned with shock, not just by the return of his memory but something else, something frightening. He straightened, deciding to give the worried men something. ‘My name is Aremys Farrow,’ he said, hoping it was not an error to admit as much.

Cailech scrutinised him, then nodded. ‘We know of your family then. You are from the northern isle of Grenadyn. Anything else?’

Aremys shook his head miserably. ‘Only that. It came to me just as this pain did,’ he lied. ‘I’m sorry about the ride.’

‘No harm done,’ the King said affably. ‘I am pleased your memory returns. Are you able to ride back on your own horse?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Aremys reached again towards the King’s stallion, bracing himself this time. He needed to be sure of something. He touched the animal’s neck as if in farewell to the riders. The tremor that passed between him and the horse was genuine. Magic! How he knew this, he had no idea; he just knew it existed. The stallion was riddled with a huge and tainted spell — he could feel it passing into his hand and resonating throughout his body. It made him feel like retching. ‘I shall rest, my lord, thank you,’ he said as evenly as he could.

‘We shall see you later, Aremys Farrow,’ Cailech said, an unreadable expression on his face.

Alone at last in his chamber Aremys remembered everything and it was terrifying. It was the Thicket which had risen up against him and, using its magic, had hurled him into the Razors. As it occurred, he had understood that the Thicket did not want him to pass through with Wyl. One moment he had been whistling and admiring Ylena’s rump, the next he found himself separated from Wyl. He remembered now how the air had become suddenly chill — freezing, in fact — and then he had felt it gathering about him. It was as if invisible hands had shoved him through that thickened air to blast him into a different place.

It was the Thicket’s magic which had knocked out his memories for a while. No blow to his head, he realised, it had all happened internally. He felt his insides twist with fear for Wyl, travelling alone as a helpless young woman, although in truth he knew Wyl could easily hold his own against others. Perhaps not against magic though. What if the Thicket had done the same to Wyl? Perhaps it had not wanted either of them there and now Wyl was lying in some corner of the realm also trying to piece his strange life back together.

Aremys’s thoughts began to travel rapidly now. He needed to get out of the Razors and back south to Wyl. He must find him, help him. If, by some stroke of luck, Wyl had found Elysius then no matter what occurred between them Wyl would still head towards Briavel and Valentyna, of this Aremys was sure. However, if Wyl had not made it to Elysius and the Thicket had treated him with similar disdain, then he might be in Morgravia. It was unlikely he was in the mountains, for Cailech’s scouts would have surely spotted him by now.

Thoughts and plans raged around his mind but once the initial panic had settled Aremys began to think more clearly. Perhaps he could be of some use to Wyl whilst he was kept here. His friend had spoken of the soldier, Gueryn. In his heart, Aremys believed Wyl’s mentor was dead — there was just no reason to keep the man alive and, going by what Wyl had told him, Gueryn had been a thorough nuisance to the Mountain King. However, Wyl believed the man was alive and would be kept alive as bait to lure Romen Koreldy back into the Mountain King’s fortress. Aremys grimaced. He wondered what Cailech would make of it if he told him that Koreldy was long dead and that Ylena of Argorn was now host to Wyl Thirsk. What would he think of Ylena arriving to rescue Gueryn, if he lived? Plus there was the other man — Cailech’s man — who had turned traitor to help Wyl and Elspyth escape the Mountain fortress. Wyl had told Aremys often enough that he would return, come what may, to discover the fate of brave Lothryn.

‘I must find them for Wyl,’ Aremys muttered, swinging his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘As long as I’m captive here, I might as well make myself useful,’ he whispered to himself.

Then he turned his mind to the strangest of all experiences: the fact that he could suddenly detect magic. It pulsed through the stallion, Galapek, and his own head still pounded from the ferocity with which that magic had spoken to him. He could only assume that the huge jolt of magic from the Thicket had somehow made him sensitive to sentient matter around him. He had not imagined it either; he had touched the horse a second time to check.

Aremys shook his head. He understood none of it, but one thing was for sure: he had to get into the dungeons. If Wyl’s friends were alive, that was as good a place as any to start searching for information about them.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts. Aremys looked out of the window and noticed the sun lowering. He must have been wrestling for a long time with his confused thoughts.

‘Who is it?’

‘Messenger. The King wishes to see you.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

WYL WAS ADMIRING ELYSIUS’S handiwork. ‘You made all this?’ he said, his gaze sweeping across the breathtaking landscape. They were standing on a rise amidst a copse of tall trees whose leaves shone a fantastical bright green as the sun slanted through their translucent canopy to the gently moving stream below. Beyond the copse was a rugged cliff face over which water plunged direct from the Razors, Wyl presumed. They had walked here through sweet-smelling meadows from the modest dwelling Elysius had built for himself on a hill overlooking an equally panoramic view. Wyl could hardly believe how incredibly beautiful the Wild was.

The little man took a few moments to reply. ‘In Parrgamyn we believe in Mor. In Morgravia and Briavel it is Shar who holds the spiritual power. In the kingdom of the Razors, the Mountain Dwellers pray to Haldor. My belief, Wyl, is that we are all praying to the same god. And I think that god is Nature. More powerful than we can imagine. Anything which can create such beauty as this,’ he said, sweeping an elongated arm across the vista, ‘or craft such sophistication as you and I, or such grace as a deer or such majesty as an eagle, then this is the god of all for me. This god created what you see before you… I have simply embellished some of it,’ Elysius said. ‘I may not have my own sight but I see perfectly well through the creatures to appreciate the beauty of this place. My skills relate to all things natural. The waterfall’s theatrics is my work but in truth the framework had been in place for centuries. Shar had seen to it.’

‘So this wild beauty was already here? Harmless and gorgeous… and feared.’

Elysius nodded. ‘And I seem to be the only one who enjoys it. It suited my purposes in the early years to live a hermit’s existence, but loneliness is a curse. It would be a pity for Briavel to discover how harmless the Wild is — it would quickly become an annexe of that realm. Just imagine its trees cut down, its streams dammed and diverted, its sheer wildness harnessed. On the other hand, I do miss people. Sometimes I fly with the birds so I can look through their eyes over Briavel or Morgravia and get a sense of being back amongst a community.’

‘Then go. Can’t you cast a glamour about yourself and leave?’

The manwitch smiled. ‘I cannot work magic on myself of that nature, no. Irritating but true.’

Wyl frowned. ‘So if the Wild is not enchanted, why did people of old fear it?’

‘There is magic here, Wyl, be very sure of that. I can’t explain it; I simply accept it. The Thicket, for example, is something rather extraordinary which, from what I can tell, exists purely to keep people away from the Wild. Perhaps if we delved back into history, scholars might throw some light on why no one has explored the region, what exactly they feared so irrationally or perhaps knew to be true.’

‘Old superstitions, I’d guess.’

‘More than that. The Thicket is real and thinks for itself. It allowed me to pass through all those years ago, then Emil, and then you and Fynch, but I suspect it actually does frighten away many who might attempt to enter. It certainly dealt with your friend.’ He saw Wyl’s expression fall at this comment. ‘I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me. I don’t believe your friend has been hurt — I feel sure the Thicket has never injured anyone — but it has the power of choice and it chose for him to be repelled.’

‘What has it done with him?’

Elysius sighed. ‘You are the first person I have shared this with. You will not be the last though — one other must know,’ he said cryptically. ‘The Thicket is more than just a barrier — it is a gate.’

‘To what?’

‘I don’t know. Other regions, I imagine,’ Elysius mused. ‘Perhaps other worlds.’

Now Wyl was astonished. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know enough about it. I have never made use of it, nor will I.’

‘So Aremys might be in a different world, you’re saying?’ Wyl said, aghast.

‘No, I’m not saying that. I understand it so little that I would never suggest such a thing. The Thicket acts as an entry to other places, to cause travel, is all I’m hazarding.’

‘And Aremys has been pushed through that gate?’

‘I’m sorry, Wyl, that I can’t enlighten you further. For all we know he could be on the other side, taking an ale in Timpkenny. It is not important.’

‘Not to you perhaps,’ Wyl said tersely, moving to check on Fynch who was playing in the nearby stream with Knave.

‘And that was clumsy of me again. What I mean to say is that I believe he is safe, wherever he is, and that what is of importance right now is you and the decisions you make.’

‘I came here for an answer, Elysius, and I have it now.’ Wyl scowled, spoiling Ylena’s pretty face. ‘There are no further decisions to make. I must leave for Briavel.’

‘You know Valentyna must marry Celimus, don’t you?’

‘It doesn’t have to be so,’ Wyl countered. ‘And how could you know that so surely whilst you’re stuck out here?’

‘I know many things, Wyl, and I have explained that I travel with the animals — I see and hear much.’

Elysius’s calm countenance could be frustrating. ‘How? How can you know with such certainty that she must marry the madman of Morgravia?’

‘It is prophesied.’

‘By whom?’ Wyl demanded, his tone slightly mocking.

‘The Stones tell me so. They always speak the truth.’

‘The Stones! The same pebbles your brother uses to advise Cailech on how to roast people alive?’ He was yelling now.

Elysius was wise enough to understand Wyl’s sense of helplessness and his fears. He did not react to his wrath. ‘The Stones do not advise, they simply give answers to questions. Their answers are not always clear, I grant you, but in this they are firm. Queen Valentyna of Briavel will marry King Celimus of Morgravia, come what may.’

‘Then we had better hope he kills me first,’ Wyl said bitterly, ‘for I won’t allow it. I will use everything I have within myself to prevent such a marriage taking place.’

He hated the sympathy on the manwitch’s face, as if he already knew this to be a hopeless cause.

‘I’ll take my leave now, Elysius. I thank you for your hospitality and your explanations.’

‘I am deeply saddened, Wyl. I wish I could offer more comfort, at least more guidance, but the way ahead for you is not clear — other than Myrren’s choice for your final destination. Your journey there is shrouded.’

Wyl nodded, too depressed to respond, and walked away.

Elysius called to him. Reluctantly Wyl halted and looked back. ‘We will not meet again, Wyl Thirsk. The Thicket will permit you through. Take food from the cottage and leave before dark. Remember my warning: Myrren’s gift cannot be manipulated or it will punish you in ways you cannot imagine. She insisted you rule Morgravia. Rule you must.’

Wyl felt a tremor run through Ylena’s thin body at such prophetic words. He could not speak, simply raised a resigned hand in farewell.

‘Trust Fynch, although he too has his own path now,’ Elysius called after him somewhat cryptically. He wanted to say more but he feared it might persuade Wyl that the Quickening could be foiled. Elysius knew better. He watched the retreating back of the only person in the land who could save Morgravia, Briavel and the Mountain Kingdom. He watched until Wyl was long gone and his own ugly wet cheeks had dried from the tears he had shed.

Fynch sat in Ylena’s lap, her thin arms hugging him to her chest. Knave had positioned himself so close that he was touching both of them.

‘I don’t mind that you’d like to remain here a while. It’s so beautiful, I could live here forever,’ Wyl admitted.

‘But why can’t you stay longer?’ the small boy asked.

‘I must go to Valentyna, Fynch. I have to get a grasp on what’s been happening.’ He scratched his head. ‘I don’t even know if time passes the same in the Wild — who knows what might have occurred since we were last in Briavel?’

‘Time is the same,’ Fynch assured. ‘And you’re sure you don’t mind if I stay here a little longer?’

‘I promise,’ Wyl said, meaning it. ‘Is there a reason beyond the peace and solitude, though?’

Fynch nodded. ‘I can’t explain it, but I feel compelled to remain.’

Wyl noticed Knave was staring at him. He wondered if Elysius was with them, seeing through the animal. The dark eyes seemed to be imploring Wyl to trust the boy.

‘Come straight to Werryl once you leave here. I hope I’ll be there, but you know you have friends at the palace, no matter what.’

Again Fynch nodded, his mind already turning to more practical matters. ‘How will you travel?’

‘I’ll buy a horse at Timpkenny.’

‘I have plenty of coin if you need it.’

Wyl laughed. It was the first time in a while that he had heard Ylena’s tinkling laughter. ‘You’re an extraordinary child, Fynch, do you know that?’ he said, ruffling the lad’s hair. ‘And I suppose you have Knave so you don’t need to worry about transport.’

‘That’s right,’ Fynch said, turning in Ylena’s arms. ‘Be careful, Wyl… please.’

Wyl nodded. ‘I promise to try and remain Ylena,’ he said and was rewarded with a smile from his friend. ‘Although you know this thing isn’t over yet. Elysius says it will continue —’

‘Until you rule Morgravia,’ Fynch interrupted. ‘Yes, I know. But who knows what might happen yet.’

‘He says that is the outcome.’

‘Then he’s ignoring the notion of free will. Remember, Myrren’s gift is still bound by the will of others, if not your own.’

Wyl hugged the boy again. How odd that no adult could bring the comfort that this child could. Fynch always seemed to say the right thing at the right time.

‘I must go.’

They stood and Wyl leaned down and kissed Fynch. He looked towards Knave. ‘Bring him safely to me.’

The dog growled softly in answer.

Wyl wasted no further time. He packed a small sack of bread and dried meat, together with some hard biscuit and a bladder of water. It would do. He left the cottage with a single backward glance, in case Elysius had come to add something heartening. Only Fynch stood there, one hand on Knave, his other in the air waving.

Leave soon, Fynch, Wyl suddenly thought, even though an hour earlier, with the boy hugged close, he had felt the lad was safer in the Wild than in any of the neighbouring realms. He could not put his finger on the reason for this about-face but he had a sense that Fynch would be changed the next time they met. As he raised his hand in farewell, he took a moment to fix in his mind the picture of the innocent, serious little boy and the large, mysterious dog. He felt an urge to warn Fynch but he was already too far away. It would mean climbing back up the hill and the small boat was bobbing invitingly just steps away on the Darkstream. The craft must know he was preparing to leave, he realised, for it to be waiting so patiently for him.

Against his inclination, he made the decision to press on. As much as he felt a fear for Fynch he knew it was irrational, and Wyl would be the first to admit that both of them were caught up in something so dark and strange that no one could predict the outcome. He wanted to believe he could stop Valentyna uniting Briavel with Morgravia through marriage but there was something about Elysius’s sorrowful look that told him the prophecy was true and he was fighting a hopeless cause. Still, he must die trying, and he smiled grimly, for death was all that was ahead for him until he became the person he was destined to be.

As for Fynch, he was on his own path of destiny and although their paths were firmly linked at certain points, for the most part they ran parallel. He would just have to hope nothing untoward leapt into Fynch’s way. With Knave at his side, Wyl doubted that anything — even magic — could deter Fynch from his journey, whatever that was.

He lowered himself into the boat and undid the small rope. Immediately the craft set off against the current, which was fascinating in itself. It moved effortlessly through the dark waters towards the great mouth of the mountain which had swallowed him once already.

He sent a prayer to Shar that he would hold his nerve this time and make it through to the other side without succumbing to the Darkstream’s invitation to drown.

THIRTY-NINE

FYNCH SAT QUIETLY WITH Elysius outside his dwelling watching the birds darting in and out of the trees and swooping across the picturesque meadows. He made a chain of daisies and looped it around Knave’s neck. The dog did not seem to mind — he was more intent on snuffling around for a smooth round stone he could persuade Fynch to throw for him in the absence of a ball. In the comfortable quiet Elysius considered with a heavy heart how to approach the frightening topic that needed to be discussed.

‘How long will you stay here, Fynch?’ he asked finally.

‘As long as it takes,’ the boy replied, stringing a second daisy chain over Knave’s head.

‘For what?’

‘For you to tell me what it is that burns at your lips and makes you so anxious.’

Elysius was stunned. He was right about the child. ‘How do you know?’

Fynch shrugged. ‘I sense it. Near to you, it’s easier for my senses to tap into your mood. And Knave’s magic is strong because you are so close. I think he helps me to understand all sorts of things. And then there’s the Thicket. Even through the rockface it seems to whisper to me.’

Elysius nodded, amazed. ‘You sense right, child.’

Fynch scattered the flowers he held. ‘Then tell me. Don’t be scared.’

‘Have your senses told you what it is that sits between us?’

The boy shook his head. ‘It’s important, though, isn’t it?’

‘It is also a secret.’

‘You didn’t tell Wyl?’ This obviously surprised Fynch because he frowned, then sighed as if accepting something unpleasant.

‘No. Trust me when I say it would endanger him if I had.’

Fynch accepted this without further question. ‘Should I be scared?’ he asked, eyeing his companion.

Elysius did not know how to answer this. Fynch was such a sharp child, it would not be right to give him anything but a direct answer. ‘Well, I am scared at sharing it with you.’

Fynch nodded gravely. ‘Tell me then.’

Elysius wasted no further time. ‘I am dying. It will happen soon.’

The boy did not react other than to stare at the ground. Elysius saw him lace his fingers together as if to steady himself whilst Knave stopped his search and lay down silently next to Fynch.

‘Have you read it in the Stones?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But they assure me in their strange roundabout way that the magic need not die.’ He leaned forward. ‘Must not die, in fact,’ he added emphatically.

Fynch sighed heavily and lifted his gaze to look directly into the milky eyes of his dying friend. ‘And you can pass it on to me.’

Elysius felt an enormous outpouring of gratitude and pity for Fynch. The brave little boy had worked it out for himself. He could hear the regret in the child’s voice and wished he could avoid placing this terrible burden on a youngster who had already given more than enough to Myrren’s cause. But then this was not for Myrren — this was another sort of gift; a terrible and heavy responsibility to entrust to a child. But he was the right one. Elysius had known this from the moment Knave had encountered the tiny gong boy at his work in Stoneheart all that time ago.

‘Fynch, will you accept it?’

‘I fear it,’ Fynch replied without committing himself.

Elysius was surprised that the boy had not baulked. ‘You need not, if you wield it wisely.’

‘I don’t understand how I can use magic,’ Fynch said, shifting to stroke Knave’s large head and velvety ears.

‘Yes you do, child. You have always known in your heart. You told me that your mother was fey. She passed her talents and her own sentient ability on to you. In truth, I do believe you chose me.’

Fynch took no notice of the gentle accusation. ‘And I must use it to protect Wyl. See to it that he rules Morgravia. Is this right?’

Elysius hesitated and Fynch’s gaze flicked up from Knave’s head to stare at his freakish friend.

‘You will help Wyl, of this I am sure, but Myrren’s gift has its own momentum. It will take him to his destiny come what may. You… well, you have a much more complex task, son, and I wish I could spare you it.’

‘What is it that I must do?’ Fynch asked, dread in his voice.

‘You are soon to be custodian of the magic belonging to the Thicket,’ Elysius explained.

It was not a time for further apology or placations. Elysius knew this weight of responsibility must fall on the narrow shoulders of this small child. ‘When I first came to the Wild, guided by the birds and animals, they called me the Gate Wielder. It took me a long time to understand what they meant, and then I spent years trying to ignore it. The rest of my life I have devoted to avoiding it — I have never believed I am strong enough.’

‘Gate Wielder,’ Fynch said, testing the words on his tongue. ‘And what does it mean?’

Elysius told Fynch about the Thicket acting as a gate, as he had detailed to Wyl earlier.

‘Has there always been a Gate Wielder then?’

It was an astute question and Elysius acknowledged it with a smile. ‘No. In past times there have been, I suspect. But I was the first in a very long time. The Thicket takes care of itself and ordinarily can keep people out via its own means. Those who may be allowed to pass through for whatever reason then have Samm to contend with.’

‘Samm is persuasive,’ Fynch agreed. ‘So why change now? Why did the Thicket need you?’

‘My guess is that until fairly recent times it hasn’t needed someone with magic powers.’

Fynch looked at him, confused. ‘Your guess?’

‘Fynch, the Thicket has never spoken to me as I gather it speaks to you. My communication with it has been via the birds and animals. From the few things you’ve said, it sounds to me as though the Thicket itself talks to you. My feeling is that you are no ordinary Gate Wielder, if there is such a thing.’ He laughed briefly, sadly. ‘I believe that you are someone very special.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fynch asked, scared afresh.

‘I don’t know what I mean. I am speculating. Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a gate that almost never gets used.’

That notion hung heavily between them for several long moments.

‘If the Thicket has its own powers, why does it need you?’ Fynch asked eventually.

‘Well, again I can only surmise. My hunch is that it needs to channel its magic through someone to achieve change outside of itself.’

‘You mean change in the world beyond its own borders?’

‘Exactly.’

Elysius reached for a flask of juice he had squeezed that morning. He gestured to Fynch who nodded. As he poured them each a cup, he tried to make this difficult notion clearer for the child whose burden suddenly felt so much heavier than his own.

‘I think it needs the wilder magic my mother spoke of, and that means someone whose talent revolves around nature. It found that in me and I presume any previous Gate Wielders offered similar qualities. I am passing my nature magic to you, so that would answer one part of this strange equation, but the other is how and why the Thicket speaks to you. I can’t imagine how it will use you.’

Fynch had never felt more frightened in his life. He took the cup from his friend and drained it. ‘So Aremys went through this gate?’

Elysius nodded, surprised by the sudden switch in topic. ‘I pushed him. It was the first time I have ever used that unknown magic.’

Fynch’s eyes widened. ‘Why did you push him?’

‘He was a complication. You and Wyl were the only ones I wanted to come through and perhaps the Thicket sensed this. It has the ability to make up its own mind but it is linked to the Gate Wielder. Normally it can repel people with the greatest of ease but Aremys was strong — his friendship with Wyl very real — and I realise now that he was somehow protected by Wyl and the magic Wyl possesses within himself. The Thicket summoned me to open the Gate.’

‘Where did you send him?’

‘I was careful not to push too far. I hope he is in Briavel or Morgravia.’

Fynch switched his thoughts to another question niggling in his mind. ‘So I must stay here after… after you leave?’

Elysius finished his drink and sighed. ‘For a short while anyway. This is why I have asked you not to follow Wyl, although I am sure he told you to go to Werryl.’ Fynch nodded. ‘Stay here until you have learned more about the Thicket and its intentions.’

‘How will I do that?’

The little man looked at Fynch sorrowfully. ‘I am hoping it will tell you.’

Fynch bit his lip in thought.

Elysius sighed. ‘There is more connected with the magic of nature. I could keep this from you and allow you to learn it slowly as I did, but that would be cruel. I am sorry, but each time you unleash your magic, for whatever reason, you will sicken.’

‘Is that what has happened to you?’ Fynch asked and once again Elysius was struck by the boy’s ability to see straight to the core of a topic.

He nodded. ‘It will take my life shortly. In fact, son, when I pass the burden to you, I suspect that will herald my end.’ He saw the misty look in the child’s eyes. ‘No, do not be sad for me. I wish I could spare you the same burden.’

‘Will I die too?’

‘Perhaps,’ Elysius answered honestly. ‘This is why I must counsel you to use your magic sparingly and keep your life long,’ he added, not quite so truthfully, as he could already imagine what lay ahead for courageous Fynch.

Fynch nodded, looking suddenly older for this terrifying knowledge. ‘Is there anything else?’

Again Elysius resisted the urge to soften the blow; he would not offer empty words of comfort. He pressed on, finally vocalising his suspicions. ‘I think the Thicket wants you to track down and destroy my brother, Rashlyn.’

The boy visibly shook. ‘Elysius! I could never kill anyone.’

‘I know what might be asked of you is difficult.’

Fynch shook his head rapidly as if trying to shut out the placating words. ‘No. No!’ he said, forcing Elysius into silence. ‘I will not kill anyone, for your personal revenge or anyone else’s.’

‘Not even Celimus, after all that he’s done?’

At this Fynch’s mouth hung open. He wanted to respond but could not. Then he dropped his head in his hands. ‘I don’t believe I’m capable of it… not even Celimus.’

‘Fynch,’ the mellow voice said softly. ‘I don’t ask this of you. This is for the sake and safety of all that you love — Wyl, Valentyna, your family; Morgravia, Briavel. I dare to think that this is why the Thicket is becoming involved.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Now that I have discovered where he is, I realise that Rashlyn has the ability to plunge all three realms into war. If, as Wyl says, Rashlyn can manipulate King Cailech, then there is only bloodshed ahead.’

‘Why should the Thicket care if we all kill each other?’

‘I do not know. You must seek those answers for yourself. I think it does care, though.’

‘Why me? Why not Wyl, who is a soldier and knows how to wield a sword and kill a man?’

Elysius shook his head. ‘Dear Fynch, I wish I could spare you this. Wyl is a wandering soul trapped in helpless flesh and bone.’

‘You have never seen Wyl fight. He might walk as Ylena now but he is still Wyl Thirsk inside.’

‘Child, you miss my point. Rashlyn is far superior to Wyl. He could snap a sword from fifty paces, deflect an arrow, smell the poison — he cannot be killed by conventional means. Wyl is no threat to him. No one is, in fact.’

‘How can I do it then?’

‘I am giving you the means, son. Shortly you will be a sorcerer, but far more fearsome is the fact that you also possess whatever power the Thicket deems to lend you. Find out what it can do. Use it.’

A dawning expression moved across the small boy’s face. Elysius pressed further. ‘Rashlyn is a madman. A destroyer. No one can stand up to the sort of power he wields, except you. You alone can stop him. You and Knave and the secret of the Thicket that calls to you.’

Whether Fynch was filled with uncertainty and misgivings, or whether he just felt frightened and alone in spite of Knave’s heavy head resting on his legs and reminding him of friendship, Elysius did not know. A dread silence sat between them as the former gong boy considered all that he had just learned. Suddenly the memory of being a hardworking child and coming home to his parents’ tiny cottage with their meagre belongings felt as though it had been the best time of his life.

But he could appreciate that there was nothing random about his relationship with Knave, which connected him to Myrren through Wyl and to Elysius and his mad brother. His part in saving Valentyna’s life was not a coincidence. His own life was being shaped, orchestrated. He had been chosen. He looked at the strange dog who sat beside him and acknowledged the curious tingling sensation between them which had grown after they had passed through the Thicket.

He made his decision.

‘I wish I could stay here in this serene place and not take on this terrifying role,’ he said, ‘but then I think about Wyl’s suffering and how he too is on a strange path he didn’t ask to journey upon. It seems we are both being asked to do things neither of us want to do and yet must to help others. I know I have to be brave and accept the burden of becoming a manwitch even if it does mean an early death. I’ll help Wyl all that I can and I’ll face Rashlyn for you. I can’t promise I’ll overcome him, Elysius, but I will die trying.’

The man felt ashamed of himself for asking so much of this brave child. He wished he could bite out his own tongue for what he knew he must still say.

‘Fynch, one more thing.’ Large, trusting eyes turned to look at him. ‘You must not, under any circumstances, allow Rashlyn to seize your powers — and he will try, believe me. You must never lose sight of the fact that you will be weakened each time you wield magic and this is why I urge you to make for the Razors first. Don’t follow Wyl. He must take his own path now… and you yours. You will need all of your strength to match Rashlyn; you cannot risk being compromised in any way. I beg you to heed this warning, for if he defeats you and takes your powers — as he can — then the world is doomed.’

Fynch hugged Knave close, who licked him as if to say he understood the import of what was being discussed.

‘Wyl left very upset,’ Fynch commented, wanting to leave behind the talk of death and destruction.

‘I gave him no peace. He came seeking answers and I gave him the wrong ones,’ Elysius said, filled with regret.

‘It occurs to me that the Stones are open to interpretation — would that be fair?’

‘Of course. They never provide a clear answer.’

‘So perhaps Wyl’s fear of becoming Celimus is also open to interpretation,’ Fynch prompted.

Elysius did not answer immediately. He had learned in the short time he had spent with Fynch that the boy was a serious, deep-thinking person. He might be young but he was sharply intelligent and perceptive. ‘How would you interpret the notion then?’ he asked gently.

‘I wouldn’t. I don’t trust the Stones or what they predict in their misted way. I trust only what I see or hear and what I feel in my heart.’

‘Do you think they lie?’

‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m simply saying that there are many scenarios we might not be considering. The Stones have put a notion into your mind and you are trusting it, but you yourself built into Myrren’s gift the aspect of free will, didn’t you?’ Elysius nodded. ‘We don’t know what might happen or who might influence the future. Celimus could die tomorrow in a riding accident or from disease. That’s the randomness of the world, isn’t it? And then Wyl may not have to answer to Myrren’s gift any longer.’

Elysius felt a rush of love and admiration for the bright, brave boy. He hardly trusted his voice to speak without trembling and he fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. Reaching for Fynch he hugged him hard.

‘You are the most extraordinary person I have met in my life, Fynch. You alone will give our world hope and I go to my death relieved that it is you who takes over this power from me. I am proud to know you. You are right: none of us knows anything for sure.’

It was Fynch’s turn to feel choked. He did not feel brave and he did not want to be saviour of the world. He just wanted a quiet life. He hugged the little man back with affection and sorrow that both of them were suffering for his magic.

‘How much time do we have?’ he asked after a long silence.

Elysius already felt as if he had passed over his burden to the boy. He regretted it but knew he had no choice. ‘Time is short. I must channel all of my magic into you.’

‘And then you will die?’

‘Yes.’

‘When shall we begin?’

‘Now, son,’ Elysius replied softly.

EPILOGUE

THE CORPSE OF THE former Duchess of Felrawthy had been laid out in the small chapel at Werryl, where those who had known her — just four of them in Briavel — could pay their last respects. Father Paryn intoned a final gentle prayer to commit her body to a peaceful rest. He was aided by Pil who lit small candles at given moments during the prayer: one for her head, one for each limb, one for her soul. They would burn until they snuffed themselves out, by which time Shar’s Gatherers would have collected her.

Physic Geryld, Commander Liryk and Chancellor Krell sat behind the Queen. At Valentyna’s right was a composed Duke Crys of Felrawthy. On her left side was Elspyth, the only one weeping. Elspyth had liked Aleda immensely and could not contain the sorrow she felt at this fine woman’s shocking end and her courageous, desperate bid to see her son alive.

Valentyna reached to put an arm around her petite companion. ‘I gave Romen an identical kerchief,’ she whispered, handing Elspyth a beautiful square of embroidered linen. ‘You keep this. Now both my friends own one.’

Elspyth was touched by the sentiment but it made her lack of composure worse and she could only nod her thanks. Later, when the prayers were done and the candles glowed softly around Aleda’s body, Elspyth was sufficiently calm to whisper back to the Queen, ‘I shall stay on with Crys for a few moments.’

Valentyna smiled and nodded. ‘Forgive me, I have business to attend to,’ she whispered.

Everyone bowed for the Queen’s departure. Once outside the chapel, her counsellors had to run slightly to catch up with their monarch’s long stride.

‘I don’t need to remind any of you, I’m sure, that no one is to discuss these events outside those of us here who know. The death of Aleda Donal, plus the presence of the duke and Elspyth, are to remain a secret to the best of our ability.’

She saw Krell baulk and surmised what he was about to say. ‘I understand that the folk of Brackstead are the weak link in this plan and that the nobility too have met Crys and Elspyth, but we can say they have departed Briavel. The gossip in Brackstead will die away soon enough.’

Krell had paled. She frowned at him but he said nothing and so she continued. ‘The Morgravians will remain as our honoured guests for as long as they choose. No one is to discuss their presence outside of the palace. Is that clear?’

Everyone nodded except Krell.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said, effectively dismissing them. ‘Chancellor Krell?’

‘Your majesty?’

‘A word, please, in my solar.’

With the agreement of both sovereigns, Jessom had followed through on his idea to set up a system of couriers to make the journey between Werryl and Pearlis much faster. Special huts for overnighting had been established in recent weeks, with supplies of dried food and watered ale, which meant there was always a rested man and a fresh mount ready to go. By handing over messages at these courier points, the journeying time for written correspondence — and less sensitive verbal messages if need be — was more than halved.

And so it was that Krell’s communication to his counterpart in Morgravia was received quickly at Stoneheart, and why now King and Chancellor were standing together in Celimus’s study, both seething.

‘Read it again!’ Celimus ordered.

If it were anyone else Jessom would have suggested that reading it once more would not change the contents but he sensibly bit back the acid-tongued comment and did as his King demanded. ‘He was right to tell us, my lord King,’ Jessom said after he had finished.

‘Obviously Valentyna doesn’t know he has. She wouldn’t have sanctioned him writing to you like this. No, he’s taken this entirely upon himself because he’s frightened.’

‘Of the consequences, do you mean, sire?’

The King ran a hand through his dark, lustrous hair. ‘I think it’s more simple than that. Krell and that Commander of theirs seemed determined to turn the marriage into a reality. They said as much during our visit. Their people want the peace as much as our own, but those two and Krell in particular understand that Briavel is in no position to fight a war with us. Diplomacy is their one weapon.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Jessom said, even though he had grasped all that he needed to on the first reading. He knew he had to get the King to calm down because then his thoughts would flow smoothly and in a more cunning fashion. He had learned this the hard way. When the King was angry, people got hurt and this was not Jessom’s style.

‘And that snivelling bastard son who should have died,’ Celimus spat, ‘but somehow escaped our sword is now walking tall as the new Duke of Felrawthy. Not to mention some stupid woman from Morgravia poisoning the Queen’s thoughts. They know everything.’

‘Not everything, sire. They are piecing together various stories,’ Jessom soothed, though he knew the King’s words had a horrible ring of truth.

Valentyna might be young and inexperienced but she was the daughter of a canny sovereign and, if his own first impressions were right, she possessed an intelligent head on her shoulders. Which, no doubt, was why his counterpart in Briavel had reacted so swiftly and done what some might consider unthinkable, sending a private communication into Morgravia. It was obvious that the Queen would be appalled by what the Morgravians were telling her.

Jessom poured his King a goblet of wine. ‘We do not know the full measure of the young duke yet, your highness. He might be useful to us in ways we cannot anticipate,’ he said, thinking aloud.

‘True,’ Celimus replied, taking the proffered cup. ‘But my inclination is to believe that at this point Valentyna must have no intention of marrying me. You agree?’

Jessom nodded gravely; the King was right. ‘I do, your highness.’

‘Then if she won’t come willingly, we shall take Briavel the hard way.’

Chancellor Jessom was not ready for such a leap forward. ‘War, sire?’

‘Threat of it anyway, Jessom. She has understood all our couched words of intimidation — Valentyna is far from dull. She knows precisely what is at stake here. I freely admit that marriage would be easier and certainly a more economical means of bringing Briavel under our rule, but if she won’t see the sense of this marriage then I shall teach her that she never was an equal — no matter what she has been raised to believe.’

Jessom, unhappily, had to agree with the King. ‘Your orders, sire?’

‘Summon my General and his captains. War with Briavel is now on the agenda,’ Celimus said, before swallowing the contents of his wine cup and slamming it down on the table. ‘And whilst we’re at it, I might as well deal with the barbarian of the north,’ he added, glee lacing his tone.

Valentyna’s hand was at her throat, alarm spreading through her every fibre at hearing Krell’s admission. ‘You did what?’ she said, her tone icy as she hoped somehow she had misunderstood her faithful advisor.

Krell had never before felt so unsure. ‘Someone had to do it, your majesty,’ he said, his voice small and filled with dismay. Suddenly the letter to Chancellor Jessom seemed like a rash move.

‘Someone had to do what, Chancellor Krell? Betray me? Don’t you think I’m coping with enough here without my own people working against me? Wouldn’t it have been easier to take out a knife and just plunge it straight into my heart?’

‘Your highness,’ Krell beseeched. ‘It was for the good of Briavel… for your reign. Your father —’

‘Don’t you dare, Krell!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you dare bring the name of my fine father into this. Yes, he craved peace, but for me, sir, for no other reason. He did not want his daughter fighting endless, pointless wars with Morgravia just to keep a tradition alive,’ she said as sarcastically as she could.

Valentyna could see Krell moving to explain that there was more to the wars than that but she held her hand up. ‘What possessed you, Chancellor? What was going through your mind when you sent that letter?’

He swallowed hard. He had never seen her like this before. Suddenly the young Queen was possessed by wrath; her dark blue eyes blazed bright with her anger and it was all directed at him. Surely he did not deserve this?

‘I thought, your highness, that Chancellor Jessom might shed some light on the strange series of events. That he might explain whether there was some misunderstanding and prevent us leaping to wrong conclusions and making hasty decisions.’

‘Chancellor Krell,’ she snarled, ‘the only person making hasty decisions is you, sir. You have presumed too much. Your office and your familiarity with this family, and especially with me, does not permit you to send secret missives to our enemy.’

‘Enemy,’ he echoed softly. He looked completely baffled. ‘Me confer with an enemy?’ The accusation was too much for him to bear.

Valentyna stepped forward. ‘Yes, enemy, Krell. Celimus wants Briavel, not me and not peace, and not for the good of Briavellians or even Morgravians for that matter. He simply covets the realm. He is empire-building. He is also a madman but then I didn’t think I would have to explain that to you. His latest actions speak a thousand words.’

Krell tried to resurrect some measure of his former composure. He forced himself to stand straighter, to stop cringing before the angry monarch who towered above him. ‘My Queen, if you do not marry him, he will make war upon us.’

She closed her eyes momentarily, as if to gather her patience. ‘And you don’t think that is precisely what he will be ordering right now, as we speak?’

‘But, your highness, what other option were you planning?’

‘I was stalling, you reckless, interfering old man. I am trying to find a peaceful solution,’ she said, tears welling. She fought them back. ‘I wanted this whole business kept quiet so I could have time to think, to carry on diplomatic relations with Morgravia and keep the King at arm’s length until I knew how to go forward. I still do not know what the answer is. If you had not interfered, Celimus would be none the wiser. He would still think I intended to marry him and I would have had time to plan. Perhaps I cannot escape being wedded to him, sir, but I would prefer to do so on my own terms. Not yours! You have now committed us to war. How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands?’

Krell began to weep.

Valentyna despised herself for reducing this good man to such a state but her anger was burning white hot now. ‘Get out of my sight. Leave the palace.’

‘Your highness, please, let me help.’

‘Help?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t need your sort of help, Krell,’ she said cruelly. ‘What I need are people who are faithful and true to Briavel and its ruler. You have betrayed us both and I will never forgive you. Now go.’

Valentyna waited until her heartbroken Chancellor had left before she buried her face in her hands and cried like a child. Through her tears all she could think of was her beloved Romen Koreldy and how badly she needed his arms and his strength around her now. He would know what to do. Romen would think of something to ease them out of this mess, but she had nobody. Not even her friend, Fynch, and his strange dog were here to offer their usual solace. And then her father’s face swam before her and reminded her once again who she was and that she could never depend on anyone but herself.

The Queen of Briavel’s resolve crystallised and by the time the startling news was delivered that Chancellor Krell had jumped to his death from the battlements, her heart was hardened. She shed no tear at the tragedy for it was because of him that Briavel would be going to war.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT WOULD BE WONDERFUL to write a simple but huge Thank You In 72 pt and hope that everyone who is connected with my work somehow knows how grateful I am for their support. There are always those, however, whose contribution makes a real difference. That list, which grows with each new book, includes:

Gary Havelberg and Sonya Caddy — draft readers every author would want if they knew how much above and beyond the call of duty these two go when they’re on task; Robin Hobb, my long-distance friend and mentor; Pip Klimentou, still doing the wake up call at 0600 in case I’ve been writing too late. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan — thank you.

This page would not make sense without a mention for the magnificent HarperCollins team in Sydney, especially Stephanie Smith, Linda Funnell, Robyn Fritchley, Sean Cotcher, and their respective teams. My thanks to Nicola O’Shea for her partnership as editor in shaping this second book. Thanks of awesome size to the HC sales team — you’re amazing.

Now book retailers. I mentioned you in Myrren’s Gift but you’ve just surpassed yourselves during 2003. I even worked in a crazily busy bookshop over Christmas to get a feel for what you do and apart from the aching feet I realise how much energy and enthusiasm you expend each day in consultation with buyers to help them find just the right book. Thank you for all you’ve done to help this series enjoy the success it has, and for catapulting The Quickening into the awareness of an international audience. It will be published in the USA in 2005 thanks to your work at the coalface. I’m eternally grateful.

Finally my family. No author is an island and one simply cannot create these tales without the indulgence of an understanding and loving family around — thanks to my parents and brothers but especially my personal trilogy — Ian, Will and Jack — who give me every reason to emerge from my make-believe worlds into the real one.

Fx

PRAISE FOR FIONA MCINTOSH

BETRAYAL

‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’ Adelaide

Advertiser

‘leaves the reader anxiously waiting to know more… Strong and interesting characters and a story which keeps the reader guessing, Betrayal is an enjoyable and fast-paced read, full of magic and destruction – who could ask for more?’

Northern Argus

REVENGE

‘as good as Sara Douglass’

Good Reading

‘an exciting and inventive battle between the gods of good and evil’

Adelaide Advertiser

DESTINY

‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best… Destiny ends the Trinity series… with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’

Altair

MYRREN’S GIFT

‘a wonderful new perspective for fantasy readers … excellent’

Australian Bookseller & Publisher

‘Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days…’

Sydney Morning Herald

‘It’s a “just one more chapter” sort of book. Don’t start reading Myrren’s Gift in the evening if you have to get up early the next morning!’

Robin Hobb

Dedication

GH …

this one’s for you.

Fx

Contents

Dedication

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Fiona McIntosh

Map

PROLOGUE

IT FELT LIKE AN ETERNITY to Fynch.

There was brightness; unbearably sharp, and combined with a hammering pain. He squeezed his lids tightly shut but the dazzling gold light hurt his eyes all the same as he helplessly relinquished control of his small body to the vast agony exploding through it. He believed himself to be flopping around like a fish caught on a hook, but that was purely his imagination. In truth he was rigidly still; his teeth bared in a grimace as the force of magic gifted from Elysius radiated painfully into him.

At one point he thought he glimpsed the sorcerer passing through him to his death, like a distant memory he could not quite bring into focus. Elysius appeared whole again and he was smiling. The sense of him offering thanks was vaguely present but Fynch was unable to lock onto it as the pain claimed all of his attention.

The sickening throb of power began to pulse through his body in time with his escalating heartbeat; each push harder, each more breathless in its intensity until he lost all sense of himself. He no longer knew his name or where he lay. He was a flimsy craft being tossed about on a stormy sea of sensation, unable to navigate or steer. Fynch simply had to let go into the excruciating pain and ride the ocean of distress until, finally, he glimpsed its end. How long his journey had lasted he could not tell; could not even guess. The agony ebbed gradually but steadily, until he realised he was bearing it. He had survived. His pulse was fast but his heart no longer felt as though it might explode through his chest. The blinding light had dimmed to flashes of gold, as if he had been staring at the sun too long, and his breath was no longer panicked and shallow but came in deep, rhythmic draughts.

His wits returned. Fynch remembered who he was and what he was doing here.

Trembling from a chill which now gripped him, Fynch opened his eyes to slits. He registered a new layer of pain and closed them again; this time it was a headache which prompted instant nausea. He felt like crying. But where other youngsters might have the comfort of a mother’s voice nearby and her love to cling to, there was no such consolation for Fynch. He had no family — nor even friends any longer. Wyl had gone. He hated the way they had parted. He knew Wyl had wanted him to leave the Wild immediately and had watched his friend battle his inclination to say as much. Poor Wyl had been forced to inhabit his sister’s body, and Ylena’s face was too expressive to mask what her brother was thinking. And yet Wyl had said nothing; had permitted Fynch to make his own decision, which was to remain a little longer. Fynch felt a profound sadness for his friend who had suffered so much loss already and would suffer more yet, he sensed. He wished he knew of a way to spare Wyl more pain, or at least to share some of it with him.

He sighed. The nausea had passed. His eyes were still closed and the pain had dimmed considerably he realised. But the loneliness remained. There would not even be Elysius to offer solace. No. The boy suspected he was alone in the Wild, save for the strange four-legged beast he considered his companion.

Full consciousness sifted through his shattered nerves and Fynch became aware of a pressing warmth at his side. It moved, having sensed he was alert again. A low growl confirmed it was the dog.

‘Knave,’ Fynch croaked through a parched throat.

Never far, a voice replied in his head. It made him flinch.

The boy turned towards the great black dog. ‘Did you speak to me?’ he said, tears welling. ‘Can I finally hear you?’

Depthless eyes regarded him and he heard Knave’s reply in his mind. I did. You can.

So there was a friendly voice — one he had never thought to hear. Fynch managed to command his reluctant arms to obey him. Slowly, painfully, he wrapped them around the big animal’s neck and wept deeply and without shame.

Elysius? Fynch asked after a long time, testing his newly acquired power. It was a startling sensation.

The dog’s response was instant. Dead. It was quick. And he was glad to go.

Where is his body?

Everywhere. He became dust. The massive transfer of power disintegrated his physical being and then dispersed him.

Did he say anything before… before he passed on?

That you are the bravest of souls. He agonised that he might be wrong to force this burden upon you, the dog admitted. He regretted the pain you would experience and the journey ahead, but he believes there is no one else who can walk this path but you. The dog leaned closer and spoke very gently. In this I know he is right.

Fynch pulled away from his friend, eyes still wet. There was so much yet to learn. Knave, I don’t know how to use this power. I have no —

Hush, the dog soothed. That is why I am here.

The boy took the beast’s huge head between his tiny hands. Who are you?

I am your Guide. You must trust me.

I do.

The dog said no more but Fynch sensed that it was glad. Perhaps there was even relief there, he thought.

But there is something I must know, he went on, his tone almost begging.

Ask it. Knave’s voice was so deep that Fynch suspected that if the dog could speak aloud he would feel the sound rumble through his own tiny chest.

Who is your true master? Where do you belong?

If a dog could smile, Fynch felt convinced Knave was doing so now. I have no master as such. But I do belong.

Where? Please tell me.

I am of the Thicket.

Ah. Fynch’s tensed muscles relaxed as understanding flooded through him. The neatness of the dog’s answer pleased him. Are there others like you?

I am unique. But there are other enchantments within the Thicket, Knave answered somewhat cryptically.

So Elysius didn’t send you to Myrren?

Elysius did not know me until we both came here, although he knew of me. And Myrren was not the person I sought.

This was a revelation. Fynch pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to ease their soreness and to clear his swirling thoughts. Then why didn’t you just search out Wyl?

Because Wyl is not the one I sought either.

Fynch looked up sharply. Who then? Who must we now search for?

The search is over. It was always you, Fynch.

What? The dog’s unerring gaze told Fynch it would never lie. But why?

You are the Progeny and I am the Guide.

I thought I was the Wielder, Fynch wondered, confused.

That, and so much more, Knave said reverently. You are many things and it is you we seek.

The Thicket sent you to find me?

Yes, but it did not know who would be the next Gate Wielder.

But it must have known Elysius was dying in order to send you in search of his replacement?

Yes.

So your role has never been about Wyl or Myrren… or protecting Valentyna? Fynch sent wonderingly.

Knave’s response was measured. My task is to protect you. When the magic of the Quickening entered Wyl, the Thicket believed he was the next Wielder. Elysius wondered the same.

Are you saying that it was pure coincidence you came into Myrren’s life? Fynch asked, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together.

Not exactly. She was Elysius’s daughter. Magic was part of her even though it was not strong in her. It was she whom the Thicket decided to keep watch over, and it chose correctly. When Myrren made such a strong connection with Wyl, we thought he might be the one. It was only when I met you that I realised it was you we searched for.

But how can you tell?

There is an aura about you, Fynch. Unmistakable, and invisible to all but those of the Thicket.

Fynch sighed as if he had suspected as much. So I was born with this aura?

Yes. Your destiny was set.

Elysius never mentioned it.

Elysius didn’t know. The Thicket told him who you are.

It talks!

Communicates, the dog corrected.

Fynch held his head and groaned. These revelations were causing fresh gusts of pain through his already aching mind. It hurts, Knave. Will it always be so?

You must control the pain. Don’t allow yourself to become its slave. Master it, Fynch.

Is this how it will kill me?

The dog held a difficult silence between them.

I would know the truth, Fynch insisted. If you are my friend — my Guide, as you say — then tell me honestly.

He sensed the dog’s discomfort as it began to explain. This is the beginning. You must use your powers sparingly. Talk to me aloud whenever you can. Hearing my response in your mind will cause you no distress or repercussions. The pain and other weakenings will only occur if you send the magic yourself.

How long have I got, Knave?

The dog raised its head to look Fynch directly in the eye. I don’t know. It depends how strong you are; how sparingly you use this power.

If Knave expected despair it did not come. Fynch wiped his eyes and, using his companion as support, raised himself wearily on unsteady legs. I must rest, the little boy said gravely.

And then we must go to the Thicket, Knave said, equally sombre. It awaits you.

ONE

THE VINEYARD SPRAWLED before them, the land suddenly sloping away in the distance down to a small shingle beach and the channel of sea. The tang of salt in the air was invigorating and the bright day with its cloudless sky and sharp light reminded Aremys of his love of the north and how much he had secretly missed it all these years. He inhaled the air now and smiled. It felt good to be alive despite the new and sudden complexities in his life.

With his memory now blessedly returned Aremys felt much better equipped to accept the King’s invitation to ‘walk the rows’ of vines at Racklaryon. The mercenary learned that it was one of Cailech’s great pleasures to see his vineyard bursting with new life in spring, showing the spectacular results of the savage pruning his vignerons insisted upon each year.

They looked out now across the neat rows and Aremys could almost taste the wine this field would produce at summer’s end. Bright green leaves, like the protective wings of a mother hen, shaded their yet-to-mature babies: bunches of fruit that hung like tiny green jewels, fattening and ripening daily as the plants sent out fresh tendrils to weave and curl their way along the special lines that supported the vines. The Mountain People had pioneered this method of support. In the south, the vines were left to themselves, to grow tall at first before stooping over. It made for a ragged, untidy vineyard but, in truth, did not affect the quality of the fruit. In the north, however, the vine support lines had been developed to air the fruit, as some months were humid and damp. It also looked spectacular.

Cailech’s people took pride in the ordered appearance of their vineyards. Not only were the rows straight but each vine was sung to as it was planted — a small prayer to Haldor for each new beginning that it might yield life of its own. At each row’s end, the Mountain People planted a flower called a trineal. It was beautiful but fragile, very susceptible to lack of water or other natural attacks. Cailech’s vignerons maintained that if the trineal foundered, then they would have a few weeks to find the solution to prevent the vines following suit. It was an ancient tradition but one still faithfully adhered to. The bright rainbow colours of the trineal bushes were an attractive feature in this, Cailech’s favourite vineyard, and they stood proud, colourful and healthy at the heads of the rows. It would be a bountiful harvest, the men muttered.

The King was rarely alone; today he was flanked by Myrt and Byl. Aremys had come to know these particular fellows well since his curious arrival in the Razors. He felt comfortable in their presence and over the past days he had started to view them as companions as much as his captors. Nevertheless, he had chosen not to reveal that his memory was fully restored. It suited him that these Mountain Dwellers knew only as much as he was prepared to share, until he could learn more of their intentions for him.

The small company had ridden to the vineyard beyond the lake and Aremys was sorry to see that the King had not chosen to bring the intriguing black horse which had caused him such fright on their previous ride. He mentioned his disappointment to Cailech.

‘Ah yes, Galapek,’ the King replied softly, and Aremys felt the weight of that green gaze upon him. ‘I had the impression that he disturbed you somehow the last time we rode together.’

It was said without accusation but still Aremys felt the scrutiny couched within. Wyl Thirsk’s warning burned in his mind: that only a fool took any comment by Cailech at face value. Everything he says has a purpose, Wyl had impressed upon Aremys during their journey together from Felrawthy. He misses nothing.

The mercenary thought back to the moment of disturbance the King spoke of. It had occurred only a few days ago. Aremys had admired the King’s mount but, on casually touching the horse, had felt a blast of magic rippling through his hands where they rested on its strong neck. It had been an intense shock for Aremys — not only that the creature was alive with magic, but that he could sense it. Far worse, it was a dark, tainted magic and its touch had caused him to stumble in distress. He had been unable to regain his composure and was forced to excuse himself from the party of riders. That action had been embarrassing, but no doubt had also appeared suspicious at a time when he was striving to convince his keepers that he was not a Morgravian spy or any other kind of threat to the Mountain Dwellers.

The only positive outcome was that the shock seemed to have caused his amnesia to dissipate and he was able to piece together what he was doing in the Razors. He remembered following Wyl Thirsk, who now walked in the guise of his sister, Ylena, courtesy of the powerful gift, the Quickening. Together they had entered the mysterious region in the far north-east known as the Thicket. Aremys recalled Wyl asking him to whistle so they would not lose one another amongst the tangle of this dense landmark. He had obliged, could even remember the tune he had chosen, but then all had gone black and he had woken, disoriented, on the frozen rocks of the northern mountain range and lacking a memory. Cailech’s men had discovered him there and somehow he had managed to muddle his way through those early and dangerous stages, not helped by his own confusion. Living by his wits, he felt convinced now that he had carefully won not only their trust but that of their King too. Wyl had warned Aremys that the Mountain King was changeable, capricious even, and had recounted the terrible night of the feast when Cailech had threatened to roast alive the Morgravian prisoners his men had captured and feed them to his people. This was definitely not a man to second-guess and so Aremys had been as honest as he could with the Mountain King, even disclosing his identity when it finally returned to him.

His only major secret from Cailech right now was the fact that he was linked to Wyl Thirsk, the former General of Morgravia, and that Wyl was possessed by a magic which had already taken the life of three people — one of them Romen Koreldy, in whom Cailech had shown a keen interest. And if the Mountain Kingdom held its own secrets, then he would learn them and at least be useful in some small way to Wyl, who had promised to return to the Razors some day in search of his friends Gueryn and Lothryn, both of whom had offered their lives to save his.

It had taken Aremys hours of musing to accept that the Thicket must have somehow repelled him. It was a difficult notion for him to get his mind around. Until recently he had neither particularly believed nor disbelieved in magic, but growing up in the far north, on the Isles of Grenadyn, meant he held a loose acceptance that such a power might exist, and was not necessarily something to fear.

The discovery that magic certainly did exist, however — having met Wyl and shared the sorrow of his plight — was a whole new matter. Suddenly the legend of the Thicket was a real phenomenon and took on a sinister character. To acknowledge that this enchanted place had purposely separated him from the person he had sworn to protect was disturbing enough; but accepting that the Thicket had also affected him in such a way that he now possessed the ability to sense magic was terrifying.

The horse itself couched a darker mystery. Just touching the animal had made him feel ill. This was not a whole beast. It reeked of evil — and yet also of despair. He needed to see the horse again, reach towards it once more. Perhaps his captors had no idea of the darkness in Galapek? But how could Cailech know the horse had been the cause of Aremys’s disturbance… unless, of course, he knew the creature was tainted.

Aremys realised that Cailech was still watching him carefully. The mercenary, practised at subterfuge, stretched a lazy smile across his generous mouth. ‘It was nothing to do with the beast, my lord. I felt very off-colour that morning and I slept for many hours after that event.’

‘Probably out of discomfort at almost spewing on the King’s boots!’ Myrt added, safe in the knowledge that Cailech encouraged a more casual atmosphere when he was away from the fortress and the formalities of being their ruler.

Myrt’s jest gave Aremys the opportunity he needed to remove himself from the King’s scrutiny. It suddenly occurred to him that Cailech knew more than he was giving away. His instincts had rarely yet let him down, so he listened to them now.

‘It reminded me of the time,’ he said, seizing the opening, ‘when a very aged and strict aunt came to visit the family.’ His companions, sensing a tale in the making, came closer. ‘She was a cantankerous woman who despised social gatherings, yet insisted on everyone celebrating her nameday each spring. Oh, how we hated that day and her arrival with all of its pomp and ceremony. But our family was obliged to her, for this rich crone had gifted much money to the town and I would be lying if I said we too had not benefited from her gold.’

Aremys saw with relief the loose, expectant grin on the King’s face as he bent to inspect the juvenile grapes on a vine. He continued with his tale: a dare by his brothers that went horribly wrong and culminated in him tossing the contents of a chamber pot over the head of the town’s special guest.

The men roared with laughter. Aremys noted that Cailech was less responsive but he was nonetheless amused; a wry smile crinkled the weathered face and sparkled in his eyes. ‘I would never repeat such a tale if that had been me,’ he said.

‘Nor will I again,’ Aremys admitted, rather impressed by his storytelling which was wholly fabricated. His dear, sweet old Aunt Jassamy was much loved and her nameday celebrations had been the town’s idea, not hers, and well deserved for the money she had invested in its livelihood. ‘But I am trying to impress upon you, my lord, the level of my dismay,’ Aremys went on, grinning. ‘This sorry tale has now been relegated to the second most embarrassing moment of my life. I hope you can guess the first.’

‘You are forgiven, Farrow, and it’s forgotten,’ the King said, as the other two men moved off through the rows.

Aremys did not believe him. ‘Thank you, sire.’

‘Perhaps you would like to ride Galapek?’

Aremys had not expected this and his hesitation was telling, he felt. The King was testing him and both of them knew it. What did Cailech know? The mercenary quickly gathered his wits. ‘It would be a privilege, my lord.’

‘Good,’ the King replied, his steady gaze unfathomable. ‘I will arrange it.’

He looked beyond the mercenary. ‘Ah, here comes Baryn. He is head of the vineyard.’ The previous topic seemingly forgotten, he strode towards his man, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Don’t you love the Thaw, Aremys? Spring unfurling her fronds, pushing through her shoots, warming the ground and melting the ice?’ Cailech pointed as Aremys caught up. ‘Just look at these vines, fairly bursting with joy as tiny green buds and tendrils begin their life journey.’

‘You should write poetry, sire.’

The King smiled at the compliment. ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Farrow.’

Cailech’s sudden twist took Aremys by surprise. He would have to be careful; Wyl had warned him of this. ‘Sire?’

‘I have been thinking on our conversation.’

‘Oh?’ Aremys was not sure which particular discussion the King referred to.

Cailech must have sensed this. ‘Regarding Celimus.’

Aremys nodded. ‘I recall suggesting a parley.’

‘There is wisdom in what you advise and I have decided to act upon it.’

Aremys wished he was able to keep the surprise from his face and his voice. ‘Really?’

Cailech nodded. ‘Yes. I am going to Morgravia, and not under cover of disguise or stealth. Actually, let me correct that. We are going to Morgravia.’

‘You and your chosen men, sire?’

‘Me and you, Farrow.’

Aremys searched the King’s face for any sign of guile, then realised he would not be able to tell if Cailech was bluffing, for the man was a master at hiding behind a granite expression. Although on this occasion Aremys thought he detected the barest hint of amusement.

‘Then I am honoured, King Cailech.’ Aremys took the chance that this was the response the Mountain King expected.

Cailech simply nodded. ‘You will set up the meeting, as you know Celimus. You will be my emissary.’

The King strode away, leaving the newly appointed envoy for the Mountain Kingdom open-mouthed.

‘Close it, friend,’ Myrt said, returning to captor duty.

‘He can’t be serious,’ Aremys murmured, watching as the King’s broad figure joined the vineyard manager amongst an ocean of green leaves.

‘He never jests about such things. Take it as a compliment, Farrow. He must trust you.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘As soon as the streams run with the Thaw, he told me.’

‘But that’s now!’ Aremys said, turning to look at Myrt.

The man grinned. ‘True. Come on, we’d better head back — apparently you are to ride his prize stallion this afternoon.’

Aremys’s stomach clenched when he caught sight of the magnificent horse being led out of its stall by Maegryn, the stablemaster. The stallion flicked its tail constantly, as though angry. A weak sensation of nausea rippled through the mercenary. He forced himself to relax, for he had been holding his breath as well and was ashamed at himself for allowing this animal to have such a dramatic effect on him. Perhaps he would be able to bear it this time.

It’s only a horse, damn it! But he berated himself to no avail; the sinister feeling intensified.

‘He’s a beauty, this one,’ Myrt commented by his side.

Aremys fought the swirling dizziness. Did no one else feel it? ‘Is Cailech not joining us?’ he asked through clenched teeth.

‘No. Rashlyn will be riding out though.’

‘Who is he?’ Aremys asked as innocently as he could. He recalled Wyl’s description of the man who seemed to have an unnatural influence over the Mountain King.

‘The King’s barshi — a detestable creature,’ Myrt told him. ‘But if you ever claim I said that, I’ll deny it first and kill you later.’

Aremys grinned. ‘A man of magic then?’ he said, watching as Maegryn saddled Galapek.

His companion nodded and Aremys felt his stomach twist again. ‘Can he sense other empowered people?’ He hoped Myrt could not hear the anxiety in his voice.

‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’

Aremys forced a shrug. ‘Oh, no reason. I’ve always been rather intrigued by those with the power, that’s all.’

‘To be honest I wish he’d leave the mountains. His influence upon our King is too strong. There are times …’ Myrt did not finish.

Aremys glanced towards his captor. ‘Go on.’

The Mountain man shook his head. ‘No, I speak out of turn.’

Aremys could see it would not be wise to push Myrt further right now, although it pleased him that Myrt felt safe enough around him to be candid. It was a good sign.

It looked as though Maegryn was satisfied with Galapek. He was barking orders now for the other horses to be led out.

‘Where did Cailech find this magnificent horse anyway?’ Aremys asked brightly. He seemed to be growing more accustomed to the magic nearby.

‘It’s the strangest thing,’ Myrt replied, clearly relieved to have been let off the hook on his previous comment. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the very best horses come from Grenadyn — as you would know — but this animal just seemed to turn up one day. He certainly isn’t from our stock.’

‘You mean it just appeared from nowhere?’ Aremys asked, astounded, wondering if the stallion might also have been cast here by the Thicket.

Myrt laughed. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. But Maegryn knows all the foals born here. And if we bring horses over from Grenadyn then it’s quite a big event because they have to be shipped in. I don’t recall this animal being brought across the channel — it would have surely caused a stir if he had.’

Aremys was intrigued. It was not his imagination then. There was something mysterious about the King’s horse. ‘What does his handler say?’

‘Maegryn’s very tight-lipped on the subject. I get the impression that Rashlyn might have gifted the horse to Cailech, though I couldn’t guess at where he would find such a beast. Perhaps the King has asked both men to keep it quiet. Cailech can be quite unpredictable on occasion — in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Myrt grinned.

‘I have,’ Aremys said wryly.

‘As much as he likes or trusts you, be wary. He is a great man but he can be contrary at times,’ Myrt warned, before adding softly, ‘I know that worried Lothryn.’

Aremys forced himself not to overreact at the name of Wyl’s friend. ‘Lothryn — who is he?’ he commented absently.

‘A friend. Formerly second in command to our King. A man I would follow without question into any situation. A man who broke our hearts with his betrayal.’

Maegryn was leading the stallion towards them now and Aremys felt the sickening pull of the magic again.

‘So where is he now?’

‘Gone,’ Myrt said, ending the conversation. ‘Your mount is ready — and here comes Rashlyn. Be warned — he is a strange man.’

The barshi was already mounted on a chestnut mare. He stopped just steps from the mercenary and gazed down upon the tall foreigner. ‘You must be Aremys,’ he said in his strangely hesitant manner. ‘Cailech suggested we meet. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all,’ Aremys lied, instantly taking a dislike to the wild-looking man with the dead eyes and unwilling smile. He raised his hand in salutation, having decided he should avoid all physical contact with the barshi. If Aremys himself sensed the horse’s magic through touch, perhaps Rashlyn could do the same with him and then life would become even more dangerous. He was beginning to wonder whether Cailech had specifically asked Rashlyn to watch how he reacted to the horse today.

Which means they are definitely up to something — and worse, suspicious of me, he thought. The stench of Galapek’s magic buffeted his senses as the handler halted the stallion alongside the mare.

‘Master Aremys, you’ll be riding Galapek this afternoon,’ Maegryn said. ‘Be firm with him, sir. But also give him his head on the flat. He likes to gallop. Could use a good run today.’

It was all Aremys could manage to nod agreeably and take the reins from Maegryn. He wished he had been more careful and not backed himself into this situation. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it and deliberately turned his back against Rashlyn as he mounted. He could not allow the barshi to read his fear.

Waves of revulsion pulsated through him as he took his seat in the saddle. It required all of his courage not to leap from the horse and flee. ‘You lead,’ he said tightly to Rashlyn, hoping to get the magic man ahead of him.

Unfortunately, Rashlyn had his measure. ‘Myrt, you know the best paths,’ he said. ‘You lead.’

The party of three set off with Aremys now fully convinced that he was under observation by the King’s sorcerer.

TWO

MYRT SUGGESTED A PATH VIA the lowlands surrounding the lake. Aremys grunted his agreement, still struggling to dampen his revulsion for the horse beneath him. Myrt did not linger for a comment from the barshi and set the direction. Once the horses were moving at a steady canter Aremys felt better, and when they set them at a gallop with the wind in his face the exhilaration seemed to alleviate the sickening taint permeating his body from below.

For the first half of the ride the men said nothing and Aremys was happy about this, lost in his thoughts and the pure pleasure of being out in this breathtaking valley. The lake was mirror calm today and he marvelled at how it reflected the lower rises of the Razors. The cacophony of the waterbirds drowned any potential for conversation, which suited him perfectly. Although the sun was high overhead now, there was no real fire in it yet, but still the riders were glad to feel its gentle spring warmth upon their shoulders, loosening winter’s firm grip on the land.

Aremys felt he was able to control his reaction to the stallion now that their bodies had been touching for some time. Whatever initially caused him to gag wretchedly in front of the King had diminished to a constant queasiness, which he was mastering. His revulsion had given way to an intense sorrow for this animal. He wondered what was provoking such empathy. The beast moved beneath him with superb grace, all muscle and power, eager to respond to his rider’s urgings, but Aremys sensed something beyond the physical; something he would almost equate with human emotion.

‘We can stop over there and rest the horses.’ Myrt butted into his thoughts, pointing towards a cluster of rocky outcrops which formed a loose semi-circle and a natural suntrap.

Aremys nodded unhappily. He would have preferred to keep going but had no doubt this was all being carefully orchestrated.

They settled themselves against the boulders while the horses grazed contentedly on some tender grass shoots. They were far enough away that Aremys could converse without the magical stench threatening to upset him. Nevertheless, Galapek called to him. Not in words, not even a true sound as such, but an insatiable pull. The more confident Aremys became in his resistance against the revulsion, the more strongly the horse pleaded to his senses.

He looked away from Galapek to the stream gurgling nearby, bringing sweet, fresh water from the highlands. Aremys saw the silvery flash of a fish jumping courageously against the current and immediately likened the creature’s struggle to his own as a prisoner of Cailech, but also to his odd relationship with Galapek. The horse’s call to him was so intense and strong, a current constantly pounding against him as he bravely pushed against it to stop it dragging him down and under. What did it want him to do? What was this creature that it could generate such loathing as well as sympathy? A new thought struck Aremys: not what was this animal but who? The notion was so striking that it washed away his fear. Who was this animal? Who was calling to him using the magic of the Thicket? Could the beast be under an enchantment, like Wyl — a man trapped in another guise? The thought revolted him.

As he shook his head clear of such a shocking notion, the barshi embarked upon the expected interrogation.

‘The King tells me you have lost your memory,’ Rashlyn said, without any preamble.

‘I have,’ Aremys answered Rashlyn. ‘It is a terrible feeling to not know anything about oneself.’

‘I gather it is returning gradually?’ the man replied, reaching to unwrap the hunk of cheese and hard biscuit which Myrt had packed.

Aremys noted the man’s grubby fingers and looked away. The Mountain men were tough and capable of living rough, but he knew they bathed regularly. The King led by example: he was always scrupulously clean. As it had struck Elspyth not so long ago, Aremys had also realised that the people of the Razors were a sophisticated race with great artistic and creative skills as well as a love of the land and a deep respect for each other. Since Cailech had stopped the tribal fighting and had drawn their people together, that respect had extended beyond simple courtesies to living alongside one another in a manner that promoted cleanliness and protected them from disease. Aremys had noted with surprise the special ablution blocks built around the fortress, proof of how highly Cailech rated the importance of proper sanitation. The King was convinced of a link between human waste and disease, and so it was rare to see any Mountain Dweller squatting in the fields or in a corner of the fortress to relieve themselves. Instead, carts rolled away daily from the many ablution blocks to deliver the waste into pits dug deep into the ground, far from the main living areas, where it would harmlessly break down and return to the earth. It was part of the modern thinking — along with regular bathing, education, and the maintenance of the old languages — which Cailech insisted upon amongst his people. But this man, Rashlyn, with his dirty hands, his unkempt appearance and offensive manner, did not fit the Mountain folks’ mould. How did they tolerate him?

Rashlyn was staring at him. ‘Yes, slowly,’ Aremys answered, finally. ‘I know my name, at least, and where I hail from.’

‘Would you like me to check your skull for any damage? I am a healer,’ Rashlyn offered, along with some of the cheese.

Aremys was not taking chances. He could not risk that this sorcerer, or whatever he was, might sense through his touch the Thicket’s trace of magic. And Shar alone knew where those filthy fingers had last been. ‘Thank you, no,’ he replied. ‘I am not hungry and my head is fine.’

The man frowned. ‘It must have been a firm blow to knock your senses so. You really should let me examine you.’

‘No need,’ Aremys replied briskly, glancing towards his quiet companion and hoping to be rescued. ‘Myrt here has already looked me over. There is no sign of any damage.’

Myrt did not deny Aremys’s claim but did not support it either. It seemed to Aremys that he too was fighting a battle of loyalty. It was fairly obvious from his body language alone that Myrt despised Rashlyn.

‘This business of your lost memory is odd then,’ Rashlyn said. He spoke through his food and bits of the cheese crumbled and fell from his mouth into his tangle of beard. Again Aremys looked away, disgusted. ‘How could you lose your wits if not from a blow?’

‘I have no idea,’ Aremys said, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’ He found the barshi’s probing stare most unsettling; there was madness lurking there, he was sure of it. He stood and said politely, ‘Excuse me whilst I take a drink,’ and glanced again at Myrt, this time for permission to sip from the stream.

Myrt nodded and Aremys walked as casually as he could to the stream’s edge and bent down. He splashed freezing water over his face and swallowed some of it, enjoying the refreshing trickle of droplets that found a way into the front of his shirt and slid down his chest. As he straightened, flicking water in all directions, he sensed someone directly behind him. He turned abruptly, expecting to see Rashlyn reaching towards him. The thrill of fear that passed through him nearly unbalanced him into the stream. He felt stupid. He was definitely becoming paranoid, he berated himself silently and angrily.

Yes, Rashlyn was standing behind him, but instead of reaching out for the mercenary he was digging in his pocket to retrieve a tiny jar.

‘Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man said, a little slyly, Aremys thought. ‘Here — this will ease the headaches I believe you have been suffering.’

‘What is it?’

‘A soothing blend of herbs with a dash of laudanum. It won’t harm you, or dull anything but the pain, I promise. Sip it every hour as you need it.’

Aremys was trapped. Rashlyn’s filthy hand was extended with the small bottle in its palm. He had to take it, or risk throwing yet more doubt into the mind of Cailech. It was certain that Rashlyn would be required to report back to his monarch precisely how the afternoon had unfolded. If the King was waiting to hear that Aremys had vomited again or had refused to ride his stallion then he would be disappointed, but this moment might yet be his undoing. Aremys saw the healer’s eyes narrow at his reluctance but still he hesitated.

‘I can easily make up some more; you’re not denying anyone by taking it,’ Rashlyn assured, the softness in his voice almost threatening. Aremys was sure the man was daring him to refuse.

He took a moment to shake his head free of the water droplets, then paused to wipe a sleeve across his face. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, reaching out slowly, hoping Rashlyn would simply drop the phial into his hand.

Before that could happen, Galapek alarmed all three men by rearing up behind them, screaming loudly as though in pain. Myrt reacted first, running towards the horse. Aremys took his chance, moving swiftly away from the healer. ‘Let me help!’ he called.

The horse clearly wanted Myrt nowhere near him, rearing and screaming even more wildly as the warrior approached. To Myrt’s surprise, however, the stallion calmed a little at the sound of the big mercenary’s voice and allowed Aremys to sidle up to him.

Aremys reached for the reins and called again to the big horse. ‘Galapek, there boy. There now. Settle, big fellow,’ he whispered. The horse stood still now, trembling and angry.

‘Poor Galapek, I shall save you. Whatever has happened to you, I shall rescue you, I promise,’ he said, stroking the animal’s broad, magnificent face. ‘Be calm now, boy.’ He buried his face in Galapek’s beautiful mane and, for the first time, the stench of the magic did not attack him. Whatever this curse upon the stallion was, it was somehow communicating with him, flowing through him and around him, begging him to keep his promise.

And then came a word in his head. It was faint and desperately called, but he was not imagining it. Elspyth, he heard, just once, and then it was gone, like a sigh given to the wind and borne away.

Aremys was so shocked he stood rigid against the horse’s neck, trying to recapture the word, aching to reach for it, but it was lost. Elspyth. Surely that was the name he had heard? The urgent voice of Myrt broke through his haze of confusion.

‘Farrow! For Haldor’s sake, man!’

Aremys turned from the horse, surprised by the anger being levelled at him. Then he saw Myrt’s expression — not angry as he’d thought, but distraught — and followed where his friend’s hand pointed. By the water’s edge, where he had left him, Rashlyn writhed on the ground, shouting gibberish as spittle foamed and flew from his mouth. His arms and legs flailed wildly.

‘Check the horses are secure,’ Aremys called over his shoulder as he ran to the prone figure which had suddenly fallen still. He wished Rashlyn might be dead but luck was not with him. He lifted the small man’s chin to ensure a clear breathing passage, but stopped short of breathing any life-giving air into that mouth. ‘He has a pulse, I’m sorry to say,’ he risked to Myrt who had come up behind them.

Myrt did not smile but something akin to a twitch of amusement flitted across his face. ‘What’s happened, I wonder?’ the Mountain man queried.

‘Is he prone to fits?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve not heard of any occurring before.’

‘Could it be the cheese?’ Aremys wondered aloud.

‘Fresh. Nothing wrong with it.’

‘Something else then. It seemed to occur at the same time as Galapek took fright.’

‘What are you saying?’ Myrt squatted, saw the indecision in his companion’s face. ‘Speak freely — I have protected you before.’

Rashlyn lay rigidly still at their feet. Aremys lifted back the man’s lids. The dark, madness-filled eyes had rolled back into his head. The man was unconscious; he was hearing nothing.

‘I’m not sure I should air my views. You’re a loyal Mountain warrior, after all.’

‘Not to him!’ Myrt spat disdainfully on the ground. ‘Like you, I wish he was dead. He’s a danger to all of us.’

‘Because of his magic?’

Myrt nodded reluctantly. ‘He uses it for evil, I’m sure of it.’

‘I think it’s his magic that has prompted this episode.’

‘I don’t understand. Be clear.’

‘I can’t. I don’t understand it either.’ Aremys sighed and decided to take a chance on Myrt. He hoped his instincts would serve him truly. ‘Were you given any instructions about me and this afternoon’s ride?’

Myrt frowned. ‘Nothing special. I was briefed to give you a chance to enjoy Galapek because you had expressed such interest in the horse.’

‘The King didn’t tell you to keep a special eye on me?’

‘My job is to keep an eye on you, Farrow. You’re our…’ he hesitated, ‘our guest, after all.’

Aremys grinned ruefully. ‘Myrt, you are more friend to me than most people I have met over the past decade. But let’s be honest here: I’m a prisoner — I have to accept that. However,’ he went on, scratching his head, ‘your King is entrusting me with a very serious task, which means he has faith in me. Sadly, I can’t be quite as honest with him as I can with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is in the thrall of this man. You’ve told me that much yourself, and spending just an afternoon with Rashlyn has convinced me he’s not someone to trust.’

Myrt said nothing, merely frowned again.

Aremys pushed on. He glanced towards the horse. ‘I could be aiming completely off target here, but I think there’s something very odd about Galapek. No, not odd. Enchanted.’

Myrt rocked back on his heels as if slapped. ‘Magic?’

Aremys nodded. ‘Worked by Rashlyn, I’m guessing. And known of by your King.’ There, it was said. He had admitted his fears.

Myrt stood and began pacing. He said nothing for a while and Aremys kept the silence, watching Rashlyn for any signs of consciousness.

‘I don’t believe this,’ the warrior hissed eventually, pointing at Aremys.

‘You don’t have to,’ he replied calmly, having anticipated the anger. ‘I’m just offering my own thoughts. I’m not suggesting that your King — whom I like and respect— is in complete agreement with Rashlyn.’

‘Then what do you mean, mercenary?’ Myrt said brusquely.

Aremys felt sorry that he had pushed his friend so far. It was obvious from his anger that Myrt had suspected something not so far from what Aremys had suggested. But the truth sometimes hurt, and the blood between the Mountain People ran thick with loyalty. Wyl had warned him as much and he should not have toyed with the idea that friendship might override that loyalty — although, of course, it did in the case of the man Lothryn, who had chosen love and friendship over his monarch.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve given insult, Myrt. It was not intended, especially not to you. What I meant is, I think Cailech — under the spell of Rashlyn, as you have pointed out — has permitted something to be wrought upon this horse. And no doubt other enchantments too.’

‘And how for the love of Haldor’s arse would you know, Grenadyne? Are you a practitioner now to know when magic is being wielded?’

The harsh words bit at Aremys, as intended, but how could he ignore the truth? Could he risk divulging it to Myrt and still keep his life?

‘Myrt, do you trust me?’

The man passed a weary hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘What does your gut tell you?’

‘That you are reliable.’

‘Good. We have to get Rashlyn back to the fortress. Come, help me lay him across his horse and I will tell you everything I know as we travel.’

They took the same route home but slowly. Aremys had tethered Rashlyn’s horse on a lead some distance behind them, so if the healer regained consciousness he could not hear their conversation. He would have to alert them by calling out. ‘An old mercenary trick,’ Aremys had said and winked.

On the return journey, Aremys began to share with his friend all the information he was prepared to risk bringing into the open. He cast a silent prayer to Shar that he had this man’s measure, that he could trust him not to betray him. He said nothing of Wyl, of course, simply explaining that he had been in the employ of the Morgravian sovereign. Myrt accepted that the mercenary would not explain what specific task he was employed to do for Celimus, merely nodding when Aremys assured him that it was nothing connected with the people of the Razors.

‘Let me simply say that I was tracking someone of interest to the Crown,’ Aremys offered.

‘And that’s what brought you so far north?’

‘Yes. I’ve remembered that I came to a place called Timpkenny in the far north-east of Briavel,’ the mercenary lied. ‘I believed this person I was following had passed through there.’

‘And these people who set upon you — just common bandits, you think?’

‘Mmm,’ Aremys nodded. ‘Added a little something to my ale to make me feel sick so I would stagger outside the inn late at night. I’m guessing now — all of this is a little hazy, thanks to the drug — but they must have thrown me over a horse to remove me from prying eyes. They led me to the fringe of a region called the Thicket. Have you heard of this place?’ Aremys held his breath.

Myrt was staring at him intently. He nodded. ‘They say it has powerful magic.’

‘It does, my friend, or at least I think it does. They left me there after robbing me. Something must have frightened them, because I expected to be beaten at the very least.’ Aremys steered himself towards the truth. ‘The last thing I remember is a strange noise coming from the Thicket itself.’

Myrt’s eyes were huge. ‘A creature?’

‘No creature I know makes that sound. No, I can still hear it — it was a sort of humming sound — and then the air became thick and oppressive,’ Aremys replied.

‘Then what?’

Aremys made a gesture of apology. ‘Then nothing. I woke up to the sound of your men’s voices and no memory of what had occurred or even who I was. You know the rest. My memory came back gradually over the next couple of days, and it’s still returning slowly.’ He shrugged, then added for effect, ‘I can even remember the faces of my family now.’

Myrt was stunned; he kept shaking his head. Finally he spoke. ‘I believe you, Aremys. No one could make up such a tale, and we know of the Thicket’s legend. I just find it difficult to hear its magical reputation confirmed.’

‘Myrt, I don’t know what happened, that’s the truth. I can only presume that the Thicket, or something inside it, had something to do with me appearing in the Razors at a location that it would take days to reach by normal means. You checked the area: there were no signs of other people or animals, so I couldn’t have been kept drugged and led in by horse — and why do that anyway? Why go to the bother of leading me anywhere if money was all they were after? I doubt I would have recognised any of them again — the drug was too powerful.’

‘I believe you,’ the big warrior impressed, his hands raised in defence.

‘Well, I don’t want to put any strange ideas in your head, but my only explanation is that this place called the Thicket is enchanted — I too have heard the old tales — and it did not like me being there, let me tell you. I felt its animosity. I think it got rid of me.’

‘That’s impossible, man!’ Myrt said, desperate for something rational he could cling to.

‘I agree, but there’s no other explanation. Obviously I couldn’t tell this tale to the King. He would have laughed and probably had my throat slit a moment later. You understand now why I had to keep this part of my story to myself? As to how the Thicket rid itself of me — it repelled me. I can’t think of any other way to describe it. It would be great to believe a nice family of tinkers found me, picked me up and carried me with them on their journey through the Razors but I think we’d be making up an explanation to help ourselves feel better about a notion we don’t want to accept or understand. Plus, there would be signs of the tinkers. No, Myrt, I am convinced that magic has been wielded upon me. I have other reasons to suspect as much.’

Here it was, the very core of his tale. Myrt would either give himself over entirely to Aremys now or brand him a madman and go running to Cailech. He took a deep breath and waited for Myrt’s inevitable question. He risked a glance behind. Rashlyn lay draped over his horse, still unconscious.

‘What do you mean by that?’

The fortress was all but upon them now. Aremys could see the people working the orchards, others driving carts and still more going about their chores. He shivered, noticing for the first time that a chill had descended into the valley and a slight breeze had picked up, causing ripples across the surface of the formerly mirror-like lake. The disturbance matched his own mood.

‘Tell me,’ his companion implored.

Aremys reined Galapek to a halt and the other horses followed suit. He knew Myrt could tell this was difficult for him and was giving him time to find the right words. There were no right words so he just told it how he saw it.

‘I think I’ve been touched by the magic of the Thicket. It temporarily knocked out my memory with the force of its power, but it gave me something in return.’

Aremys could not imagine Myrt’s eyes getting any rounder. He hurried on. ‘It left me with the ability to sense magic.’ He held up his hand. ‘Before you jump in — no, I can’t wield it, I just sense it. And magic is with us now.’

‘Where?’ his companion hissed in a whisper.

‘Right here, beneath me.’

Myrt predictably looked towards the ground.

‘Galapek,’ Aremys said. ‘The horse is not natural, Myrt. He is riddled with magic, bad magic. It’s tainted — it smells evil and repulses me as effectively as the Thicket transported me all those leagues. This horse reeks of enchantment and I think Rashlyn is responsible for it. That’s why he is so suspicious of me.’

‘And why you were so keen to avoid his touch,’ Myrt finished, tying together the threads of all he had noticed but had not been able to understand.

‘That’s right. That’s why I disgraced myself on our first ride together when Cailech rode Galapek. The magic assaulted me and I had no control over my reaction to it. I didn’t even know why I was behaving so strangely. It took me a while to work it out, but I know I’m right.’

‘And now?’

‘The magic still revolts me but I have it under control now. I have mastered my reaction to it.’

The warrior whistled through his teeth. ‘So that’s why you seemed nervous riding out this afternoon.’

Aremys nodded. ‘I was terrified. I had no idea how I’d handle it, but I knew that Rashlyn had been sent to watch my reaction and so I had to be very careful.’

‘So you’re saying the King sent him?’

‘Of course. Cailech’s too smart to allow my episode on that first ride to go unnoticed. He’s testing me.’

‘He speaks well of you, Aremys, you should know that,’ Myrt defended.

‘Thank you. I’ve grasped as much, and yet I know I baffle him — understandably so, because if he’s got something to hide with this enchantment then anything which threatens it is a danger.’

‘You’re risking much by telling me this.’

Aremys nodded gravely. ‘My life is in your hands, Myrt. I trust you, and Shar knows, I had to tell someone or go mad.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing. Just keep my secret for now and I will not leave you in the dark regarding anything I discover.’

‘I cannot be a party to anything disloyal to Cailech,’ the man said carefully.

‘I wouldn’t ask it of you. I just want to learn more about the horse — and Rashlyn, whom I wouldn’t trust if he was the last man alive in this land.’

‘None of us would, except the King,’ Myrt replied, disgust lacing his tone. ‘And you think the horse’s rearing and shrieking and Rashlyn’s collapse are connected?’

‘Yes. Something has tampered with their magic or disturbed the link between the two. I’ll admit to something else…’

‘Yes?’

‘I felt it too, but only lightly. As Rashlyn was holding that medicine out to me, I came over light-headed, slightly dizzy. I thought it was the fear of him touching me, but I think I know better now. The magic of the Thicket was resonating within me again… perhaps warning me, or maybe something has happened — connected with the Thicket — which has disturbed the horse. I don’t understand how. Who knows, it might be that the Thicket can disrupt the actual enchantment on Galapek, or why would Rashlyn also react? I know they’re connected now.’

‘But you don’t know what?’

‘No, it’s frustrating!’ Aremys frowned. ‘But I intend to learn more. Will you keep my secret?’

Myrt nodded unhappily. ‘I will.’

‘Thank you. I won’t betray you or your people — you have my word.’ He banged his fist on his chest in an oath only another northerner would understand.

Myrt mirrored the movement and then the two men banged fists together. The bond was made and it was no small promise. If broken, the betrayer would forfeit his life.

After they had ridden on some time in silence, Aremys decided to push his luck with the Mountain man. ‘Now that you know my secret, perhaps you would share with me whatever it was that you held back earlier about your great friend, Lothryn?’

Myrt looked taken aback. ‘It was nothing of importance.’ But his reaction said otherwise.

Aremys shrugged. ‘It seemed to me that you were troubled by the mention of his name. I thought you might want to share your burden with someone who would not judge you for it — an outsider you can trust.’

Myrt glanced back at the barshi’s unconscious figure, then looked around surreptitiously, his expression showing the new battle going on in his mind. Come on, tell me, Aremys urged silently. He knew if ever there was a moment to learn about Wyl’s saviour it was now. Myrt would never again be in such a fragile state of mind or more obliged to him.

‘Lothryn…’ Myrt spoke the name as if in veneration. ‘Brave Lothryn was brought back to the fortress after the Morgravians escaped — all but one, of course.’

Aremys desperately wanted to jump on that detail, but bit back the question that was in danger of exploding from his throat, intent on not disturbing the man’s flow of speech now that he had begun to reveal what he needed to learn.

‘Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth, managed to escape because of Lothryn’s aid and the fact that we were facing several ekons at the same time. Lothryn and I fought back to back together on Haldor’s Pass, a dangerous escarpment. We killed three ekons that day and lost several men. When the battle was over my great friend turned to me and held his wrists out to be bound. He didn’t ask for mercy or even a quick death — both of which I had expected, and might even have given, for I loved him enough to give my own life for him. I knew Cailech would execute me if I showed such mercy. But Lothryn knew Cailech would have instructed me to bring him back to face his ruler. And he allowed me to keep my faith with my King.’

It was Aremys’s turn to whisper. ‘What happened?’

Myrt’s expression became distraught. Aremys knew there was some nuance here he was not picking up, but now was not the time to pursue it. His voice shaking with tightly held-back tears, Myrt continued: ‘I delivered him to Cailech. It was a private meeting and I was not permitted to be present. I have no idea what passed between them. Later, all the King would tell me was that Lothryn was undergoing a special punishment and we would not see him again. I asked whether he was to be killed; I’ll never forget the King’s reply. He said, “He probably wishes I would kill him”, and then he looked at me strangely. I saw a mixture of pain and regret in his face, Aremys, for the King loved Lothryn like a brother. He could have saved him, but Lothryn’s betrayal cut deeper than any other wound ever could.’

Aremys sighed. ‘And there’s been no sign of Lothryn since?’

Myrt shook his head, deeply upset. ‘We’ve tried. Rashlyn knows something but he’s as mad as a pit full of burning snakes. He makes little sense at the best of times.’

As if on cue, they heard a sound behind them, a weak cry from the man slung across the trailing horse.

‘He’s stirring. We’ve tarried long enough. We shall speak again when we next get a chance alone,’ Aremys said, and he clicked Galapek on towards the great stone arch that would swallow them into the fortress.

THREE

WYL’S PROGRESS ALONG THE Darkstream was slow as he travelled against the current back towards the Thicket. His emotions were still in turmoil at the loss of his sister, Ylena, whose body he now inhabited, but this sorrow was deepened by the disappearance of Aremys. This was someone he had called a friend and there were precious few of those in his life now. To lose him so soon was devastating. Further, his mind felt burdened rather than lightened by his meeting with Elysius and his heart was especially heavy at leaving Fynch.

Fynch, Wyl mused, was the only constant in his life just at present. As he inched his way towards the Thicket, he realised how important the youngster had become to him. Whilst others such as Elspyth and even Aremys had accepted the strangeness of his life, it was Fynch who had always believed in him. Fynch who had guessed his secret from the start and had protected him. Little Fynch, so humble and yet so wise, who had saved not only Wyl’s life but that of a sovereign with his ingenuity. And it did not stop there. Fynch, following his own path, had left the safety of Werryl to track down Romen’s killer, and then had felt the pull of the Wild. There was definitely more to Fynch than hero worship of Wyl Thirsk. It had occurred to Wyl that Fynch’s involvement was not coincidence; the boy was deeply enmeshed in this whole business of Myrren’s gift, or at least in the curious life that Wyl was now leading. It was this realisation of Fynch’s importance that caused Wyl’s anger at himself for not insisting that Fynch should leave Elysius and travel with him.

The truth of it was, he suddenly felt he needed Fynch. Their lives, strange though they both were, were entwined. He loved Fynch too and would not forgive himself should anything happen to the little fellow.

Wyl’s thoughts raged in so many confusing directions that his only firm plan at this minute was to return to Timpkenny. He would overnight there before making a decision on his next move. His journey up the Darkstream was curiously and happily uneventful, and Samm was nowhere to be seen when he alighted, relieved, from the small craft where he had moored it by the overhanging willows. His intention had been to avoid the boatman and so it suited him that his cottage appeared deserted.

Wyl did not relish the notion of again passing through the mysterious Thicket, but he knew he could not wait too long to find the courage. Dark seemed to fall heavily and fast in this place, and he did not want to risk Samm coming across him. One small consolation was that he had passed through the Darkstream’s mountain tunnel without trauma and he was grateful for Shar’s mercy in this.

He walked more briskly towards the dark line of yews that marked the border of the Thicket. Wyl was convinced that he could hear a dim buzz emanating from the enchanted forest; it frightened him, but as he had been allowed to pass through once before, he was counting on similar generosity again.

Wyl took a deep breath, closed his eyes reflexively and pushed into the tangle. The Thicket’s cool atmosphere chilled him instantly. The silence was disturbing. The forest knew he was here, and the thought that this place could sense, think and make decisions for itself was the most disconcerting notion of all.

Oddly, this time there were no snagging branches and no confusing pathways. The previous time Knave had led him through Wyl felt sure that alone he would have lost himself amongst the yews for good. This time paths seemed to open themselves up to him. He shook his head with wonder. The Thicket was guiding him swiftly through its depths. It wanted him gone. Was as glad to be rid of him as he was to have his back to it.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered in genuine relief, feeling compelled to communicate with this living phenomenon which both fascinated and terrified him. Whether or not the Thicket heard he could not know, but he felt better for offering his gratitude.

It was Wyl’s continuing fear that Aremys might still be blundering around in the forest, trying to escape. If it could guide him out, Wyl reasoned, it was just as able to keep Aremys in and never relinquish him, if it so chose.

He overcame his intense fear, took the chance and began to call to his friend. The somewhat desperate edge to his voice carried loudly through the dense overgrowth but did little more than scatter small animals he could not see. Within this tension he had created for himself, Ylena’s fear of enclosed spaces began to threaten again; he felt it first as a tightening in her chest. He recalled the identical tautness of emotion which had occurred just before he lost control of himself on his first journey on the Darkstream and nearly drowned.

The familiar shallowness of breath hit him and he stopped moving. Was the Thicket’s magic acute enough to sense this change in him? Instinctively, he began breathing into his cupped hands. Wyl could not imagine how he remembered this trick but it was something his father had taught Ylena when she was an infant. Panic, he recalled, often overcame his young sister, prompted by the suggestion of the game hide-and-come-seek, or looking into the dark depths of the well, or playing under Wyl’s bed. Anything connected with being enclosed or hidden seemed to provoke an irrational fear in her. To his knowledge, Ylena had not experienced this terror since she was a child, but obviously its ability to strike had travelled with her into adulthood. Wyl was grateful now for his memory of Fergys Thirsk’s trick to calm his daughter; he quickly noticed a marked change in what had been steadily rising panic levels.

Whether or not the Thicket was aware of his discomfort, Wyl was fairly sure it deliberately steered him towards what might, at a stretch, be described as a clearing. His relief — or, more to the point, Ylena’s — at the space was evident by the way he flopped to the ground and took deep breaths. It remained cool beneath the yews but the oppressive atmosphere was not so marked, and if he could only get his breathing under control he knew he would feel less anxious. He put Ylena’s pretty head between her knees and forced her lungs to breathe slowly and deeply as foot soldiers, suddenly overcome by fear of battle, were taught to do before the command to charge. He held this position for several minutes and was relieved to feel the anxiety lessening.

A soft sound above prompted him to raise his head and he was confronted by the largest owl he had ever seen. Strikingly marked, the majestic tawny creature blinked slowly and deliberately, in the way owls do. Wyl watched it as intently as it was regarding him, wondering which of them would capitulate first, if that indeed was what was expected.

He lost the staring contest.

‘And you are?’ he said, feeling ridiculous but comforting himself that he had spoken to Knave without embarrassment. Why not this curious owl with such intelligence lurking in its large yellow eyes? This was a magical place after all. He was rewarded for his faith.

I am Rasmus, the owl said into his mind, startling him.

‘I hear you,’ Wyl replied, in awe of the splendid creature.

That was my intention, it said, somewhat disdainfully, then rotated its head in a disconcerting manner.

‘How is it that we can communicate?’ Wyl persisted. ‘Is it because of Myrren’s gift?’

The owl made a disgusted sound in his head. It is because I allow it, and because you are here.

‘In the Thicket, you mean?’

Where else could I mean?

Wyl felt an apology springing to his lips but resisted it. This creature was either baiting him or simply did not like him. He decided to take charge of the conversation. ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked, his tone direct now.

Again the owl blinked. Wyl felt a temptation to laugh. How would he ever explain this to anyone else? We want you to leave, it said firmly.

‘Well, can’t you just rid yourself of me?’ he replied, determined not to be cowed by this strange creature.

If we choose to.

Wyl sighed. ‘Then choose it, owl, for leaving here is what I want too. Trust me.’ He was irritated by the owl’s superior manner. ‘Who is “we” anyway?’

If you want to be gone from here, why do you linger? Rasmus asked, his tone suggesting he too was losing patience.

‘I am not lingering,’ Wyl snapped. ‘I was guided to this spot and, if you’re as magical as I suspect, then you can probably sense the sorcery that has touched me.’

I can.

‘Then you know that this is not the body I was born with.’

And so?

‘And so this particular body does not care for the density or fearsome atmosphere of your Thicket.’

It is not mine, the bird countered.

It was Wyl’s turn to blink — with exasperation. He took a steadying breath; showing his fury would not help here. ‘The person whose body I walk in is scared of this place and was having breathing difficulties.’

We gathered.

‘Was this clearing deliberately created for my benefit?’ Wyl was determined to find out whether the Thicket was able to think for itself.

Yes. Are you ready to leave?

‘Not until you answer a question.’

I am not beholden to you.

Wyl took a gamble. ‘If you trust Knave, then you should trust me, for he and I are friends. I mean you and the creatures of the Thicket — or indeed the Thicket itself — no harm. The secret of your magic is safe with me.’

There was a pause. Wyl wondered if the owl would communicate with him again. He stood up, frustrated by its stare and its silence. ‘You have let me pass through previously. I know you have no intention of killing me.’

Ask your question, the owl finally said, irritably.

Wyl curbed his enthusiasm and took a moment to consider how best to phrase his question. He sensed the owl would, at worst, answer cryptically, or at best literally, so his question must be very clear in order to gain him a precise answer.

‘Where is Aremys living?’ he asked carefully.

There was no hesitation from the owl. He lives in the Razors.

Wyl’s relief spilled over. ‘Is he safe?’

I have answered your question, the owl replied, fractious now.

‘Please,’ Wyl beseeched.

Rasmus made a peevish clicking noise. Aremys is safe.

Wyl decided there was nothing more to lose other than the owl’s patience, and that was already fast depleting. ‘Rasmus,’ Wyl began reasonably, ‘you have shared your name. Mine is Wyl. But then I’m sure you know that. Can we not be friends?’

Yet another tiresome question?

Wyl defied the owl and sat. ‘Yes, I have questions. I will not betray the Thicket. I owe it for keeping my friend Aremys safe and for helping me so far. I am your friend also.’

The Thicket has no friends of your kind, save one. You are not he.

Wyl had no idea what the owl was talking about. Perhaps the bird referred to Elysius. ‘Then let me ask what I need to so I can help the others you do trust — Knave and… Fynch.’

He had intended to say Elysius but Fynch came to his mind and slipped out first. He saw the bird react as he spoke his young friend’s name, and the shrubs around him seemed to shudder. Was it the boy who interested the Thicket?

‘I will protect Fynch always,’ he risked.

And was rewarded with a testy reply. He does not require your protection. He has the protection of the Thicket.

‘I see,’ Wyl said, not really seeing anything but harking back to his earlier suspicion that Fynch had some special purpose in this dangerous game they seemed to be playing. It was, no doubt, why Fynch was reluctant to leave the Wild, Wyl reasoned. Then a notion came to him suddenly, like a wasp sting and causing similar pain. ‘He’s not coming to Werryl, is he?’

The bird said nothing at first, then sighed. At that soft sound in his head, Wyl felt hollow. He had lost Fynch.

Fynch has his own path to follow now, Rasmus confirmed.

It shocked Wyl to hear his fear spoken aloud. It was one thing to suspect something and quite another to have it proven. Fynch was clearly on a new path, and a dangerous one, or the owl would not have mentioned protection or sound so sorrowful. Wyl also realised there was precious little he could do about it, as he imagined the Thicket would not permit him to return to find Fynch. It obviously had its own reasons for helping the boy to follow this new road.

‘Knave will be at his side, of course?’ he ventured.

Always, Rasmus said.

‘Thank you,’ said Wyl, and meant it. ‘I shall leave now. I am grateful to you, Rasmus, and the “we” you speak of for allowing me this time and for answering my questions.’

He stood and bowed to the huge bird with marked respect, then walked away, presuming the Thicket would now guide him quickly to its fringe and towards Timpkenny. He was surprised to hear Rasmus call after him.

He turned. ‘Pardon?’

I said, where are you going? the owl repeated.

‘I must make my way south to Werryl as quickly as I can.’

We will send you there.

Wyl looked at the large bird quizzically. ‘Send me?’

Come back to the clearing, it said.

‘I don’t understand.’ Wyl was feeling a little fearful.

You will. Stand before me and close your eyes. Do not open them.

‘I won’t.’

If you disobey us, we shall never allow you to leave, the owl warned.

Too much depended on his safe departure from this place. Wyl did as asked, wondering if this ‘sending’ business which Rasmus spoke of was a small show of friendship after all. He was glad now that he had bowed to the owl.

Be still, the owl cautioned. It will feel strange but you must trust us. Do not resist. Just let your body float. Remember, do not open your eyes.

Wyl understood none of it but obeyed as a man used to taking orders.

Farewell, Rasmus said and Wyl felt a vast, chest-crushing pressure against his body. He wanted to open his eyes but fought it, having given his word. Breathing was all but impossible but he refused to panic. He had to trust the owl.

If he had disobeyed the owl’s strict instructions he would have seen Fynch shimmering before him. Wyl could not see the tears on Fynch’s face nor how he mouthed a goodbye to his friend, but he felt the touch of the Gate Wielder as Ylena’s trembling body was pushed through a thickened disc of air and disappeared.

It is done, Rasmus said. Be at rest, Faith Fynch.

‘Why do they refer to me as Faith?’ Fynch whispered to Knave, who sat tall and imposing beside him in a special sunlit divide. Unless he had seen it with his own eyes, Fynch would never have believed such a clearing existed in the Thicket. Curiously, the small light-drenched space added no particular cheer to the dense, dark and brooding atmosphere, but Fynch was nonetheless glad for the brief respite from the chill.

It is how we think of you.

‘What do you mean?’

We have faith in you.

Fynch wanted to ask more but the words were stilled in his mouth as creatures — many known to him only from folklore — began to gather at the fringe of the clearing.

‘These are your friends?’ he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

They are the creatures of the Thicket.

Fynch’s attention was caught by a magnificent lion that watched him from the shadows. The animal shook itself and Fynch gasped to see wings extending from the proud cat’s shoulders.

‘Knave, that’s the winged lion of legend.’

No legend, as you can see, son. He exists.

‘I only know of him from the old tales and the carvings at Stoneheart. He… he is Wyl’s mythical animal, who protects him.’

And yours?

‘Mine?’ the boy said, awed as he caught sight of the equally legendary great bear. ‘My animal is…’ Fynch hesitated as another creature invaded his mind, demanding to be named. He felt treacherous and pushed the thought away. ‘My animal is the unicorn.’

He comes to you now, Knave said.

The other creatures fell silent as the beautiful animal emerged into the light. Its coat had a hue of the palest of blues but the overall impression was of a pure, dazzling white; even its famed horn was a silvery white. It walked slowly and with such grace that Fynch held his breath, utterly captivated.

Tall and broad, the unicorn towered over the boy and his companion. Child, it said in a deep, musical voice. It is my privilege to welcome you amongst us.

Fynch was so overwhelmed by the fabled creature’s magnificence and the notion that this animal was his protector that he began to weep. The unicorn bent its great head, careful not to touch the boy with its lethal horn, and nuzzled Fynch, who put his small arms around the creature’s neck in worship. My name is Roark, it added, for his hearing alone.

‘The privilege is mine, great Roark,’ Fynch whispered.

Be bright, Faith Fynch, you are our hope, it returned into his mind.

Fynch gathered his composure and dried his eyes. He looked about him uncertainly, registering the expectancy which hung in the air, and tried not to gape at the amazing troupe of creatures gathered around him.

As one they bowed, including Knave and the graceful Roark.

You must acknowledge them, Knave whispered into Fynch’s startled mind. Put aside your awe, son. You are the one to whom we give our loyalty. Assume your birthright.

Fynch understood none of this. He was a gong boy. A child of low birth and even lower rank. How could he acknowledge homage from these majestic creatures of legend? Who was he to assume such a role?

It was as if Roark could hear his thoughts. Fynch, will you accept our obeisance and loyalty?

Elysius’s words echoed in Fynch’s memory. Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a Gate. He could not escape his destiny, he knew this. His life was no longer his own, to direct or to decide. Choices had already been made and promises given.

Fynch steadied himself and found his voice. ‘Creatures of the Thicket,’ he called, ‘I will make myself worthy of your faith.’

He bowed, low and long. When he stood upright again, he felt as if a new strength was pulsing through him, from his toes through to the tips of his fingers. He realised that it must be the Thicket communicating with him; sending him nourishing power. He felt charged with it and could not help the radiant smile that broke out across his face.

‘Tell me what it is I must do,’ he asked the creatures. ‘I am your servant.’

It was Rasmus who spoke on behalf of the creatures and of the Thicket itself.

Be seated, Fynch, he offered from his perch.

Knave and Roark remained standing, flanking Fynch on either side.

Child, you already know what it is we ask of you, the owl said.

‘I do?’

Elysius shared the same desire.

‘Rashlyn,’ Fynch murmured.

The creatures and trees all shuddered their shared hate for the man.

Yes, Rasmus concurred. You must destroy him.

‘What is it that frightens you so about this man?’

He is tainted, and he wants to use his power to corrupt all that is natural about the world. His evil is born of his jealousy at being unable to manipulate Nature. More than anything he passionately desires the power to control all creatures. With this at his disposal he would rule all realms. Imagine him being able to call upon eagle or ekon alike? Imagine commanding them to do evil and the animals powerless to refuse him? You must destroy him!

‘Am I capable?’ Fynch wondered aloud.

The Thicket and its creatures will help you.

Strengthened by the thrum of power that bristled through him from the ground of the Thicket and emboldened by the love and loyalty that surrounded him, Fynch gave them his answer. ‘Then I ask for nothing more than your faith in me.’

It was the right thing to say. Knave confirmed as much with a gently uttered Bravo, child into his mind, whilst the creatures showed their trust and delight, some leaping into the air, others rearing to stand on two legs, still others squawking or braying.

Fynch laughed. He was filled with a joy he had never known before. He suddenly felt he belonged to all of them. He reached for Knave and touched the great dog’s head.

I don’t believe it, Knave said, his tone humble. Fynch thought he even heard a tremor in it. The King comes.

‘The King?’ Fynch repeated, puzzled. Since they had begun communicating via this special mindlink Fynch had found Knave’s manner to be mostly serious, like himself. The dog was not one for jests or shallow thoughts. He spoke only when there was something to say and during most of their conversations it had been his role to counsel Fynch. The boy knew of Knave’s graveness, and the dignity that emanated from his solid, dependable presence, but never had he seen the dog show humility. And this was no small humility: Knave sounded filled with reverence for whatever it was that was arriving. ‘Knave —’

Hush, said the dog and a powerful beating sound made Fynch raise his head and squint into the light above. Something plunged towards them — a suggestion of a shadow at first, that darkened until it cut out the light entirely and Fynch no longer squinted but was wide-eyed with both fear and awe.

‘The warrior dragon,’ he breathed.

Our King, Roark said softly, veneration in his voice as the mighty creature alighted in the clearing.

The creatures bent low to exalt the hallowed creature that stood before them, its famed, darkly shimmering colours gloriously filling the silence.

Fynch needed no prompting. He fell to his knees immediately, then prostrated himself. He closed his eyes and cast a prayer to Shar in thanks for the blessing of this day and what it had brought him.

Fynch, said a voice as rich and mellow as treacle.

‘Your majesty,’ Fynch replied, not daring to raise his head.

Come stand before me, the voice commanded.

Fynch summoned his courage. With Knave and Roark’s whispered firm encouragement, he opened his eyes and looked upon the King of all the beasts. There was no doubting that royalty stood before him; no wondering if this glorious creature was worthy of such exaltation. Fynch held his breath as every fibre of his being suddenly felt newly alive, restored somehow in the presence of such grandeur.

Fynch, like everyone else who looked upon the dragon pillar in Pearlis Cathedral with awe, had believed it was just legend. Associated with the Morgravian sovereign, it was the most impressive of all the mythical creatures but no more real than the winged lion. But now the King of Kings stood in all his glory before him, as real as Fynch himself.

Faith Fynch, the King said. Be welcome.

‘Thank you, your majesty,’ he stammered, bowing. ‘I am proud to serve you.’

And we are indebted for that service, child, which is given so bravely by one so young.

Fynch said nothing. What could one say to such generous praise?

The warrior dragon continued: And still we ask more of you.

‘I will give my life if it is so required.’

The King regarded him through dark, wise eyes. We shall do everything in our power to prevent you relinquishing something so precious.

‘Please tell me, my King,’ — my true King, Fynch thought to himself — ‘what it is that you ask of me.’

The beast wasted no further time. The King of Morgravia brings shame to his kind. He is of the warrior clan — of my blood, you could say — but he disgusts me.

‘Celimus is indeed shameful,’ Fynch agreed quietly.

That said, there have been Kings before who have disappointed and we have ignored them. The Thicket and its creatures do not meddle in the affairs of men, child. We have watched you kill each other for centuries and we have not involved ourselves. But on this occasion we have been drawn into the struggles of Morgravia and Briavel because of the misuse of magic.

‘You speak of Myrren’s gift, your majesty?’

The King hesitated briefly. That included, yes. It was wrong of Elysius to channel his power through his daughter to such a vengeful end. His power, once we granted him access to the Wild, was to be used only for the good of the natural world.

Fynch felt compelled to defend Elysius. ‘I don’t think he fully realised what the repercussions could be, your majesty.’

Magic is always dangerous, Fynch, even when used with the best of intentions. There are always repercussions; sometimes we are unable to see what they are until it is too late. This is why the Thicket and its magic has been deliberately shielded from men. Myrren’s gift has already claimed four lives. Wyl Thirsk should have died; instead he is abroad and carrying a deadly enchantment. None of us knows where it could end.

‘Wyl didn’t ask for it, your majesty,’ Fynch mumbled, not meaning to sound petulant.

I know, my son, the King replied gently. I feel great sorrow for Wyl, who is one of the best amongst men — as was his father. It is the magic itself that troubles me and how it will continue to reverberate through the world of men. I mean to end it here.

‘Destroy Wyl?’ Fynch exclaimed.

In a way he is already dead, the creature answered.

Fynch did not like the resignation in the Dragon King’s voice. He grasped for placation, desperate to prevent this powerful being from hurting Wyl. ‘The Thicket and its creatures have asked me to kill Rashlyn, your majesty, and with their help I will endeavour to rid the land of the destroyer. Both brothers will be no more. The magic will end.’

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 tired 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 frustrations. 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.

She thought about Ylena Thirsk and the terrible things the young woman had experienced. Crys had explained to Valentyna what Ylena had been through just to get herself to Felrawthy. It had made the Queen shudder to imagine how Wyl’s sister had coped with yet more terror after what she had already suffered at Stoneheart. Ylena was younger than her and had shown such courage. She would have to find similar courage now and face her destiny. Her father had fought to keep Briavel safe. She must do the same, just in a different manner. She would buy its peace with her body. Give herself over to this hateful man and let him parade her before his minions and use her for his pleasures. But he would not have her love — ever. That belonged to one man alone, and he was now dead. So she would give herself to Celimus in the hope that some bright, sparkling, untainted good might come of it. They might produce a child. And into that child she would pour all of her love; everything she denied Celimus and had hoped to give to Romen Koreldy. She would raise a proud sovereign to take the throne of Briavel one day.

Valentyna sighed as the soft breeze tousled her already messy hair. ‘Give me a sign, Shar,’ she said to the gentle wind, hoping it would carry her plea to the god. ‘Show me that marrying Celimus is the right decision.’

She felt like weeping at her pathetic words. Instead she wiped away the single tear which had fallen, rubbed at her other eye just in case, and willed herself to be strong and live up to the woman her father believed she had become. She strode back towards the soldiers. They had already spotted her movement and busied themselves with preparing the horses ready to ride again.

Squinting into the sun, Valentyna did not see the bird at first. It was its gentle song that attracted her attention and she looked around for the music-maker. It was perched on a low branch of the great elm she was about to walk beneath. She recognised its family immediately; King Valor had been a keen bird-spotter and had gone to some pains to school his only child into recognising various species. It was a beautiful little chaffinch and its pretty music made her smile. She whistled back at it and it kept singing long after she had passed by, taken Bonny’s reins and departed the copse.

It was only as Valentyna guided her horse onto Werryl Bridge some half hour later that she realised she had been humming a tune to herself on the journey back. The birdsong had reminded her of a well-known ballad created by Briavel’s leading jongleur in honour of her nineteenth birthday: ‘Wait For Me, My Love’. Valentyna had always loved the melody and its lyrics were beautiful. She began to sing them privately in her mind and they stayed with her as she ascended into the palace proper.

Ranald, a stableboy, bowed and reached for the Queen’s reins.

‘Thank you, Ranald,’ Valentyna said and found a smile for the eager boy.

‘Your highness,’ he beamed, unable to mask his pleasure at serving the Queen so directly.

‘It was a lovely ride,’ she said to him, enjoying his enthusiasm; wishing she could be ten again, without a care in the world.

‘I’m glad, your highness. Bonny’s a beautiful girl. My favourite,’ he chirped, ignoring the scowl from the stablemaster who had come out to watch his young charge receive the horses correctly and no doubt thought him far too chatty.

‘Mine too,’ Valentyna said and winked at Ranald.

As she turned away from the boy the refrain of the ballad filled her mind again — and its resonance struck her.

Wait for me, my love

I shall return one day

Accept not another’s words

Be with me only, I pray.

Valentyna stood rigid in the courtyard as the words played over in her mind. Men walked around her and horses neighed. Dogs growled over a bone and busy servants criss-crossed the yard on various errands, calling to each other. Amongst the activity, their Queen stood still and silent, deep in her own thoughts. What had sounded so poignant and charming on her nameday now sounded like a message from the dead. A warning.

‘Romen!’ she whispered fearfully, her breath catching in her throat.

‘Your majesty, are you unwell?’ someone enquired.

‘I’m fine,’ she stammered, coming back to the present and almost running from the courtyard. She flew into the palace and up the beautiful staircase, and up the next flight and the next. Servants watched perplexed as their sovereign ignored their salutations and curtsies, fleeing past them towards her study on the topmost level, her boots clicking loudly on the flagstones. Finally she came to her father’s former chamber and slammed the door behind her.

Leaning against its solid wood panels, she held her head as her breath came in great sad wrenches. Wait for me, my love. Was this Shar’s sign? Was this a message? What had prompted the song and its lyrics to come into her head? The bird. A chaffinch! Was this a warning from Fynch? Was he asking her to wait? For whom? Romen was dead! Cold, lifeless, bloodless… gone.

She realised she was sobbing and felt ashamed of herself for losing control. What was happening to her? Storming out of meetings, crying violently, listening to birds, believing in magic. She was going mad.

But she had asked for a sign. Perhaps this was it. She could be imagining it, of course, clutching at anything to save her from the touch of Celimus, but it felt so right to believe in it.

‘But who am I waiting for?’ she said into the quiet of her room.

She was startled by a knock at the door.

‘A moment, please,’ she called, instantly embarrassed at being found in this state. Let them wait, she thought more coldly, as she splashed water over her face from a basin in a tiny closet. She dried herself with a linen cloth and smoothed back her hair as best she could.

She touched her fingers to her father’s desk and drew strength from his presence which she still felt in this room, then took a steadying breath. Her mind was racing in all directions but she had duties to perform and it would not do to become flighty and hysterical when she most needed to be steadfast. She reminded herself that Briavel still looked to her for leadership, even if it was collectively casting her to the wolves — or wolf, should she say.

Valentyna cleared her throat. ‘Come.’

One of the older pages opened the door and bowed. ‘Your majesty, forgive my disturbance.’

‘That’s all right, Justen, who has sent you?’

‘Commander Liryk, your majesty. He asked me to find you the moment you returned from your ride. He says it is urgent.’

‘Oh? A problem?’

‘A visitor, your majesty.’

Valentyna frowned. ‘Another one? Can’t Liryk handle it?’ she said irritably, even though she knew Justen could not answer. He was simply following instructions.

The page blinked, not sure what to say. She felt immediately sorry for showing her vexation.

‘Did Commander Liryk give you the name of this visitor, Justen?’ she said, more gently now.

‘Yes, your majesty. It is a woman by the name of Ylena Thirsk.’

FIVE

MAEGRYN MET THE RIDERS and was alarmed to see one man return in a worse state than when he had left.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Aremys assured the anxious stablemaster as he handed him the reins of Galapek and Rashlyn’s horse.

‘I couldn’t care less about him,’ Maegryn said, and the vehemence in his voice surprised Aremys. ‘The horses are my concern. No problems there?’

‘Galapek got himself a little rattled over something but he calmed quickly. Just skittish,’ Aremys answered, skirting the truth. The fewer lies he told the better. ‘He’s more incredible to ride than I could have imagined. Thank you, Maegryn.’

The man could not help himself: he enjoyed the praise and it showed. ‘Yes, he’s a beauty this one. A real find.’

‘Where did he come from?’ It was a casually put question.

‘The barshi gave him as a present to the King. Had the horse sent secretly in from somewhere apparently. He won’t tell anyone from where.’

‘That’s a little odd, isn’t it? You’d think that if there were more like this one the King would be keen to know.’

Maegryn shrugged. ‘We’re not allowed to ask too much about Galapek, sir.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I’ll be off then, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed the ride.’

Aremys knew there would be little further information to be won from Maegryn today. The stablemaster had suddenly closed up.

‘Thank you. I hope you won’t mind if I look in on him again?’

‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, sir. You’re one of the very few he permits near him. I think he’s taken a shine to you.’ He smiled.

Aremys stroked Galapek’s twitching withers as the horse was led past him. He was hoping for another sign from the animal but got nothing.

Myrt was barking orders for Rashlyn — who was lying on the ground still mumbling his strange nonsense — to be taken to his private quarters. Myrt called for a physic as well.

Then the Mountain man turned to Aremys. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The worst is still before us.’

Aremys sighed, needing no confirmation. Cailech.

They tracked the King down to his wine cellar, catacomb-like chambers dug into the ground beneath a separate stone building. Descending the flagged stairs into the musty darkness Aremys smelled earth and spice; mixed with the aroma of yeast and the oak of the barrels it was a comforting blend. It was cool down here but not cold; the temperature would remain much the same year round, he guessed, and the vaulted ceilings combined with the peace and stillness to give the cellar a chapel-like quality. It felt safe here.

‘We’re sorry to interrupt you, your majesty,’ Myrt began.

The King turned from his discussion with the cellarmaster and grinned at the newcomers. Obviously in a good mood, Aremys thought. What a pity we’re about to ruin it.

‘Farrow, you have to try this!’ Cailech called over the barrels. ‘It’s to be our best vintage yet.’ The King slapped his cellarmaster on the back in praise, then lifted the long-handled tasting cup to his lips and drained it. ‘Ah, nectar,’ he said, delighted.

‘Sire,’ Myrt bowed. When he straightened, his expression in the diffused light of the beeswax candles was sufficiently sombre to win Cailech’s attention. The King’s smile faded.

‘You look like you’ve swallowed bad meat, Myrt. What’s wrong?’

‘It’s the barshi, sire,’ he began. Cailech handed the tasting cup back to the cellarmaster who stepped aside. ‘He’s unwell,’ Myrt added.

‘Oh?’ Cailech looked towards Aremys. ‘Farrow, what’s this all about?’

Aremys was surprised to be brought into the conversation. He wanted to clear his throat but figured that might make him appear nervous so he just began talking, sticking as closely to the truth as he could. ‘We were resting, my lord, or at least the horses were after a ride around the lake.’

‘We were at the Ring, sire,’ Myrt interjected.

Cailech nodded. ‘Go on.’ Again he looked to Aremys.

‘I was drinking at the stream and Myrt and Rashlyn were leaning against the boulders. Rashlyn was eating, and was seemingly in good health. We had been discussing my headaches and he approached me at the water’s edge to hand me a small bottle of a concoction he said would ease my discomfort — when the horses distracted us.’ Aremys had decided that the plain truth, rather than a version of it, was the only course with Cailech.

‘It was Galapek, sire,’ Myrt said. ‘Something startled him: we don’t know what. We couldn’t see anything near him.’

‘And?’ Cailech said, the hard green gaze impaling Aremys where he stood.

‘Well, as I recall, I rushed over to help Myrt calm the stallion. His panic was over as quickly as it began — perhaps he was stung by a bee or something irritated him, we have no idea. When we turned back to Rashlyn he was lying on the ground, seemingly having some sort of attack.’

‘Attack?’

‘Like a fit, sire,’ Myrt qualified.

‘He lost control of his body for a few moments,’ Aremys said, ‘and then he became rigid. I checked immediately for a pulse — which was strong — but by then he was unconscious.’

The King’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking. ‘How long did this episode last?’

‘It was over almost as soon as it began,’ Myrt said. ‘We laid him on his horse and got him back here as fast as we could.’ He dared not look at Aremys as he said this. Hurrying back to the fortress had been the last thing on their minds.

‘And where is Rashlyn now?’

‘He seems to have regained his wits, sire, so I had him carried to his rooms and sent a physic along too,’ Myrt reported.

‘You have no idea what this is about?’ The King looked between the two men.

Myrt shrugged and shook his head. Aremys figured the King needed more than sheepish shrugs. ‘I thought it might have been the cheese that stuck in his throat but his passage was clear,’ he fabricated. ‘And Myrt tells me the food was fresh so we know he has not been poisoned by it. Does he suffer from fits, my lord?’ he added innocently.

‘It seems he does now,’ Cailech growled, the breezy mood blown through and replaced with what felt like a gathering storm. ‘I shall go and see him. How was Galapek, Farrow?’

The King switched subjects and disposition so adroitly, Aremys was sure he would never succeed in preparing himself for it.

‘Even more magnificent than I’d hoped, thank you, sire. A truly beautiful creature. I hope you will let me ride him again some time.’

A glance passed between the King and his warrior. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Myrt, you can accompany me to the barshi’s chambers. Farrow —’

‘Sire?’

‘I’ll see you later. You will be leaving in the early hours of tomorrow for Morgravia.’

Aremys, back in his chamber with the familiar guard outside, sighed in frustration. He was not going to attempt an escape and felt sure Cailech knew this. But it seemed the King was keen to remind him that he was a prisoner and under the control of the monarch, hence the armed guard.

‘Not for long,’ Aremys muttered under his breath as he flung his water flask into a corner. He would gladly leave for Morgravia in a few hours, and from there he would win his freedom. He liked the Mountain People. He did not even mind living here in the fortress amongst them, could almost see a pleasant life in the Razors stretching out before him, but he was beholden to no man, not even a King, and certainly not one who stopped just short of shackling him.

It irritated him that Cailech could be so friendly one moment and so domineering the next. Surely the King knew that Aremys would far rather give his help to him than Celimus? In truth, though, he could not blame Cailech entirely for remaining suspicious. One didn’t stay a King if one trusted everyone, especially strangers who appeared out of the blue with no tangible explanation for how they had arrived.

That took him back to his musings about the Thicket and his realisation that the strange clump of nature was clearly able to make a decision for itself, and had decided to expel him. But the Thicket and its magic was a phenomenon to be pondered another time. His immediate interest now was Galapek and how to help the horse.

Aremys replayed the afternoon’s events in his mind. Rashlyn’s collapse had definitely coincided with the animal’s shriek, he was sure of it, which meant something had disturbed them both. There was nothing in the vicinity to alarm them or it would have created a similar reaction in himself and Myrt. No, this was something else. More like a disturbance in the strange magic that riddled the horse. Could it be that the wild-looking healer was bound to the stallion in some way?

Aremys followed that line of thought. What if Rashlyn himself had cast some sort of spell upon the horse? That might account for a bond between them. Why though? It wasn’t as though Rashlyn had shown a particular attachment to the beast, so the link was not a personal one. And if it was his magic that permeated the stallion, why had he interfered with the animal?

Because Cailech asked him to?

But why would the King ask something like that? Aremys thought it unlikely that Cailech possessed the cruelty that would prompt the idea of hurting an animal in this way.

But what if the idea had come from Rashlyn? ‘Because Rashlyn could perform the enchantment and Cailech allowed him to,’ Aremys said quietly into the stillness of his chamber.

The notion took a firm place among his thoughts. He nodded. Yes, that made more sense. Aremys thought back to Wyl’s account of Cailech’s horrific threat during the feast when he had presented the Morgravian prisoners as a dish to his people. Wyl had been sure Rashlyn was behind that hideous episode, but that suggested the barshi was capable of persuading the King to do things not of his own volition. How could Cailech, usually so dominant, be so weak in the company of Rashlyn?

Aremys had no answer for that. He returned to his original puzzle. Something had disturbed the magic linking the barshi and the horse. It couldn’t have been the Thicket or he too would have felt the effects, but perhaps it had resonated through the Thicket for him to feel it at all. Had Wyl done something to disturb the balance? Unlikely, or the Thicket would probably have protested more strongly.

Aremys put his head in his hands, frustrated by his swirling thoughts that took him nowhere. Think! he commanded himself. Could it be something to do with Elysius? Had Wyl made it through and met the manwitch? Was that it? ‘Possibly,’ he muttered but that did not help him to get any closer to the riddle that was Galapek.

And then he remembered the most chilling moment of the whole sorry afternoon. How could he have forgotten it? The horse had somehow communicated a name to him: Elspyth. He began to pace now. It could be a coincidence, of course, but an unlikely one. Aremys felt positive that the horse had once belonged to Lothryn, or somehow held the secret of what had happened to Lothryn. He wanted to yell out his frustrations, but that would bring the guard running. He punched the wall instead.

If Cailech wanted to punish Lothryn, why hurt his horse? And how would a horse know of Elspyth, for Shar’s sake!

‘You’re going mad, Farrow,’ he told himself finally, when nothing made sense any more. ‘Now you’ve contrived a magical talking horse.’

He decided to clean up and go in search of Myrt and more answers. Something else had begun to niggle at him and he wanted to find out if it had any basis in fact. Discovering he was right might not advance his cause but it might provide some leverage if and when required.

Aremys opened his chamber door and explained to the guard, a nice young fellow with an unfortunate harelip, that he needed to find Myrt. The guard nodded and a shy smile emerged on his deformed mouth when Aremys said, ‘After you.’ It was a joke they shared from when the guard, Jos, was first assigned to Aremys and had made the wry comment that if he proceeded first, the mercenary might bash him on the head and escape.

This, of course, had made Aremys laugh. ‘Look at you, lad,’ he had replied, grinning. ‘I’d need an axe just to dent you. You’re built like an ox. You terrify me.’ He could see that Jos had taken the remark as a rare compliment coming from a man akin to a bear. They had never spoken at length but Aremys had been sure to keep the words they had shared light-hearted and friendly and Jos had always responded, albeit cautiously. The guard was only just into manhood and still establishing a reserve of confidence to draw upon, a process probably made more difficult by taunts about his affliction, Aremys figured. When they walked shoulder to shoulder, as now, the mercenary was careful always to defer to his guard in the hope that the young man might take some self-assurance from it.

They found Myrt at the main stables. The Mountain man nodded when he saw them. ‘Go get your meal, Jos. Leave him with me. I’m getting our stuff ready anyway. We leave soon.’

Aremys grinned at his young keeper. ‘Don’t forget what I said about that young lady,’ he said, referring back to an earlier exchange. ‘You should tell her,’ and he winked.

Jos chuckled, a hand flying up to cover his crooked smile.

‘What have you been filling that lad’s head with?’

‘Nothing that didn’t fill yours when you were his age, Myrt,’ Aremys replied, helping him to lift a heavy crate into a cart. ‘Why aren’t you with a woman, Myrt?’

‘Who says I’m not?’ the man countered, somewhat sharply.

Aremys shrugged. ‘You haven’t mentioned a wife —’

Myrt reached for another crate. ‘I have no wife.’

‘I see.’

‘Oh? And what do you see?’

‘Nothing, my friend. What’s wrong with you?’

The warrior flicked away what sounded like an apology. ‘Cailech’s furious about what happened. Kept asking me what you were doing when Rashlyn passed out.’

‘Mmm, I thought he might. I told you he suspects me of knowing something.’

‘He’s not so suspicious that he’s not pressing ahead with the journey. In fact he’s brought our departure forward — we leave at sundown. You, me, Byl and two others.’

‘So what’s all this stuff?’

‘Gifts for the Morgravian King.’

‘Ah, goodwill.’

Myrt grunted. ‘Help me load the rest of it.’

They worked quietly and quickly for the next few minutes.

Maegryn appeared. ‘I’ve picked out the horses you’ll be taking, Myrt. I’ve given Farrow Cherub.’

‘Sounds a bit effeminate for me,’ Aremys said, joking.

‘Does that worry you?’ Myrt asked.

‘No,’ Aremys replied cheerfully. ‘I’ll just feel ridiculous calling out “Whoa, Cherub”.’

‘That’s the joke, Farrow,’ Maegryn said, grinning. ‘He’s anything but!’

The two Mountain men laughed and Aremys joined in, but he was sure of it now: Myrt had a secret of his own and the mercenary intended to exploit it.

‘We’re expected at the King’s chamber,’ said the warrior. ‘He wants us to sup with him before we leave.’

Aremys nodded. ‘Are we finished here?’

‘Yes, I’d say so. Thanks, Maegryn. Back later then.’

‘As it suits you, Myrt. I’ll be waiting.’ The stablemaster turned back to the stables.

‘I need to talk to you first,’ Aremys said as they made their way towards the fortress.

‘I reckoned you might. Follow me.’

They walked in what Aremys hoped was a companionable silence through several courtyards towards a part of the fortress he had not been to before.

‘Where are we going?’ he said.

‘My home,’ came the brief reply.

Myrt stopped a few times to share swift words with various people. He asked one youngster to find Byl and have him call at Myrt’s home after dusk. The big warrior introduced Aremys to all those he spoke with and the mercenary noted how they deferred to Myrt. He presumed the man had taken on a stronger leadership role since the demise of Lothryn. He mentioned as much.

‘I suppose so,’ Myrt replied. ‘I don’t really want it, but Cailech finds it easier to rely on me to pass on his orders. I’d prefer everything to be back how it was.’

‘With Lothryn as the King’s second, you mean?’

‘Yes, he was worthy of it and good at it.’

‘Why was he better than you?’

‘Because he understood Cailech, and because he was not afraid of him. They grew up together; they were friends first and foremost. A bit like how it was between the old Morgravian King and his General, that Fergys Thirsk. They were great friends from childhood, I was told.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Aremys said.

‘Well, friendships made young like that have longevity and there’s great affection there too. I’ll never have that kind of relationship with the King. And when a relationship like that is broken, it hurts.’

‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Myrt.’

‘In a way,’ the man muttered, hurrying Aremys down a short flight of steps.

‘Did you know Lothryn from childhood as well?’

Myrt glowered at Aremys and his persistent questions. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

They emerged into the open again, into what appeared to be a walled community. The place took Aremys by surprise. ‘Shar! How amazing.’

His obvious delight broke the tension. Myrt grinned. ‘More of Cailech’s dreaming. This is his great social experiment.’

‘Explain it to me,’ Aremys said, gazing around at the hive of activity.

‘Well, not everyone chooses to live in and around the fortress, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. Originally the Mountain Dwellers were different tribes, spread throughout the Razors. Cailech not only united us into one people but dreamed of forming a small city — he wants the fortress to become the true heart of the Razors and he is encouraging people to settle in amongst it. He dreams of his own Pearlis or Werryl, I suppose you could say. He has built homes for the settlers and has encouraged markets to be held regularly. He’s even set up a school, which is very popular and getting bigger and bigger. Our King encourages education and at his urging, more people are bringing their children to the classroom, which, of course, leads them to see the benefit of settling close to the school. Cailech has organised special rewards for families who set up home here permanently. It’s really quite a new experience and a lot of our folk are watching to see how it goes. I think it will work. I believe Cailech will have his city in years to come.’

‘It looks like the community is thriving,’ Aremys said, unable to keep the awe from his voice. ‘I can see from the layout that it’s been thought through very carefully.’

‘It has.’ Myrt smiled. ‘The King didn’t want it emerging too haphazardly. So he put together a group of people who could plan for a village, out of which could grow a town, and who had the vision to see how a city might emerge one day. I was one of the first to live here and that encouraged others to come too. Lothryn lived not far from here, amongst a smaller group of senior people — formerly tribe leaders and family members distantly related to Cailech.’

‘Does Cailech have a family of his own?’

‘Oddly, no. We Mountain folk tend to have large family groups but Cailech was an only child. His mother died by accident, in a fire. Cailech was about thirteen when it happened. He was away with his father at the time, settling a dispute between the tribes.’

‘Does he blame himself?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He knew it was an accident. But Lothryn told me the King never really got over the loss. That’s why he’s so keen on keeping families together, and he loves the youngsters. Part of his belief is that children thrive when they have elders around them and big family groups to teach them the right ways. I agree with that creed.’

‘I would have thought that he’d have a wife then, his own family.’

Myrt shook his head and Aremys thought he saw something painful flicker across his expression. The Mountain man fought down whatever demon was rising. ‘He hasn’t had time to take a wife yet, I suppose.’

‘And you, Myrt, what of your family?’

‘I have a sister. I live with her. Her husband was one of those killed in the Grenadyn disaster. He was seventeen; they’d only been married a few weeks. I suppose you’ve heard of that incident?’

Aremys nodded. He knew only too well the story of Grenadyn’s unwarranted attack on the Mountain People and the slaughter that ensued.

Myrt sighed. ‘Well, my sister never got over her loss. She all but raised me. Now, I suppose, I look after her.’

‘No love of your own, Myrt?’

The Mountain man walked on. ‘One. That person did not want me,’ he answered in a thick tone, and prevented any further conversation by stopping to chat with a shopkeeper selling candles.

Aremys took a moment to marvel again at Cailech’s embryonic city. The laneways had been cobbled with stone from the mountains and it looked to him that more building was already under way, with more streets leading off the main one. It certainly was not Pearlis but it was bigger than any village he had encountered. There was a sense of sprawl about it; the place seemed well on its way to developing into a bustling town. He could not help but be impressed by this still relatively young King with such a vision for his realm, and it was this very moment when Aremys decided he would give his all towards helping these people. If somehow he could influence the attainment of a working peace between the two prideful monarchs of Morgravia and the north, then he would. Not for Cailech so much, but for Myrt and Byl, for Myrt’s sister — perhaps he could atone for the sins of his own folk, for their stupidity all those years ago. For Maegryn and young Jos and, yes, even for Lothryn, wherever he was.

Like Wyl, Aremys wanted to believe that Lothryn was still alive. And if he was, he intended to find him. He was convinced it was the horse and its magic that would lead him to this man it seemed everyone had loved — even the King.

‘Everyone except Rashlyn,’ Myrt cautioned, when they were sitting in his small house a short time later and Aremys brought the subject back to Lothryn.

‘Rashlyn didn’t like him?’

‘More to the point,’ Myrt said, busying himself with a pot of tea at the hearth, ‘Lothryn despised Rashlyn and the barshi knew it.’

‘Why?’

‘Cups are over there,’ Myrt said, nodding towards a dresser. ‘Lothryn objected to the influence Rashlyn has with the King. He admitted to me not long before he disappeared that it had got to the point where he felt something had to be done about it.’

Aremys almost made the terrible error of mentioning the feast and Cailech’s threat to turn his people into cannibals by forcing them to eat the Morgravians. He stopped himself just in time and covered his near blunder by turning his back on the Mountain man to reach for the cups.

He brought them back to the small wooden table. ‘What made him say that?’

Myrt poured boiling water over the leaves. ‘Let that brew, shall we,’ he said amiably. ‘Well, there were many reasons. Cailech had been making erratic decisions, out of character for him — there was one particularly disturbing incident involving some Morgravian prisoners. He wanted to make an example of them as punishment to their people for killing some of ours. They weren’t even the culprits, for Haldor’s sake, they were just a raggle-taggle group of farmers who were sent into the Razors with one old soldier as a leader.’

Aremys held his breath. Myrt was almost certainly referring to Wyl’s friend, Gueryn le Gant. He kept his voice casual. ‘And?’

‘The King’s method of making an example of them was terrifying to say the least. I don’t want to go into the details, but it never sat right with me, or any of us for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, Cailech can kill with the best of them — as you know from the repercussions of the episode at Grenadyn — but he’s not a cruel man by nature.’

Aremys nodded: he remembered the events on his island home only too well. He had held a crush for Lily Koreldy for several years, but she was older than he and no doubt had never even noticed the lumbering boy who turned a beetroot colour if ever he was in her presence. ‘That was a terrible business.’

‘Yes, but Cailech spared Romen Koreldy, even gave him a home and looked after him for a while. They actually became quite good friends by the end of it, despite the trauma that sat between them.’

‘I’m surprised Koreldy could forgive him.’

‘Don’t be fooled: Koreldy never forgave Cailech and the King knew it, which was why he warned him when he left that if he ever set foot in the Razor Kingdom again, he would lose his life.’

‘So Koreldy was like me, eh? A very well-treated prisoner.’

Myrt turned the pot three times and grinned at Aremys’s perplexed expression. ‘Tradition,’ he explained. ‘Yes, Koreldy was dealt with in much the same way as we’re treating you, except he was never entrusted with a mission for the good of our people.’

‘Did you ever see Koreldy again?’ Aremys asked. Myrt poured the tea, not answering. ‘You know he was working for Celimus, don’t you?’ Aremys pressed. ‘But actually he was working against him.’

That won the Mountain man’s attention. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Koreldy hated Celimus, with good reason. The Morgravian King double-crossed him in an agreement they had. I know Koreldy stuck to the mercenaries’ code of honour: he did his job and kept his counsel, but Celimus tried several times to have him killed for what he learned in doing that job.’

Myrt’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re talking about the death of the King of Briavel now, aren’t you?’ he guessed, and was glad to see he was right when Aremys nodded. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘Plenty. What are you prepared to swap for it?’

‘What?’ Myrt said, astonished. ‘Swap information?’

‘Yes,’ Aremys said, reaching for his cup. ‘Listen, Myrt, you know things and so do I. I would give my knowledge happily, but getting information from you is like trying to get milk from an ekon. Dangerous at best and fucking hard to boot!’

Myrt exploded into a rare laugh at Aremys’s comical explanation.

‘All right,’ he said, still laughing. ‘All right, Grenadyne, you win. I haven’t laughed like that in a while.’

Aremys arched an eyebrow. ‘I can tell,’ he said. ‘Your turn, Myrt. The Morgravian soldier you mentioned — is he still alive?’

‘Yes,’ Myrt said, serious now. He sipped from his steaming cup. ‘Your turn. Whose side are you on?’

‘Cailech’s. I will negotiate for him and I will help to win this peace he pushes for. Understand this: I hate Celimus and will do everything in my power to undermine him. I am not an enemy to the Mountain Kingdom.’

Myrt said nothing but Aremys saw something blaze in the man’s eyes. Aremys sensed it was relief.

‘All right, next question for you,’ the mercenary continued. ‘Is the Morgravian soldier called Gueryn le Gant?’

Myrt baulked at that. ‘How do you know that? How do you know him?’

A little fib would help here, Aremys decided. He could not tell the truth because no one would believe it. ‘I know le Gant’s niece. She’s been distraught since he disappeared and I said I’d keep my ears and eyes open for any news on my travels north. Thank you for confirming it.’

‘He’s in our dungeon.’

It was Aremys’s turn to flinch. ‘I have to see him, Myrt.’

‘Not until you answer my questions. Koreldy — where is he, do you know?’

‘Probably scattered to the four winds by now.’

‘Dead?’ Myrt could not hide his astonishment.

Aremys nodded. ‘Killed by one of the King’s hired assassins. A woman,’ he said.

‘The King must be told.’

‘Why? Did he want to kill him by his own hand?’

‘He was certain that Koreldy, after his recent escape, would return to rescue le Gant.’

‘What will the King do when he learns of Koreldy’s death?’

‘Kill the Morgravian soldier.’

‘Then he cannot know of Koreldy’s demise,’ Aremys said urgently.

Myrt scowled. ‘Says who? I’ve told you, I’ll do nothing that smacks of betrayal of Cailech. Now answer me this if you want any more information or help: why are you so interested in Lothryn? It makes me suspicious of you.’

Aremys shook his head. ‘Don’t be. Elspyth of Yentro is known to me — you could say we are friends, although we’ve not known each other long. I met her soon after she escaped from here and she was hoping to return to the mountains to discover Lothryn’s fate. You know they were lovers, she and Lothryn?’

Myrt grimaced. ‘I guessed as much. There would be no other reason for Loth to betray us as he did, and without sharing his decision with me.’

Aremys was glad the Mountain man had not blinked at the coincidence that he claimed to know two separate women who just happened to know Gueryn and Lothryn. He could slap himself for such a clumsy contrivance but the big man was not paying sufficient attention. Aremys took his chance. ‘Myrt,’ he said gently, ‘I know that you loved Lothryn too, perhaps more than in just a brotherly fashion —’

The Mountain man reacted as if burned. He stood up, pushing his chair away, eyes blazing with sudden hatred. ‘Fuck you, Aremys.’

Aremys kept silent and did not so much as flinch when Myrt threw his cup and its contents into a corner and then kicked at his chair, smashing one of its legs. The big man turned to glare at the Grenadyne, daring him to make a move so he could punch him as well. But Aremys did not move.

‘I don’t want to fight you,’ he said. ‘I want to find him for you.’

Despite the warning, he was prepared for a fight; a black eye perhaps, maybe broken fingers. So he was ill-prepared for tears, and when they came he hated himself to his very core for shattering the barriers which had kept Myrt strong. Now the man’s pain was being unleashed and Aremys was at a loss as to how to deal with it. He sat there a moment bewildered, then did the only thing one person can do for another who is hurting. He put his arms around the Mountain man’s big shoulders and held him.

Eventually he spoke: ‘He’s alive, Myrt, I know it. From all that you’ve told me I don’t believe Cailech would have killed him. And that’s why his reply to you was so cryptic. Lothryn lives and our only clue is Galapek. Help me and we’ll find him together.’

The tears were brief; dried away almost as soon as they had dared to arrive. Wrath replaced them. ‘I can’t!’ the man roared.

‘You can. We’re all he’s got. If you love Lothryn — as I know you do — then fight for him. Let’s at least find out if he’s alive and what state he’s in.’

Myrt stomped around the small cottage, a new battle going on within him now. Aremys had noticed that the dwelling showed the touches of a woman — a jar of fresh hill flowers on the humble sideboard, dishes neatly stacked, floors swept and surfaces dusted. It was as neat as a pin. He wondered where the sister was and asked Myrt.

‘Due back shortly,’ he answered, distracted. ‘Listen to me, Aremys. I’ll help you because of Lothryn, not because I’m threatened by what you’ve learned about me. If you ever repeat what has occurred here or been mentioned between us, I’ll kill you. I might be in love with a man but it doesn’t stop me being capable of killing one. I want you to understand that.’

‘Your secret is safe with me. Whether you prefer men or women is of no consequence to me. I’ve trusted you with my life — I shall go on doing so. I’m only sorry that you have to be so unhappy.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve lived with it all my life,’ the Mountain man said gruffly. ‘More to the point, what can we do? We leave in a few hours and I don’t think Cailech plans for you to return here.’ Myrt’s anger had dissipated to be replaced with despondency.

‘Well, that does change things. It might be that you must track Lothryn down without me.’ Aremys looked towards the ceiling, racking his thoughts for the best step. ‘Can you take me to see the horse again? I think it was trying to communicate something to me on our ride.’

‘You are jesting, aren’t you?’ When Aremys returned his gaze evenly Myrt scoffed. ‘You expect me to believe the horse tried to tell you something?’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Myrt. I’ve explained about the magic. No, I’m not saying it talked,’ he lied, ‘but if there is something to learn, this is my last chance. I also want to see le Gant.’

‘No.’

‘Yes! He is not loyal to Celimus. He’s like Koreldy and all the others that bastard has coerced and tricked, double-crossed and had killed. What do you think a soldier of that calibre was doing blundering about in the Razors anyway? Did you really think he wanted to be here with a gang of farmers who wouldn’t know a sword from a threshing fork?’ Myrt bit his lip. ‘Come on, man. This was set up by the Morgravian King. He wanted Cailech to kill Gueryn but I have to see him to find out why.’

‘Do you think it might help in your mission?’

‘Of course, why else would I want to see him?’ Aremys lied again, hating himself for deceiving this good man. ‘Keep the secret of Koreldy, I beg you — just a little longer. The King will learn of his death anyway once he enters Morgravia, or, if you insist, I’ll tell him myself.’

‘I do insist,’ Myrt said, staring hard at Aremys.

‘All right. Just keep it quiet for now until I can learn some more.’

Myrt nodded. ‘Where to now?’

‘The dungeon,’ Aremys replied grimly. ‘Then Galapek.’

SIX

GUERYN FELT FORGOTTEN. It had been days since Myrt and his friend had walked with him and he had begun to think he would never smell sweet air again. Food and fresh water was being delivered daily, however, so he knew he had not dropped entirely from the Mountain People’s consciousness. The gaoler, Haz, offered no news or even conversation and Gueryn had given up trying. In truth it was his own fault. Haz had made the effort to talk in the early days, but since allowing Gueryn to starve himself and feeling the King’s wrath as a result, he had ignored the prisoner, doing only the bare necessities.

Rashlyn had looked in on him twice since Gueryn had been returned to the dungeon and was satisfied that his health was being maintained. The Morgravian had kept an icy silence with the softly spoken healer on each occasion.

Having decided that he was fighting a losing battle in trying to kill himself, and realising he could do more good by regaining his health and learning as much as he could about the Razor King and his intentions, Gueryn had tried to keep himself fit. Once he felt strong enough he had begun doing push-ups; now he was up to three hundred daily. As a result his upper body was muscled again. And he walked. His cell was relatively narrow but quite long and he had used this length to pace relentlessly up and down. He lost count of the times he met each wall at either end because he had given up keeping track after a thousand. And to keep his mind as agile as his body, he had taken stock of everything he knew and had begun to speculate using that information.

The hated Rashlyn knew something about Lothryn, that much was clear. And he was smug about it. This suggested to Gueryn that perhaps the brave Mountain man might not have perished as they had all assumed. Gueryn also knew the King was keeping him alive so that Koreldy would return to save him, but had no idea why Cailech should believe there was any attachment between them. Gueryn had never met Koreldy until that time in the fortress. The odd thing, of course, was that until Gueryn’s sewn-up eyes had been released of their stitching he had believed that Koreldy was Wyl Thirsk! He had gone over it time and again in his mind, realising that he had just wanted to believe it was Wyl. Nevertheless, something deep down told him there was more to this than what his eyes had confirmed. Even when he saw the unfamiliar face, his heart had still believed Wyl was somehow present. And how could Koreldy know the family battle cry? Or speak to him in the way Wyl would? Nothing added up, and the King’s belief that Koreldy would return to rescue him further muddied the waters of his thoughts.

Gueryn was sitting in the corner of his cell, once again remembering the murder of Elspyth, for which he could never forgive himself, when he heard the key turning in the lock.

‘You’re early, Haz,’ he mumbled. He had no real knowledge of time, but his body and its regular functions gave him reasonable clues. And right now his body was not yet hungry.

A huge man stepped into the cell, a man he had never seen before. ‘Gueryn le Gant?’

Gueryn nodded, searching for a pithy rejoinder — any attack on his keepers felt good. ‘Who else did you expect?’

The man grinned which confused him and turned to nod something to another person outside. Gueryn was sure he heard Myrt’s voice saying that he would keep watch.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, alarm bells suddenly klaxoning in his mind.

‘I have very little time, so you must listen as I explain something quickly. And you’re going to have to trust me.’

‘Why would I trust you?’

‘I’m a Grenadyne, not one of the Razor people. And there’s a single word I can say which I believe will make you trust me.’

‘Oh yes? What’s that, Grenadyne?’

‘Thirsk,’ Aremys replied abruptly. ‘Now hear me out. No interruptions. I am friend, not foe.’

The name Thirsk was like a slap in the face to Gueryn. The big man had his full attention.

‘My name is Aremys Farrow. I am a mercenary and was employed by your King to hunt down and kill Ylena Thirsk.’

‘What?’ roared Gueryn, pushing himself to his feet.

‘I said don’t interrupt, soldier,’ Aremys warned. ‘I found Ylena, but instead of killing her, I took her to safety into the north of Briavel, which was where we parted company. I hope she has made it south to Queen Valentyna. I won’t go into how I got to be here but, rest assured, although I might look like a free man I’m as much a captive as you are. Cailech plans to use me to negotiate a parley with King Celimus. If I’m successful I might win my freedom, in which case I’ll go looking for Ylena again and offer her my protection. There is another woman — someone you know — who holds strong affection for a man called Lothryn. I understand that Lothryn betrayed the Mountain People in helping you, Koreldy and this woman, Elspyth, to escape. Now that I’ve found you, as I promised Ylena I would,’ he lied, ‘I’m determined to find Lothryn as well. My instincts tell me the King has kept him alive in order to make the punishment — whatever it is — of aiding your attempted escape the sweeter. You should know that Koreldy is dead.’ Gueryn closed his eyes as he heard this. ‘And that somehow I am going to get you out of here.’

Aremys stopped. It was obvious he was sharing too much information; the prisoner looked too shocked to respond.

Then the Morgravian began to laugh. It was clearly not the reaction the big mercenary had expected, for his expression was all confusion.

‘A word of thanks might be more appropriate,’ Aremys suggested.

‘Thank you for coming, Grenadyne. Thank you for what you’re trying to do, but I’m as good as dead, man. If Koreldy is no longer alive, that’s my death warrant,’ Gueryn said, painful resignation in his tired voice.

‘No one knows about Koreldy but myself and Myrt,’ Aremys assured.

‘Myrt is a good man, but he is a loyal Mountain warrior. The King will already know.’

‘The King does not know. He doesn’t even know we’re here now. Myrt is outside keeping watch. He is protecting you.’

‘Why?’ Gueryn demanded.

‘It doesn’t matter why.’

‘It does to me because it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Let’s just say I have something on him which encourages him to help me.’

Gueryn shrugged tiredly. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. Everyone I have ever cared about is dead except Ylena, and it sounds to me like Celimus will kill her too.’

‘No chance.’

‘If you’ve met Ylena, as you claim you have, then you’ll know she is a pretty, indulged and fragile creature. She will not outwit Celimus — not without her brother’s protection or mine.’

‘She has the protection of a Queen… and mine.’

‘Oh that’s right, the protection of a new, inexperienced Queen under siege by now from King Celimus, I imagine, and a Grenadyne mercenary who is a captive of King Cailech. Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.’

‘I don’t know why I bothered,’ Aremys muttered, clearly stung by le Gant’s ingratitude and ungracious manner.

‘Neither do I. Save yourself if you can. I watched Cailech kill Elspyth with his own hands and enjoy it. He will do the same to me, and to you if he so chooses.’

Aremys frowned. ‘Elspyth isn’t dead.’

‘Yes, she is, mercenary. I’m sorry to upset you further. See this on my boots — that is her blood. Her life became forfeit when I refused to capitulate to Cailech’s interrogation. I might as well have stuck the knife in her myself,’ he finished bitterly.

Aremys moved for the first time since entering the cell. He crouched by Gueryn and dared even to take the soldier’s hand. He felt as though he should be holding his breath. ‘When did this happen?’

Gueryn shook his head. ‘I’ve lost track of time here. It was weeks ago, I’m sure.’

‘Gueryn, look at me. I saw Elspyth so few days ago I could count them on both hands and probably have a finger to spare. She, Ylena and I were all together in Felrawthy.’

‘You lie! Why are you lying to me, you bastard?’

It was Aremys’s turn to shake his head, but with compassion. ‘I’m not. We drank tea together, for Shar’s sake! Elspyth is alive and determined to return here to discover Lothryn’s fate. She was on her way to Briavel the last time I saw her. She’ll be there right now, I’d wager.’

A barrage of emotions raged openly across Gueryn’s face as he considered what he was hearing. Aremys watched him take a deep breath. ‘Farrow, I saw Elspyth of Yentro die horribly. Now one of us has been taken for a sap. I know your time is short, but I want you to tell me everything you know.’

So Aremys did, as quickly as he could, while leaving out everything relating to Wyl’s magical metamorphosis. The gruff old soldier would never trust him if he began to talk that sort of nonsense. Besides, he had given his word to Wyl. He would not break that promise.

When Aremys had finished his story, Gueryn struggled to his feet and began to pace, deeply shocked by what he had heard. ‘The Duke of Felrawthy is dead?’ he said, so disbelieving that he repeated it. ‘Dead? Jeryb?’

Aremys nodded. ‘I only discovered this piece of savagery myself a day ago from Myrt, when the news filtered into the Razors. It seems Celimus is making Cailech’s people the scapegoats, but it was his men, his killing rampage — I presume punishment, for the family’s harbouring of Ylena. And no doubt it quashed any thoughts of an uprising from the northern duchy.’

It did make horrible sense. ‘All of them?’ Gueryn asked.

‘So I’m told. Crys was seeing Elspyth to the border so I’m not sure about him, but the Mountain People said the whole family perished.’

‘This is monstrous. That poor girl. Her husband, Alyd…’ Gueryn closed his eyes in despair, then his courage rallied and he opened them again. This time they were flinty. ‘And now you’re going to negotiate a parley between these two Kings?’

‘To buy my freedom, yes. What about Elspyth? Do you believe me?’

‘How can I disbelieve what I saw with my own eyes?’

‘Because Rashlyn was present, that’s why.’

‘So?’

‘You do know he’s a man of dark magic?’

‘I’ve been on the receiving end of it,’ Gueryn replied, remembering the hideous sensation of being suspended in mid-air.

‘Isn’t that enough evidence?’

The Morgravian turned on the big Grenadyne, eyed him quizzically. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Gueryn, he fooled you. Whether it was Cailech’s idea — or, most likely, Rashlyn’s — they duped you into thinking you were watching Elspyth die.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Gueryn roared. ‘It was her, I tell you.’

Aremys bit his lip in thought. He had not realised just how powerful Rashlyn was. ‘Yes, to all intents and purposes it probably was Elspyth. Have you ever heard of a glamour?’

‘No. What is it — some kind of magic?’

‘I’m guessing that’s what it was. We northerners are more accepting of magic than you folks in the south and growing up we tend to hear about spells and sorcery of days gone by. My grandfather once told me about a powerful enchantment that can make one person look like someone else. Only the most gifted can wield a glamour.’

Gueryn wondered how many more shocks his heart could take in one day. He stared at Aremys in stunned silence.

‘Elspyth was alive and well when I left her,’ the mercenary went on. ‘I hugged her goodbye. I bet you didn’t touch her?’

Gueryn shook his head numbly. ‘I could only watch her die.’

‘It was another woman, le Gant. They used some poor woman and placed a glamour on her. You said they were trying to get information from you. What was so important that they would murder a woman in front of you?’

‘Cailech wanted to know about my connection to Koreldy. I had none, but it appears Koreldy had some connection to me.’ He barked a harsh laugh. ‘They stitched together my eyelids as part of my torture and I was blind when I met Koreldy. But do you know something, Farrow, I thought he was Wyl Thirsk.’ Gueryn began to weep, all his pent-up emotion spilling over. ‘I failed the boy. I failed the Thirsks.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Aremys countered helplessly, feeling the depth of Gueryn’s emotion. ‘There’s so much I’d like to tell you but there’s no time,’ he whispered, only barely managing to stop himself from spilling everything about Wyl. ‘Look, I have to go. You’re safest here until I can work out how we’re going to rescue you. You must hang on. Give away nothing of what we’ve shared.’

He reached out and grabbed the man’s hand, putting it against his own heart. It was the highest form of commitment one soldier could make to another. It meant: I will give my life for you.

Gueryn was astounded by the action. There were only two men he had ever given such a signal to. Both were named Thirsk; father and son. Both dead now.

‘Wait!’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘Lothryn — you think he’s alive?’

‘I do.’

‘That horse has something to do with it, the horse called Galapek,’ Gueryn murmured, almost to himself, as if disgusted that he had not yet worked out an answer.

‘What?’ Aremys hissed, and almost raised Gueryn’s feet from the floor as he lifted him to standing. This was no mean feat for Gueryn was a tall man, nevertheless the bear-like mercenary stood a head taller again and looked as if he would gobble up the other in his fury to learn more.

Gueryn shook his head. ‘I don’t really know what I’m saying. I just have a feeling that the horse Galapek, Cailech’s new stallion, has something to do with Lothryn.’

‘What exactly do you know?’ Aremys looked like he might throttle the information from him.

Gueryn frowned. He had no idea why the Grenadyne was so excited. ‘Rashlyn knows the truth of what’s happened to Lothryn. I overheard him jesting smugly to Myrt and Byl that Lothryn was closer than they knew. And he went on to make some joke about the meaning of the word “Galapek”.’

Aremys looked at a loss. ‘I don’t know the word. Sounds like the old language,’ he mused.

‘It is. And I do understand it. Galapek means “traitor”. Cailech has named his new stallion Traitor, which is just about the worst name you could call a horse.’

Aremys looked stunned. Then he spun on his heels and called over his shoulder, ‘Say nothing of this! I’ll be back, le Gant.’

The huge man all but ran from the cell, slamming the door behind him. Gueryn heard the lock turn. He had nothing but his sorrowful thoughts for company now.

‘Well?’ Myrt asked, startled by Aremys bursting from the cell.

‘Let’s get out of here first,’ Aremys said, his head swirling with fantastical thoughts, every nerve tingling with terror. It could not be true, could it?

Fortunately Haz was not in attendance at the gaol. Myrt thanked the young, completely uninterested guard, who was obviously posted in the dungeon as some sort of punishment judging by his scowl. He merely nodded when Myrt reminded the lad that Gueryn was to be walked daily.

Outside, Myrt grabbed Aremys’s arm. ‘You got something, didn’t you?’

‘Do you know what the name Galapek means, Myrt?’ he said, voice hard and low. When Myrt shook his head, Aremys closed his eyes with a mix of anger and despair. What a cruel fate. ‘It’s the ancient language of the north,’ he said. ‘Cailech’s schoolchildren would probably be able to tell you. It means traitor.’

Myrt looked perplexed. ‘All right, a curious name for a horse and even stranger connotations, but what’s that got to do with Lothryn?’

‘You fool. You poor sad fool,’ Aremys said, unable to help himself. ‘The horse is Lothryn,’ and his voice almost broke on those words. ‘Rashlyn has somehow worked his vile magic on Lothryn to turn him into a stallion, and now your oh-so-proud King can keep his former friend as his servant until he’s no good for anything but the knacker’s yard.’

If horror had a face, it belonged to Myrt that moment. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. No sound at all, in fact. Aremys had once seen a man suffer what was called a heart-tremor; it had come quickly and gone as fast, leaving one side of the man’s face paralysed. That was how Myrt looked now: paralysed. His facial muscles were slack and all colour had drained from his cheeks, his eyes were like dull black buttons.

Finally he found some lucidity. ‘Cailech broke him. We all watched it. He did it in a special corral he’d had built. It took days. Days of painful, heart-wrenching breaking of this horse’s spirit until it bowed its head before him.’

Myrt was weeping as he spoke. Aremys could feel tears stinging his eyes too; he could not remember the last time he had cried over anything or anyone. His sister perhaps, when he had seen her tiny corpse laid out, the vicious gores of the forest boar covered by a beautiful silken dress. He tore himself away from the memory.

‘He said he would break him using trust,’ Myrt finished. ‘It was Lothryn all along. Lothryn who fought for days until he was too weak to resist his King any more.’

Aremys shook his head in wonder. ‘And that’s why the horse made me feel so sick. The Thicket’s magic sensed the sheer power and evil of the sorcery that had been wielded to turn a man into a horse.’

Myrt’s red-rimmed eyes stared at him. ‘Aremys, don’t lie to me now. You said something earlier that I scoffed at — that the horse communicated something to you. Did it really say something?’

Aremys nodded miserably. ‘I’m sure it whispered a name. Elspyth.’

The Mountain warrior walked away to deal with his pain alone.

SEVEN

IT WAS THE FIRST TIME SINCE childhood that Celimus had set foot in his father’s beloved war chamber. Magnus had always enjoyed the room, even in times of peace. Its windows faced east, towards the traditional enemy, and when Celimus had paid one of his few visits here he had believed its views went on for ever. He recalled now how his father had laughed a little indulgently when Celimus had voiced that notion. It was a rare moment of shared enjoyment for father and son. It had passed all too quickly, Celimus forgotten the moment a messenger had arrived with a missive for General Thirsk, who always seemed to be at his King’s side. Celimus was briskly told to find his tutor or similar — no one appeared to care where he went, as long as he left. He had understood with a sour realisation that he had no place amongst these men. He was nine and ready to watch and learn about kingship, but Magnus did not care enough to teach him. That much was obvious and he had never returned to the chamber until this day.

It was here that men had smoked and argued with one another, plotted and schemed against Briavel. In this place many a war had been invented, but also peace had been designed. It was a room of ancient waxed timbers and leather smoothed from years of use, where, if you concentrated, you could still smell a hint of the sweet tobacco King Magnus had favoured. A once magnificent, now faded tapestry depicting a famous battle scene from centuries previous hung across one wall and a hand-twisted rug, threadbare in places, lay across the wooden floor, whose dusty boards had recently enjoyed a polish.

King Celimus held no sentiment for this chamber so loved by his father. He hated it in fact, equating it with the reason he and his mother had never enjoyed the love of Magnus, who preferred the company of his flame-haired General and other warmongers who clustered around him in his prime — or so Celimus preferred to see it. But this war room of his father’s was where detailed maps of Morgravia, Briavel and other realms were stored. And he needed those maps now. He also needed to give the impression that he was preparing to declare war on his neighbour, and this was the place from which to do that.

In not appointing a General after Wyl Thirsk’s death, Celimus had effectively claimed full leadership of the Morgravian Legion. This had shocked many of the noble families, who had assumed that Jeryb Donal, with his brood of sons, was the most likely successor. But Donal had refused when such ideas had been mooted. His focus, he had assured all, was firmly on the border between Morgravia and the Razors. There was no better defence than Felrawthy and he had no intention of moving to Pearlis. Celimus had made it equally clear that he did not require a General as such. He preferred to work through the captains with himself as head of the Legion. It was a new era for the realm in more ways than one as Morgravia sloughed off its past and looked towards a modern dynasty led by the arrogant son of its most beloved King.

To most Morgravians’ despair, Celimus had recently given the directive to mobilise the first few divisions of the Legion. People had prayed that war between Morgravia and Briavel was for the history books now. The coming marriage had promised so much for the two realms’ prosperous future together. Still, who would argue with this King? He was a law unto himself.

It was Celimus’s intention that his men should depart for the Briavellian border today.

‘That should give our Queen something to think about,’ he said to Jessom who was standing nearby, pouring his sovereign a cup of wine.

The war room had been freshly cleaned, waxed and aired for Celimus. Someone had even placed a bowl of fruit and a vase of exquisite tannika buds in one corner. Celimus did not particularly care for either but he liked the splash of colour in this dull and dreary place. His mother, he recalled, had adored the famed buds which only flowered for a few short weeks in spring. It afforded him an ironic amusement that his mother’s influence now held sway in Magnus’s once firmly private, men-only chamber. If he had any of her perfume, he would dab it over every surface so that Adana’s scent permeated to every corner and overwhelmed any lingering essence of Magnus. He smiled grimly at the thought.

‘What are their orders, sire?’ the Chancellor replied, handing the goblet to the King.

‘Merely a show of strength at this stage. They await further orders,’ Celimus said distractedly, looking towards the flushed, dusty messenger being led into the war room by one of his aides. ‘Yes?’

The aide bowed, as did the messenger. ‘Sire,’ the aide said, ‘a courier from the north.’

Celimus did not mask his irritation at being disturbed. ‘I take it this is urgent?’

‘I’m assured it is, your highness, and to be given to you directly,’ the aide qualified. He would never have dared interrupt the King and his Chancellor unless it was important, but of course he did not mention this fact. Say as little as possible seemed to be the new creed amongst the palace servants when faced with their King.

The courier bowed again, overwhelmed to be in the presence of the King. It was clear that since arriving at the gates of Stoneheart he had not even paused for a cup of water to quench his thirst.

Celimus leaned against the huge table where he remembered his father poring over maps and looked at the newcomer expectantly. With his arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle, his pose suggested this was all most inconvenient and he offered no words to allay the messenger’s obvious nervousness.

The man realised his moment had come. He licked his dry lips and began his report. ‘Your highness, I was despatched from the midlands checkpoint, having taken a message from another messenger who had been sent by your Captain at our northern base between Deakyn and Felrawthy.’ He paused to take a breath, not noticing the flicker of irritation across the King’s face at the preamble.

The Chancellor did. ‘Get to the point, man, if it’s urgent,’ Jessom warned, hoping to stop Celimus erupting. The Chancellor had sensed his King’s brittle mood that morning and experience suggested it would not do to test its flexibility right now.

‘I apologise, sire,’ the man stammered. ‘The message I am asked to deliver direct to you is that King Cailech of the Razors seeks a parley.’

A stunned silence filled the war room, then evaporated as exclamations ensued from both King and Chancellor.

‘A parley with Cailech!’ Celimus blustered over the top of his Chancellor’s expostulations. ‘Preposterous! Whatever for?’

The courier reddened. He had no further information other than the message he had been instructed to give. ‘My King, I am not privy to any background to this missive, other than to report that it was originally delivered to the Legion by a man called Aremys Farrow.’

He bowed, his task concluded. Any other recipient might have considered that the man had delivered his message succinctly and ably, thanked him and sent him for refreshment. Celimus ignored him, instead glancing angrily towards the Chancellor. Before anything further could be said, Jessom dismissed both courier and aide. Whatever was to be discussed now was not for their hearing. He stilled the King’s coming explosion with a guarded look and both waited impatiently for the two men to leave.

‘Farrow!’ Celimus yelled. ‘Working with Cailech?’

Jessom deliberately kept his expression clear of all emotion although he too was startled by the news. ‘We don’t have all the details yet, your highness. We cannot know what has occurred here.’

‘What secrets has he passed on?’ Celimus raged.

Jessom shook his head. ‘He knows nothing, sire. Besides, he will not share details of his paid missions with Cailech. Mercenaries of his calibre never let one hand know what the other is doing.’

‘Precisely my point, you fool,’ Celimus said, not caring at the insult to his loyal counsel. ‘How do we know that he hasn’t been working for Cailech all along?’

Experience had taught Jessom to ignore such offence. ‘To what end, sire? What benefit has he gained? What secrets could he have learned during his few hours at Stoneheart anyway? Both he and Leyen were watched on my instructions. Leyen went to the baths and then spent the afternoon with Lady Bench. No one else visited the Bench house during her time there. Farrow was far more conservative. He did not leave his chamber, even washing there. Until supper with you, he did not emerge, and during your meeting the only matter of note discussed was Ylena Thirsk — and presumably she means nothing to the Mountain King. Farrow returned to his room and was gone within two hours. With respect, my King, I think we are jumping to conclusions which have no foundation.’

‘Then what is Farrow up to?’ Celimus roared, only mildly placated. ‘What is Cailech up to?’

‘Well, let’s think it through,’ Jessom said in a soft voice aimed to calm his sovereign’s unnecessary rage. ‘An ambush, possibly?’

‘Hardly,’ Celimus countered. ‘By all accounts Cailech is not stupid. He’s not going to risk himself on the vague chance he could hurt me. No, there is another reason.’

‘I have to wonder what he thinks the Razor Kingdom and Morgravia have in common, sire,’ Jessom said airily, about to expound further when the King cut him off.

‘A mutual distrust of Briavel perhaps,’ Cailech replied, his mind now working its agile way around various scenarios. ‘Let’s presume Aremys has no loyalty to either party — that he is working purely for personal gain. Perhaps he was captured by Cailech while he was on business for us, although that is unlikely; or, as you suggest, there could be other reasons why he found himself in the company of Cailech. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we, for now?’

‘All right, your majesty,’ Jessom agreed, as if the more rational approach was all Celimus’s idea. ‘So?’

‘So, I agree to meet with Aremys Farrow on Morgravian soil. I am intrigued as to what Cailech has in mind with this parley.’

‘What do you propose, sire?’

‘I shall see him somewhere that can be properly guarded. It will take too long for him to be brought to Stoneheart.’ The King began to think aloud. ‘Perhaps halfway — Rittylworth?’

‘Felrawthy, my King,’ Jessom said in a tone of rich satisfaction. ‘What better spot?’

‘Indeed,’ Celimus agreed, warming instantly to the notion of personally taking over the rich estate. Who cares if Crys Donal is alive in Briavel, he thought. He is a traitor now. Felrawthy belonged to the Crown. ‘Make immediate arrangements. Send a message for Aremys Farrow to be brought to Tenterdyn. We shall meet him there.’

‘At once, your highness. And Briavel?’

‘Can wait for now. Let Valentyna stew. Perhaps the sight of our men will soften her resolve. She would be a fool to go into battle.’

‘You would still marry her, sire?’

Celimus looked at his Chancellor as though he was conversing with a dullard. ‘I don’t want war, Jessom. I want her to capitulate, having fully grasped my strength. I don’t want her as my equal — which is tragically how she sees herself — but I do want her as my Queen. I want an heir from her. I want Briavel, man. And then I shall have the Mountain Kingdom too. I want it all!’ he bellowed, storming from the war room, his energies charged.

Aremys found the company of the Legionnaires easy and comfortable. With the Razors behind him, he was relieved to be back in Morgravia — and suddenly the chance of finding Wyl again felt possible. He still felt touched by Myrt’s sorrow, Gueryn’s imprisonment and the shock of what had become of Lothryn, but there was nothing he could do about any of that right now. He had a job to carry out for the Mountain King and his freedom to win.

He liked Cailech, in spite of all he had discovered. The man had a deep intelligence and quick mind, and Aremys was impressed that the King — whom he sensed was capable of arrogance and too much pride — was not too proud or arrogant to appreciate the benefit of a parley with the southern King. That Cailech despised Celimus was obvious, but he also had the capacity for pragmatism. He had admitted to Aremys that if he could stomach a meeting with Celimus and form some sort of loose bond, then the long-term benefits were immense.

They had talked over a sumptuous supper before Aremys and his escort left. Myrt had been quiet, but then Myrt was always quiet. Only Aremys seemed overly sensitive to his silence; the King was focused on the coming meeting with his southern counterpart.

‘Can he be trusted?’ Cailech had mused aloud.

‘I doubt it. Can you?’ Aremys had posed, which had made the King bellow with amusement.

‘You’ll do well, Aremys. Go and set up this parley for me.’

‘And in return, Cailech,’ Aremys had risked, ‘what is my reward?’

‘I allow you to live,’ the King had answered. The gregarious mood did not fool Aremys. He knew only too well that the King still held deep suspicions about him, but no mention had been made of Rashlyn, other than to assure the two men that the barshi was well.

Aremys had not replied to the King’s flippant comment, instead had held his ground, refusing to flinch under the King’s scrutiny.

‘All right, mercenary. I understand your need for an exchange of some kind,’ Cailech relented. He smiled. ‘What would please you that I could provide?’

Aremys had decided to risk it. ‘I would have Galapek.’

The King’s reaction was dramatic despite his efforts to shield it. The eyes narrowed and Aremys saw the man’s jaw tighten. He had hit an artery it seemed.

‘What is your interest in my horse?’ Cailech had said, his tone bordering on anger.

‘Only that I wish he were mine, sire,’ Aremys lied. ‘He is the most beautiful stallion I have ever encountered and that’s saying something coming from a Grenadyne.’

‘He is still new for me. I am fond of him.’

‘I see,’ Aremys observed, keeping his voice light so no offence could be given. It was time to pull back. ‘King Cailech, I will attempt to set up this parley for you in good faith. I need nothing from you in payment — not even your fine stallion. All I ask is that you grant my freedom once you have had the opportunity to work out a peace agreement with Celimus.’

Cailech had instantly offered his hand, palm up this time. Aremys knew this was a rare show of friendship from a man who no doubt considered he had no equal, and once again he was struck by how quickly this King’s mood could change.

‘I will gladly seal hands on that, Aremys,’ the King had said. ‘I like your confidence that Celimus and I will find common ground.’

Aremys placed his own hand on top of the King’s. ‘You alone will make it happen, my lord. I have complete faith in you.’

Cailech had smiled and this time there was no guile; just open warmth. ‘I hope you will choose to stay amongst us, Grenadyne. But I grant you your independence as soon as this deal is done.’

Aremys had opted for a light-hearted response. ‘I must be free, your highness. My memory tells me I have a woman to find,’ and had winked, much to the King’s delighted amusement.

And so Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn had been provided with an escort, a fine horse and a message to deliver to Celimus, which he had duly done, emerging out of the Razors with his hands held high, insisting that Myrt and his other two companions do the same.

Aremys had deliberately asked Myrt to lead him as close to Felrawthy as they could get, having learned from Wyl that these Legionnaires were the least likely to shoot arrows first and ask questions later. They had entered Morgravia via a pass known as Haldor’s Tooth, which had led them into the duchy of Felrawthy, to a village mainly inhabited by soldiers about ten miles from Brynt proper. Captain Bukanan’s men were well drilled to take prisoners for interview. Aremys believed he could thank Jeryb Donal for this mercy.

He had nodded gently at Myrt to allow the Mountain men’s hands to be bound. His too had been tied, and whilst the men of the Razors were led into a small dwelling, Aremys had been taken before Bukanan, who had listened to his story with an intense interest.

‘A parley, you say?’ the ruddy-faced Captain had repeated.

‘Yes, sir. That’s the message I bring,’ Aremys had confirmed, his hands still tied.

‘You understand how odd this is?’

‘I do, sir. It’s why I was chosen to deliver the message. I am known to the King and he will trust me.’

Bukanan had studied him closely and finally replied: ‘You will remain in our care until we hear back from Pearlis.’

‘I understand,’ Aremys had said, smiling at the nicely couched words which really meant they were prisoners of Morgravia. ‘You must understand, however, that these men of the mountains are not to be harmed in any way and are to be released the moment you receive word from King Celimus.’

‘Who makes these conditions?’ the Captain had enquired politely, although Aremys heard the edge in the tone.

‘Cailech of the Mountain People. He insists his men are not to be compromised by King Celimus.’

‘And he’s in a position to make such demands?’ the Captain had asked, somewhat surprised at the audaciousness of the Mountain King.

‘Captain Bukanan, I am merely the go-between for two powerful men. If my attempt to bring them together works, then it means you and I can continue our lives in peace. I think Morgravia wants peace, and what I want is to return to my life as a free man. Let us make this happen, you and I. If Cailech’s men are harmed or kept beyond a time frame he considers fair, he will call off the parley and you may well be fighting a war on two fronts — with the King of the Mountains and the Queen of Briavel — which would be a shame, don’t you agree?’

Bukanan most certainly did agree when it was put like that. His wife had just given birth to a son after two daughters and the Captain had every intention of remaining alive to raise the son he loved with such ferocity. ‘We’ll accept these terms, Farrow. Although you will have little to bargain with once Cailech is on Morgravian soil — for you may be sure Celimus will not agree to go into the Razors.’

‘Leave that with me,’ Aremys said cryptically.

The Captain shrugged. ‘As you wish. We will despatch our rider this instant. Make yourself comfortable amongst us. It will take a few days.’

EIGHT

LIRYK HAD PERSONALLY escorted the woman who called herself Ylena Thirsk to a small reception room. She was dishevelled and communicated little more than basic responses, insisting that her business was with the Queen, who was expecting her. Liryk had no idea whether this was truly Ylena Thirsk or an impostor and he therefore had her thoroughly searched for even the smallest of weapons. The woman gave no protest and, in fact, carried nothing with her except the riding clothes she stood in. It was all quite baffling really, but then every one of the recent Morgravian visitors had brought colourful stories — why should this one be any different Liryk reasoned with a soft sigh.

The woman certainly did not resemble the famed Thirsks. Apart from the golden hair — an obvious difference — she was beautiful, not a quality the Thirsk men had been known for. He noticed that she carried herself erect and proud — clearly of noble status — and her defiant gaze when he tried to question her at the guardhouse had told him she was not in any way intimidated by him or his men. Finally he had agreed to send a runner to the Queen.

‘It is up to her majesty whether she will see you,’ he had cautioned.

‘Rest assured, your Queen will see me,’ the woman had replied and had followed the soldier in silence to the chamber. The commander had no idea of what this sudden visit would mean to the Queen or to Briavel’s future; he recognised, however, that it was fraught with danger for the marriage plans which balanced so precariously now on the mood of the Morgravian King. The nobles had called for Ylena Thirsk and it seemed Shar had answered Valentyna’s dearest prayers.

‘Lady Thirsk, my men tell me they found you in the woodland bordering the palace?’

‘Yes, this is true,’ Wyl replied. ‘I was lost, Commander Liryk, and grateful for their guidance. I have already explained that my horse was lamed in Beeching,’ he lied, still a little shocked from his arrival via magic into the Werryl woods. Rasmus had not been toying with him when he had offered to ‘send’ him to his destination. ‘I left it there,’ he added, realising too late this was a mistake as the commander could easily check up on his story.

‘And you walked from Beeching? Could you not buy another horse?’

‘To tell the truth, I did not have sufficient funds in my purse for that purchase, sir. It wasn’t so far.’

‘Most noblewomen would find five miles a difficult journey on foot.’

‘You forget I am a Thirsk,’ Wyl parried. ‘Even our women are tough,’ he added, working hard to keep vexation from his tone.

Before Liryk could reply the doors of the chamber burst open and Queen Valentyna strode in, her complexion slightly flushed from her hurried passage through the palace.

Wyl had been anticipating her arrival with a hammering heart, which might account for his undue arrogance with the commander, and he felt it lurch now at the sight of her again. He hurriedly dropped a low bow, glad that he had the excuse of riding breeches to avoid the more feminine curtsey. ‘Your highness,’ he murmured, his feminine voice catching in his throat. He could smell her soft scent of lavender. All he wanted to do was hold her, kiss her. He could do neither.

‘Please, Ylena,’ Valentyna said, equally nervous but for different reasons, ‘be at ease.’

Wyl looked at the woman he loved whose hand was extended towards him. He could not help himself: he took the Queen’s hand in his own elegant, recently washed one and kissed it — an unusual action for a woman. He looked up and saw her frown slightly. Was it from consternation or had she recognised something in his eyes? He knew he was clutching at straws with such a notion. Surely all she saw before her was a ragged noblewoman.

‘Thank you, your majesty, for permitting me an audience,’ he offered. It was all he would trust himself to say at the moment, and he was relieved to be rescued by the arrival of a servant with a tray of refreshments.

‘Truly the pleasure is mine, Ylena,’ the Queen said, bafflement still evident in her expression. ‘Let us move to the balcony, shall we? It’s a lovely morning.’ Valentyna led the way. ‘Liryk, you’re most welcome to stay,’ she added, which of course was his cue to depart.

‘I shall take my leave, your highness,’ he said, and saw his Queen’s face relax at his decision. ‘I will leave a man outside the door should you need me again,’ he added, glancing towards Ylena Thirsk. His couched message was unmistakable. The Queen nodded at him, smiled her thanks at the servant and offered to pour her guest a glass of sweet wine. Liryk was already forgotten. He departed unhappily, his mood evident in his sour expression.

If Wyl’s own sense of awkwardness was anything to judge by, then Valentyna also needed help easing into the conversation. He decided he should lead it as he was the one with all the secrets.

‘You have been expecting me, haven’t you, your highness?’ he said, taking the cup of wine.

‘Well, yes,’ Valentyna began, then shook her head slightly. ‘It’s an odd thing, Ylena — may I call you that?’

I’d prefer you to call me Wyl, he thought. ‘Of course, your majesty. Please go on.’

‘Your letter said to wait for you and to trust you would come. My nobles insisted that without you they would not believe any of the recent claims against the Morgravian King so I prayed for you to come. And, curiously — please don’t think me silly —’

‘I would never do that,’ Wyl confessed, leaning forward and taking her hand. It felt so natural to do so and yet, he realised, it would strike the Queen as odd for her guest to be so instantly familiar.

Valentyna did not appear to be discomfited by his forwardness. ‘Even dishevelled you’re really so beautiful — not at all like Wyl,’ she exclaimed, and then burst into wonderful laughter and Wyl was once again reminded of how it felt when the sun broke through clouds to shine down with all its warmth. He never wanted that smile — just for him — to leave her face. He laughed too. How could it be that this woman could say words which would normally offend and yet seem like playful affection coming from her?

‘Wyl was not handsome, your highness… and he knew it,’ he admitted.

‘Ah,’ the Queen interrupted, ‘but Wyl, even though I knew him so briefly, was probably one of the most beautiful people on the inside that I will ever have the good fortune to meet.’

Wyl felt himself glowing at the words. ‘I think if my brother could eavesdrop on this conversation, your highness, he would be more thrilled than you could ever know.’

‘Blushing from head to toe, no doubt,’ the Queen added and laughed again. ‘Oh, I am cruel but Wyl struck me as too easy to tease,’ she said, before adding more sombrely, ‘He was so generous to my father and me. I can’t quite shake the guilt of his death knowing that he could have saved himself.’

‘It’s probably not right of me to speak so openly, your highness, but Wyl was in love with you. I don’t mean just a little either.’

It was Valentyna’s turn to feel a hot blush stealing up her throat. ‘How can you know this?’

‘Romen told me,’ Wyl answered and watched the Queen blink at the mention of her lover’s name. It was wrong of him to do this but he felt a little out of control in her presence. It was a dangerous sensation, as though anything were possible. He reined in his spiralling emotions.

‘How well did you know Romen?’ the Queen asked tentatively.

‘We were together for several days, travelling across country to Rittylworth and its monastery. I got to know him well during that time, as people do when they eat together, sleep together, and share thoughts that two strangers might not otherwise.’

‘Romen spent time here too. Did you know that he made a promise to your brother?’

‘To protect us both. Yes, he told me.’

‘I — I would be honest with you,’ Valentyna struggled. ‘I was in love with Romen — I am still.’

Ylena could not know this and so Wyl framed an expression of gentle surprise on her face. He nodded, wanting to make it as easy as possible for Valentyna. ‘I can understand that, your highness. Romen was very tender towards me and I know he was a good man despite his occupation. I can see what a fine match the pair of you would make.’

Valentyna’s eyes shone at the compliment. ‘Truly?’

Wyl nodded, hating himself and yet loving that he could lift her spirits so.

‘No one else would agree with you, Ylena,’ the Queen admitted drily. ‘Romen might have been noble but my realm has its collective heart set on a union between two royal households. But forgive me bleating on like this. I’m aware of your shocking losses, Ylena, and feel ill at heart for you over them.’

Wyl lowered his head but Valentyna reached over and clasped Ylena’s hand. Her touch sent a tremor of joy through him.

‘I have also heard about your courageous exploits since and I know your brother would be so proud of you.’

‘How have you heard this, your highness?’

‘Through Crys Donal.’

Wyl moved free of her touch, surprised at such news. ‘Crys is here?’

The Queen nodded. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier. There’s so much to tell and his presence signifies tragic news from Briavel’s north.’

Wyl sat back, his pulse racing not with love now but with fear. What had occurred? ‘Please, tell me,’ he said.

‘The Donal family were murdered.’

Wyl stood abruptly, staggering slightly and gripping the balcony rail. He forced himself to breathe deeply. ‘You have proof?’ His voice came out as a groan.

Valentyna’s reply was soft. ‘Yes. Their deaths were confirmed by a witness.’ She paused to allow him to collect himself before she continued. ‘Crys was escorting Elspyth to the Briavellian border, which is how he escaped being killed too.’ Valentyna’s voice was trembling thinking on it again. ‘It was Pil — the novice… You know whom I speak of?’

Wyl nodded without turning to look at her. He could not bring himself to explain that Ylena and Pil had travelled together. It was no longer relevant after this shattering news.

‘It was Pil who found Elspyth and Crys and alerted them to the tragedy, and Elspyth insisted the new Duke of Felrawthy accompany her to Werryl.’

Wyl could not make his throat work to respond. It felt closed and as dry as tinderbush.

‘My apologies, Ylena, I should have started from the beginning,’ Valentyna said. ‘It has been a shock for us all.’

‘Was it Celimus?’ Wyl croaked.

‘Apparently so. The men wore his colours, according to Pil and Lady Donal.’

He swung around. ‘Lady Donal lives?’

Valentyna shook her head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, no. She died of her wounds, but the brave woman got herself as far as Brackstead, bringing the —’ and she stopped abruptly, realising what she had been about to say would only upset Ylena more.

‘Bringing what?’ Wyl insisted.

Valentyna stood, offered her hand and ended up gently embracing her guest. She spoke softly. ‘Ylena… let me start again and tell you everything I know.’

Wyl nodded glumly.

‘Let’s walk. I’ll find it easier to revisit this painful story if I’m moving.’ She found a thin smile but it was not returned by her guest. ‘Come, let us stroll in the gardens if you’re not too tired?’

‘I’m not,’ Wyl said, glad for any time he could share with this woman, although the shock of the news had numbed him. ‘Where is Crys now?’

‘I’ll send for him so you can meet after our walk.’

‘And Elspyth — she’s here too I presume?’

At this the Queen paused and searched for the right words but found nothing of comfort. Instead she told it to Ylena in a straightforward fashion. ‘She disappeared during the night. You missed her by hours, Ylena.’

Wyl could no longer be shocked. He raised weary eyes to meet the searching blue gaze of the tall woman before him. ‘She’s gone after Lothryn then,’ he said, resigned.

‘You know of him?’

He nodded. ‘What a mess,’ he murmured. ‘What a shocking mess my life is.’

Valentyna did not understand the depth of his comment but she nodded gently and took her guest’s thin arm. ‘Come, the gardens will revive you even though what I have to tell you might not.’

‘Your majesty, perhaps it would be best to keep my presence here as quiet as possible for the time being.’

‘Oh? But the nobles asked me to deliver you, they —’

‘I know, but they probably didn’t think you ever could or would. They aren’t going to change their minds, your highness, no matter how much I explain to them. They want this marriage to go ahead come what may — as do all Morgravians.’

It hurt him to see the pain etched in her face as they departed the chamber.

The two women, strikingly different in appearance, strolled quietly through the peaceful herb gardens. The dark of Valentyna’s hair contrasted perfectly with the gold of Ylena’s. Both were in riding clothes and Valentyna was quietly delighted that the noblewoman walking alongside her had not so much as blinked at her appearance. It struck her as odd, because most women she met were surprised that she preferred this masculine garb, and Ylena seemed the kind of fragile beauty who would be horrified to appear in anything but a perfectly tailored outfit. And yet here she was, entirely unself-conscious in dusty trews, her hair tied back, her face smudged and fingernails hastily but not successfully cleaned. It did not seem to match up with the woman she had imagined. Fynch had given her such a detailed description of Wyl’s beautiful sister, how elegant and sophisticated she was, that it hardly seemed this could be the same person walking beside her. Then, Valentyna reminded herself of all that Ylena had been through in recent weeks, and that she was of Thirsk stock. The bloodline had to prevail, she reasoned. In fact, Ylena reminded her more and more of the Wyl she had known so briefly.

She had spared the young woman none of the details and told her everything she knew of what had happened in Morgravia as it had been related to her by others, also fleshing out the sorry tale with all that she had personally gleaned.

‘Where is Alyd’s head now?’ Ylena asked. Valentyna was surprised at the forthrightness of the question and by the young woman’s control. She had expected an outburst of grief but Ylena had shed not a single tear.

‘Ylena, I know this is very difficult for you,’ the Queen began, trying to step gently around the tender subject of Alyd Donal’s remains. ‘I will do whatever you wish.’

‘Bury him here,’ Wyl said without hesitation. ‘Tenterdyn is soiled with enough blood of its own now. Let him lie alongside his mother.’

Valentyna nodded. ‘Crys felt similarly with Aleda. He wanted her to belong here for the time being.’ They had made several revolutions of the herb garden now. ‘Are you tired?’

‘I must be, but I couldn’t sleep anyway,’ Wyl replied, shaking his head. ‘All of this news is shattering but there are plans to make. Tell me about Celimus, your highness.’

Bemused by her enthusiasm to share her anxieties with this woman, who could do little to help her, Valentyna told Ylena everything she knew.

‘I can’t believe Krell would do such a thing,’ Wyl said, alarmed at how rapidly the situation in Briavel had deteriorated.

‘If you had known him, you would understand how very accurate your comment is,’ Valentyna agreed. ‘It was foolish beyond belief and so out of character for him to do something so rash. Celimus now knows everything.’

‘Not everything, my Queen,’ Wyl cautioned and Valentyna could hardly believe the thrill the fighting words sent through her. ‘He has no idea where I am. We must keep it that way.’

‘But it will soon get out. If I have spies in Morgravia, Briavel is surely riddled with his watchers.’

‘True. It was a mistake for me to announce my real name,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But it was the only name that was going to get me through the palace gates. I need some time to think, your highness. Perhaps I might take that rest now, if you will permit it?’

‘Of course. I’m glad you’re here, Ylena,’ Valentyna said, surprising herself with such naked truth. ‘You may not look like your brother but your personalities are devastatingly similar. He made me feel safe as you do, curiously enough.’

Ylena’s face shone with Wyl’s pleasure. ‘I am your servant, your highness. As my brother once pledged his allegiance to Briavel, so I do too.’

‘I accept it with gratitude, Ylena, but what we two women can do against that treacherous King to the west, I have no idea. I marry him shortly, do you know that?’

Wyl did not react as he wished to. ‘Perhaps you must, your highness, but not without a plan,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Gather all the latest information you can — everything your people can report.’

The Queen wondered at what point in their conversation Ylena had assumed such authority, but she nodded her agreement. ‘My intention was to ask Crys Donal to leave Briavel,’ she added.

‘Yes, he cannot remain here. It will only inflame the situation now that Celimus knows he has survived. Besides, Crys may be far more help to our cause in Morgravia.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure yet, your majesty. May we talk again in a few hours?’

‘Surely,’ the Queen said and then, unable to help herself, added, ‘It’s uncanny…’

‘What is, your majesty?’

‘Either I’m going mad or Shar himself is conspiring to confuse me.’ She gave Wyl a long, searching gaze and he watched, discomforted, as her eyes misted. ‘It sounds so foolish, but not only do you echo your brother, you remind me keenly of Romen Koreldy in the way you talk to me. He and I plotted together not so long ago on how to keep Celimus and his marriage proposal at bay. I feel as if I am reliving that moment.’ A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. ‘Oh, forgive me, Ylena. I know I’m making no sense.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Wyl said, reaching into a pocket and handing the Queen a handkerchief.

Valentyna gave a small, harsh laugh. ‘No, you don’t understand. Our mutual friend, Elspyth, asked me just a couple of days ago to keep an open mind on people who might pass through my life.’

‘No, I don’t understand,’ Wyl admitted, trying to lighten the moment with a grin.

Valentyna dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief. Something tweaked at her mind but she paid it little attention. ‘I hate feeling this weak. A mention, a reminder of Romen, anything which resonates of him, can undo me.’

‘Then use his memory to make you strong. If he was able to make you feel safe, call upon that feeling to give you courage rather than allow it to undo you,’ Wyl urged.

Valentyna was glad she had not admitted anything about the chaffinch and its song. She felt sure this brave young woman, who had lost so much herself, would definitely believe that the Queen of Briavel was losing her wits under the pressure if she shared that story.

‘What were you going to say about people passing through your life?’ Wyl asked.

‘Oh, nothing really,’ the Queen sighed, handing back the beautiful square of linen. Once more she felt a tug at her thoughts but again was distracted from it, pulling at a stalk of lavender and crushing the flower between her hands.

Wyl had to look away; it was a painful reminder of happier times, when Valentyna had crushed a head of lavender and held up her palms to Romen for him to inhale the scent. She did not offer her hands now, but then she did not know that the same person — in spirit — was standing before her.

‘Elspyth is determined that I should lock Romen away and open up my heart to others who might love me,’ she continued, shyly now.

Wyl heard alarms klaxoning in his head. ‘And what else did the wise woman, Elspyth, advise, your highness?’

Valentyna smiled at his gentle sarcasm, not knowing how terrifying this conversation was for her guest. ‘It was an odd moment — she was most intense about her words. We were in this very place actually, and she begged me that should someone ever remind me strongly of Romen to take notice of it.’

Wyl felt his stomach twist with relief. Elspyth had obviously danced around the topic. She had learned the lesson of a loose mouth in the harshest way at Tenterdyn — and his sister had died because of it. Elspyth would not make the same mistake again, although it had not stopped her alluding to his secret.

He needed to get away before the conversation became even more dangerous.

‘I am proud indeed that I remind you of someone you loved so much, your majesty,’ he said and bowed to kiss the Queen’s hand to take his leave. As he did, he inhaled the scent of lavender as he had not so long ago in the guise of Roman Koreldy and felt the rush of adoration and desire throughout his body.

Wyl fled from the herb garden with its painfully sweet memories and was fortunate to bump into young Stewyt, the page who had looked after his needs when he was last in the palace, as Romen. He schooled his expression to show no recognition.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, touching the youngster on the shoulder.

‘My lady?’ the lad said, bowing.

He had grown in the short time Wyl had been away. ‘What is your name?’

‘Stewyt, my lady. May I help you?’

‘I hope so. I’m a guest here and —’

‘Yes, the household staff has been informed, Lady Ylena, and I have been appointed to wait on you, if that pleases?’

The boy had struck Wyl as sharp on their first meeting and it seemed that intuition had not been misguided. The page had been very sure of himself then and it had occurred to Wyl that Stewyt was probably a spy for Chancellor Krell.

‘It does please me,’ he replied now. ‘I was wondering where my chamber is?’

‘Let me take you there, my lady. Please follow me.’

They engaged in small talk on the journey through the formal reception rooms of the palace, making their way up the beautiful marble staircase and then another flight — less ornate this time — towards the guest rooms. Stewyt was a competent guide, pointing out items of interest as they entered the western wing of the palace — a place Wyl had not been previously.

‘We have arranged a suite for you, my lady. I hope you find the accommodation comfortable. Please let me know if there’s anything I can fetch for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, impressed by the lad’s composure. He stepped past Stewyt into a freshly aired sitting room.

‘The door over there leads into your sleeping chamber, my lady, and that other door is a dressing room where you might take your ablutions. Shall I send up a bath?’

‘Please.’

‘Would you like a maid to help with your toilet?’

‘Er, no, thank you, Stewyt. I would prefer to be alone right now.’ Wyl knew he should order some fresh clothes but this new existence was hard enough. The riding clothes made him feel comfortable.

Stewyt nodded. ‘As you wish, my lady,’ and he bowed formally to take his leave.

It seemed to Wyl he would never escape the fragrance of lavender. A fresh bunch had been placed in a jar by the window and a light breeze carried the scent through the room. The stalks were mingled with mint of all things. So typically Valentyna, he sighed. She probably ordered the arrangement herself.

He looked out from the window across Werryl Bridge. It was a magnificent sight from this high perspective. A procession of people crossed to and fro, in and out of Werryl city, and he noticed they all paid quiet homage to the newly erected statue of King Valor, who had taken his place amongst the other, more ancient royals who stood guard, made welcome and bade farewell all who travelled the bridge. The people’s love for Valor was clear in the way they paused to nod at his likeness or touch the statue’s foot. It was poignant to watch and Wyl wished a similar tradition was followed in Morgravia to honour its revered dead. Then he stifled a nervous laugh at the mental picture which sprang to mind of the folk of Pearlis spitting on the statue of Celimus.

I must not falter now, he berated himself, fighting the urge that he was unravelling at being so close to Valentyna yet trapped as Ylena. He decided he should lie down, even if rest eluded him. Wyl was asleep in moments.

Fynch came to him in his dreams.

I cannot stay long. I am travelling with Knave into the Razors.

Fynch! Is it really you?

Wyl, sending to you is hard for me so don’t talk, just listen. I know what troubles you. Offer to go to Pearlis on Valentyna’s behalf. Buy her more time.

Celimus will have me killed.

But you are already dead, Wyl. Farewell. I hope we shall speak again.

Fynch? Fynch!

Wyl woke trembling and disturbed.

NINE

FYNCH SAT DOWN HARD on the small mound outside the cottage which had been built by Elysius. ‘My head throbs.’

Knave prowled nearby. It will. Each time you use the magic, the pain will become a little worse.

‘I had to.’

Knave did not comment; instead he offered some advice. Take some sharvan leaves from the pot in the cottage. Elysius used it to alleviate the pain.

Fynch nodded and forced himself to stand up despite the lingering ache. ‘Do we leave immediately?’

As soon as you feel strong enough.

‘I wish we didn’t have to leave this place. I feel safe here.’

I do understand, Fynch.

‘Why did he come, do you think?’

Knave knew to whom the boy referred. To thank you.

‘Something odd happened.’

Knave remained silent although the quiet was filled with unspoken questions.

Fynch touched the dog on its large head as he moved towards the cottage. ‘Maybe I imagined it but I felt connected to the King somehow.’

We all do.

‘No, it was more than that. I felt like I belonged to him,’ Fynch said softly, slightly embarrassed, ‘even though I know my creature is Roark, the unicorn.’

The dog offered no explanation and Fynch sensed his friend was confused when he replied: It cannot be a bad thing to feel connected to the King of the Beasts.

Fynch understood he would get no more insight from Knave. He knew the Warrior King had also sensed something between them. He had seen recognition flare in the creature’s dark eyes. But the King had gone now and there was no point in teasing at that problem.

There was a journey to make, a man to kill and another to save.

Wyl did not feel rested in the slightest and Fynch’s words had disturbed him so that he could not face putting his head back on the pillow. Soon enough, a gaggle of people arrived to deliver the bath, hot water, fresh clothes and a tray of welcome food and wine.

He took his time luxuriating in the steaming water and staring at the trio of gowns Valentyna had sent for him to choose from. He hated the sight of them; despised the fact that he would have to climb into a dress and curtsey before the woman he loved. And what was more, something terrifying was occurring within Ylena’s body. At first he could not imagine what the creeping hurt was which had begun low and deep, almost at his groin. Sharp needles of pain had stabbed regularly at him since he had woken. The heat of the bath had soothed them but not taken them away, and then a fresh ache across his back had begun. When the dull throb of a headache gathered he knew he was ill, but it was only as he was considering how to explain the discomfort in order to obtain the right herbal concoction to speed its passing that he understood what this was all about. It was Ylena’s monthly bleed. A new wave of sickness passed over him. How much more humiliation could he take? Did he truly have to contend with this? Yes he did, he told himself, for no one else could save him.

He took his mind back to easier times, when life was bright and happy for Ylena. He recalled how she would withdraw each month for one day at least and rest, but he had hardly been privy to much more information than, ‘Your sister is indisposed. She leaves a message that you should visit tomorrow when she will be feeling better.’ He smirked bitterly in the warm waters. The first day is always the worst she had told him when he had dared to ask more than was polite. So he had to deal with this pain for one day — and then what? How long would the bleed last? He knew there was something about linens and regular changing but that was a woman’s world. His world now… and he hated it. He dipped deeper into the warmth.

Fynch’s words haunted him. His friend was right: what did it matter if Ylena died at the hands of Celimus, or anyone else? Her death would buy Valentyna time. Wyl Thirsk would go on living anyway, he thought grimly. Perhaps he could persuade Celimus to do the ugly deed and end it once and for all, and then he remembered Elysius’s warning that if he attempted to contrive his own death the repercussions would be savage. He could not risk another person he loved suffering and he felt sure the penalty would be levelled on someone else rather than himself.

He dropped Ylena’s head to her hands in deep frustration but in truth his mind was made up. Fynch’s advice was wise. Wyl could represent Valentyna to Celimus. The King of Morgravia would hardly turn down the opportunity to welcome Ylena back to Stoneheart — and no doubt directly into her former cell in the dungeon… or worse. He cared not. The sooner he was rid of Ylena’s body, the better. He felt sick at heart that he would lose her again, but he would be glad to no longer walk in her skin.

Wyl pondered a plan as he washed Ylena’s hair and readied her to present herself to Queen Valentyna. A small glow of luck saw a maid arrive to clear his tray. He begged a favour and it was taken care of in minutes. She brought him strips of linen, and a strange brown liquid that smelled awful and tasted worse to swallow.

The young maid smiled at him as he thanked her. ‘The pain will go quickly, my lady. I’ll have some more linens delivered.’

The Duke of Felrawthy crossed the room and swept Ylena Thirsk into his arms. ‘Wyl,’ he whispered into his prisoner’s ear, ‘thank Shar you’re safe.’

Wyl felt self-conscious at the show of affection, yet knew it would appear perfectly normal to the Queen who stood regally nearby, delighting in the reunion of her Morgravian guests. She looked dazzling tonight in a dark brown gown of the simplest design. Figure-hugging with no frills or flounces, ruches or tucks, it flattered her tall, slim frame, the deep colour accentuating the brightness of her eyes against her creamy complexion and the dark hair she had twisted up behind her head with a tortoiseshell comb.

When he was placed back on the floor Wyl took the Duke’s hand in his own and placed both their fists against his own heart. It was the gesture of a Legionnaire, and in Morgravian society would have looked not only odd but vulgar when performed by a woman. Fortunately, Valentyna had no understanding of the gesture, although Wyl knew Crys would know instantly its intent. For Wyl, it was the only way he could show his true self and convey the depth of his feeling for what had occurred.

‘I’m shattered by the news of your family,’ he said softly.

Crys momentarily lost his tight grip on the sorrow he kept locked away and Wyl saw it emerge now to march slowly, painfully, across the handsome duke’s features.

‘I can’t —’ Crys began haltingly.

‘I know,’ Wyl said, fighting down the lump that was closing his own throat. ‘I understand.’ And Crys knew that Wyl, of all people, did, for here stood someone who had lost everything but his own soul. ‘Stay strong, Crys. Their lives will not have passed in vain.’

All Crys could do at this point was to gather up his hurts quickly and hide them again. Either that or break down completely. He nodded as he turned away.

It was Valentyna who rescued them both. ‘Ylena, Crys, come, I’ve had a table set up by the fire. Let us break some bread together.’

Had the Queen deliberately chosen to entertain them in the same chamber where Wyl had first met her father, with its secret doorway and the huge tapestry covering the privy? He could not guess but it felt strangely comforting to be here again — as though he had come full circle. Nothing much had changed in the room, save a few Valentyna-esque flourishes, as he liked to think of them. A jar of blooms, some fresh lavender and herbs scattered on the floor to be crushed underfoot and release their scent, a thick rug and a charcoal-sketched likeness of Valor done by his daughter which hung unobtrusively in a corner. It was not a great work of art but she had somehow — amongst her scrawl of lines — captured the spirit of the man. It was a lovely piece and no doubt drawn with raw emotion. The final brightening touch was a tiny puppy, gambolling about near the warmth of the hearth, teasing at a bone.

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, sire.’

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.’

‘That’s it?’ Jessom posed. ‘You are merely a go-between?’

Aremys did not look at the Chancellor but addressed Celimus. ‘Yes, sire, that is precisely what I am. Because I had been employed directly by you, Cailech thought it would be easier for me to seek an audience and set up this parley. He believed you were more likely to trust me than him.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, Farrow, least of all mercenaries who have no loyalties.’

Aremys said nothing but he did not shrink under the hard gaze of the King either. He understood that Celimus was used to staring down others. He must practise it in his mirror, Wyl had once commented caustically. Aremys remembered that now and had to stop himself from smiling.

‘King Celimus, I sell my services, not my soul,’ he finally replied, determined to stand his ground. ‘Cailech certainly does not own me — no one does. I am here to respectfully suggest that you, the reigning sovereign of a powerful kingdom, might consider it worthwhile to listen to what your northern neighbour has to say. Far more can be achieved around the dinner table, sire, than on the battlefield, I’d wager.’

‘So now you’re a philospher and peacemaker, Farrow? I could have you killed for your insolence.’

‘Yes, you could, sire,’ Aremys said in a tone that made it clear he knew worse had happened to innocents around this man. ‘But I ask your forgiveness if I have given the impression of presumptuousness. What you need to understand is that my own life is at stake, sire.’

That seemed to win the King’s attention. He gestured for Jessom to pour some wine. ‘Carry on,’ he told Aremys.

Aremys felt relieved that he too was offered a cup of wine. Perhaps his life would be spared.

‘Thank you,’ he said before continuing. ‘I give the impression of being a free man, sire, but I am in fact Cailech’s prisoner. I have bought my freedom with the promise that I would attempt to set up this meeting. No money will exchange hands.’

Celimus held his cup towards Aremys in an ironic toast. ‘You play with your life freely, mercenary.’

‘It is mine to give, although I’m not sure I had any choice, your majesty.’

‘And did you think I’d just say yes?’

‘I could only hope so, sire.’

‘In order to save your life?’ Celimus mocked.

‘No, my lord. To save Morgravia from war. I presume you’d like your marriage to be conducted in peace.’

Celimus arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘So the Mountain upstart believes he can wage war on Morgravia — is that right?’

Aremys was tired of this but knew he was treading a fine line. From what he had heard of Celimus, the man walked his own knife edge of madness and would just as easily snuff out a person’s life as swat at a fly. He needed to be careful. ‘No, your majesty. I think he believes he can achieve peace between his realm and yours.’

Celimus smiled slyly and walked around Jeryb’s desk to sit down. As he did so, Aremys had time to notice a child’s engraving in the wood of the desk. The letters carved clumsily into the timber said ‘Alyd’ and he was reminded of how that young man had been treated by this very King — his life taken on a whim, and in front of his new wife and his closest childhood friend. That same friend who was now considered friend by Aremys. The mercenary felt a charge of anger when he considered that the two great families of Morgravia — the Donals of the north and the famous Thirsks to the south — had been all but wiped out on the command of the cruel man before him.

He watched Celimus lean back in Jeryb’s handsome chair and sip from Jeryb’s cup what was presumably a refreshment from Jeryb’s cellar. His anger settled in his gut. He joined Wyl in hating Celimus more than any man, alive or dead, and determined to bring about his demise.

‘Farrow,’ the King began in a voice filled with tedium, as though explaining something obvious to someone stupid, ‘you know full well that I will not risk myself by going into the Razors to meet with your cowardly captor, a man who sends one of my own people — if I dare call you that — to do his dealings for him.’

‘I realise this, your highness.’

‘So I must presume that he is prepared to risk coming here alone, for I will not brook his men setting foot on Morgravian soil.’

‘They would set up camp at the border,’ Aremys replied, as though he and Cailech had already anticipated as much from Celimus. He felt relieved that the Captain had not reported that Aremys had been escorted into Morgravia by men of the mountains. Aremys inwardly saluted Bukanan’s foresight at not risking anything which might turn this situation ugly. Presumably the man knew how vicious his King could be and that an opportunity to make an example of Cailech’s men would prove irresistible.

‘I see. So that means Cailech is perfectly comfortable about coming to meet me, in Morgravia, with no protection other than the sword of a Grenadyne mercenary who is in my employ and presently under my guard?’ Celimus’s tone was filled with ironic amusement.

‘I am not his protector, sire. I am purely his emissary.’

‘Excellent. The situation is even more precarious then, for Cailech is all alone and on Morgravian soil. What is to stop me from simply killing him?’

‘Your desire for peace, sire,’ Aremys offered as reasonably as he could. ‘The men of the Razors can be damnably elusive and they do not forgive, my lord. I am guessing that they would wage systematic attacks on your borders until their last man fell… the last woman, even.’

‘That does not scare me, Farrow,’ the King replied, lazily twirling his goblet. ‘Frankly, I’d prefer his head on a spike at Stoneheart rather than holding talks in my court.’

‘Of course he does have some insurance, sire.’

Celimus laughed, genuine enjoyment spicing the mirth. ‘Of course he does! Now what could Cailech possibly offer me that I don’t have and could possibly want?’

Aremys felt a tremor of fear pass through him. He was about to weave his most audacious lie yet, the only trump card he could produce from up his sleeve, and to a King who would have his throat slit from ear to ear this very second if he even suspected the ruse. ‘I believe there is only one major item on your wishlist right now, sire.’

‘I didn’t know you possessed such magical insight into my desires, Farrow. Perhaps I should have you tortured and burned as a warlock?’

‘No enchantments, sire,’ Aremys replied calmly. ‘Simple logic tells me what you covet at present.’

‘And that is?’ Celimus said, a sarcastic sneer on his face.

‘Ylena Thirsk, your highness.’

The sneer vanished instantly, as did the casual posture. The King sat forward, suddenly alert. ‘You have her?’

‘I will deliver her, your majesty, on the promise that both Cailech’s life and mine are ensured your complete protection. We will come to Morgravia for the parley and you will allow him an escort of his own men. Chancellor Jessom, and your two best captains, including Bukanan whom I gather is currently indispensable in the north, will stay at the border with the Mountain warriors. When the parley is complete, we will be escorted safely to the border of the Razors and permitted to depart into the mountains. With this promise in writing and announced publicly to your people, then I will arrange for Ylena Thirsk to be delivered to you.’

Celimus ignored everything Aremys had just listed. ‘Do you have her, Grenadyne?’ the King bellowed.

‘I do, sire,’ Aremys lied, furiously controlling his features to show an expression without guile. ‘Although I am not at liberty to tell you how that comes to pass or where she is.’ He smiled. ‘I do not require payment for her capture, sire. I would not consider that fair,’ he added, and chanced a soft grin.

The idea to use Ylena as bargaining power had only occurred to Aremys when he stood before Captain Bukanan and had somewhat arrogantly claimed that he had something in store which would keep Cailech’s life safe. He had no clue as to where Wyl was at present or how he might reach him, but he reckoned Celimus would go along with the notion that Aremys was holding Ylena, not just because he was a mercenary paid to track her down, but because the King wanted her. Celimus’s own greed and cruel desire to visit more torture on this last remaining member of the Thirsk dynasty far outweighed any doubt of Aremys’s honesty — at least, that was what Aremys was counting on. How he would deliver on his promise or, more to the point, wriggle out of it was a whole new problem, but for now he was bargaining for his life and Wyl was all he had. If he could win Celimus’s nod with the lie then he would also win his freedom from Cailech. He reassured himself that he had no intention of betraying Wyl; he was simply using Ylena’s name as the lure to buy some time and his own safety.

Celimus leapt to his feet, as if readying himself to issue a command to his aides to have his guest’s head chopped off or something equally terrifying. His eyes were dark and stormy with wrath. Aremys wondered whether he had misjudged Celimus. But he had not. The impending storm cleared as swiftly as it had gathered and the King began to laugh as he applauded Aremys.

‘Bravo, Farrow. Bravo indeed. I shall guarantee your life and that of King Cailech for the duration of his stay on Morgravian soil. Is that good enough?’

‘With all the other provisos in place, sire.’

‘Yes, I agree. When?’

‘When it suits you, your majesty. You are the host.’

‘Where, Jessom?’ Celimus said, looking immediately to the man he could trust to pull something special together.

‘Here, of course, sire. Tenterdyn offers easy access to and from the border plus the ambience of a provincial palace. I would suggest a feast and entertainment, your highness. Show Cailech that you are a magnanimous host and prepared to extend the hand of fellowship whilst you hear what he has to say.’

‘Good. See to it all, Jessom.’ Celimus turned back to Aremys. ‘And Ylena?’

‘I will start making preparations, sire,’ Aremys said, feeling very nervous now.

‘Waste not a minute, Farrow. Return to your captor and pass on your news. I intend that the Thirsk woman be delivered as soon as our talks are done.’

Aremys bowed and departed, eager to be out of the King’s sight.

ELEVEN

‘SO HOW DID THIS AREMYS fellow end up in the Razors if he was with you in Briavel?’ the Queen asked, having discovered why both her guests had reacted so dramatically to the mention of the man’s name.

‘I have no idea,’ Wyl replied, feeling both relief and delight that Aremys was alive. ‘We lost each other in the north.’

‘How do you lose someone?’ Valentyna said, sipping her wine.

It was not a serious question and Wyl opted not to answer it. ‘Long story,’ he murmured. ‘I have an idea,’ he added hurriedly when it seemed the Queen might want to hear the long story. Fynch’s suggestion would work now, with this latest news about Aremys.

‘Another plan?’ Valentyna repeated, fractionally sarcastic. She folded her arms.

‘Yes. But you won’t care for it much.’

‘What’s this about?’ Crys queried.

‘We have to buy some time with Celimus,’ Wyl explained, and Crys nodded. ‘So we buy it with me.’

‘He’ll kill you!’ Valentyna exclaimed.

‘No, he won’t,’ Wyl said, not believing it himself.

‘He razed Rittylworth Monastery and its village, killing dozens, before turning on Tenterdyn and slaughtering my family,’ Crys said, his voice cold. ‘He did this all to hunt you down. Don’t tell me he won’t kill you the moment he sees you.’ Then he added, quietly, ‘You know what will happen!’ He was stilled from saying anything further by a dark glare from Ylena.

‘What will happen?’ Valentyna asked, sensing a new tension.

Wyl shook his head, ignoring the Queen’s question. ‘He won’t kill me because of Cailech,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure to time my arrival when the King of the Mountains is present. If they’re planning some sort of treaty, Celimus won’t be so stupid as to demand the death of a noble before his newly formed partnership, will he?’

‘Won’t he?’ Valentyna said, an appalled expression accompanying her query. ‘You’re gambling an awful lot on his sense of courtesy.’

Wyl was relieved she had been diverted and sent a surreptitious glare towards Crys warning him to be very careful and not blurt the truth.

‘I know Celimus,’ Wyl replied, ‘I grew up around him. If he has one outstanding quality it is his charm. No, I don’t think he will harm me whilst he needs to maintain outwardly calm relations.’

‘And what about afterwards, when Cailech’s gone? Why will he care then?’ she demanded.

‘Because I shall be gone too. Aremys is there — he will help me escape.’

‘No,’ Valentyna said from the fireplace, her voice raised. ‘I can’t let you do it. It’s ridiculous and of no substance. I won’t permit it.’

Wyl took a silent breath. He would not enjoy this next statement. ‘I am not yours to command, your highness.’

The words hit her as effectively as if he had punched her with his own fist. She struggled to control her expression as intense pain battled with her defences. ‘My apologies, Ylena. I think I misunderstood our talk earlier,’ the Queen replied, her tone as tepid as the congealed gravy around the chicken they had all forgotten to eat.

‘No, your highness. There is no misunderstanding. I am your servant. That will never change. But I will make my own decision on how to serve you.’

‘You will be going to your death, Ylena!’ the Queen snapped.

‘I don’t believe so, but I choose that path come what may.’

‘Not on my behalf! I will not have your blood as well as your brother’s on my hands.’

‘I’m sure you tried to order Wyl around too, your highness, but it seems you lost that argument as well. I am just as stubborn when it comes to protecting those I love.’ The bit about love had slipped out. Wyl felt his face colour afresh at the error.

Valentyna missed the slip. ‘Ylena, you are barely into your womanhood,’ she all but yelled.

‘And it is my womanhood which demands I leave your table, your highness. Please forgive me,’ Wyl said, suddenly feeling a most unpleasant release to the build-up of pain which had accompanied him all day. Still, it was a welcome excuse to get away from the Queen’s commands.

Crys looked baffled but the Queen, still angry, could only nod. She understood precisely Ylena’s predicament. ‘By all means.’

Wyl fled towards his chamber, clean linens and a fresh brew of raspberry leaf tea. He hated being a woman. And he especially hated the disdain shown to women by others of the same sex. How dare Valentyna consider Ylena unworthy! Well, that’s not really fair, he told himself as he ran up the last flight of stairs. Not unworthy, but certainly inadequate. He thought of Faryl and wished Valentyna had had the opportunity to meet her. Then the Queen would have seen a woman hold her own with a man.

He spent the next few minutes with an expression of disgust on his face as he sipped at the raspberry leaf tea and replaced the linens. He felt quite worn out by the end of it all and, in a fit of pique, changed into his favoured trews and shirt, although he had to admit a skirt was easier to wear in his current condition.

Shar, please deliver me from this, he prayed as he drank the bitter tea. Let me be a man again.

A knock at the door interrupted his plea to his god. He was not surprised to see that it was Valentyna, but he was embarrassed.

‘May I come in?’ she asked.

‘Of course, your highness,’ Wyl said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m sorry, I —’

‘No, it’s quite all right and it is I who should apologise. Forgive my interruption,’ Valentyna began. ‘Oh good, I see you’ve brewed more leaf. How are you?’

‘Oh, you know, first night,’ Wyl admitted like an old hand.

‘Had you hoped you were pregnant?’ the Queen startled him by asking in her most gentle tone.

‘No, your highness. I knew I wasn’t,’ Wyl lied, unable to think of anything more enlightening.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just thought that, newly married, you and Alyd had probably… well, you know…’

‘Yes,’ Wyl interjected, disturbed at where the conversation was headed. He had never felt more of an impostor. ‘No baby, though.’

Valentyna looked sad enough to cry. ‘You know, Ylena, there are moments when I wish more than anything that I had joined with Romen and that his seed had quickened my womb.’

Wyl had to look away. This was too painful. He busied himself with tidying his discarded clothing.

Valentyna rallied a smile and changed the subject. ‘I see you’ve changed out of the gown. Not to your liking?’

‘It’s lovely, your highness. I just got so used to these comfy clothes whilst travelling. I like them.’

Valentyna nodded knowingly. ‘So do I. Men have it good. I often wish I was a man, don’t you, Ylena?’

‘I do, your highness. I’m wishing it right now, in fact.’ Wyl had never spoken a truth with more passion.

She took his intensity in a different light. ‘Ah yes, I can understand why. You presumably get a lot of pain. I must admit that I escape the cramps. Shar is merciful with me.’

‘Do you look forward to children of your own?’ Wyl asked, desperate to move away from the subject of women’s ailments and yet not doing so very successfully.

‘I do. I’ve decided it’s the one good thing which might come out of this hateful marriage. Celimus won’t have my love but he can have my body. He will give me something far more precious than he takes.’

Wyl grimaced as the fresh ache from his side joined with the pain of the picture in his mind of Celimus in bed with Valentyna, siring a child upon her.

Valentyna filled the difficult pause. ‘I came here to apologise for my heavy-handed tactics earlier. Even as a little princess I bossed everyone around,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood swirling about them. ‘I know I cannot permit or deny you anything, Ylena. I just don’t want you to forfeit your life in order to save me from Celimus.’

‘I don’t think I can save you from the marriage, but I can give you more time to get used to the idea,’ Wyl said, the resignation in his comment agonising in its truthfulness.

‘But you can’t guarantee that you will escape.’

‘There are no guarantees in life, your highness. I have lost too much in too short a time to care any more.’

‘But I don’t want to lose you as well,’ the Queen said, her tone just short of begging.

‘You won’t.’

‘What exactly is your plan?’ Valentyna said. ‘No, wait, let’s have some warmed milk sent up and we might lace it with some liquor to help you sleep and forget your pains.’

Wyl nodded. Valentyna looked outside and called to Stewyt who had been positioned for the night outside the door and sent him on his errand.

‘So, now tell me everything,’ she said, curling up next to Ylena on the deep sofa near the fire.

She was unbearably close but Wyl would have sooner slashed his own throat than ask her to sit apart from him. If this was all he could have, it would have to be enough.

‘I shall go to Felrawthy, present myself before King Celimus — ensuring that King Cailech is in attendance — and beg Morgravia’s indulgence.’

‘But what is your aim? I can’t see the point if I have to marry him anyway.’

‘Well, amongst other things, to get the Legionnaires redeployed from Briavel’s border. Their presence is making your people very nervous and rightly so.’

‘But you said it was only a ploy.’

‘I am assuming that, your highness. I can’t truly speak for Celimus’s unpredictable whims. I would rather make sure of it by seeing the physical movement of the Legion.’

‘And you think he’ll do it?’ the Queen asked, amazed.

‘Yes. I’ll tell him that you are nervous, that you feel inhibited and threatened — which is, of course, his intention — but I’ll play you as the innocent. I’ll assure him that your personal preparations are well advanced and I’ll give him a token of your loyalty to him and the truth of your claims.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Me.’

‘So he can kill you!’ Valentyna exclaimed, exasperated again.

‘He won’t do that in front of Cailech, your highness. But he will be appeased. He will realise that for you to relinquish me, you have been duly intimidated. The plan is perfect in its simplicity. My presence will confirm not only how committed you are to peace and the marriage, but also that you appear scared of him. So scared that you have gladly turned over his enemy who had run to you for protection.’

‘And how does that save you, Ylena?’

‘It doesn’t, but please, your majesty, let me worry about saving myself. I have a few tricks of my own.’

‘Oh, you’re so frustrating!’ Valentyna replied. ‘You sound like Wyl and Romen rolled into one.’ Then she stopped, shocked at what she had said without thinking.

‘Do I? How odd,’ Wyl replied.

They stared at each other, the candlelight and flames from the fire combining in a soft glow across their beautiful faces. They were so close, Wyl realised. Too near. Close enough to kiss. A madness came over him and smothered his judgement. It was the move of a lunatic and he knew it, but still he leaned across the few inches separating his mouth from the Queen’s and placed Ylena’s lips to Valentyna’s.

The Queen reacted as if burned by a spitting coal from the fireplace. She leapt to her feet, wiping frantically at her mouth. ‘Ylena!’ she spluttered, shock and anger combined on her face. It was hideous for Wyl to watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could say. ‘I beg your forgiveness, your highness.’

The Queen appeared uncertain whether to flee or to slap the woman before her. Then she gathered her wits. ‘No,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘I must have been giving off all the wrong signals. Forgive me, Ylena, I should not have come to your chamber tonight. All this talk of babies and changing into men…’ She laughed awkwardly and then that awful expression of disgust crossed her face again.

Wyl stood, feeling sorry for both of them. ‘The apology is all mine, Valentyna. I really don’t know what came over me. I’ve been through a lot these few weeks and the emotions have got me all confused,’ he offered. It sounded lame even to his own ears but he pressed on, desperate to fill the vile and difficult silence that would surely prevail if he did not keep talking and backing her towards the door. ‘It’s been a very long two days for me, without much sleep, and I shall put it down to the raspberry leaf tea clouding my judgement, your highness.’

‘Yes,’ Valentyna stammered, none of her mortification dissipating. ‘I’ve heard it can make one hallucinate.’

‘You don’t even look the tiniest bit like Alyd,’ Wyl said, hating himself for the weak jest at the expense of his beloved sister and friend.

There was a knock at the door and the Queen started, her hands wringing each other. ‘That will be the milk,’ she said and Wyl heard the slightly hysterical note in her voice. He lowered his head, ashamed of himself as never before. ‘I’ll leave you, Ylena,’ Valentyna managed with some grace.

‘No, I shall leave you, your highness,’ Wyl said cryptically, and bent to kiss her hand. He could feel her fingers pulling away with revulsion at the touch of his lips and could have wept at his own lack of control and stupidity of moments earlier. He would never forgive himself and she certainly would not.

The Queen, flushed and agitated, pulled open the door and pushed past the same serving maid who had helped Wyl earlier.

‘Thank you,’ he said wearily to the girl as she placed the milk on a small side table. ‘Can you ask the page to bring me some parchment and then to deliver some letters, please?’

There was nothing to pack, and nothing other than his memories to keep him here a minute longer. He lifted the letters from the desk and blew out the flickering candle, leaving behind the debris of his hurried toil — sealing wax, broken nibs, ink blotches, as well as various letters begun and screwed up on the floor where he had tossed them in frustration. He bent now to pick them up and threw them into the embers of the fire he had not bothered to tend. The paper sputtered and curled before catching and burning quickly in a brief eruption of flames. He watched until his difficult, awkward words of explanation to the woman he loved were nothing but blackened flakes — just like the fragile relationship he had clung to and now ruined.

He cast a glance at the letter in his hand. After several attempts he had finally settled on being Wyl and the words were brief and to the point. There was nothing of Romen’s charm, Faryl’s cunning or Ylena’s courtesies, merely a simple apology for his unforgivable behaviour and a reiteration that he was making for Felrawthy. No honeyed farewell, no promise of return, no attempt at reconciling their awkward parting. He would be gone from her life once and for all. Wyl had taken care to wish her well for her upcoming marriage and had encouraged her to be brave and stoic in what she faced. To never forget who she was and to remember her promise to bring forth a babe who would rule both realms with care and affection. Wyl knew he was writing the truth of his thoughts. He could not save her this trial or the destiny of an unhappy life with Celimus, but he could let her know that he had listened to her soft words and wished her the joy of loving a child. He suspected that part of the letter might make her cry, but for the rest he knew she would read it with only relief and gratitude that he had gone. ‘So be it,’ he muttered to himself as he strode across the room to the door.

Stewyt was sitting outside. He was not caught napping and did not even appear tired. No need to rub the sleep from those alert eyes, Wyl thought.

‘Thank you, Stewyt, for waiting up,’ he said.

‘A pleasure, my lady. I am here to serve,’ the page said, sounding mature way beyond his years. ‘May I take those for you?’

‘Please,’ Wyl said.

‘I will personally deliver them immediately, my lady.’

‘No, Stewyt, I would prefer if you would arrange their delivery in the early hours of the morning. I don’t wish either recipient disturbed this night and there is nothing of such import that it cannot wait until tomorrow.’

Stewyt nodded, then he hesitated, and Wyl saw him take in the change of clothes from gown to breeches. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, my lady? Perhaps I could send up some refreshment, have the fire stoked?’

Wyl cut him off with a gently raised hand. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ he said, forcing a smile. He had no intention of letting the curious page know of his movements. ‘I am very tired and sleep calls.’

‘I shall see you’re not disturbed again then, my lady. Good night and sleep well.’ Stewyt gave a solemn bow and moved swiftly off into the shadows of the corridor to organise the despatch of the letters to their various destinations for delivery in a few hours.

Wyl waited for what felt an interminable time, but he needed to be sure the inquisitive page did not see his departure. Eventually, he tiptoed from his chamber and made his way quietly down the various flights of stairs. At one landing he noticed a portrait of Valentyna he did not recall having seen before. In the low light of the sconces, the tall figure seemed to be pulling away from the wall, advancing on him. Her expression struck him as accusatory, the faint smile mocking him. If only she knew the truth, he thought, and regretted bitterly that he could not share it with her. He extended his hand towards the painting, wished he could reach high enough to touch her on the lips but only succeeded in touching her chest. It would do.

‘Farewell, my love,’ he whispered and then he was sprinting down the final flight of stairs and running towards a doorway he remembered from his time there as Romen. It took him through the scullery, where he saw one sleeping attendant who should have been stirring the porridge that simmered continually through the night. The young girl looked exhausted; her lips were parted and a light snore punctuated the silence as she slumped on the table. Wyl smiled. Oh, for a simple life with only a dressing-down from cook in the morning to worry about.

He slipped out of the door into one of the many vegetable gardens, disturbing two cats gnawing on a struggling rat. One took off, the dying creature still in its jaws. The other shrieked at its loss of the night’s feast. Wyl ignored them, looked around to get his bearings, and made for the stables and his journey north.

TWELVE

VALENTYNA BROKE HER FAST early and privately on the balcony of her bedchamber. She had moved rooms not so long ago. At first, after learning of his murder, she had wanted to cling to the memory of Romen and remember every word, every smile, every touch they had shared together, so briefly, in her bedroom. These days, however, with an impending marriage she feared and the only man whom she had ever loved, save her father, now dead, she had decided she must bury those memories and put aside anything that prompted their return. Hence the move into the new quarters. Her new room had been her mother’s and it was fitting, Valentyna realised, that she should move into this chamber now with its soft colours and beautiful tapestries and rugs. It was from her mother that she had inherited her taste for simple, fine things. As did her mother before her, Valentyna far preferred a single exquisite rose to a roomful of garish, expensive ornaments. This chamber and its accompanying suite of rooms used natural light and space to achieve what Valentyna now realised was a place of calm. And calm was what she needed right now. She was still deeply upset from the previous night’s events and, although not hungry after her fitful sleep and fretful awakening, she had adhered to her father’s long-held advice that bad news and bad moods are best coped with on a full belly. Nevertheless, she had ordered only the lightest of meals, consisting of a small sugared roll, a single lightly boiled egg, a sliced pear and a pot of dark, strong tea.

She had left the letter from Ylena unopened by the side of her tray until she had picked over the fruit and egg, neither of which she tasted, and had downed her first cup of tea. Valentyna suspected the letter would contain an outpouring of beautifully crafted yet cringing apologies and hated the thought of reading them, let alone facing the woman who had so misread her affections. She was sure her face still burned from the combined horror and embarrassment of Ylena’s error, although Valentyna was uncertain whether this intense discomfort was for herself or on behalf of Wyl’s sister. Both probably, she thought glumly.

She poured a second cup of tea, this time with a slice of lemon instead of sweetening honey, and waited until she had sipped from its steaming contents before breaking the seal on the letter. It was a sharp surprise to discover that it was not even close to what she had imagined. A brief and succinct apology for what Ylena called her unforgivable behaviour was followed by an equally concise confirmation that she was already on her way to Felrawthy. She specifically asked not to be followed, and added that no one would be able to track her anyway. Valentyna, angry that Ylena had slipped away in the night, could not guess at what that comment meant, for her soldiers would be easily able to track down a noblewoman on horseback. Ylena urged the Queen to write immediately to Celimus with news that she was sending Wyl Thirsk’s sister as a token of her loyalty to the King of Morgravia.

The second half of the single sheet was softer in its intentions if not in its words, and reminded Valentyna of things her father might say. Unlike her father, though, the words felt as though they were written by someone not used to being openly affectionate and yet who cared deeply for her wellbeing. Frankly, Valentyna thought, drumming her fingers on her seat, Ylena just did not know her well enough to write with such tender, albeit awkward familiarity.

Tears stung her eyes and she snatched them away. She had not intended to cry but weep she did, hating herself for these last days of such hysterical behaviour. From Wyl’s description of his sister all that time ago, she had expected Ylena Thirsk to be a gentle, fragile sort of character. Despite hearing how she had overcome such enormous trauma, Valentyna had still been stunned by the confident and direct woman who had presented herself at the court of Briavel.

She put down the letter, picked up her cup and let the steam from the tea warm her face which felt chill from sitting outside on this still brisk spring morning. It struck Valentyna that Ylena had behaved in a fairly masculine fashion throughout her short time at Werryl. This had occurred to her well before the kiss, even before the supper; it had begun to resonate in Valentyna’s perceptive mind as early as their stroll together in the gardens. Ylena showed all the poise and upbringing of a noblewoman but she appeared to think like a man, even acted like a man at times. Valentyna prided herself on being an adept judge of character, but Ylena’s disposition was not easy to explain yet niggly enough to notice — at least so it seemed to the Queen. At first she had thought she was imagining it, but during supper Ylena had taken over the conversation and led the discussion on Celimus and Cailech as though they were sitting in a war room. She had heard her father conversing with his soldiers for too many years not to recognise the similarity of the situation, but most young noblewomen would feel uncomfortable talking of such matters let alone taking charge of them.

That aside, she wondered about Ylena’s uncanny habit of pacing while she was thinking? That had rocked Valentyna only marginally less than the wretched kiss. The likeness to Romen was too painful to bear. Valentyna remembered how she had had to look away and how shallow her breathing had become watching Ylena. And then the worst part — that terrible incident in Ylena’s chamber. Valentyna blamed herself for its occurrence. Ylena had lost so much — both parents, her brother, her new husband, the family friend, Gueryn le Gant, whom she was so close to. Then she had learned of the tragedy at Felrawthy. The emotions had all boiled over, presumably, and she had sought affection from someone who seemed to be offering it. Valentyna made an involuntary sound of disgust remembering the kiss. And yet the explanation sounded too neat and tidy, as though she were contriving every excuse to explain the curiosity that was Ylena Thirsk.

Far more likely, the practical voice in Valentyna’s head suggested, the girl had a liking for women. But even that did not make sense, the Queen silently argued. A woman who wanted to lie with other women surely did not have a male childhood sweetheart, or marry that person as soon as they were both old enough. When Wyl Thirsk told herself and Valor about the death of Alyd that night at supper, he had also described the great love between Alyd and his Ylena.

She closed her eyes with frustration. And then the nagging thought, which had called from the edges of her mind almost since Ylena’s arrival, filtered to the surface of her consciousness and set a new and chilling problem before her. Ylena’s handkerchief — the one she had handed Valentyna when she had wept in the garden. It struck her now with the force of a blow. It was the same linen that she herself had given to Romen! How could Ylena possibly own it?

This revelation caught the Queen so off guard she put the cup down, stood and leaned against the balcony railing. Was she imagining things? No! It was her own handkerchief. She had even mentioned it to Elspyth at Aleda’s funeral. Elspyth had been weeping for Aleda and Valentyna had put an arm around her petite companion and handed her a beautiful square of embroidered linen. She closed her eyes to remember the words she had shared with her friend: I gave Romen an identical kerchief, she had whispered. You keep this. Now both my best friends own one.

She repeated the words in her mind as she gazed down onto Werryl Bridge and its endless stream of activity. It was definitely the same handkerchief. The squares had been embroidered by her mother and were treasured by Valentyna, so the recipients of these items were held in equally high esteem… but Romen had died in a brothel in Briavel! Ylena’s only contact with Romen had been between Pearlis and Rittylworth, she calculated. Then they had parted and, according to her information, had not seen each other again before he died. Valentyna had given Romen the handkerchief long after he had left Morgravia and the Razors, and he had lived the rest of the numbered days of his life in Briavel.

A new thought struck the Queen. Perhaps that hateful woman, Hildyth, had stolen it from him. But why take a square of meaningless linen? And even if she did steal it from Romen at the Forbidden Fruit, how could Ylena now have it in her possession?

Wyl, Romen, Ylena and Hildyth — what did they have in common? Why was she even linking them in her mind? Wyl and Ylena were related, that one was obvious. Romen and Wyl had fought together in vain to save her father and had certainly saved her. Romen had rescued Ylena, keeping a promise to her dead brother Wyl. And Hildyth? Hildyth was connected only to the man Valentyna had loved, through death — a blade in the heart.

But no. There was another link, was there not? She shook her head in a futile attempt at denial but it whispered through her raging thoughts. A shining, clear notion which travelled brightly through the maelstrom of her mind and landed as sharply and painfully as an arrow. A notion which had been voiced by two separate people she trusted: Fynch subtly, and Elspyth more insistently.

Fynch had claimed that he believed Wyl and Romen were of one mind. As she thought of this she was immediately reminded of Knave and the talk of magic that swirled about the dog. Valentyna recalled Fynch’s confusion when Wyl’s cantankerous dog had taken so easily to Romen, and how Romen had called out the dog’s name in Stoneheart having never met Knave before. Even more baffling for Fynch was how playfully Knave had greeted the stranger. The Queen remembered Fynch describing Wyl’s eyes changing colour at the witch-burning — more talk of magic which she had ignored. And then along came Elspyth with similar murmurings. She had urged Valentyna to accept the notion of reincarnation, all but confirming that she too believed Wyl somehow resonated within Romen, and that the Queen’s beloved might well be spiritually present in a new person — a woman even. Wyl… Romen… Ylena.

Valentyna startled herself by being sick, turning just in time to avoid soiling her clothes. She crumpled to the floor of the balcony, upending the crockery on the tray, and gave way to deep, dry sobs. Nothing made sense any more.

She remained curled on the balcony until the cold and the smell of herself brought her back to the present and the one stark reality she could not escape. Marriage to Celimus. Today was the all-important fitting for her gown. She must attend to her toilet, tolerate the seamstresses’ chatter and annoying pins and requests, before she would be free to call a hasty meeting with Crys. The time between now and when the King of Morgravia would legally bed her could be counted on her fingers.

Valentyna collected her shattered wits, put all thoughts of reincarnation and magic to the back of her mind, and steeled herself for her regal duties in the coming days.

Forging a peace was all she would permit herself to focus upon.

She had a war to dissuade and a wedding to prepare for. She would do as Ylena Thirsk had suggested and write a letter of appeasement to King Celimus using Ylena as her barter. She might as well, now that Ylena had made her sacrifice.

Crys had risen later than Valentyna but read his letter before he dressed. Wyl suggested two options for him to consider. The first was that he try and catch up with Elspyth, whom Wyl felt was on a foolhardy mission but added that he did not believe she was in any immediate danger. Both he and Crys felt protective towards Elspyth and it was only right that, with so few allies, they all look out for one another. Failing this, he suggested Crys should put on a disguise and infiltrate Pearlis, particularly the Legion. He was to spread the word of Celimus’s betrayal of Jeryb and his family. Wyl listed a few names of reliable men whom Crys should single out to receive this information. He was to tell them about the treatment of Ylena and Alyd as well. Take the head of your brother, he urged, give them proof. Crys was to be patient, though, not do anything rash and to encourage a similar conservativeness by any angry Legionnaires. Wyl asked him to lie low amongst the Legion until Wyl somehow got word to him. He reinforced that Crys was not to even hint at the truth should the Queen ask questions about Ylena. His secret was to be maintained. He signed off, wishing Crys luck and that they would meet again soon. He added a note to Crys to remember the password for he could not promise he would return as Ylena.

Crys smiled grimly at the postscript. Any stranger could walk up to him in the future and claim to be Wyl. How frightening it must be for him, Crys thought, and turned his mind to departure. Frankly, he would be glad to be on the move again and doing something constructive towards the downfall of Celimus. Wyl was right. There were far cleverer, bloodless ways to avenge his family’s slaughter than trying to murder the King, which had been his first inclination.

He would leave today — this morning, in fact — and was sure the Queen would quietly sigh with relief.

Valentyna gritted her teeth and got through the gown-fitting. As she had expected, the seamstress and her assistants tittered around her for almost an hour. Sadly they did not poke her with a single pin, which might at least have given her an excuse to vent some of the frustration she was feeling. Somehow she found a fake smile when they stood beaming at the vision in the palest of cream gowns before them.

She had demanded simplicity. And simplicity she had been given, but Madam Eltor had surpassed herself on this occasion. She was used to Valentyna’s likes and dislikes, having designed gowns for the new Queen since she was old enough to attend formal engagements. She did not need to be told what Valentyna would look for in a wedding gown, but she knew that in this one she had presented something which somehow embraced the Queen of Briavel’s personality. It had long, clean lines in a fabric which fell so beautifully into its natural folds that it took even the designer’s breath away when she saw it hanging on the perfect body.

‘You’re a woman now,’ she had whispered to Valentyna whose eyebrows had raised slightly when she saw the neckline which plunged in a sharp V-shape from the furthest width of her shoulders. It revealed not only the shapely top of her arms but displayed the flawless creamy expanse of her chest, just meeting at its tip before any cleavage might show.

‘You will have to be sewn in, of course, my dear,’ Madam Eltor warned through the pins in her mouth. Having known the Queen since childhood, the dressmaker had long ago been excused from the necessity to constantly show deference by using Valentyna’s titles. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get this perfect fit across your bust.’

Valentyna nodded distractedly. ‘Finished now?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Be still, child,’ and the Queen of Briavel could not hide the ghost of a grin at the reprimand which Madam Eltor had been giving for so many years now they had both lost count.

The gown’s only adornment was a tiny row of pearls sewn along the neckline and around the cuffs, which ended three-quarters of the way down Valentyna’s long arms.

‘I’ll wager all of Morgravia and Briavel will be wearing this new length and slim sleeve by summer’s close, your highness,’ one of the assistants commented eagerly.

Valentyna and Madam Eltor shared a glance in the mirror. They had been setting new fashion trends in Briavel for years even though Valentyna had no interest in dazzling people with her wardrobe.

‘Would you like to see it with the veil?’ Madam Eltor enquired, already knowing the answer.

‘Not today, Margyt,’ Valentyna begged. ‘Next time, I promise. Right now I have some urgent things to attend to and a realm to run.’ She gave the older woman a beseeching grin.

The seamstress nodded as if in long-suffering pain. ‘Next time then,’ she said kindly, adding firmly: ‘Which, your highness, will be in four days. Be warned.’

Valentyna groaned. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she said, wriggling hastily out of the dress.

‘Flowers?’ Madam Eltor asked.

The Queen sighed. ‘It is in hand. Your colleague, Madam Jen, has chosen open creamy-white roses and fairy’s breath for the posy and a wreath of white buds for my head,’ she answered. ‘I’d prefer lavender.’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ Madam Eltor commented, quite used to Valentyna’s contrariness. ‘The white buds will echo the pearls and enhance the Stone of Briavel, which I presume you’ll wear?’

Valentyna nodded. She had to admit the gown suited her with its sleek look and sharp lines. She was not one for the rounded, softer look which many of the court women preferred. The Queen liked the way her dressmaker had echoed her slightly masculine edge in the sharp plunge of the gown’s neckline, and the lack of affectation and adornment made her feel she could almost get away with wearing her riding boots beneath it. This made her smile inwardly. In spite of herself, her liking for the dress made the Queen wonder, if her people graciously accepted her tomboyishness without reading all manner of sinister connotations into it, why could she not accept Ylena Thirsk’s more masculine way? Because it doesn’t add up, she argued.

‘I beg your pardon, dear?’ Madam Eltor said, the wedding gown held reverently across her outstretched arms, ready to be placed into clean muslin for the journey back to her chambers in Werryl.

‘Nothing,’ Valentyna murmured, embarrassed that she must have spoken her last thought aloud. ‘Thank you, Margyt. I’ll see you soon.’ She saw the seamstress and her chittering assistants to the door and called for a page.

‘Find me Stewyt, please, Ross, and also summon the Duke of Felrawthy to a meeting in my solar. I will see him in an hour.’

The boy bowed and ran off on his errands. Valentyna hurriedly tied back her hair. She wished she could wear it just like this at her wedding — tied back and plaited. She pulled at the wisps she had not quite managed to incorporate into the main plait, then made a sound of disgust at their waywardness and left them alone. A soft knock heralded the page.

‘Stewyt, thank you for coming so quickly.’

‘Your majesty,’ he said, bowing low. ‘How may I help?’

Stewyt often unnerved her with his mature manner. Talking to him often felt like speaking to Krell or someone of similar age and ilk. She realised Stewyt would make a fine chancellor in years to come; he encompassed all the right qualities, from discretion to intense curiosity about everyone and everything. He was a superb listener and rarely needed anything repeated. As she was thinking these things about the youngster she realised he was staring at her, his expression deliberately open and patient.

She cleared her throat and her thoughts. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Lady Ylena.’

‘Yes, your highness. You received her note, I presume?’

‘I did, thank you. But you didn’t deliver it. I was given it with my breakfast tray.’

‘That’s right, your majesty. Lady Ylena did not want you disturbed last night. She told me the contents of the letters were of no immediate import and I was to ensure both were delivered this morning.’

‘Both letters?’

‘The other was for the Duke of Felrawthy,’ Stewyt qualified. ‘Is there something wrong, your majesty?’

‘No, not at all. I’ve been informed that Lady Ylena left the palace during the night. Did she seem upset when you saw her?’

Stewyt frowned. ‘No, your highness. She was very alert, as I recall, although perhaps somewhat intense if I might hazard that thought.’

Valentyna nodded, impressed as always by his composure. ‘Go on.’

‘Forgive me, your majesty, but I took the liberty of watching Lady Ylena.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I felt her manner was a trifle odd. She went to some trouble to impress upon me how tired she was and in need of sleep, yet throughout our conversation she struck me as being very much awake and caught up by a sense of urgency.’

‘And you were right, of course,’ Valentyna prompted.

‘Yes,’ the lad said, not meaning to sound smug. ‘I set off on my errand as requested but doubled back, just to see if my instincts were right. Chancellor Krell taught me to follow my instincts, your highness,’ he added. ‘I watched Lady Ylena hurry out of her chamber.’

‘She did mention in her letter to me that she intended departing last night,’ Valentyna replied, determined this lad should not think Ylena was up to any mischief. She could not have gossip of that kind doing the rounds and providing any future ammunition. ‘You recall, Stewyt, I asked you to keep her presence between ourselves, which is why I handpicked you as her page and Florrie as her maidservant.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘I have told no one of her presence, your highness.’

‘Did anything else occur which you think is worth mentioning?’

‘Well…’ The page sounded uncomfortable.

‘Yes?’

‘She…’ He stopped, and started again. ‘On her way past your portrait on the first landing, your highness, she paused… rather deliberately.’

‘And?’ Valentyna queried, not understanding the boy’s hesitation.

‘She touched it, your majesty. Touched your… er, your breast, your highness.’

Valentyna felt a new thrill of alarm. ‘Did she say anything?’

‘She murmured a farewell to you, your highness. In all truth, I would say that she was trying to reach your face but wasn’t tall enough.’

‘I see. Thank you, Stewyt.’ The Queen dismissed the page, following him out of her chamber and heading to her solar to meet with Crys Donal.

He was waiting for her. ‘Good morning, your majesty,’ he said and bowed.

‘Crys, you look readied for travel,’ she said, noting the cloak, as she walked towards him and surprised him with a brief kiss. She felt as if he was all that was left of her allies.

He blushed. ‘Yes, your highness, I’ve decided to leave. I think it’s only right, what with your troubles with the Legion and so on. I know I’m a thorn in your side and I agree with Ylena that I can probably be more use back in Morgravia being a thorn in the King’s side.’ He grinned but it looked hollow.

‘You’ve spoken with Ylena about this?’ the Queen asked, surprised.

‘No. She sent me a letter which I received this morning. She suggested I should infiltrate the Legion and start spreading news of the slaughter at Tenterdyn and anything else which might help turn the army against their King, your majesty.’

‘Is that her plan?’

Crys shook his head. ‘I don’t know what her plan is, your highness.’

Valentyna sat down in her favourite window seat with her back to her guest so he did not have to look her in the eye. ‘Crys, since when did the Duke of Felrawthy — any Duke of Morgravia for that matter — take orders from a young noblewoman of little rank?’

There was a difficult pause, as she had anticipated, and then an equally awkward laugh. ‘Your majesty, Ylena Thirsk is no ordinary noblewoman. The surname alone tells you the stock she comes from.’

He was going to say more but she cut him off. ‘The fact that she is the daughter of the famous Fergys Thirsk and sister to the seemingly revered Wyl Thirsk does not necessarily make her a military strategist though, does it? I would have thought a woman like Ylena would have a head filled with how to embroider beautifully, fine table manners and how to make polite conversation with strangers whilst making an elegant tour of a room.’

‘Just like you, your highness,’ Crys said, immediately regretting his gentle sarcasm as Valentyna turned to fix him with a stare.

‘Forgive me, your majesty, I meant no insult. I admire you tremendously for the dazzling way you balance being a beautiful woman and the ruler of a realm. It’s not easy, your highness, and anyone with half a brain can see that such skill requires both a feminine and masculine side.’

Valentyna dug deep and found a smile to show no offence had been taken — it was obvious that Crys was genuine in his praise, although just as obvious that he was protecting Ylena or at the very least working hard to keep something secret for her. ‘I don’t know, Crys, I just got the impression that Ylena would be this gentle, totally pampered young woman.’

‘Which she was, I’m sure, your highness. But plenty has happened to change that, and they do say blood will out.’

‘They do indeed,’ Valentyna said cryptically. ‘If you’ll forgive me digging into a painful subject — her relationship with Alyd, did you know much about it?’

‘Only that they were madly in love. His letters were filled with his adoration of both Thirsks. They were his family during his time in the south. What’s troubling you, your highness?’

She struggled. Could she tell him? She needed to share it with someone and Crys was as reliable as any of her own counsel. ‘You don’t think she had leanings towards women, do you?’

The duke looked shocked. ‘Ylena? No! Whatever gave you that idea?’

Valentyna made a face. ‘Oh, just something that happened last night between us. I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Except we are,’ he said, grinning, understanding dawning about what must have occurred. He felt so sorry for Wyl, and that would explain why he had fled in the night. ‘No, Ylena used to write to us as well, your highness, and this was a girl who was intensely in love with Alyd. It was all she could do to talk about anything other than him, their marriage and children. They were planning a large brood.’

‘So they wanted babies immediately?’

‘Oh yes, even Alyd said they would begin a family as soon as they could.’ He laughed. ‘They even married before we expected — couldn’t wait for us.’

Valentyna shook her head, baffled, recalling Ylena’s confusion when she had mentioned pregnancy. It was as if the young woman did not know what she was talking about.

‘Well, she’s not pregnant, I can vouch for that. It’s why she left the table so suddenly — her monthly flux had arrived.’

It was probably nervousness at this precarious conversation but Crys could no longer stifle a laugh at the thought of Wyl dealing with women’s ailments.

‘I can’t imagine what’s so amusing, Crys,’ Valentyna said in a vaguely injured tone.

‘There is nothing funny, your highness. I think I must be losing my own wits,’ he said, clearly uncomfortable.

Valentyna was sure he knew more than he was telling her but could not fathom what it was that he might be hiding. ‘Is there anything else you know which could help me, Crys? Please, I feel like I’m navigating through a quagmire.’

He gave her a look of tender sympathy. ‘Your highness, Ylena is true to you. After all that Celimus has perpetrated on her own family and the family she married into, her loyalties have changed. We all love Morgravia but we would rather fight on the side of Briavel as long as King Celimus sits on Morgravia’s throne.’ He surprised her by going down on one knee. ‘You can trust me and you can trust Ylena. She is fearlessly casting herself into the lion’s den you could say. Whether Celimus has her killed or not, it doesn’t matter — we will never see Ylena again, that much I can assure you.’ The last was said bitterly.

Valentyna reached to touch his bowed head, moved by what he had said. ‘Oh, Crys, I don’t want her death on my hands.’

‘She has nothing else to give but her life. Your highness, Ylena doesn’t want to live any more — can’t you see that? That is why she can give it up so recklessly and for someone she loves.’

He felt he had gone too far by mentioning the word love, and Valentyna’s anguished response confirmed it.

‘I don’t want her love, Crys!’ The Queen was shocked by the pain that moved across the duke’s open expression at her words.

‘Then accept her sacrifice graciously and use it for your own ends, as she asks.’

‘I don’t even understand her intentions by going to Felrawthy,’ Valentyna replied bitterly.

Crys stood. ‘I imagine she means to disrupt those talks in the north,’ he said. ‘And somehow bargain for the deployment of the Legion back to Pearlis so your people can breathe easily again and get on with celebrating a royal wedding.’ He took her hand. ‘I don’t think you can escape that, your majesty, but you can demand equality. You can influence how this new era for Morgravia and Briavel will be felt by people. Believe me, if we can find a way to overthrow Celimus we will, but you must proceed with this marriage and do whatever you can if we fail.’

She had heard it before from others and given herself the same sound advice. It was time she got on with living it now. ‘You’re right. No doubt we shall see one another in Pearlis.’

‘I might not go straight to the Morgravian capital, your highness,’ Crys said, as if the decision had only just arrived in his mind.

‘Not Felrawthy?’ she asked, fear in her tone.

‘No, that will have to wait, your highness. The time to seize back my family estate is not yet ripe. I’ve actually been thinking about Elspyth.’

Relief softened Valentyna’s expression. ‘You’re going after her?’

‘I think I should. She’s a resilient woman and knows her mind, but she’s still only a girl alone in a strange realm with no weapons or protection —’

‘Heading off into the Razor Kingdom to rescue a prisoner of its King,’ the Queen finished, shaking her head. ‘I’m glad, Crys. Thank you.’

The duke shrugged. ‘Elspyth was good to me when I needed to be reminded who I was and what needed to be done. If not for her insistence I would have gone tearing back to Tenterdyn and doubtless achieved nothing.’

‘And lost your own life, and Felrawthy would have lost its duke.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘She saved me from my own stupidity and anger.’

‘Well, you still have every right to be angry, to want vengeance, Crys, and because of Elspyth’s advice you might yet get it.’

He sensed the sorrow behind her encouraging words. ‘I’m sorry that you don’t have the same opportunity, your highness.’

She forced a small smile. ‘Oh, I’ll find my own way.’

Crys knew as well as she did that her comment was bravado, but he returned her smile with a squeeze of her hand.

‘How will you follow her?’ Valentyna asked, changing the subject.

‘I’ll start with Liryk, I suppose. I suspect your commander is rather gratified that Elspyth is out of your life, your highness’ — he grinned as she nodded conspiratorially — ‘but he might help by asking his guards if they saw her leave.’

‘What good will that do?’

‘Well, I imagine Elspyth was in a hurry to leave Werryl and be long gone by the time we returned. That being the case, I believe she might have hitched a ride with someone.’ He shrugged. ‘It might help me follow her, that’s all.’

The Queen nodded. ‘Be safe, Crys. We shall meet again soon, I hope.’

He kissed her hand with feeling, and then the last of her allies left the Briavellian monarch to her loneliness and bleak thoughts.

THIRTEEN

AFTER LEAVING WERRYL, Wyl made straight for a hide of Faryl’s in Crowyll and dug up a pouch of money. He was pleased he could still remember some of the locations of her stashed coin, and although he did not care for using blood money, in this instance he was in dire need of it to save more blood being spilled.

He galloped his horse as far and hard as the beast would permit, then travelled on through the night more slowly and spent most of the coin on a new horse the following morning. Although he had not slept he was determined to press on and the replacement animal was fresh and happy to be given its head. His plan was to follow the border as closely as he could, entering Morgravia only when he believed he was far enough north to cross directly into Felrawthy. He could not risk stumbling upon any Legionnaires and being recognised.

At around midday the next day it was his good fortune to ride into the village of Derryn at a time when he not only had to rest his horse but needed food and sleep himself, and, most importantly, a chance to bathe. The pain had gone and he felt as well as could be expected considering his fatigue but it seemed that the bleeding would continue for a few days yet. How inconvenient and messy it all was.

Given the choice, Wyl decided he never wanted to be a woman again. The grooming, the curtseying, the requirement to be elegant and gracious at all times — these were merely a few of its annoying aspects. He pitied Valentyna, and yet he admired her too. Somehow she managed to balance the demands of being a woman with a strength of her own. She wasn’t ‘frilly’, for want of a better word. Ylena had been frilly, but then that was all that had been expected of her since the day of her birth. A daughter born into a wealthy noble family, particularly one as distinguished as the Thirsks, had one main task: to marry well. To achieve this she was educated in every possible pastime which could enhance her opportunities, from how to run an effective household to the art of embroidery. King Magnus had employed a small army of women to teach Ylena such niceties from her arrival at Pearlis at a tender age. And his sister had proved herself to be an adept student.

Fresh sorrow overcame Wyl as he pondered yet again how little Ylena had deserved what had befallen her. She had no enemies, was always ready with a kind word for everyone and her smile could banish even the gloomiest of moods. She really was a beauty in every sense of the word. That her mind had been empty of the thoughts and ambitions which drove Valentyna was not Ylena’s fault. She was merely following form, whereas Valentyna was one of a kind. Yet Ylena’s life had unravelled over a matter of weeks and what should have been the happiest time of her life had plunged her into tragedy. Wyl felt a familiar nausea grip him and knew he must stop grieving like this over his sister. Ylena was dead and no amount of soul-searching or tears would restore her.

Wyl knew his exhaustion and the monthly flux was contributing to his morbid feelings and was convinced that a decent meal and some rest would help to lift his spirits. As he walked the horse through the main street he found there was no inn but discovered by asking a young woman passing by that a widow by the name of Mona Dey ran a guest house in the village. After stabling the horse, paying for its care and making sure he could retrieve it with ease whenever he wanted, Wyl headed for the widow’s place.

He paid Mona in advance, much to her delight, and was shown to a small, neat room at the back of her large dwelling. He learned from the chatty widow that her husband had been a wealthy trader who was miserly to say the least and had had a wandering eye for other women, especially whores. She had mouthed the final word silently. According to Mona, her husband had died between the legs of a buxom twenty-year-old, a blade driven into his back up to the hilt. She told the chilling tale with a sly relish and it brought back hideous memories for Wyl.

‘A pocketful of silver — that’s all the slut got for her trouble,’ Mona said smugly. ‘I got the rest.’ And she beamed. From then on her life had looked up and she had lived it to the full, deliberately spending her dead husband’s money with abandon in revenge for his meanness, until there was virtually nothing left. ‘I held back just enough to keep me off the streets,’ she told Wyl, with no trace of bitterness, ‘and now I take paying guests and live a quiet life.’

‘I can’t imagine it gets much quieter than Derryn,’ Wyl commented, surprised at the widow’s candidness.

‘You’re right there, my lady,’ Mona cried, and laughed as if he had cracked some great jest.

As open as Mona Dey was about her own background, Wyl appreciated that she showed not the slightest interest in his. Either she was entirely self-centred or she was very canny, knowing that most strangers preferred not to discuss their business. It was strange, he thought, that innkeepers and their ilk had a reputation for being an inquisitive group of people. Wyl thanked the widow and paid her some extra coin for her discretion, for she had not even enquired why Ylena was travelling alone.

The evening meal, Mona told her guest, was served at sunset and no later. Wyl grimaced and politely asked whether there was any possibility of a tray in his room now. He explained how tired he was and that his flux had fair drained him of all energy. A look of deep sympathy had come his way — definitely a special sorrow only women could share, he realised — and no doubt the generous coin rattling in her skirt pocket had encouraged Mona Dey to look kindly on the young noblewoman.

‘I’ll see what I can rustle up for you, dear,’ she said. ‘Oh my, I used to suffer it something awful at your age. And my Garth, he had no sympathy at all, still claiming his marital rights.’ Wyl really did not want to hear all of this, but apparently Mona Dey was starved of fresh listeners in Derryn so he adopted the right expression and paid attention. ‘And pain! Shar save me, I thought I was fit to die,’ she continued. ‘My mother had no sympathy. She said I should get used to it for it would be the curse for most of my life — my mother was a bitter woman, you see. My father died on her young and left her with a brood of children and no money. Her bleed was bad too and left her in poor shape one week of each moon and it meant she couldn’t work during some of those days and we went hungry.’

The widow looked set to carry on discussing her mother’s moon cycles but Wyl feigned a swoon which stopped the monologue and had Mona rushing for cold flannels and smelling salts. When he seemed recovered, the widow suggested the young lady take a soak. There was a room in the house already set up for bathing. ‘I have some herbs which will ease that pain, dear,’ she offered kindly.

Wyl was grateful to her and said as much, winning a wide smile from the widow. ‘And I’ll fetch you some raspberry leaf,’ she added. ‘Chew straight on it, my lady. Tastes like hell but far more effective for your condition than a weak brew.’

Wyl stammered his thanks and allowed her to guide him to the bathing room which had a drain in one corner and a huge old tub which would more than swallow up Ylena’s exhausted body. He would have been happy to wash in cold water but Mona wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Heat is what you need, dear, for the ache.’

Wyl did not want to start explaining that the ache was done; he just wanted peace and privacy now. So he let her fuss and organise for steaming jugs to be brought up by a small army of lads she paid to run to the smithy’s where a huge cauldron of water was kept on the fire permanently. The joy of finally closing the door on Mona’s chatter and climbing into the tub was second only to kissing Valentyna for the first time, when Wyl had been Romen and adored by her.

Afterwards, he ate a meal of cold roast meat, potatoes simmered with cream and some cheese, before slipping between the well-worn but fresh sheets on Mona’s guest bed and drifting almost instantly into sleep.

When he awoke he was disoriented. It was black outside and as quiet as a tomb. Mona had kindly left a candle in his room and it had burned down to a sputtering nub. He had been asleep for at least twelve hours he estimated. Careful to make no sound which would disturb the household he relieved himself into the chamber pot and hurriedly dressed in his dusty but comfortable riding clothes. Wyl did not like to sneak away without thanking Mona, but with no means to scrawl a note, the only way he could show his appreciation for her care was money, which he left on the re-made bed. He thought it unlikely she would think further on the young woman who had passed through her house, but if she did, she would remember Ylena kindly for her generosity.

He could not risk making his way through the house so, thanking his lucky stars that he was on the first level, he climbed out of the window and dropped silently to the ground, rolling as he had been taught when he was a lad. He must have startled a badger or some other night creature on the fringe of the small wood that skirted the town for he heard the animal blundering disgruntedly back into the trees. He remained still, listening for any other sounds, but it seemed there was no one about. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of making his way to the stable via the backs of dwellings. As he had anticipated there was a sleeping stableboy in one corner who could barely rouse himself from his slumber at the young woman’s oddly timed arrival. When he did, he recognised the noblewoman, pointed towards a stall and mumbled something incoherent. Wyl was just glad to find his horse, saddle her and be off as quickly and quietly as he could.

He ignored the fresh hunger pangs that gnawed at his belly and was out onto the open road again, Derryn behind him, within moments of leaving the stable. One more day’s riding, he guessed, and he would be able to cut into Morgravia and enter Felrawthy — back into the lair of Celimus and, perhaps, a chance to get himself killed and enter a new, more suitable body.

Cailech sat in a secret cave on Haldor’s Tooth, pondering the situation that was about to unfold. The Grenadyne’s suggestion to forge an alliance with Morgravia had touched the very core of everything the Mountain King believed in. He was privately miffed such an obvious idea had not occurred to him in the past, for treating with Magnus and his General, Thirsk, would surely have been an easier process. He wondered why it was that he could see it all so clearly now and yet his own instincts had not offered the idea. Perhaps it was the fact that ever since Rashlyn’s arrival in the Razors he had derided any suggestion of forging links with Morgravia, but Cailech was not usually a man to be influenced by others. He tried to recall why he had put aside those early notions of living as neighbours alongside the bordering realm, but could find no sensible reason. He smirked at the notion that Rashlyn had somehow washed them from his mind. A ridiculous thought, considering the barshi’s loyalty to him.

Nevertheless, when Aremys returned to the cave and reported on how the meeting with Celimus had gone, Cailech felt a surge of anxiety. Was he walking into his own death? Why did it feel as though he was seeing life so much clearer out here on the mountainside?

‘You are sure there is no trap?’ he asked Aremys.

‘No, sire. But I have made our way as safe as I can under the circumstances. Celimus is organising for the hostages to be delivered as required, and I have taken out some additional insurance.’

The mercenary explained that his bargaining tool was Ylena Thirsk, daughter and brother of Morgravia’s two previous generals. The name carried weight with Cailech, and he had no qualms about using a Morgravian noblewoman to barter for their safety. There was just one question. ‘Well, where is she?’

Aremys startled the King by laughing and shrugging. ‘I have no idea, sire. But that is a worry for another day. You will be back on your own soil before I have to consider what to do.’

Cailech smiled to himself. He liked the way the large Grenadyne thought. Farrow had impressed him from their first meeting and, even though the mercenary clearly knew more than he was telling and had an uncanny interest in Galapek, Cailech privately considered the man a friend. He had never said as much but they both knew it; there was mutual respect and admiration there. Perhaps it was simply that, with his clear thinking and dry humour, Aremys reminded him of Lothryn. He missed Lothryn so deeply it actually pained him to dwell upon it.

It had been the most agonising of discoveries that his closest friend and confidant had betrayed him. How could Loth have chosen the Morgravians over his own people, over his own King? Cailech had ranted as much to Myrt, who had kept a dull silence throughout but whose lack of words said much. Cailech quietly admired the man for his loyalty to his friend. Loth could have learned much from Myrt about brotherhood, honour and trust. Cailech’s pride would not permit him to show any mercy to his childhood friend, no matter how in love with the woman of Yentro he might have been or the fact that he had aided the Morgravians’ escape without harming any of the Razors’ warriors. It made no difference why Lothryn had made his choice, it mattered only that he had made it, and it was the wrong one.

When news came that they were bringing Lothryn back alive, Cailech had wanted to slay him on the frosted stones of the fortress’s threshold. He could not bear to see his lifelong companion — now a traitor — step even one foot across it. But then Rashlyn had arrived to interfere with the King’s thoughts and persuade him to exact a higher penance.

Somehow the King had been persuaded down the path of magic. Burning with a feverish anger he had listened with fascinated horror to Rashlyn’s suggestion that there was a far more subtle option than an easy death by the sword. The barshi’s repetition of the words ‘traitor’ and ‘treachery’ had fired the King’s anguish into a white heat of vengeance. He had agreed to Rashlyn’s plan, believing that by owning Loth, by breaking his spirit and forcing his subservience with Rashlyn’s dark magic, he would somehow win his respect. His former friend and comrade would suffer the humiliation of knowing that he would for ever carry the King on his back, ever subservient to Cailech, never forgetting who ruled whom.

It was only now that Cailech could see how distorted and poisonous such a notion was. If he could reverse the magic he would do so, especially now that Aremys seemed to have such a dogged interest in the stallion. The truth was, his victory over Loth felt hollow. Painful, in fact. As with the threat to make cannibals of his own people, it had shown him to be base; led by anger rather than his clever mind. How had he permitted Rashlyn to guide his hand towards inflicting such horrors? He shook his head.

‘A silver for your thoughts, sire,’ Aremys said, approaching Cailech where he sat on a rock ledge with a clear view into Felrawthy. He brought with him a clay flask of wine and poured a cup for the King and one for himself. Myrt and the rest of the Mountain warriors were sharpening blades and checking the supplies of weapons, which everyone prayed would not be required.

‘I was just thinking of Lothryn and how much you remind me of him.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment, sire. I have heard people speak highly of your second, despite his final actions.’

‘As they should,’ Cailech said, unable to hide the sorrow that had him in its grip.

‘No one can tell me what happened to him, sire. I presume you executed him?’

Aremys heard the hesitation. ‘Yes, he is dead,’ the King replied flatly.

‘Doesn’t stop you missing him though, I see.’

Cailech nodded. ‘I miss him every day. We grew up together, we understood each other, we protected one another. That was what made his betrayal so shocking. We loved one another, Farrow. We were brothers in all but blood.’

‘With such love between you, could you not find a way to spare him?’ Aremys prompted, hoping to lead the King into revealing more about Galapek.

‘Only the barest thread separates the most passionate of opposites, Grenadyne.’

‘What do you mean, sire?’

‘I mean that because I loved Loth so much, it made me capable of intense hatred for what he did to our friendship.’

‘I understand.’ Aremys knew he would not get the admission he had hoped for.

Instead, the silence stretched between them, before Cailech roused himself from his private thoughts and addressed the question which was no doubt troubling his men too.

‘Is this a wise undertaking, Farrow?’

‘Many would consider it foolhardy, given the Morgravian sovereign’s reputation,’ Aremys replied. ‘However, I do believe that once he meets you, you more than anyone have the ability to convince him that the alliance is preferable to these regular skirmishes which could so easily escalate to war.’

Cailech nodded, reassured by the Grenadyne’s faith. ‘And his marriage?’

‘Is still planned to go ahead shortly, which is why timing is of the essence. With Briavel’s army at his beck and call, who knows what delusions might suddenly cross this fanciful King’s mind?’

‘I am told that the Legion has been deployed to the Briavellian border. Hardly a loving wedding gift.’

‘Scare tactics,’ Aremys guessed. ‘There is no benefit to Celimus starting a fresh war with Briavel when he can conquer the realm through a marriage union.’

‘Intimidating the bride is a grand way to start a historic treaty between the two realms,’ Cailech replied.

‘It seems Celimus knows no other way. From what I can gather, he has been a bully for all of his young life. Why should he change now he is King?’

‘Mmm — my thoughts exactly,’ Cailech mused.

The silence that followed felt cryptic to Aremys, but he could not put his finger on why or what the King might have meant by his comment. ‘Nothing will go wrong, sire. Just don’t tarry. Say what you have to say and plan to use emissaries to do the rest. The main thing is that both Kings meet and like what they see in each other.’

Cailech nodded. ‘When are we expected?’

‘Tomorrow. He is planning a feast in your honour. I suggest that only Myrt, Byl and I accompany you, sire.’

Cailech’s green gaze narrowed. ‘A lean force.’

‘It shows trust.’

‘Even if I don’t trust him.’

‘Exactly.’

The Mountain King laughed again. ‘I hope you do not find my blood on your hands, Grenadyne — or you will have hundreds of my warriors baying for yours.’

Cailech raised his glass to Aremys, who followed suit. ‘To unions, sire.’

‘And friendship, Farrow. Thank you for your help.’

‘Does that mean I am a free man now?’

Cailech drained his cup. ‘It does, but I hope you will return to the fortress with us.’

‘If we are all still alive after this adventure, your highness, I would be honoured to.’

Celimus was riding on the moors that surrounded Tenterdyn and surveying what he now considered Crown land.

‘It is beautiful, your majesty,’ Jessom said from his own horse, echoing the King’s thoughts.

‘I was thinking I would make Tenterdyn my summer palace and Argorn could become the royal winter retreat,’ Celimus replied with a smug smile, looking towards the majestic Razors which reared up as a hazy purple in the distance.

‘Crys Donal and Ylena Thirsk might have something to say about that, your highness,’ the Chancellor cautioned, careful to hit a tone which did not suggest either reprimand or contradiction.

‘Not from the grave they won’t,’ his King snapped testily.

The notion had crept up on the Chancellor so quietly, he had not realised it existed until this moment, but now it dawned on him that he had tired of the King’s waspish manner and complete disregard for those who strived to accommodate his whims and pander to his needs. Not a single servant was seen in any higher light than a peasant begging for coin in the gutter. In the case of Jessom, this commitment to Celimus stretched to killing for no extra reward, certainly no thanks. Jessom was no fragile soul who shirked the meting out of death; no, a kingdom could not be strong, he believed, if squeamish or too compassionate. Any successful King needed people around him who were prepared to perform tasks which involved skullduggery and cunning at times. However, in the case of Celimus, the settling-in period of brutality was, Jessom considered, prolonged. In truth, the bloodshed seemed to be escalating.

Celimus was young and brash, and his eagerness to stamp his own mark on his kingdom — and indeed beyond — was understandable. But since Jessom had first arrived in Celimus’s life he had hoped he might mould this brilliantly sharp young man into one who could be relied on to be subtle. Jessom had put all of his own life experience and extensive range of talents at the King’s disposal with the aim that Celimus might learn from him.

Maris Jessom was the seventh son of a rich man, a moneylender who was involved in a number of ventures from bridge-building to breweries. But even with such wealth, a son so far down the family’s hierarchy was never going to favour too highly in the shareholding. His eldest three brothers were carving up the empire between them and everyone else, including his three sisters, had to find their own way. In the case of his sisters, they had used their status to marry well. But Maris, thin and hook-nosed, had long ago accepted that he would never be a handsome man and so had decided from an early age to use his only real asset — his incredible intelligence — to get on in life. If the combined wits of his siblings were distilled into one, they still would not hold a candle to the speed, agility and vision of their youngest brother. Although Maris kept this weapon a secret, it was obvious to him that his father should have chosen his seventh son to run his financial empire; it seemed that he alone had inherited the shrewdness, perceptiveness and, yes, cunning, which had helped his father to become one of the wealthiest men in all of Tallinor. But Jessom senior had never taken much notice of his gangly youngest son and as soon as Maris was old enough he had been encouraged to leave the family home to seek his own fortune. His mother, who loved him well, had given him a heavy pouch of gold. ‘Use it wisely, Maris,’ she had said, her eyes beginning to tear as she hugged her youngest farewell.

And he had, roaming the towns and villages of Tallinor from north to south and east to west as a travelling moneylender: an innovative and supremely lucrative scheme, and convenient for borrowers. Money coming to them, in other words. Perhaps people thought he would never collect on his lendings, even having watched the thin man with the dark knowing eyes enter their loan into a black leatherbound ledger. But collect he did. Borrowers learned the hard way that Maris Jessom did not extend his loans. Pay up or lose everything was his creed. He had the law on his side too, because he never called in his loans early or was so greedy as to make the terms so cumbersome that they might be considered avaricious. The young Jessom was also ruthless, a characteristic which contributed to his rapid success.

It was not long before he had to travel with a bodyguard, and then two, for fear of being set upon by the new breed of bandits who seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to steal from the rich as they could afford to lose the money. This made Jessom’s anger, which was normally slow to stoke, boil up and he was soon travelling with a small company of his own paid mercenaries who killed bandits for a hobby and kept all the spoils.

Jessom enjoyed two decades of this lifestyle, during which time he built a network of contacts and knowledge from all over the region, before deciding to settle down in Tal, not far from his original family home. Here he planned to establish his own permanent moneylending empire, using mercenaries to do the dirtier work of collection around the realm. By this time both of his parents had died and his poorer siblings were scattered. The remaining brothers, who had inherited their father’s business, had not fared so well in their endeavours and became aggressive towards their wealthy younger sibling.

It was around this time that King Sorryn of Tallinor declared moneylenders — whose number seemed to have tripled in Jessom’s lifetime — to be ‘a pus-filled carbuncle on society which needed to be lanced’ and systematically set about dismantling their terrible grip on the poor. Jessom saw the crackdown coming and fled Tallinor well in advance of the Purge, as it came to be known.

He fled to Morgravia; a wealthy man still but homeless as well as landless and without the ties of family. Disillusioned, Maris Jessom decided on a change of career. He felt too old to find the energy to establish a new empire and so he watched and waited for whatever the stars had in store for him. Garnering information, observing trends and identifying needs was Jessom’s talent. He saw an opportunity within the Morgravian royal family long before it occurred to anyone else that a King might need more than his General to be his closest counsel.

The position of Chancellor did not even exist during Magnus’s reign, for he was a King who preferred the companionship and advice of his military strategist in all matters. But friendship did not necessarily provide good counsel to Jessom’s mind and it was obvious that the new King would need better guidance than what was on offer at the time of his father’s death. Even for a newcomer it did not take much to understand that Magnus and Celimus shared no feelings and Jessom saw that the son had learned little from the father other than how to hate. Maris Jessom fancied himself a kingmaker; he had a network of messengers, mercenaries, informers and spies who could help shape a kingdom, plus he had years of experience in finance as well as a shrewd understanding of human nature.

He watched Celimus for long enough before he became King to know the young man was problem-riddled and it would take years of smoothing and guidance to educate him on how to run an effective realm. Jessom saw the charm too, though; he sensed that Celimus could easily turn that talent towards his kingdom and use the energy he squandered in despising people into making them loyal to him. Jessom had to admit that the proposal of marriage to Valentyna of Briavel was a masterstroke, but the killing of her father, Valor, had been plain stupidity. It was the act of an arrogant man, too inexperienced to realise that a suggestion of his power was more than enough. Jessom believed King Valor would have supported a union between Celimus and his daughter, which made his death pointless.

The murder of Thirsk had been another senseless move, although Jessom realised that there was a history there which affected the King’s judgement and prevented him from being objective. Jessom had watched Thirsk too, long enough to realise the young General was loyal to Morgravia. All Celimus had needed to do was to lean on that loyalty — and the execution of the youngest Donal, the razing of Rittylworth, the slaughter at Tenterdyn plus various other deaths, including young helpless Jorn, need never have occurred.

Murder was dangerous. It had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt the perpetrator and Jessom could not help but think that there were too many corpses at the King’s feet — with the Chancellor’s involvement — for either of them to escape the outcry that was surely coming. All it would take was one voice of dissent. One voice that counted — be that Ylena Thirsk or Crys Donal or even Aleda Donal wherever the hell she was. A few rumblings from Lord Bench could set off a catastrophic series of questions for the King to answer… and Jessom knew who would shoulder the blame. It would not be Celimus.

And yet, if only he would listen to Jessom, Celimus could still be a strong, powerful King ruling prosperous realms. Not one or two, but three — the very empire the King dreamed of. All was not lost yet. Perhaps they could use Ylena Thirsk to their advantage — there was always a way — rather than just murdering her.

He realised he was shaking his head and that Celimus, wearing a quizzical expression, had turned his horse to face his Chancellor.

‘Your majesty, may I speak candidly?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, sire, with the alliance you may well forge with the Mountain King, and what could only be described as the fairytale union with Briavel which is about to occur, you will have achieved what most sovereigns do not dare dream of, let alone attempt.’

‘And your point is?’

‘My point is, your majesty, that you are now in the enviable position of essentially controlling the three realms without resistance, without bloodshed, without the other two sovereigns realising how powerful you actually are.’

‘Why is this a good thing, Jessom?’

‘Your highness, there is a saying which holds good in almost every facet of life: never allow one hand to know what the other is doing.’

‘Don’t give me riddles, you fool. Speak plainly.’

Jessom drew a deep breath to stop his disdain from showing. ‘Once married, Valentyna is beholden to you as wife so she will be unable to rally against you, which effectively leaves the Mountain King in the cold should he suddenly decide the alliance is not working for him. I suspect he is much too canny for that, so he will maintain the peace and enjoy the benefits of trade and free movement as well as increased prosperity. My lord, it is obvious to me that, handled with care, you will have the empire you have always dreamed of.’ The words: Is that plain enough for you, fool? leapt to mind, but he resisted speaking them aloud.

‘Did you think, Jessom,’ Celimus replied, ‘that I could not work this out for myself? Is it your belief that I need you to spell out every scenario for me because I am too dimwitted to see beyond what is in front of my nose?’ The tone was sarcastic and dangerous.

‘Not at all, sire,’ Jessom replied, equally calmly but also with courtesy. ‘I just think that killing Ylena Thirsk or Crys Donal might be… well, shall we say “hasty” for want of a better word.’

‘So you would have me leave two dangerous mouths on the loose?’

‘All I suggest, sire, is that you wait. You will have Ylena Thirsk in captivity shortly. Don’t do anything too soon. Think on the various situations which will inevitably present themselves. I imagine that Ylena Thirsk is feeling extraordinarily isolated these days. She has no parents, she has lost her guardian and her beloved brother is dead. Her new husband and his family — her only allies — are fodder for the worms. Apart from Crys Donal she has no one to turn to. She is a beautiful, vulnerable young woman who no doubt craves the security of being pampered again within her own private chambers with servants to wait on her, fancy gowns on her body and money at her disposal — everything back as it was. Think about it, sire, you could be her saviour. You could put all this behind you and lavish your care and riches on the lonely girl — until she becomes your supporter.’

Celimus listened this time without the smirk on his face. ‘She always was a spoilt little thing. I used to think she’d jump at shadows.’

‘This is what I mean, sire. She may boast the name of Thirsk but she is merely a girl. Her world has crumbled and been destroyed. What she needs now is resurrection from the rubble. If you provide that, it doesn’t matter what excuses or tall stories you weave to excuse your behaviour of the past; she will believe them all because what she wants is her life back again and a sense of safety. Marry her off well — to your gain. I would go so far as to suggest you find her a high-ranking warrior from Cailech’s brood. She will be no more trouble to you then.’

The King’s horse was restless. ‘I will think on what you have said, Jessom,’ Celimus replied. ‘What time is the Mountain King due?’

‘Midday, your highness. We had better make for the house.’

‘My summer palace,’ Celimus corrected and smiled.

Jessom saw no warmth in the smile; if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had never seen any genuine warmth in Celimus. Why it should bother him now was a surprise. This mood of dissatisfaction had taken him so unexpectedly that he recognised it as dangerous. He, like the King, had some thinking to do; nevertheless, he was relieved that Celimus had agreed not to kill Ylena Thirsk immediately, which had surely been his original intention. This was a small win. Now the Chancellor prayed to his adopted god of Shar that King Celimus and King Cailech would take to one another. Surely that was not too much to ask in the name of peace?

The King galloped on ahead but Jessom rode back to Tenterdyn more sedately, silent and distracted by his thoughts.

FOURTEEN

VALENTYNA CRAFTED HER letter to Celimus the same afternoon of Crys Donal’s departure. She wrote with great caution, outlining that she was releasing the woman, Ylena Thirsk, into his care. The words suggested her expectation that he would look after Ylena even though she was being given into the captivity of the Morgravian Crown. The Queen expressed her desire that any known enemy of Morgravia could not be considered a friend of Briavel and that, as helpless as Ylena painted her situation, Valentyna did not wish to go against the express wishes of her husband-to-be. She felt sick writing the lies but pressed on, detailing her progress with her own arrangements for the wedding, not describing her gown but telling him a little of how well it looked. She discussed the party that would accompany her into Morgravia, which was not inconsequential, and then lightly touched on her desire to return to Briavel soon after the ceremony so that a second celebration could be held for her people. Valentyna, much to her distaste, felt she should ooze some special compliments here about how much the Briavellians were looking forward to seeing their Queen with her new King.

By the end of it she felt revolted by the smooth way in which she had lied to protect her own life as well as how easily she was giving Ylena’s precious life away. As terrible thoughts filled her mind about how Celimus might choose to kill Wyl Thirsk’s sister — and kill her he would, she knew this — the guilt of knowing how generously Wyl had sacrificed himself for Briavel’s heir and how she was repaying that with disdain for his family nearly overwhelmed her. Valentyna’s fingers twitched with the desire to rip up the parchment with its treacherous contents.

But it was the memory of Ylena’s hard words that she was not the Queen’s to command, and that returning to Celimus was her own choice, that stayed her hand. It was Ylena’s decision to give up her life and Valentyna realised she would probably aggrieve the young woman more if she did not carry out her wishes. Her life was forfeit anyway, Valentyna told herself. One way or another, Celimus would hunt Ylena down and complete his annihilation of the Thirsk line — this much she knew was truth. Ylena wanted to make her life count for something. It was as though she felt her sacrifice for Briavel — Morgravia’s traditional enemy — matched that of Wyl’s and would give some point to all the deaths that surrounded this tragic family. Buying Valentyna more time in tricking Celimus and almost having the last, albeit pointless, laugh was the only way Ylena could fight back and avenge all the pain.

‘Too sad,’ Valentyna murmured at her desk. ‘Your life is given too cheaply, Ylena, for the gain is so little. I cannot escape marrying him.’

She had the letter despatched immediately, for fear of changing her mind, going so far as to take the parchment to the stables herself and place it into the courier’s hand.

‘How long?’ she asked. Briavel also used a relay network for messengers and she felt sure, once across the border, the Morgravian couriers would respect the urgency of this missive.

‘Two days if we all ride hard, your majesty,’ the young man said.

‘Then use as many couriers as you can for maximum speed. It is extremely important that King Celimus sees this message as quickly as possible.’

‘I shall personally ride like the wind, your highness,’ he said, and with a bow from the saddle he was gone, clattering over Werryl Bridge and heading north-east as fast as his horse would go.

Valentyna turned away, feeling hollow and more lonely than she ever had in her life. Growing up as an only child had taught her to be self-sufficient and imaginative but nothing could have prepared her for this complete loss of family, friends, and allies. And still, she realised, she could not begin to reach the depth of loss that Ylena must surely be experiencing. No wonder Wyl’s sister was throwing her life away with such abandon. It might also explain why she was indulging in curious affections. The Queen had not been able to shake the memory of Ylena’s kiss; it seemed to haunt her every moment. There had been such tenderness in it … no, it was more than that. It was filled with love. Valentyna had only been kissed once before in such a manner and that was by Romen. Although this was a different mouth, different face, a different everything, there was such aching familiarity to the passion behind that affection. But the memory of that physical love made Valentyna angry too. Angry enough to want to fight: not Ylena, but the person who had perpetrated all the pain. On her way back into the palace, in a state of absolute resentment at the way life was turning out, she sent a runner to find Commander Liryk.

He arrived slightly out of breath at her study door. ‘My Queen, you wished to see me?’

Valentyna was struck by how old Liryk seemed all of a sudden. She had taken his and Krell’s presence around her for granted, as if they would always be in her life, but this man was surely well into his seventh decade. The notion of him not being around one day bit hard into her thoughts, reminding her that she may lose yet another of her supporters soon. It hardened her resolve.

‘Yes, Commander, thank you for coming so quickly. In the absence of a Chancellor I would like you to summon the nobles for me.’

‘Of course, your highness,’ Liryk said, frowning despite his courteous manner. ‘All of them?’

‘Yes. It is urgent. How swiftly are you able to gather them for a meeting?’

He paused and she wondered whether he was considering her question or her state of mind. He obviously anticipated that she was about to do something dramatic. ‘Three days, your majesty, if I get the couriers sent immediately.’

‘Do it please, Liryk. I’d appreciate it if you would give this your utmost priority.’

‘Of course, your highness.’ She waited, and of course the gentle objection came. ‘It is unusual. Perhaps I could give them some inkling of what you wish to discuss so urgently?’

She smiled. She had expected this. ‘State security, tell them,’ she answered and turned away, not unkindly but certainly sufficiently firmly to let Liryk know he was dismissed. ‘Thank you, Liryk,’ she added, just in case he thought to try and dissuade her.

Valentyna heard the soft sigh, the protest of his knee as he bowed and then the sound of the door closing. She shut her eyes, thankful it had not turned into a discussion where she felt obliged to explain her every action. It was done. Now she had to consider carefully what she was going to say to these men that could possibly change their minds about this forthcoming union of Briavel with Morgravia.

At around the same time that the somewhat bewildered nobles of Briavel were answering their young sovereign’s summons to gather in the Great Hall of Werryl, Wyl had allowed himself to be picked up by Morgravian soldiers and was relieved to see that they were genuine Legionnaires and not mercenaries. It was a young company but although he recognised none of them, they certainly recognised his name. An awkward silence spread through the group of men as Wyl finished his introduction.

‘You are General Wyl Thirsk’s sister?’ the startled leader qualified.

‘I am,’ Wyl replied, his spirits soaring. He knew it was unlikely he could change the outcome of what was going to happen, but hearing his own name uttered with such reverence restored his confidence that he could at least do his best to interrupt Celimus’s plans. And perhaps he might live to fight another day in another body.

He wondered whether Valentyna had taken his advice to write to Celimus and claim she was sending Ylena to him. Their parting had been so awkward and painful, he supposed the Queen was just glad to be rid of Ylena Thirsk.

The young officer could not help himself. ‘But what are you doing here? We heard you had disappeared.’

Wyl was certainly not going to start explaining any more than he wanted to give away. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Harken,’ the young man replied. ‘Er, Captain Harken, I hope, by year’s end.’

‘Well, Harken, firstly please remember whom you address. I am the daughter of General Fergys Thirsk, Duke of Argorn, and the sister of General Wyl Thirsk. Please treat me in the fashion you should any noble.’

Harken flushed with embarrassment at the stinging rebuke. Blotches of red appeared on his cheeks and ears. ‘I… I apologise, Lady Thirsk.’

When he saw his reprimand had worked Wyl deliberately looked behind him as if suddenly fearful. He might as well continue with his planned charade and hope that the Queen of Briavel would at least make his next death count for something. ‘Thank you, Harken. Have they gone?’

‘Who, my lady?’ the man asked, desperate to please. He looked over her shoulder and his companions followed suit, suddenly nervous.

‘The Briavellian guardsmen who brought me to this crossing point.’ Swords were drawn instantly, the ring of steel loud in the silence of the morning. ‘Fret not, gentlemen,’ Wyl assured, ‘they have no quarrel with you. The guard accompanied me here — my keepers, if you will.’

Wyl held his breath, hoping his detached manner and confident explanation would trick them into believing he had been brought to this point under armed escort.

‘Why have they brought you here, my lady?’ Harken sensibly asked.

‘I am a gift,’ Wyl said, taking some grim amusement from the irony of his words. ‘For your King.’

The aspiring Captain looked appropriately baffled as well as rattled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You are not meant to, but your sovereign will and you will raise his ire if I am not taken to him immediately. I have no intention of trying to escape,’ Wyl added, glancing towards the rope which had appeared in one anxious pair of hands. ‘All you’re required to do is escort me into Tenterdyn, gentlemen. Restraint is not necessary.’

‘Put that away,’ Harken snapped at a lad not much younger than he was. ‘You do know who this is, don’t you?’ he added, more angry with himself, Wyl suspected, than the youngster. ‘Lady Thirsk! She is to be treated with respect.’

‘Thank you, Harken. I’m sure my brother would be proud of you.’

‘I never met him, my lady. He passed away the same week as I entered the Legion, but your family’s name means everything to me. I grew up with it around me and all I ever wanted to do was join the Legion and be commanded by General Thirsk.’

‘Are you Laud Harken’s son?’

‘Yes, my lady. I am surprised you know of him.’

Wyl realised it was probably an error for him to admit as much, but then the discovery that this lad was the son of one of the Legion’s finest soldiers was a surprise. ‘My brother spoke well of Laud Harken. How is he?’

‘Dead, my lady. He fell in the north recently.’

‘How?’

Harken shrugged, embarrassed by the sorrowful tremor in his voice. ‘I was told it was a Mountain warrior’s arrow, but, my lady, he disagreed with the Rittylworth scandal and no doubt said too much, too loudly.’

Murmurings erupted within the group. This was verging on treasonous talk, but it told Wyl how the name of Thirsk still resonated loudly within the Legion. It provoked an honesty which might not be so forthcoming with other strangers. He was counting on this very fact to enable Crys to stir up trouble in Pearlis.

‘I understand, Harken, and I am deeply sorry for your loss. Now you must taken me to Tenterdyn.’

The company remained on patrol whilst the young Captain-to-be provided the escort alone. This pleased Wyl for it gave him a chance to learn as much as he could from the gullible youngster. They travelled in silence for a while before Wyl decided it was time to ease out information.

‘I imagine the missive from Briavel has arrived by now?’

Harken frowned. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, I wouldn’t know.’

Wyl felt disappointment slice him. Perhaps Harken would be no help after all. ‘Apparently there was a courier coming from Queen Valentyna about my arrival.’

Harken shook his head. ‘We can find out. I will make some enquiries as soon as we arrive.’

‘Who is your General now?’ Wyl asked. He could see Tenterdyn sprawling in the distance. They would be there soon.

‘The King is our General, my lady.’

Wyl felt sickened. So Celimus had finally got his wish and taken over the Legion.

‘I see. And I hear he is expecting a parley with the Mountain King?’

‘Yes. It occurs today, so I have been briefed. King Cailech arrives by midday and there is a feast in his honour.’

‘You sound excited, Harken.’

‘I am, my lady. If our King marries Queen Valentyna and this parley achieves a truce between Morgravia and the Razor Kingdom, there will be peace at long last.’

Wyl made Ylena smile. ‘I thought most young men of your age dreamed of going to war?’

‘I am engaged to be married, my lady. I dream of Alys more than I do of killing for my realm.’ He returned her smile with a shy one of his own.

‘Good for you. It is a worthy dream. So you trust your King to achieve these two coups?’

Harken smiled ruefully. ‘If anyone can, King Celimus can.’ Wyl suspected that Harken, young as he was, would not be drawn into saying anything openly traitorous, although his tone suggested he felt it.

‘Peace for the region would be a rare achievement.’

‘Is the Queen as beautiful as everyone says she is?’ Harken gushed suddenly.

Wyl nodded. ‘More exquisite than you can possibly imagine.’

‘I was told you were a beauty, my lady,’ Harken began, then pulled himself back. He looked stricken. ‘Forgive me, my lady, I meant no offence.’

‘None taken. I imagine I look a real fright, dressed like a man and having ridden for days,’ Wyl admitted. ‘It is not easy to feel pretty in this situation.’

‘I’m sorry, Lady Ylena, that was tactless of me. Do you mind me asking why you are presenting yourself to the King? There was a rumour that…’ he struggled to say more.

‘That he tried to kill me?’ Wyl finished. The young man nodded. ‘It is true, Harken. Your King is not a good man, I’m sorry to say, and I think you know it. You suspect your father’s death was not as cut and dried as it was painted to be, and you are most likely right. If Laud stood up to the King’s treachery at Rittylworth, then he would have paid in the most dramatic way. I am truly sorry for your family.’

Harken’s eyes were wide, the first hints of fear creeping across his innocent face. They were just a few yards from entering the compound of Tenterdyn now. Wyl spoke quickly. ‘Listen to me. I am here to frighten the King. Trust me that I am not here to prevent peace. Hopefully the King’s marriage to the Queen of Briavel will herald the beginning of the great union of our two realms and perhaps he might forge a peace with King Cailech, but Celimus is not a man ever to be trusted. Remember that, Harken. Remember these words, spoken by someone who loves Morgravia and its people… and is especially loyal to the Legion.’

The young man clearly heard the desperation in his companion’s voice. ‘I don’t want to take you in there, my lady,’ he said, further stricken. Both of them saw the gatekeeper stepping out.

‘You must. But you must also do what your heart tells you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Harken urged.

‘You will. You are Legion, used to taking orders, but one of the defining characteristics of an officer of the Legion is that he will never do anything to hurt another Morgravian unless that person is a betrayer of the realm. Keep that in your heart. Do not allow this King to lead you and your men and the rest of the soldiers down the path of darkness. Be true to the Legion first.’

‘Ho, who comes?’ The gatekeeper’s voice ripped through the tension of their whispered conversation.

‘Tell the truth,’ Wyl encouraged. ‘You cannot save me.’

Harken spared an anguished glance towards the woman beside him. Wyl felt sorry for the youngster who, despite knowing so little, was torn; he had sensed he was involved in something deeply wrong by escorting Ylena Thirsk into the den of the dragon King.

‘Come on, boy, we haven’t got all day!’ the soldier urged, irritated. ‘Who do you bring here?’

Wyl cleared his throat. ‘I am the Lady Ylena Thirsk, sir. I wish to speak to King Celimus.’

The gatekeeper laughed. ‘Yes, and I’m the Lady Twinkle and plan to marry him. What is this?’ he roared at Harken.

‘Watch your manners!’ Harken commanded, and the soldier glanced towards the badge on the youngster’s uniform. This was an officer in the making and Wyl quietly smirked at the older man’s error.

‘This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk,’ Harken said, firm of voice now. ‘She has already been searched but you may do so again if you are required.’

The gatekeeper, far less chirpy now, signalled to another guard who asked Wyl to alight from his horse, which he did. He was searched and Harken’s papers were checked for authenticity, which, Wyl guessed, was all part of the King’s fear that he could be assassinated at any time. They were permitted to enter the gate by the now slightly sheepish keeper. Another, more senior soldier arrived to ask questions and his eyebrows arched immediately at the name of the woman standing before him.

‘Call the Chancellor,’ he said to his offsider. Then to Wyl, politely: ‘We wait, my lady.’

He turned to the Legionnaire. ‘Thank you, Harken. We will take it from here. You may return to your men.’

Wyl offered his hand to the young man. ‘Thank you for your escort,’ he said, although he hoped his gaze communicated far more. ‘Again, I am sorry to hear about your father,’ he added.

Harken looked distracted and anxious. ‘Sir, has a missive arrived from Briavel? It involves Lady Thirsk.’

The man shook his head. ‘Nothing has arrived from Briavel and I am the first point of contact for all deliveries.’

‘Perhaps I should wait —’ the young man began.

‘No, Harken. You have a company of men without their leader. Return to your post,’ the senior man said, this time firmly enough that it brooked no further argument. Wyl knew this older man, had little time for him. He had a tendency to bully the younger men. As General, he had planned to tease him out from his senior position but life’s problems had got in the way and now, as sure as water runs downhill, men like this one had found their way into Celimus’s inner sanctum.

Harken bowed. When he straightened, Wyl alone saw the anger and concern in those eyes before the youngster saluted and departed the compound.

‘Ah, here we are,’ the older soldier muttered and Wyl turned to see Chancellor Jessom emerging from the main house, a look of pleasure on his face. He swiftly adjusted it to a thin smile but Wyl saw the satisfaction all the same. Surely astonishment, or at the very least irritation, was more fitting to greet someone they had hoped was dead by now? Not pleasure.

Jessom’s stride was confident and he covered the ground between the main dwelling and the gatehouse surprisingly swiftly. ‘Ylena Thirsk. Almost perfect timing.’

Wyl was confused. He kept his expression deliberately blank as his mind raced to understand this new development. He allowed Jessom to go on talking. ‘Our King was wondering when you would be delivered. This will be a special birthday present for him and no doubt he will reward Aremys royally for the gift of your life into his hands.’

They were expecting Ylena’s arrival? How could this be if nothing from Valentyna had arrived — and what did he mean about Aremys?

Wyl decided he had to make time for himself to discover more. ‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’

Jessom’s smile thinned even further. ‘My apologies, we have never been introduced. I am Jessom, Chancellor and King’s Counsel of Morgravia.’

‘Since when did King Celimus take advice from anyone?’ Wyl replied as acidly as he could, watching the crease across Jessom’s face, which passed for his smile, fade entirely.

‘Thank you, Bern. I will take the Lady Ylena from here,’ Jessom said to the officer nearby. The man nodded and left their company, happy to pass on responsibility, but not before both Jessom and Wyl saw his raised eyebrows at Ylena’s cutting comment. Wyl unhappily allowed Jessom to guide him away from the gates but he noted that it was not towards the main house. They had other plans for Lady Thirsk.

Jessom’s voice was biting when it came. ‘You are in a perilous situation, Ylena Thirsk. I suggest you not make it worse on yourself,’ he advised.

Wyl made Ylena’s beautiful face smirk. ‘How much worse could it possibly get, Jessom? The snake that sits upon the Morgravian throne is hardly going to show mercy. I do not fear him.’

‘Nevertheless, I recommend you don’t openly insult King Celimus. It could go very badly for you.’

‘You don’t understand, Chancellor. I am not afraid of dying. I am not afraid of Celimus and his savage tortures. Any opportunity I get, sir, I will openly insult him and the bitch-Queen who spawned him.’

Jessom was normally a man in control of his emotions but he drew back in surprise at the fighting words of this young woman. ‘When Aremys said he could deliver you, Ylena, I’m not sure our King understood how heroic you have become. It seems your struggles to survive have toughened you. This can only mean he will enjoy hurting you all the more. I am not a cruel man and I certainly do not condone hurting women. Let me suggest again that you make this easier on yourself.’

Wyl was happy he had managed to sting the man into losing his composure, even slightly. But more important to him was the second mention of his friend. Aremys said he could deliver me? Wyl thought. What is going on?

‘I am glad I have impressed you, Chancellor, but frankly, it is not my intention. I will not plead for the King’s mercy. He can do with me as he wishes.’

‘Then I wonder, what is your intention? What can you possibly gain through your defiance?’

‘All will be explained, I am sure,’ Wyl answered cryptically. Valetyna’s letter had definitely not arrived then.

The Chancellor’s face betrayed his bafflement. Wyl understood this was a man used to having information about everyone and everything as best as he could achieve. No wonder he looked so confused.

‘The King will see you in good time,’ Jessom said, more businesslike now. ‘But for the meantime, you will remain in here.’ They had arrived at an outbuilding: a storage hut built in the shade of a huge oak and where Aleda had kept her cool pantry. ‘I’m afraid you have timed your arrival a little prematurely, Ylena. King Cailech is due any minute.’

Wyl made a sound of disdain.

Jessom pointed to a bucket of water. ‘May I suggest you clean yourself up. I can have a gown found for you, if it pleases.’

‘It does not please. I will see the King exactly as I stand before you, Chancellor. And by the way, your new status as servant to the King —’ Wyl emphasised the word ‘servant’, saw that it struck home and cheered inwardly — ‘does not permit you to address a noble by anything but the correct title, sir. You will refer to me as Lady Ylena Thirsk or Lady Ylena Donal — take your pick — but you will accord me the small measure of respect I am due, prisoner or not.’

The Chancellor was taken aback by the attack but composed himself smoothly and was quick to retaliate. ‘Morgravia has forgotten you, young lady, and your family’s name is being dragged through the mire at every opportunity. Climb off your pedestal, Ylena. I am not intimidated by your noble line. I’m wondering how long they will respect you when your head is rotting on a spike outside Pearlis. In fact, I’ll do you a kindness — I’ll hunt down Alyd Donal’s head for you so you can both rot together. Romantic eh?’ he said, uncharacteristically cruel as he finished tying her ankle to a huge timber post in the hut. ‘Now clean yourself up, woman, and make ready to meet your sovereign.’

For the first time in his life Wyl spat at someone. It was the only fierce comeback he could think of to show his hate for this servile creature of the King’s. He half-hoped Jessom would kill him in a blood rush of anger. He could do serious damage walking around in the Chancellor’s body.

But Jessom was not a man of violence; he was far more subtle in how he could inflict pain. Instead he made a clicking sound of reproach, as a parent might to a naughty child. ‘And you want to be treated like a lady?’ He laughed; the sound was harsh and filled with equal hate. ‘I have been spat on all my life, Ylena,’ he said, wiping her spittle from his robe, ‘and I have always beaten my enemies.’

He turned at the sound of the bell from the gatehouse. It was the signal that King Cailech’s party had arrived.

‘Farewell, Ylena. We shall summon you in due course.’

FIFTEEN

FYNCH AND KNAVE STOOD at the foot of the Razors, about to step onto a tiny, unguarded track which would guide their ascent into the mountains. They had seen no soldiers and their journey from the Wild had been uneventful, and enjoyable for Fynch who had needed time to think. Knave was not a companion who made conversation — he replied to questions, and prompted them if he considered it important, otherwise he was silent. Fynch loved the sheer size and bulk of Knave which made him feel safe and not a bit lonely.

‘Why are we walking? Surely the Thicket could send us?’ Fynch wondered.

You can send us, Knave said, a rare tone of amusement in his voice. Too dangerous, though. We cannot take the chance of Rashlyn sensing a powerful spelling. The sending of Aremys might have registered with him, but he would not have known what it was and we can only hope he dismissed it. However, since then we have had the transfer of Wyl to Briavel, the death of Elysius, the arrival of the Dragon King and you coming into your power. So many surges of magic are not so easily dismissed.

Fynch nodded seriously as he considered all of this power swirling about in such a short time span. ‘Do you think he knows Elysius has died?’

I suspect he might have felt something. More importantly, I am wary that he would have felt the transference of power.

‘How would he sense it? Would it be like a pain?’

The dog led them onto the narrow track. Neither of them looked behind, even though they were now officially leaving Briavel.

Possibly. More likely he would feel it as you might a seizure. Not pain so much, but loss of physical control and perhaps consciousness. It would bewilder more than hurt.

‘But would he know what it was?’ Fynch persisted as he pushed aside the branches of overhanging trees.

Who knows, Fynch? It would shock him to learn that his brother has been alive all this time, if indeed he did work out that the disturbance was Elysius dying, but I can’t imagine he could begin to consider that his sibling’s magic had been passed on.

‘You are guessing this, though.’

Of course. But remember, your sensitivity towards magic and your ability to embrace it and use it is known only to those of the Thicket. Rashlyn may be a sorcerer but he is not sensitive to the natural world. Elysius was the opposite: he was at one with Shar’s creation, whereas his brother is an abomination within it.

The track rose sharply ahead of them and they began to climb in silence, Fynch concentrating on the challenging, slightly slippery surface of decaying leaves. After what felt like an age they reached a plateau of rock, the trees below them now. It was cold in the open and a breeze had whipped up. Fynch shivered through his breathlessness. He did not like the cold; he felt it before most others did because of his thinly-fleshed body and was glad of the thick fleece jacket Knave had found in Elysius’s home and had insisted he carry.

We must be wary, now that we have no cover for a while, Knave cautioned.

Fynch squatted on his haunches to take some deep breaths and rest for a few moments. He put on the jacket, relishing its instant warmth, then took a sip from his waterskin.

‘Are you hungry, Knave?’ he asked, wondering if the dog should be allowed to hunt.

I don’t need food, Fynch. I only ate when with Wyl to keep a pretence of normality.

‘No food at all?’ Fynch was incredulous.

None. I am of the Thicket.

‘You are real though, aren’t you, Knave?’ There was a plaintiveness in the boy’s voice.

Real enough, fret not.

Fynch sighed and confessed, ‘I rarely feel hungry either. I eat because I know I should, never because I want to.’

That is because of who you are, what you belong to. The powers you have.

‘How can that be? I didn’t possess magic until the day Elysius died.’

Fynch, you have always had the capacity to wield a certain magic. You just didn’t know it until now.

Fynch shook his head, too distracted and surprised by Knave’s assured claim to argue the matter. He took another draught of water to calm himself. ‘How long will it take us to get to the fortress?’ he finally asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, imagining his sister scolding him for such an act. He would give anything to be admonished by her once more but he doubted he would see any of his family again.

Yes, the fortress. I’ve been thinking about that, the dog replied. It occurs to me that if we do our resting by afternoon, we might cover more ground at night.

‘Using magic, you mean?’

The dog did not answer immediately. Instead, he sniffed the air and Fynch kept the silence, knowing Knave was pondering the most difficult of decisions.

Yes, the dog said at last. I am hoping that if Rashlyn follows a normal pattern, he may not sense small bursts of power as he sleeps. In truth I don’t believe he will know what it is even if he does feel it, but I have been reluctant to take any chances.

‘But you’ve changed your mind now?’

Knave’s voice was gentle. I think I overlooked how slight you are, Fynch. I don’t believe we will be able to cover as much ground as I had hoped. It is a long way from Briavel’s side of the Razors to Cailech’s fortress on their western rim — I realise now it would take us too long. We shall have to take the risk. He said the last few words with regret.

‘But keep the distances small,’ Fynch added with trepidation.

The dog’s dark eyes regarded him sorrowfully. I am sorry to ask it of you. You will need to chew on the sharvan leaves regularly now.

‘Don’t be sorry, it’s my burden,’ Fynch replied, wishing he felt more brave than he sounded. He attempted a brighter tone. ‘This is how we travelled before, isn’t it… from Baelup to the Thicket?’

Except then I had to rely on the Thicket and Elysius bringing us to them. This time we travel with all the power we need.

‘Are you sure?’ Fynch had no idea how he was supposed to effect such a magic. He had thought after the transfer from Elysius he might feel a reservoir of power gurgling within, a well of magic at his beck and call. But there was no sense of this. He could detect no change within himself. He mentioned this to his friend.

Knave considered the question. Again Fynch waited patiently. The dog sighed. It is different for me. I am of the Thicket, therefore I rely on it to feed me its magic when it needs to use me, and I feel an energy buzzing within. Anyone touched by the Thicket would feel it, I’m sure. I imagine Wyl might sense it echoing within him somehow and Aremys too. They have both been touched by the magic of the Thicket.

‘Then why not me?’

I think, Fynch, because you are more than us, the dog said gravely.

‘More than you?’ the boy repeated, not understanding.

Knave tried again. I belong to the Thicket. Wyl, Aremys — and others no doubt — have been touched by it; not empowered by it but affected somehow. But Elysius, and now you, are connected to it in ways I can’t explain. We have no magic without the Thicket to feed it. You both do.

‘Oh,’ Fynch replied, still feeling baffled.

But I think, my friend, there is far more to you.

‘What do you mean?’ Fynch frowned.

Knave gave a low growl of frustration, as if he could not put into words what he was trying to say. It’s as if you and the Thicket are one. Where Elysius was passing through — for want of a better way of describing it — you belong to the Thicket and it to you. Elysius only added to a power which had already been awakened within you. And the King of the Creatures never visited Elysius. I have never seen him before — most of us haven’t.

The gravity of Knave’s explanation hit Fynch like a blow. The words and their intent terrified him. There was a finality to what Knave was suggesting; it was as if the Thicket had a hold on him he would never escape. He did not want to think about it any further. Neither was he ready to consider the implication of the Dragon King’s visit, that knowing in his eyes. It was all too bewildering and frightening.

‘So what is your plan again?’ he said, deliberately forcing the fear away by changing the topic.

Knave must have sensed Fynch’s terror for he switched smoothly from their previous discussion. We travel on foot by day, then sleep from late afternoon for as long as you wish. We cannot travel by sending until the early hours of the morning, by which time I am counting on Rashlyn being asleep.

‘But what if he’s not?’

If a dog could shrug Knave would have done so at that moment. If he can sense your magic, there’s not much we can do about that. We will keep the sendings short so he never feels it quite long enough to tease at it. He cannot see you, Fynch. Not even with his own magic.

‘But he might feel me coming, is that what you mean?’

Perhaps; I don’t know. But he won’t know who or what it is, I believe.

‘All right,’ Fynch said, fatalism sweeping over him. If he was honest with himself, he had always felt that way. He had never been a child to dream of the future or to make plans. He had taken each day as it presented itself and enjoyed all that life gave him during those days. He was a sunny child and his mother had said often enough that he was destined for something special, but he had never understood, just smiled into her faraway stare and loved her despite her oddities. He thought of his mother now. She had often disappeared for days but she would always return. When she did, she would be withdrawn, a little moody — sometimes angry, but with herself not her children. One evening, returning late from his toil at Stoneheart, Fynch had overheard his parents arguing. His father had called his mother a slut. Fynch did not know what that word meant, but the vehemence behind it had shocked him. His mother had laughed in her tinkling manner and given some retort which had enraged his father further. A year or so later Fynch had learned the meaning of the insult and asked his sister about it. She had looked embarrassed and even pained by his query, but was a truthful person like her brother so had explained to him that their mother was a free spirit. ‘A sort of madness overcomes her,’ he remembered his sister saying.

‘And what happens?’ Fynch had asked, not really comprehending.

‘Well, it takes her away from us,’ his sister had replied gently and ruffled his hair. ‘Sometimes she needs space and freedom.’

Fynch was a child who needed clarity in all things and so he persisted. ‘What does she do when she goes away?’

He recalled now how his kind sister had sighed. ‘She allows men to take her, Fynch. It means nothing. Dad says it is a madness and best we leave it at that.’

The little boy had finally understood. He knew his mother was fey — she saw things in her dreams and heard voices whispering to her. Most of the folk around their way thought she was bordering on insane but in truth he could not imagine his mother any other way. He loved her just as she was, with all her curious ways, and although deeply troubled to hear of this new side of her life, he said no more about it. But he thought on it, wondering which men had taken their pleasures with his mother. She was pretty, there was no doubting it, with her petite frame and elfin looks. And when she let her golden hair down, and bathed and put on a fresh dress, she still took his father’s breath away. He loved her so, which made her inclinations all the more hurtful. His father would drink himself into a stupor each time she disappeared, no doubt hoping the liquor would take away the grief.

Soon after learning his mother’s secret, Fynch had become troubled by thoughts that perhaps he was not sired by his father. Fynch did not resemble any of his siblings closely — they were all dark and solid like his father, whilst he was fair, golden in fact, possessing those same elfin qualities as his mother. Since learning of her ‘moments’, as he called them, he had worked hard at convincing himself that he was simply his mother all over again, yet the thought still troubled him. He had never shared this anxiety with anyone. Well, not any person. The Dragon King had seen it in him though — Fynch was sure of it. The dragon’s eyes had flared as they penetrated the boy’s soul — had the dragon seen the truth of Fynch’s secret fear?

As he climbed further into the Razors, Fynch thought about what the King of the Creatures had asked of him. Perhaps, in his heart, he had always known that his life would be brief and so had given his energy to enjoying the moment he lived in. So be it. He was not scared of dying any more but he would make his death count. As much as the Dragon King saw destroying Rashlyn as his priority, Fynch knew that his own loyalty lay with Wyl and did not care to share this secret with anyone — not even Knave. Somehow he had to help Wyl defeat Celimus. It was why he had risked more headaches in sending Wyl to Werryl. And, against Knave’s counsel, he had sent Valentyna the chaffinch to whistle a tune he hoped would prompt her to wait for Ylena. He had even risked more pain to send dream thoughts to Wyl, urging him to face Celimus and to die again, if necessary.

Fynch was utterly committed to the cause of ridding Morgravia of its present King and somehow protecting Valentyna and Wyl. Deep down he believed Valentyna would have to marry Celimus — there was not enough to prevent it if she was to ensure peace for her realm. He worried whether she could survive their marriage for he knew the cruelty of Celimus. But far worse was his deeply held notion that Wyl would fail in his bid to become Celimus. When he tried to interpret this chilling thought, the only explanation he could come up with for his fear was that Wyl hated Celimus so much he could never live with himself in that guise. Living as Celimus would be his last life too — Elysius had said as much. But it struck Fynch that if Wyl could not achieve the end of the Quickening by becoming Celimus, it could mean an infinite lifetime of changing bodies. Or perhaps the opposite, he reasoned. Perhaps Wyl would die in the body of some lonely guard, an arrow through his back. Fynch grasped — perhaps more than Wyl did — that in any of his guises Wyl could be killed through an accident or natural causes. The Quickening, as Fynch understood it, only worked if the killer was connected to Wyl via a weapon or touch, which was why Myrren could not use the magic to save herself. She had died at the stake; the flames had taken her life.

Knave interrupted his thoughts. We had best keep moving. We are too exposed here.

Fynch stood, adjusted the sack across his shoulder and, after buttoning his fleece, followed the dog.

What were you thinking about? Knave asked.

Fynch was surprised. The dog rarely asked questions on such a conversational level. ‘Myrren,’ he replied.

Oh?

‘I asked Elysius why she could not save herself with the Quickening and he explained that Myrren knew she would not die by the hand of a person; she understood that the flames would consume her. Thus the Quickening could not save her and so she took revenge instead. If only she hadn’t,’ he finished, more bitterly than he had intended.

It wouldn’t have changed Wyl’s fate, Knave said softly. Celimus would still have sent him on the journey of treachery into Briavel. Wyl would have died by Romen’s sword; Ylena would have wasted away in the dungeon no doubt; and Gueryn would have died in the Razors.

Fynch nodded wearily. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

I don’t approve of what Myrren and Elysius did, Fynch, but Wyl’s life was forfeit from the moment Celimus took the throne. It might be worth you looking upon the Quickening as a gift rather than a curse.

Fynch rubbed Knave’s great head to acknowledge the kindness in the dog’s voice. No one could approve of the Quickening but perhaps some good might yet come of it. He thought about the ekon which could so easily have killed Wyl in the Razors. If the beast had succeeded, that would have been the end for Wyl, for Elysius had told him the magic worked only between humans. They had a lot to thank Lothryn for, if he still lived. The fate of a kingdom had possibly shifted on the strength of that one man’s bravery.

Fynch did not know he had voiced this thought aloud in his mind and thereby made it accessible to Knave. It was only when the dog responded that he realised he needed to learn how to control the magic more thoroughly.

Fynch, do you not realise yet that the destiny of all three realms rests with you? the dog said. It is your actions — not Lothryn’s or Cailech’s, not those of Celimus or Valentyna, not even what Wyl might achieve — which will save the Land. You will decide its destiny. It is why you are called Fate.

Tears rolled helplessly down the small boy’s face. I am the sacrifice, he thought, hauling himself up to another small ledge. So be it.

SIXTEEN

RASHLYN AWOKE FROM HIS stupor, angry to feel hands at his brow, wiping away the sweat of his ragings. He swung at the person tending him, hitting her in the face and drawing blood at her mouth. ‘Begone, woman!’ he roared, searching his wits to identify his location. He was in a strange chamber; it was dark outside.

‘Wait!’ he called to the woman who had turned her back on him.

She looked at him then, a line of red trailing from the corner of her lip to beneath her chin. Rashlyn could see the hate in her eyes — but he was used to it.

‘Where am I?’ he demanded. ‘Why am I not in my own chambers?’

‘The King said we were to watch over you here until you fully recovered,’ she replied sullenly, touching her mouth and bringing away bloodstained fingers. ‘He said you would not like anyone in your rooms.’

He ignored her injury. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Two days.’

That shocked him. ‘Where is the King?’

‘Gone.’ She spoke the word as a threat. ‘He left with the Grenadyne the same night of your seizure.’

She called to someone and a man entered the chamber. He took one look at the woman and glanced darkly towards Rashlyn.

‘I suspect I am no longer welcome,’ Rashlyn said to the man, hoping to unnerve him.

‘You have never been welcome, barshi,’ the Mountain man replied, not at all intimidated. ‘We permitted you in our house only because our King asked it. My wife has taken good care of you.’

‘And I regret my odd form of thanks, Rollo,’ Rashlyn answered, recognising the pair now. She was a midwife, a capable nurse, and the husband, Rollo, was a senior and trusted warrior of Cailech’s. It would not be wise to insult them further.

‘My apology, Kaylan,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet. The dizziness was still there. ‘I must have been dreaming. I am sorry for your wound.’

‘Leave, scum,’ Rollo growled.

Rashlyn was not surprised. Without Cailech around, the people of the mountains did not maintain the deference they attempted towards him in the King’s presence.

‘Be careful, Rollo. I understand your daughter is with child. We wouldn’t want anything untoward to occur to the infant now, would we?’ Rashlyn said conversationally, as he pushed past the couple.

The man roared, lunging towards the barshi, but his wife held him back. ‘Don’t, Rollo. Who knows what he is capable of,’ she said, terrified now, her bleeding lip forgotten, her pride tattered as her pleading eyes beseeched Rashlyn to leave their family be.

That’s better, Rashlyn thought, smirking at the cowed Rollo, enjoying the fear in Kaylan’s tone. One day he would make them all pay for their disdain. He left the stuffy dwelling and gulped deeply the fresh air of the mountain night. He limped across to the nearby well to drink two long refreshing cups from the spring. It revived him sufficiently that he could make his way, without staggering, to his lonely chambers.

Once inside, he bolted the doors, double-checking the locks. Only then did he begin to relax; only then in the safety of his isolation did he permit the fright at losing two days of his life to be released. What had happened? He was aware that his periods of darkness, when he spiralled into his other self, were extending, but had no idea they could stretch to two whole days. So far the longest he had felt himself lost to such madness was half a day at most, and that had frightened him enough. But two days! Usually during these black periods, as he called them, he functioned reasonably well but it was as though he was someone else. Rashlyn did not dislike that other self; at such times he was confident, flamboyant, certainly creative. His mind was at its sharpest and great innovations often came to him. He felt invincible in this state. No drug he knew of could induce such a constant euphoric sense of power — a herald of the power he would one day wield over Nature.

Without knowing it, Rashlyn had come to the same conclusion as his brother. He believed that Nature was the reflection of Shar, and if he, Rashlyn, could exert control over Nature’s beasts, for example, then surely he would achieve godlike status himself? If Elysius could do it, he could also! But when he was able to think clearly, he understood that the euphoric moods were dangerous too. During these times he was unpredictable, capable of anything. He would willingly sacrifice a limb to be able to harness that state of mind whilst still holding sovereignty over himself, but the surge of power forced him to relinquish control. It was a madness, he accepted this. It had been creeping up on him for years. His brother had seen it in him first and his father not long after. Curse their souls!

And yet this time, it did not feel quite the same. His body was still trembling from the seizure, as Kaylan had described it. Normally he would emerge out of the darkness, realise he had lost himself and discover what had occurred in his ‘absence’ — there was no better way to describe it. But this occasion was different. It sounded as though he had simply collapsed. Cailech must have seen him in this state to have ordered his care. Who else had seen him, apart from the King and the two who had cared for him? Where had he been when the seizure overcame him? What could he remember as his last conscious thought?

Rashlyn was famished but ignored the growling plea of his belly. Using a spell to summon a flame, he lit a fire and brought some water to boil. He added verrun bark and a handful of arkad petals and tried not to think on anything but the brewing and cooling of the infusion into a hand bowl. As soon as he tasted the first bitter sip of the brew, he felt the sky of his mind brightening as if dawn was breaking through night.

He sat himself at the window, inhaled deeply of the numbing air which helped to freshen his thoughts, and continued sipping. The tea began to work: the blurriness cleared and he was able to move backwards through the past few days.

It came to him. He had been riding with the Grenadyne and Myrt. His suspicions about the stranger had not lessened for knowing him; Rashlyn was convinced there was a mystery attached to this fellow. If he could make physical contact with the man, he was sure he could find out more. It had unnerved Rashlyn to hear from the King that Farrow had reacted strongly when he had stroked the neck of Galapek. Clearly he had felt the magic in the stallion, which could only mean the mercenary owned power himself or had been touched by it somehow. Cailech had wanted to dismiss it but Rashlyn was not convinced such a reaction could be passed off as coincidence. And so the King had agreed to force Farrow into riding Galapek with the proviso that Rashlyn accompany him to observe him.

The barshi recalled now how the mercenary had not reacted in the manner described by the King on his first encounter with the enchanted horse. Either the Grenadyne had wrestled his emotions back under his control, or they had been mistaken and the man’s claim of being fatigued from his adventure in the mountains was true. And yet Rashlyn was sure Farrow was hiding something. The stranger seemed too confident, too aware that this ride on Galapek was some sort of test. He had parried Rashlyn’s questions smoothly and outmanoeuvred him just when Rashlyn had got close enough to touch him. How had that happened, he wondered, and then remembered the strange dizzying sensation. He had been reaching to hand the Grenadyne a small bottle of medicine, supposedly to relieve the recurring headaches the man was experiencing, but his true intention was to touch Farrow’s hand. But something had touched him instead.

He closed his eyes and took himself back to the shrieking of the horse which had echoed his own wish to scream at the immense pressure throughout his body. It had felt as though he was being pulled in a number of directions. There was no pain but the experience was frightening, then came intense nausea… then darkness. The woman, Kaylan, had called it a seizure so presumably he had thrashed about in his unconscious state.

‘It was not my madness that caused this,’ he murmured. ‘So what did?’

‘Magic,’ he answered himself and laughed briefly, as though in the grip of a fresh insanity. ‘Powerful magic,’ he whispered, remembering it more clearly now.

Galapek had felt it too and had screamed. The barshi wondered if the horse was experiencing a similar weakness now also. But there was more in the wake of this strange event… there was also a sense of dread. He had no idea why but the ominous notion that something was coming towards him was strong indeed. For the first time in his life, Rashlyn felt very fearful.

Elspyth had decided to slip away from Werryl Palace when everyone’s attention was diverted towards Brackstead and reaching Lady Donal before she died. She felt badly for leaving without a farewell to Crys, but also to the Queen. Valentyna had welcomed them warmly when they were in need; had sheltered and protected them without hesitation. Elspyth’s secret departure would surely be considered a slight and this bothered the woman of Yentro. But Elspyth wanted no fuss, no teary farewells and definitely no one trying to talk her out of it — which the Queen most certainly would attempt. It seemed right to go quietly, taking nothing, not even the horse she had ridden into Briavel.

What she regretted most was the seemingly sly departure, which might be construed the wrong way, and not leaving a note for Wyl. She owed him that much. Why could she not have taken a few extra minutes and scribbled a second note for the Lady Ylena Thirsk? Elspyth was sure Wyl would come, and she could have given him an assurance she would not do anything rash, along with a promise of her return. But her head was filled with Lothryn and seizing her chance to leave without creating a commotion. She knew Krell and Liryk would be glad to see the back of her; their surreptitious glances and grimaces had left her in no doubt of their displeasure at her presence. She knew what it was too: they did not appreciate her speaking her mind about Celimus and why Valentyna should not marry him. There were moments Elspyth had felt either one of them would gladly silence her with something more painful than their stares.

So, as soon as she saw the royal party depart across Werryl Bridge, she grabbed her small sack of goods and fled via a small, barely known courtyard gate which Valentyna had admitted making good use of as a child. She stepped out of the palace grounds and kept walking, through the town of Werryl rather than across its beautiful bridge. The main township was walled and Elspyth intended to make her escape by blending in easily with the traffic that drifted into and out of Werryl daily through its most northern gate. She felt confident she would find someone who would permit her to travel with them into Crowyll, and perhaps from there she could buy a nag and use four legs instead of two to get to Banktown in the far north, before turning west and crossing the border into Felrawthy. That was her plan but she was flexible. Frankly, she would take any ride she could get.

It was the brewery driver’s child who spotted her first. The cart rolled level with Elspyth as the big old horse’s ponderous tread caught up with the slow-moving crowd passing through the gate. The guards did not seem to be paying close attention to those leaving the town so Elspyth felt confident that she was unlikely to be stopped or questioned. It wasn’t as if anyone would be looking out for her at this early stage of her journey. Nevertheless, her previous adventures had taught her to take precautions. She needed an innocent cover — just like this family here, she thought, eyeing the little girl who smiled tentatively.

‘Where are you going?’ the child asked in the way of all curious children, uninhibited by what might or might not be considered polite.

Elspyth smiled brightly. ‘I’m going north,’ she replied.

‘And what will you do when you get there?’ the child said.

‘Well, I’m going home actually,’ Elspyth lied and cast a gentle rescue-me expression towards the driver who shrugged his apology for the youngster’s inquisition.

‘Do you have a family?’

‘No,’ Elspyth said, surprised at the question from a child. ‘I have no one in my life who worries about me, but north is where I come from and where I feel comfortable.’

‘The north of Briavel?’

‘The north of Morgravia,’ she said theatrically.

‘And where’s that?’

Elspyth laughed. ‘A long way away. I come from a town called Yentro.’

‘And you have to walk all that long way?’ the little girl exclaimed, not that she knew where Yentro was.

‘Hush, Jen. Let the lady be,’ the man said, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he added, looking at Elspyth shyly. ‘She gets bored easily on these trips and we’ve hardly begun.’

‘It’s all right, really,’ she replied, making a swift decision. This was her ride. She looked towards the girl again. ‘I once knew a pretty lady called Jen and she had beautiful red hair like yours.’ It was a lie but Elpsyth needed any leverage she could create and quickly. She knew Shar would forgive her. Her cause was a noble one.

Jen’s eyes grew wide with pleasure. ‘Am I pretty?’

‘I think you are. I’m sure your father does too.’

‘Would you like to ride next to me?’ Jen asked.

She wanted to hug the child. It was the invitation she had hoped for, and travelling with a family was the safest and least conspicuous ride she could possibly hitch.

Elspyth looked deliberately towards the man. ‘Oh, I don’t think your father would…’

He reacted precisely as she had intended. ‘You’re most welcome to ride with us, miss,’ he offered kindly. ‘We’re going as far as Coneham if that helps?’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ she smiled. ‘Where is it exactly?’

‘Hop up. It’s north of Brackstead.’

Jen shifted closer to her father and made room for Elspyth. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with relief. ‘Will we be stopping in Brackstead?’ she added as innocently as she could. She did not like the idea of running into Valentyna and Crys.

‘No. We don’t stay in inns or the like, miss,’ the driver said. ‘We just curl up in the back. We carry everything with us.’

Elspyth smiled. It was perfect. ‘Thank you, and I’m sure I can help to keep your Jen amused on our journey.’

‘My name is Ericson,’ the man said, an expression of gratitude sweeping across his tired face. Elspyth felt a tiny pang of guilt at how adroitly she had manipulated this kind fellow.

The cart rumbled through the northern gate, Jen chattering incessantly about anything that came into her head and Elspyth doing her best to agree where necessary and answer if required. She pulled her blue cloak tighter around herself for the morning was chill. As they passed the soldiers at the gate, she had tried not to catch anyone’s eye. But Elspyth had never quite grasped how attractive she was and her dark hair and pert features could not help but win attention.

‘Shar guide you,’ the guard said to her. It was a common blessing used by Morgravians and Briavellians alike to bid others a good journey but it was the wink that came with it that made her grin. ‘Don’t stay away too long now,’ the guard added, encouraged by her smile. ‘I won’t sleep until I see your pretty face again.’

Elspyth made a gesture of admonishment, as if to say it was improper of him to talk like that in front of her family, but the cart had already rolled on and the young man missed her mock annoyance. She lifted her hand in farewell instead.

It had been a long time since Elspyth had felt as light-hearted as she did at that moment. Perhaps it was knowing that she was finally doing something positive towards finding her love. I’m coming, Lothryn, she silently cast. She hoped Shar would take pity on her that soon her beloved might hear her words.

As Elspyth was privately celebrating her escape, Gueryn was arguing with Rashlyn, now recovered, who had decided to visit the prisoner.

‘Who would it hurt?’ Gueryn demanded.

‘No one, but I don’t understand your request,’ the barshi said.

‘Because I am rotting away here.’

‘Why is that my problem?’

‘Because you’re meant to take care of me,’ Gueryn said, his tone as acid as he could make it. ‘Either you make it possible or, I promise you, Rashlyn, I’ll find a way to kill myself, even if it means banging my head against this wall until I knock my senses clean out!’

Gueryn knew he sounded desperate; he could hear as much in his tone, and it was highly unlikely he could fashion any genuinely expedient method to assist his own death. Still, the threat was there and the barshi looked thoughtful. Gueryn decided to press his luck. ‘The King insisted I be looked after. I refuse to sit here day after day in your stinking dungeon.’

‘Isn’t that what prisoners do?’

The man’s light voice irritated Gueryn further. ‘Let me work, damn it! I’ll provide an honest day’s toil for the chance to breathe fresh air and work my muscles. You can keep me chained if you must.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Rashlyn murmured.

Gueryn felt himself losing his temper; the only thing that stopped him reaching for the barshi’s throat was the memory of the magic Rashlyn had once used on him and the threat that he would make it hurt the next time.

He tried again, a little more humility in his tone. ‘The King agreed to allow me daily walks so I can remain as healthy as possible considering my situation. I am prepared to work for it, for Shar’s sake.’

‘Where?’

That took Gueryn by surprise. He stopped his pacing and turned on the healer. ‘Where what?’

‘Where would you work?’

Had he won? Now he had to negotiate more carefully than a mouse stealing past a sleeping cat. He forced himself to keep the exasperation in his voice, as if the chance to escape the loneliness and despair of the dungeon was all that mattered. No one, especially Rashlyn, must guess his true intent. ‘Where? Anywhere! The kitchens, the vineyards, the stables…’ He ran an unsteady hand through his tangled greying hair to give an air of distraction.

‘Your preference?’

‘Does it matter?’ he retaliated, wondering whether Rashlyn was testing him. ‘I’m good with horses; I’m not afraid to work in an open field; and if you want me scrubbing pans, I’ll happily do that. Why don’t you choose?’

‘The kitchens would not want you, Morgravian,’ Rashlyn mused. ‘And I don’t want you around knives or any potential weapons.’ He scratched at his wild beard and something fell out of it. Dishevelled as Gueryn himself looked and as dirty as he felt, Rashlyn’s grubbiness revolted him.

‘Then let me work in the stables,’ he said. ‘I’ll muck out, rub down, water, exercise the animals — whatever the stablemaster wants.’

Rashlyn stared at him. The eyes were tiny and dark; no evidence of warmth flickered in that cold gaze. ‘I shall speak to Maegryn,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Remember my lesson, soldier. With the King gone, you have no protection to count on, other than what my rule deems.’

‘I had no idea you hailed from royal blood,’ Gueryn risked.

‘Be very careful, le Gant,’ the dark man warned, his lips twisted in a cruel sneer beneath the filthy beard.

Gueryn emerged into a sharply bright spring morning, his eyes stinging from the sunlight but his body rejoicing in its gently warm caress and the chance to breathe air the opposite of the stale mustiness of his cell. He had won.

He stood between two guards, neither of whom he knew, and watched a man approach. Rashlyn was nowhere to be seen.

‘I am Maegryn, the stablemaster,’ the man said, coming to a halt.

Gueryn nodded. ‘Thank you for allowing me to work in the stables. I’ll not let you down.’

Maegryn made a low sound of disdain. ‘You wouldn’t want to, soldier. Come with me.’

Gueryn followed as fast as the rope binding his ankles would allow.

‘You’re not going to make him wear that all day, are you?’ Maegryn complained to the guards.

‘Rashlyn’s orders,’ one said, shrugging.

‘And who is he to be giving orders?’ Maegryn said, adding under his breath, ‘Haldor spare me.’

Gueryn took a chance. ‘He told me he is the King’s voice when his highness is not here,’ he said to Maegryn, who was now slicing through the rope with a blade.

The stablemaster stood, his deep-set eyes giving away little of the man inside. ‘And I’m the fucking King of the Stable so Rashlyn had better look out when he gives orders in my domain.’

The guards laughed.

Gueryn bowed. ‘Your highness,’ he said, and knew he had made a fragile conquest when Maegryn grinned in response. ‘Thank you,’ Gueryn added, looking towards his unshackled feet.

‘Don’t get too excited, soldier. Jos here will be hanging around to keep an eye on you.’

Gueryn eyed the huge, lumbering lad beside him. ‘Nice to meet you, Jos.’

The big guard nodded, a sloping grin pulling at his deformed mouth. ‘Don’t give me any trouble now,’ he warned, the words slightly mangled.

‘You have my promise,’ Gueryn assured, looking towards Maegryn too.

‘But is it worth anything?’ the stablemaster teased.

‘As an officer of the Legion, most certainly.’

‘I wish your King showed similar manners.’

‘My King is a ruthless, lying, cowardly murderer. I shall kill my King if I ever get the chance.’

Maegryn gave a low whistle. ‘Well, I hope our King watches his back then.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I gather our people are about to make a peace alliance with your people, soldier.’

‘What?’ Gueryn’s eyes narrowed; surely this was a jest?

‘If our Cailech has his way, then the Razor Kingdom and Morgravia are soon to be allies,’ Maegryn clarified.

Gueryn was shocked. ‘Celimus cannot be trusted.’

Maegryn shrugged. ‘So long as you can, le Gant. I’m only King of the Stables remember? What happens for the greater good of our realm is not something I have any control over. Now, I think you need exercise as much as my horses do — follow me.’

Jos stayed with Gueryn all afternoon and the Morgravian noted that the lad followed his orders dutifully, taking his responsibility of watching over his prisoner seriously. The deformity was a pity — it gave the impression that Jos was a dullard when he was anything but. It also gave the other guards reason to tease him, as Gueryn learned from the lad’s shy admission. He found the youngster pleasant, courteous and charming. He laughed at Gueryn’s small jests and even made a few of his own. No, the youngster was no dullard, just an unfortunate victim of the gods to be born so afflicted. Gueryn made a promise to himself to make a special effort with Jos. Confidence was all the lad needed. The harelip would fade to invisible if Jos’s personality was allowed to shine through.

Gueryn had to admit he was enjoying himself after so many weeks of despair. He had walked, rubbed down and watered six horses now and was pleased with himself, despite the twinge from aching muscles and tired limbs. He had not counted on being as weak as he felt.

‘A good afternoon’s work, soldier,’ Maegryn said, offering a linen rag. ‘That’s good honest sweat there.’

‘Call me Gueryn,’ the soldier said. When the man nodded, he added, ‘Can I come again?’

‘Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll be glad to see you. Perhaps Jos can bring you this time.’

‘What about Rashlyn? Will you speak with him?’

‘The man’s insane. No one follows his rules. We won’t say anything — he probably won’t even come looking.’

Gueryn’s relief showed. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

He nodded at Jos to let the guard know he was ready to be returned to the dungeon, and gave him a grin. He was building tenuous friendships here. He was a big step closer to Galapek too and that made the aches all the more satisfying. Tomorrow he might see the horse which the stranger, Aremys, had claimed was Lothryn. It still seemed too incredible to contemplate, but Gueryn could not forget the touch of Rashlyn’s evil magic on his own body or the murder of a woman made to look like Elspyth. He needed to see the horse for himself.

Until tomorrow then, he said privately as he fell in step with Jos.

SEVENTEEN

CRYS ADMIRED THE WAY the Briavellian commander, despite his busy duties, offered his help. If Liryk minded, he did not show it.

‘Forgive me for dragging you away from important affairs, Commander Liryk,’ Crys said. ‘I’m just a little worried about Elspyth, as is your Queen.’

‘And rightly so, Duke,’ Liryk said sharply. ‘She is a young woman abroad alone. No matter how I tighten the net around bandits and cut-throats, they still exist and she makes the softest of targets.’

‘Too true. Where should we start?’

‘Let’s find out who was on duty first during our absence in Brackstead.’

‘How many gates are there?’

‘Five main ones, but as you rightly point out she was leaving as anonymously as possible so I imagine she would have used the busiest outlets, which would be Werryl Bridge or the northern gate.’

It took them an hour to find and question the relevant men, drawing a blank until one young man was hurried back from a meal. He wiped his mouth in haste, concern on his face that he was in trouble. His superior introduced him. ‘This is Peet. He was one of three guards on the northern gate for the morning watch.’

Liryk and Crys had already questioned the other two from the morning and all from the afternoon rotation. Crys was sure this man would offer no further insight and had resigned himself to a fruitless search following a trail that was already stone cold.

‘Sir,’ Peet said to his commander and nervously nodded at Crys. ‘My lord.’

Liryk cleared his throat. ‘Relax, man, you’re not in any trouble here. We’re seeking your help.’

‘Oh?’ the guard replied, none of the anxiety leaving his tone or expression.

‘We’re hoping you might remember a young woman who left Werryl yesterday. We think she might have departed via the northern gate and we’re pretty certain it would have been on your watch, the early morning guard.’

Peet nodded, relieved, looking between both men. ‘I’ll try, sir. Can you describe her?’

Liryk looked at Crys who obliged. ‘Well, she’s petite. She has dark hair and is comely. Very pretty in fact.’ He grinned at the young man. ‘She stands about yay high to me,’ he measured a point halfway between his elbow and shoulder, ‘and I’m guessing now but I think she might have been wearing a soft brown skirt, pinkish sort of blouse, black boots. I really can’t be sure, but they were the clothes she was wearing when we both came into Werryl.’ He knew Elspyth had not taken any of the items Valentyna had given her to wear.

Peet’s expression became forlorn and he sounded embarrassed. ‘Hundreds of people pass through that gate each day, my lord. That description could be any of a dozen women from yesterday.’ He held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. ‘So many people, you don’t really scrutinise anyone unless you’ve been ordered to.’

Crys nodded, understanding. ‘I know, it was a long shot.’

Liryk sighed. ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’ He was genuine in his commiseration; he did not like the antagonism the woman of Yentro had stirred up but he certainly was not happy at her going off alone into the mountains. He thought Crys had been far too flippant about her disappearance when it had been first discovered; obviously the duke had had a change of heart but a little too late, he thought privately. ‘Thank you, Peet, you can return to your meal,’ he told the guard.

‘Oh,’ Crys said suddenly, ‘she did have a cloak with her. The morning was cold so presumably she had that on. It’s blue, if that helps?’

Peet, who had been turning away, swung around. ‘Blue cloak?’

Crys nodded. ‘Does it jog anything?’ he asked, noticing the man’s keen attention.

‘Why, yes, my lord, it does. I do remember a woman in a blue cloak. Her hair was dark, I think, she had it covered with the hood so I can’t be sure.’

Liryk stepped forward. ‘Well, tell us, man. Hurry now.’

Peet frowned. ‘It was just some innocent cheek, sir. Guarding the gate can be tedious and she was very pretty, after all.’

Liryk sighed. ‘Get on with it, Peet. What was said?’

The soldier bit his lip in thought. ‘I wished her Shar’s speed, my lord,’ he said, looking towards Crys who seemed the most eager to hear. ‘I added something along the lines that she should hurry back to Werryl because I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I saw her pretty face again.’ He shrugged. ‘It was harmless really — I was just passing the time of day with a lovely girl.’

Crys smiled. ‘That’s all right, Peet. Was she alone?’

‘No, as I recall she was with a family. I thought it was hers.’

‘Come on now, son. What do you remember?’ prompted Liryk. ‘Bring the scene back. Remember all those exercises we’ve been doing and how to recall a moment in detail?’

‘Yes, sir, I do,’ Peet said. ‘I can remember it well now. She was travelling with a little girl and a man who was driving the cart they were in. They — the woman and the girl — were laughing. It was a cart with one horse.’

‘Did she say anything?’ Crys asked.

‘No. She just waved. Seemed happy.’

‘The man — what do you remember about him?’ Liryk added.

‘Not much, sir. He said he was going to Coneham. His cart had brewery barrels on it. Only two of them, which strikes me as a little odd now but didn’t at the time.’

‘Why is that odd?’ Crys asked.

Liryk turned to him. ‘Because our brewery is situated north-east of the city. There would be no need to pass through Werryl itself, let alone the northern gate, for deliveries to Coneham. It does sound suspicious.’ Liryk addressed the officer. ‘Find out whatever you can on this fellow — if there’s any information among the men. Get Peet here to give as detailed a description of him as possible. Anything at all he remembers, record.’

‘Is the lady in trouble, sir?’

‘No, lad. But we need to find her and your information can help us track her down.’

Peet nodded and took his leave, following his superior officer.

‘Not much to go on, I’m afraid,’ Liryk admitted to Crys.

‘It’s something, though. I’ll wait around a little longer — someone might think of something jogged by Peet’s information.’

‘Let’s give it another hour.’

‘And then I’m heading for Coneham, come what may,’ Crys promised.

The cart slowed to a stop and Elspyth was roused from the snooze she had fallen into. She presumed they were breaking for something to eat and felt embarrassed that she had no food to share with her hosts. She did, however, have some coin which Crys had insisted she keep during their journey to Werryl. ‘You may need it if we get separated,’ he had cautioned and she was grateful now for his generosity. At least she could offer to pay for her keep whilst travelling with Ericson and his little girl.

Elspyth noted a hut not far away. She knew they had taken a route off the main road because Ericson had said it was a shorter route with less traffic, and she had not complained, just glad to be moving north and faster than her own feet could carry her.

‘How long have I been dozing?’ she said, stretching. She didn’t recall climbing into the back of the cart, or feeling tired, but clearly she must have done both for that was where she found herself now.

‘Oh, hours,’ Jen answered in a singsong voice. ‘The tea always makes the women drowsy.’

Elspyth had no idea what the youngster was talking about. They had shared some tea at the roadside not far out of Werryl. She had thought it odd, because they had only just left the city, but Jen insisted she was thirsty and hungry and Ericson had said tea and a hunk of cheese would satisfy his daughter who rarely ate breakfast. Elspyth had been happy to go along with it and had enjoyed the curious-tasting brew. ‘Where are we?’ she wondered aloud, imagining they might be a couple of hours north of the city.

‘Just outside Sharptyn,’ Ericson replied, jumping down from the cart. Jen followed.

Elspyth was taken aback. ‘Sharptyn! No, wait,’ she said, frowning, ‘that can’t be right.’ Her mind raced across her imaginary map of Briavel. Sharptyn was to the west, almost into Morgravia, and many hours from Werryl. She shook her head free of the befuddlement of sleep. Perhaps she was mistaken in her mapping. ‘Are you sure?’

He grinned and there was something unpleasant in it. ‘Oh yes, very.’

‘But Sharptyn is far west. You said you were heading north,’ she said, a pang of fear tingling through her body.

His nasty smile remained. ‘Did I? Well, we’re here now, Elspyth.’

Ericson no longer looked tired or kind. He looked predatory and smug. ‘Jen?’ She looked towards the child, bewildered and frightened.

Again the singsong voice. ‘Sorry, Elspyth. So, so sorry,’ Jen chanted, not even looking at the woman. ‘Ericson chose you. I didn’t want to. I liked you.’

‘Ericson!’ Elspyth shrieked as men appeared out of the hut. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘It’s not personal,’ he said, acknowledging the new arrivals with a nod. ‘Just business. Get her, lads,’ he added.

Elspyth had no time to think; she lifted her skirt and ran. She forced her legs to move as fast as she had ever run in her life, and she screamed, unleashing every ounce of her strength and spirit. Even escaping from Cailech’s fortress had not been as terrifying as this. She had fellow escapees then. Right now she was alone and she could hear the shouts and taunts of the men chasing her. They were laughing at her. She knew deep down she probably could not escape, could not outrun them, but she had to try.

She thought of Lothryn and how her pathetic attempt to rescue him had achieved nothing more than getting herself trapped, and probably killed. He would never know that she had tried to reach him. She screamed one last time as she sensed a man about to launch himself at her. He crashed out of the bushes, hitting her hard sideways and crushing the breath out of her. The others arrived panting, some laughing still. And then Ericson forced her to swallow more of the tea she had drunk earlier. It all made sense now: she had been drugged. Elspyth tried to spit out the liquid, shaking her head from side to side, deliberately gagging. Ericson hit her, which shocked her into opening her mouth to yell but succeeded only in giving her attacker the chance to pour the drug down her throat more effectively.

The men let her go, no longer interested, it seemed — for the time being anyway — now that she had swallowed the drug. She just had time to count six of them, including Ericson, before the sky began to reel and the trees felt as though they might fall in on her. She sensed something reaching towards her, something powerful trying to connect with her — or so she imagined — but it was too late. Elspyth lost consciousness again. There would be no more screaming now.

Fynch had felt Elspyth’s fear as she fled from the men, sensed it when she fell. He had never met this woman of Yentro and yet somehow her terror and helplessness assaulted him. He reached towards her and could see her now; prone, presumably unconscious, with men standing around her.

Knave looked back to where Fynch stood rigid on the small ledge. The wind was whipping around them and Knave wondered whether he and the boy should be harnessed together somehow. Fynch was so slight, Knave feared that if a stiff, rogue gust came racing over them, Fynch could be blown off the ledge and down to his death.

Bewildered by the boy’s closed eyes and fixed stance the dog returned to him. Fynch! What happens now? he asked. When Fynch did not respond, he nudged the boy, suddenly disturbed that he could not lock onto whatever was troubling his companion.

Fynch staggered and finally opened his eyes. ‘It’s Wyl’s friend, Elspyth. She’s in trouble,’ he said, holding his head.

Knave knew it hurt to use the magic. Elysius had been very careful about the power. His channelling to Myrren had near enough killed him, for she had needed his company and strength for a sustained period. But Fynch was so small and inexperienced and seemed to be opening himself fully to the magic, not because he craved the power but because he did not yet know how to shield himself from it. He had obviously latched onto this woman’s plea for help but this was not his problem. He had a task to fulfil.

We must press on, Fynch, Knave began.

‘No. She’s hurt, in trouble. Elspyth is the woman who escaped with Wyl from the Razors. She helped him. I cannot forsake her,’ Fynch murmured through his pain.

Chew some sharvan, Knave suggested, determined not to show his annoyance at this new setback.

Fynch poked into his sack and retrieved a handful of the dried leaves which he had taken from the stock belonging to Elysius. He sat down and quietly chewed as suggested.

How do you know this? Knave asked.

‘I have seen her,’ the boy answered.

I’m not sure I understand. Is Elspyth empowered? How can she reach you otherwise?

Fynch shook his aching head. ‘I don’t think so. Wyl did not mention her having any sentient ability. I’m not sure, to tell the truth, whether she even knew I was there.’

What do you mean?

‘She did not call to me as such. It was her fear I felt and then I heard her screams. I followed her trace.’ Fynch looked at Knave with large, serious eyes that were full of pain and the dog felt grief for the small boy who had to face so much. ‘I think it’s the Thicket.’

Sending you her message, you mean?

Fynch nodded once, carefully. With the pain slowly clearing he did not want to reawaken it. ‘You said something earlier about Wyl being touched by the Thicket and therefore sensitive to magic even though he cannot wield it?’

I remember.

‘Well, Elspyth is the niece of the Widow Ilyk — the seer whom Elysius knew and used once. Do you recall that?’

Yes.

‘So perhaps Elspyth, though not empowered herself, has a vague awareness of magic’s touch. Wyl mentioned that she once dreamed of Lothryn calling to her.’

And?

Fynch shrugged. His head felt better, the dizziness gone and just a reminder of the pain lurking. He spat out the pulp of the sharvan. ‘I’m guessing that she cast out her fears without realising she could, and it just so happened that the Thicket was listening. The Thicket has connected us all, you might say.’

It was plausible, Knave thought. So what are you thinking now, Faith Fynch?

‘I have to find out more about what’s happening to her.’

We cannot be diverted from our journey, Knave warned gravely, hoping to impress on Fynch once again that nothing else mattered but what the Dragon King asked of them: to destroy Rashlyn and rid the world of his evil.

‘I know. I’m going to send a spy,’ Fynch said, and chanced a grin at his black friend.

Then use a fast one. We must get on.

Fynch looked out across the hazy landscape. He knew what he was searching for and sure enough he found the kestrel, high on the wing and hovering, staring down towards the ground.

‘Over there!’ he said, pointing.

I see it.

Again Fynch closed his eyes and drew on his Elysian magic — as he liked to call it — to summon the bird of prey.

Knave saw the bird tilt its wing and knew that was the moment Fynch had connected with it. The kestrel swooped and banked high again, turning in their direction, and then dived towards them fast and no doubt curious. When it arrived it perched itself on Fynch’s outstretched arm and even permitted the boy to stroke it in thanks for answering the summoning. Knave was impressed. He had been told that Elysius had achieved something similar once before, but not as easily; according to the creatures of the Thicket he had cajoled and beseeched them to help him. But the answer to Fynch’s call was immediate. The kestrel obviously felt compelled to respond.

Knave would not normally be privy to what passed between the boy and the bird, but Fynch generously opened his mind so the dog could listen in on what was being communicated.

I need you to find someone for me, Fynch asked.

Who? the bird replied, seemingly undisturbed by the discussion. Knave wondered if the kestrel knew who Fynch was.

It is a woman — this is what she looks like, and Knave shared the picture that Fynch gave to the kestrel.

Where?

Two miles east of Sharptyn. Another picture was given: this time it was an aerial map of Briavel. Knave was spellbound; was the Thicket supplying Fynch with this practical information?

And when I find her?

Let me know what you see. I will send help.

With your powers can you not look for yourself? the bird asked cheekily.

I could, my friend, but I lose strength and a portion of my life each time I draw on my powers. You can save me some of this loss if you will make that journey for me and be my eyes.

I shall do what you ask if you will give me your name and tell me who you are.

Gladly. My name is Fynch. I am from Morgravia and was a cleaner at the castle of Stoneheart.

Oh, but you are much more than that, surely, the kestrel said, scorn lacing its voice at the boy’s humility. I must know the truth before I make this journey.

All that I have said is true, Fynch replied evenly.

But there is a secret, the bird encouraged. Its inquisitiveness was infectious and Knave felt as though he too was holding his breath. Fynch said nothing. The silence hung between the three of them, heavy with knowledge that one of them was reluctant to share.

You must tell me, the kestrel urged. I am like you, Fynch — I need facts… and I need the truth.

How the bird could know this was anyone’s guess, but Knave had learned long ago not to question magic for each answer merely led to a new question. So he ignored his queries and listened.

I am Fynch, the boy replied, his voice suddenly strong, filled with a power Knave had never heard before. And I am the King of the Creatures.

Fynch passed out at the last word, the link broken. The kestrel lifted from the boy’s arm just in time to avoid falling with him and launched itself into the air and away from the mountains. Knave was too stunned at Fynch’s words to say anything. He gazed after the bird until it was no more than a tiny speck on the horizon. Then, as it disappeared from his far-reaching sight, he roused himself from his disquiet and lay down beside Fynch to keep his friend warm until he regained consciousness.

EIGHTEEN

CAILECH WAS FLANKED BY only two of his own men as he slowed his horse at the gates of the Tenterdyn Estate of Felrawthy. On one side of him rode his loyal warrior, Myrt, and on the other a man he now called friend: Aremys Farrow.

Farrow was an enigma. There were secrets buried in this man — Cailech was sure of it — and yet Aremys struck him as forthright and honest. But the way the Grenadyne had reacted to Galapek haunted the King. It was obvious that Farrow suspected something about the beast. Rashlyn’s attempt to flush out the truth had failed miserably, ending in the barshi’s collapse and neither of them closer to their goal. In fact, it had been even more bewildering to learn that Galapek had been disturbed too, and Farrow had calmly brought the barshi and horse back to the fortress. If he was working against them, surely the mercenary would have left both to perish, or stolen the horse and allowed Rashlyn to die?

None of it made sense to Cailech and so, despite his misgivings, he had decided to trust Farrow. Cailech considered himself an accurate judge of character and his instincts about people had rarely let him down. Lothryn was his only error, but it had taken almost forty years of friendship to discover his mistake. His mouth twisted at the thought of Lothryn’s betrayal.

‘Sire?’ Aremys said, noting the expression on Cailech’s face.

‘I’m all right,’ he replied, ‘just wishing Lothryn was here.’ He expected Myrt to agree and was surprised by the grim silence at his right. He did not miss the sly glance his warrior gave the Grenadyne either. What did that look mean?

‘You don’t need him for this, my lord,’ Aremys assured. ‘Only you can achieve what we’re setting out to do today.’

‘He had a way of making me feel calm.’

His companions remained silent. What was there to say? Aremys believed Cailech had no right to feel sorry for himself after what had been perpetrated on Lothryn, but he was not in a position to comment so he kept his own counsel and watched the guard approaching.

‘Are you ready, sire?’ Myrt asked.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Cailech replied and glanced towards his new friend who nodded encouragement.

‘Lothryn would be proud of you for this,’ Aremys said.

‘He would too, Farrow. This is something he would applaud.’

‘Then you honour him by it.’

Cailech smiled. There was gratitude in his expression and something unreadable in his eyes — sorrow perhaps? Aremys hoped so.

The guard arrived and the mercenary addressed him. ‘I am Aremys Farrow. You’re expecting our party, I gather?’

The guard nodded. ‘We are. Wait here, please.’ He whistled to the gatehouse and gave a hand signal.

‘You might care to bow in the presence of a King,’ Aremys suggested to the guard whilst they waited for the gates to open.

He was relieved to see the man looked abashed; had worried for a moment that due respect was not going to be accorded to Cailech and that the Mountain King, as unpredictable as he was, might react and bring the whole plan crashing down around them.

‘Forgive me, sire,’ the man stammered and bowed low. Cailech and his companions exchanged satisfied glances.

An officer met them. ‘Welcome, your highness,’ he said with appropriate reverence. Then he looked towards Aremys and nodded. ‘Farrow,’ he acknowledged.

Aremys gave his reins to the men who had arrived to take care of the horses. ‘Captain Bukanan, sir. Good to see you again. This is Myrt, Second Warrior of the Mountain People.’

Celimus was watching as the King of the Mountains arrived at the gate, exchanged a look with Farrow and then jumped gracefully from his magnificent stallion. The Morgravian sovereign was surprised. For some reason he had a picture in his mind that the Razor King would be dark, stocky, bearded even, with hooded eyes and a secretive countenance. He had not expected this golden-haired warrior, tall, clean-shaven and artless of dress. He had expected his enemy to be bedecked in finery to proclaim his royal status, but he was wrong again. The man wore no jewellery that Celimus could see, and his clothes were simple and yet frustratingly elegant. Celimus would have liked to own the cloak which hung so magnificently across the broad shoulders and seemed to shimmer in the daylight. This King was understated in his presentation and yet he oozed confidence. It was unsettling for Celimus who had anticipated looking down upon his counterpart for many reasons, not all physical. The man had him mystified. His modest attire combined with his imposing presence suddenly made Celimus feel like the misfit — a strutting peacock in his bright courtly clothes. He pulled angrily at the circlet around his head.

‘I don’t think I need this,’ he muttered to Jessom who, as ever, was nearby.

‘I’ll take it, sire,’ the man replied, nothing in his tone to suggest that he was inwardly smirking at how one glimpse of the Mountain King had provoked such insecurity.

To Celimus, Cailech looked like a warrior out on a ride to survey his lands; not someone who had come to a formal parley with a neighbouring sovereign — and an enemy no less. Was it arrogant to arrive so underdressed? And yet Celimus envied the man his casual approach. His gaze narrowed as he watched Captain Bukanan share a few words with the new arrivals. He would have to be careful with the upstart from the Razors; he was altogether disconcerting.

‘It is time, sire,’ Jessom said.

Celimus remained silent, distracted by his thoughts. He turned from the window and strode past the Chancellor towards the main steps of Tenterdyn, where he had intended to arrange himself so the Mountain King might come cringing towards him. But there was absolutely nothing in Cailech’s demeanour to suggest he was here cap in hand, begging for an audience. If anything, he seemed utterly assured. It was the opposite of what the Morgravian had expected, and baffling.

Celimus forced away his puzzlement, replacing it with a beautifully contrived bright expression, as he emerged to meet his fellow sovereign.

So far so good, Aremys thought as he looked towards the movement at the front of the large house, which not so long ago had been filled with the Donal family. Then he felt a sudden flurry of fear when he saw the King, flanked by his Chancellor and various other military people, emerge from the huge main doors.

‘Your majesty, King Celimus is here to greet you. May I accompany you?’ Captain Bukanan offered.

Aremys thanked Shar that Celimus was playing this out to strict protocol. It was a heartening sign that the King of Morgravia was treating his sworn enemy with courtesy and equality, even though Jessom had no doubt been a guiding hand.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Cailech said. He threw a final glance towards Aremys, who noted the glint in the King’s eye and read it as a combination of pleasure and mischief. He truly admired this man who walked so boldly into his enemy’s camp, unarmed and with nothing to offer but promises.

Aremys closed the gap between himself and Myrt to fall in step behind the King. He admired the superb cloak that the King had donned for this most formal of occasions. It was a pewter colour, made from the softest of wool, spun repeatedly until it shone, from the coats of the shaggy polders — a cross between a goat and a sheep. These rare animals were found only in the mountains and he had noted how well Cailech’s people cared for the two large flocks they had gathered. The animals’ long hair was impervious to moisture and felt like silk to touch. The women of the Razors had done their King proud with this beautiful garment, which kept the natural silvery grey of the polder for its background while crimson and black dyed yarn had been woven into an eye-catching, intricate pattern along its entire length. Aremys marvelled at how the clever design made an already tall man look even larger. Cailech was certainly a match for Celimus in height and looks, although the Razor King was older and generally more rugged in comparison with the vain southern monarch.

Myrt nudged Aremys out of his thoughts and they stepped forward for the party from the mountains to be introduced to King Celimus.

The dance of Kings had begun.

‘King Cailech, welcome to Tenterdyn, our summer retreat,’ Celimus said, his tone full of largesse. He noted a twisted expression flicker across Farrow’s face and wondered what it meant. He returned his attention to his guest, irritated further by the man’s surprisingly deep voice. It made him feel as though he was a boy greeting his father and his stomach clenched.

‘King Celimus, it is a true honour to meet you.’ To the Morgravian’s astonishment — and indeed that of all who were privy to this historic meeting — Cailech bowed his head and shoulders towards his southern foe. ‘Thank you for this parley.’

For once in his life Celimus was lost for words. He had not expected Cailech to look as he did, and he certainly had not anticipated such graciousness to go with the startlingly good looks. The man was paying him homage, but in such a noble manner that it felt anything but subservient.

Everyone waited for Celimus’s response. Finally it came. ‘I am intrigued, King Cailech,’ he said, reaching for the right words, annoyed by his higher-pitched tone even though so many people had praised his smooth, velvet voice, ‘by this opportunity for Morgravia. Come, we are here to talk.’ It was not as eloquent as Celimus knew he could be, but these were unusual circumstances.

Captain Bukanan, already briefed on the format for the day, returned to where Myrt stood. ‘I believe I must accompany you, is that correct?’

Myrt nodded. ‘We will return on horseback to a spot of my King’s choosing and await word of his safe return. There are others coming with us, of course.’ He stopped himself using the word ‘hostages’.

It made little difference: Bukanan knew he was a hostage. The Captain nodded his understanding and took his leave from his King, as did Myrt from Cailech. The necessary paperwork was handed to Myrt by Jessom, after Aremys had read it through to check all was in order according to his earlier specifications.

Inside, the party was led by their regal host to a huge chamber which Aremys had not seen on his previous visit to Tenterdyn. At each end of the large space was a glorious stone fireplace and a long table stood in its centre. Tapestries softened the walls, as did huge windows with bench seats and elegant shutters, each one crafted with the Donal sigil. Aremys realised that the room’s simplicity deliberately allowed the dazzling scenery of the distant Razors to do all the work of beautifying the chamber and impressing visitors.

‘I thought you would be comfortable seeing your home from here,’ Celimus said, his charm more evident now that he had taken a minute or so to gather his thoughts.

Cailech smiled in return. ‘Having never witnessed its beauty from this vantage point, I thank you for such a treat.’

The response pleased Celimus. He indicated the thin man at his side. ‘I took the liberty, King Cailech, of retaining only my Chancellor, Maris Jessom…’

‘Your majesty,’ Jessom said on cue, bowing his head to the Mountain King.

‘…to match your Aremys Farrow. I believed this would be more comfortable than too many other ears.’

‘I am grateful for the consideration, your highness.’

‘Well, now,’ Celimus continued. ‘Please, be seated and let us offer you some southern refreshment.’

Jessom nodded towards a waiting servant and trays with drinks and wafers were immediately walked into the hall. Celimus gestured for Cailech to be seated at his right, so the Mountain King could see the Razors through the magnificent picture windows. Aremys was offered a seat at his left.

‘I will bear witness alongside the Chancellor,’ Aremys said, as deferentially as he could manage, and moved to stand beside Jessom.

‘As you wish, Grenadyne,’ Celimus said, unfazed.

‘Smart move, Farrow,’ the Chancellor murmured under his breath. ‘You would fare well in court.’

‘I don’t belong here, Jessom, and you know it,’ Aremys shot back, relieved to be out of the gaze of King Celimus who was watching a servant pour a goblet of wine for Cailech.

‘Shall we dispense with our regal titles, Cailech?’ Celimus said brightly as he raised his goblet.

‘I thought you’d never suggest it,’ the Mountain King replied, grinning and raising his own cup.

‘To us then,’ Celimus said with a flourish, tapping his goblet against his guest’s and noticing the glint of humour in Cailech’s light green eyes.

‘To Morgravia and the land of the Razors!’ Cailech responded, and both men drained their goblets.

‘Again!’ Celimus called to the servant. His cheeks were suddenly flushed with the gravity of this historic moment.

‘Would your father be proud of this parley?’ Cailech asked as their goblets were refilled.

The Morgravian was not ready for such a disconcerting question. ‘My father?’ he repeated, angry at himself for doing so.

Cailech nodded and again Celimus saw amusement sparkling in the man’s eyes although his facial expression gave nothing away.

‘Er… I’m sure he would.’

‘I think he would be shocked,’ Cailech said.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I believe he did not see such a vision of peace as you have, Celimus.’

Aremys silently congratulated the King of the Mountains. Suddenly the parley had become Celimus’s idea: it was the Morgravian’s vision for harmony that was bringing together two enemy nations.

Celimus searched for any guile behind the words but saw nothing except openness on Cailech’s rugged face. Again he was not ready for the man; such praise from the enemy was something to be savoured. ‘I would like to think that I can bring together our realms, Cailech,’ he began, warming to this vision of peace he apparently was chasing, ‘as well as Briavel.’

‘Indeed. In the space of just a few days, you could achieve such an amazing feat. Your jongleurs will craft songs about it, bards will write plays in homage and I have no doubt your artists will record the events so that future generations will understand this momentous time in Morgravia’s history.’

Aremys felt Jessom shoot a warning glance his way. Cailech’s praise was honeyed but it should be diluted before it became too much like treacle. So far Celimus was lapping it up, Aremys noticed, and he was fully convinced that the Morgravian King would personally commission the songs, plays and artworks should they not eventuate unprompted. Wyl had told him that the man was vain, but he also recalled Wyl’s warning that Celimus was clever; that behind his charm and looks was a stunningly sharp mind. Yes, Aremys thought, Cailech would have to be a bit wary.

The servant had been dismissed now. It was just the four of them.

‘And tell me how you fit into all of this, Cailech,’ Celimus said, leaning back in his chair.

‘Quite simply, I wish us to stop being enemies. I see no reason for it other than our own stubbornness and I am offering you the hand of friendship and alliance from hereon if you wish to take it. My people will respect your boundaries utterly. There will be no further threat of raids, no incursion into your lands without your permission.’

Celimus nodded. ‘And what will your people gain from that?’

‘Freedom of movement without harassment or threat of injury. We wish to have permission to trade freely with the people of Morgravia and Briavel. I would also suggest you sanction a delegation of your people to visit the Razor Kingdom to gain a greater understanding of our people, our culture and our living standards. Perhaps you will allow a similar delegation from the Razors into Morgravia? I firmly believe that the more we can appreciate each other’s culture, the more peace will be achievable.’

‘Interesting. I am not averse to anything you have suggested, Cailech. There would have to be a governing body made up of delegates from both realms to supervise the…’ Celimus searched for the right word ‘…the melding of our Kingdoms.’

‘Of course. My thoughts entirely. But I don’t believe we could ever live as one, King Celimus,’ Cailech cautioned, addressing his counterpart with highest courtesy now. ‘Our ways are too different to yours. By the same breath, there are many areas in which we are similar. I want the same things for my people as you want for yours. I want our young to be educated and literate; I want free trade so marketing and commerce can flourish between our realms; I want my people to eat and sleep well, secure in the knowledge that their own are safe no matter which borders they are moving across.’

Aremys could have applauded Cailech for building his case eloquently. He doubted whether Celimus could find anything at fault in what Cailech was presenting and it seemed the Morgravian King was paying attention rather than just paying him lip service. He listened as Cailech continued.

‘Nevertheless, my people do not want to be Morgravian and I know you have no intention of taking your people into the Razors. Let us agree that we are different but we will tolerate each other’s differences. We will learn to admire those differences which make us the people of the Razors and your people the sophisticated Morgravians.’

‘Bravo,’ Jessom whispered to Aremys under the guise of softly clearing his throat.

Before Celimus could respond there was a knock at the door. The King looked towards his Chancellor, irritated. ‘See to it, Jessom,’ he said unnecessarily, for Jessom was already making for the door.

The other three remained silent as the Chancellor listened to the hurriedly spoken message. He turned. ‘My King, apologies for the interruption. There is an urgent missive from Queen Valentyna. Apparently you have insisted that anything from Briavel is to be delivered to you immediately.’

Celimus nodded. ‘Forgive me,’ he said to Cailech.

‘Never keep a woman waiting, Celimus — least of all a bride and a Queen at that,’ Cailech responded with mischief.

Celimus laughed. ‘Bring the messenger in,’ he ordered.

The man was permitted to enter. He bowed and then moved towards Celimus. ‘Your highness, this was sent in haste.’

Celimus waved his hand at him, saying nothing, having already broken the wax seal. He scanned the letter. Jessom shooed the messenger out of the door. It seemed he, along with everyone else in the room, was holding his breath. Aremys had not realised how much tension had been created through Cailech’s proposition; it was only now he saw that he had been hanging on Cailech’s every word, waiting for Celimus to agree once and for all to a formal union. This messenger could not have come at a worse time.

‘Nothing wrong?’ Cailech queried, his voice casual, although he glanced towards Aremys for guidance. Aremys shook his head, glad that no one noticed the exchange.

‘Farrow,’ Celimus said, taking Aremys by such surprise he almost jumped.

‘Yes, sire?’

‘The delivery of Ylena Thirsk…’

Suddenly the King’s tone sounded cunning and his body language was sly. Aremys heard alarm bells ringing somewhere in his head.

‘Yes?’

‘It is in hand, as agreed?’

Aremys hoped he was not reddening. His collar certainly felt a tad tight and he forced himself not to visibly swallow. ‘It is, sire.’

‘Interesting,’ Celimus said, standing. ‘Listen to this,’ and he read Valentyna’s letter aloud.

When it ended, Aremys was convinced he could hear his own heart pounding, the silence in the room was so profound. He made himself look directly at the King and from somewhere — he would never know where — he found his best lie ever and delivered it with such aplomb he too almost believed it to be truth. ‘That’s right, sire,’ he confirmed. ‘I sent a message to the Queen to release Ylena.’

Celimus frowned. ‘You did!’

Aremys nodded, determined not to look at Cailech whom he felt sure would be grinning, slyly enjoying his friend’s discomfort, although this was no laughing matter. Cailech could never know what a fine line Aremys was walking right now with the most dangerous of men.

‘You know Queen Valentyna personally?’

‘Not personally, sire.’

‘Well, how exactly do you know her then?’

‘I’m sorry, sire, I can’t divulge my sources. You understand that, I’m sure.’

Jessom could see that his King’s ire was stoking frighteningly fast but there could be no scene right now with Cailech so intrigued and quietly watching this new event unfold. Jessom felt abashed that he too had been caught out by this missive. He had presumed Ylena had been brought to Tenterdyn via whatever means the mercenary had at his disposal. The fact that Queen Valentyna had become involved was something of a shock.

‘Your majesty,’ Jessom interrupted as gently as he could, ‘Ylena Thirsk is already here.’

‘Here?’ Celimus repeated, a storm gathering in the olive eyes. Jessom knew the signs all too well.

‘Yes, your majesty, she arrived just minutes before your guests. Circumstances prevented me from bringing her before you.’

The King gave his Chancellor such a murderous look that even Aremys, who could not care less about the conniving servant, felt his blood run cold on his behalf. But Aremys also realised the King had been diverted: his wrath was directed at Jessom now, rather than himself, and he pressed that advantage.

‘As we know, sire, Ylena went to Briavel. I have contacts there and, before I was attacked in Timpkenny, I sent word to follow her and keep her under observation.’

‘Why, by the hairs of Shar’s arse, would you do that, Farrow, when I wanted her in Morgravia! Why not have her captured, man?’

Cailech laughed openly at the curse. ‘I shall have to remember that one, Celimus.’

The King of Morgravia caught his famous temper, the laughter reminding him that he was being watched carefully by another sovereign.

Aremys, wearing the most innocent expression he could muster, began to embellish the lie, his mind already racing towards how he might get to Wyl before anyone else to ensure their stories coincided. If Wyl told a different tale, they were both as good as dead. ‘I figured that the noblewoman would be dangerous wherever I held her in Morgravia, your highness. And as I didn’t have her in my own hands, I thought it best just to have her watched. I knew I could get to her whenever I needed to so long as I knew where she was based. I also felt she was a captive of her own fears, sire. If she felt safe in Briavel, she would not leave the realm and I would not have to give further chase.’

‘But when did you plan to carry out your mission for me?’ Celimus asked, following the Grenadyne’s line of thought.

Good question, Aremys acknowledged silently. He was making this up as he went along and again Wyl’s warning about Celimus’s sharp mind nudged him. ‘Immediately, sire. I was in the north, and Ylena Thirsk was presumably well south by then, which meant I didn’t have to hurry and run unnecessary risks of being discovered. I knew my people would pick up her trail and keep watch until I was ready to make my move. I didn’t expect to be carried into the Razors, sire. That was a surprise.’ He glanced at Cailech whose mouth was, as he had expected, twisted into a wry grin. ‘And a good thing too that I had people on task in Briavel.’

‘So then what?’ Celimus persisted, as if determined to prolong Aremys’s agony. The mercenary began to wonder if this was just public humiliation before the death squad came to fetch him.

‘My people are tactically placed, sire. It was simply a matter of getting word to them from the Razors.’

Celimus switched his attention to his royal guest. ‘You were aware of this word being sent, presumably, Cailech? If Aremys is your prisoner, as he tells me, surely you didn’t give him such freedom as to pass messages out of your realm to enemy states?’ It was phrased as a question but no one could miss the challenge in the Morgravian’s words.

To his credit Cailech did not so much as hesitate. Aremys had told him about his plan to use Ylena Thirsk as bait; he would have to trust his new friend for he had little idea of what game was now being put into play. ‘I permitted him a message, yes. It was to Briavel, to a dignitary in the Queen’s court. You must remember, Celimus, that you and I were enemies until just moments ago. I would have done anything to undermine you. Allowing this man to send a message into Briavel did not disturb me. Had I known, at the time, he was working on your behalf, however, I might not have been so generous.’

Satisfied, Celimus returned a steely gaze to Aremys who felt like kissing the Mountain King. Perhaps he still would, he thought, relief coursing through his body.

‘Anyway, Celimus, has this not achieved the outcome you wished for?’ Cailech’s question surprised everyone.

‘Pardon me?’ was all the King of Morgravia managed.

The Mountain King waved a hand in mock disgust. ‘It’s just that we seem to be wasting time over petty details. You wanted this woman, you have her. Aremys has delivered as he said he would. Why is there a case to argue?’

Cailech was right. Jessom communicated as much in the gaze with which he impaled his King. Why was Celimus so intent on making this conversation public? He was the one making a fool of himself. Unless Jessom was very wrong, Farrow seemed to be telling the truth.

There was no accounting for the moods of Celimus or the shifts in his thinking. His whole body seemed to relax after Cailech had posed his question, and Aremys could not help but compare the two kings for their capriciousness. They made a good match.

‘Why indeed, my friend?’ Celimus echoed. ‘You are right,’ he added, nodding slightly at his guest and then returning his attention to the mercenary. ‘Thank you, Aremys, for delivering Ylena into my hands. To be honest, I hadn’t thought you would trust me sufficiently to hand over the bait you dangled in front of my nose before you and your new employer left my realm for the safety of the Razors. After all, it was your insurance.’ His last few words were not lost on anyone in the chamber.

Aremys took the moment to bow and cover his intense relief at Cailech’s support. After straightening, and the chance to gather his thoughts, he said, ‘Your majesty, as I have explained before, I am a mercenary and always for hire. You have shown me nothing but generosity and I would have been foolhardy not to trust such a powerful monarch.’ He nodded at the King. ‘I would like to be able to work for you often, sire. Ylena Thirsk is nothing to me. My communication to your Queen simply suggested that the person to whom she offered sanctuary was your open enemy, and that she would be wise not to risk her new King’s wrath by sheltering her.’

‘And it worked, by Shar!’ Celimus said. ‘You are a cunning man, Aremys Farrow.’

As are you, you snake, Aremys thought; instead he replied, ‘I am simply a man for hire, my lord. I take opportunities where and when they present themselves. Do you still wish me to kill her, sire?’

‘I think I can manage that myself if and when needed,’ Celimus said, a cruel smile flitting over his mouth. Cailech frowned but held his tongue. ‘So where is she?’ the King continued, looking at Jessom.

‘In one of the outhouses, sire. I said you would summon her at your pleasure.’

‘And how is she?’

‘Surprisingly feisty,’ Jessom commented.

‘The Thirsk girl has found some spine, has she? I shall enjoy seeing this. So will you, Cailech. Do you know of the Thirsks?’

‘Only by reputation,’ he said. ‘This is the daughter of General Fergys Thirsk, I presume?’

‘Mmm, yes, the sister of Wyl Thirsk — finally back in my care.’ Celimus laughed. ‘Have her presented to me during this afternoon’s feasting, Jessom. I should like Cailech to see how we deal with treachery in Morgravia.’

Aremys felt as though the blood had stopped running through his veins. He needed to warn Wyl. The thought that his friend would probably die again in a few hours disturbed the Grenadyne so much that he could not breathe. He loosened his collar.

‘May I see her?’ he said, shocked that he had spoken without thinking it through.

‘Why?’ Celimus looked at him sideways.

Aremys thought quickly. ‘She knew I was following her, sire. I just want to remind her that I always catch my prey.’

Celimus clapped. ‘You have a nasty streak, Grenadyne. By all means. Jessom will go with you. Get her ready for us,’ he said to his Chancellor.

He turned to Cailech. ‘Let us get some air. How about a ride — just us? That horse of yours looks splendid. I should like to try him for myself.’

The Mountain King smiled. ‘Delighted. Am I to assume that we are done here? Formalities concluded?’ He sensed a trap.

‘Well, my friend,’ Celimus replied, and Cailech noted this was the second time the southern King had addressed him this way, ‘I am about to be married to the most beautiful woman of our age. Aremys here has just kept his word and delivered to me the last of the Thirsks whom I shall see die before my eyes shortly. I can’t think of anything I feel less like right now than the threat of war between our realms — which is what I presume is the alternative to an alliance?’

Cailech watched his counterpart carefully as he spoke. He noticed also that Celimus was deliberately parading over him. This man had no intention of honouring a union. What he wanted was sovereignty over Briavel and the Razor Kingdom. The marriage achieved the first, and the pretence at friendship would achieve the second. The green gazes of two powerful men met and each understood the other very clearly.

‘It would mean war, yes,’ Cailech finally answered, realising what a sham this whole event had been. His thought that he could charm this man or appeal to his good sense amused him suddenly. He had been carried away by the vision of the Grenadyne, but both of them had misunderstood the main point: Celimus did not want friendship or even harmony. All the King of Morgravia wanted was absolute authority over his neighbours. He would rule the whole continent — that was his dream. Neither Cailech nor Aremys had factored in the southerner’s avarice or his self-delusion of might. They had gone into this like excited boys, stupidly believing that Celimus would also be seeking peace, trade, community. How innocent and how ignorant he had been. And now he was trapped. Would Celimus allow them to leave here alive? Perhaps he cared not for the lives of those held ransom, and although Aremys had bargained for safety using Ylena Thirsk as bait, it seemed Aremys had delivered early. Why? What had he to gain from that? Why had he trusted the madman who ruled Morgravia?

‘That must be avoided then,’ Celimus commented. Cailech had to remember what he was referring to. Ah yes, war. It was time to unleash his final trick then, all that stood between him and certain death at the end of this man’s sword — or more likely, that of one of the King’s henchmen. It was unlikely Celimus would dirty his hands with Mountain blood.

‘King Celimus,’ Cailech said, standing now to look at his enemy eye to eye. ‘My emissary here, Aremys, may be far too trusting, but I am not. Until now I could not be sure that you would see things in a similar way to me. I had to take the precaution that your desires might differ from mine.’

Aremys felt as though the temperature in the hall had dropped to freezing point. The gently crackling fires at either end of the room had no effect on the cold which had descended. He had to admire Celimus when the southern King barely twitched at the couched threat that now lay between the two monarchs. What had Cailech kept up his sleeve?

Celimus asked the question which burned at the silent lips of Aremys and Jessom. ‘Ah, further insurance I gather. Tell me, King Cailech, so that I understand clearly, why is it that, although you don’t trust me you also don’t fear me, even though you are on my land, in my house, under my guards’ watchful eyes?’

‘Please don’t take it personally, Celimus, it’s just the simple caution of a King who knows how easy it is to give trust too quickly.’

Celimus nodded indulgently as if to say he truly understood.

‘There are two thousand Razor warriors currently gathered in the foothills,’ Cailech said.

‘Two thousand!’ The number clearly took the Morgravian’s breath away.

Cailech grinned good-naturedly. ‘And another two thousand camped a little bit higher.’

Aremys closed his eyes. He had definitely underestimated Cailech — as had Celimus.

‘And what are their instructions?’

‘To hit Tenterdyn with full might if my second, Myrt, does not give the all clear by nightfall.’

‘Nightfall? You hadn’t factored in much time for the feast, my friend.’

‘I wasn’t sure I’d make it to dinnertime.’

‘Bravo, Cailech. You are a man after my own heart. You will make your rendezvous with your men.’

‘Alive?’

‘Alive,’ and Celimus laughed, genuinely now.

Aremys felt as though a fist which had been gripping his insides had suddenly relaxed.

‘I hope you and Farrow will at least agree to dine with me,’ the King went on.

Cailech nodded, green eyes ablaze with triumph. ‘And our union?’

‘Begins today,’ Celimus lied. ‘My men will be instructed that people of the Razors are no longer targets. I will put together a delegation, to be led by Jessom here, and I suggest you do the same. They can nut out how we shall run this union. Let us clasp hands, before our two witnesses, to signify the formal alliance of our two realms.’

The King of Morgravia held out his hand and King Cailech of the Razors gripped it firmly. ‘To peace,’ he said, no longer believing it could happen as long as this King sat upon the southern throne.

‘To peace,’ Celimus echoed, privately laughing.

NINETEEN

WYL HEARD THE APPROACHING footsteps but had anticipated soldiers arriving, not the two men who entered the hut.

‘Look, Ylena,’ Jessom said, a note of triumph in his voice, ‘I’ve brought you a visitor.’

Aremys spoke before Wyl could answer; it was his only chance for a warning. ‘I thought it would be polite of me to introduce myself, Lady Ylena, as I was the one pursuing you on behalf of King Celimus. It was I who encouraged your protector to hand you back to Morgravia.’

He watched the surprise leave Ylena’s face and felt safe in the knowledge that Jessom would not interpret the truth. There was a momentary hesitation before she replied, but so slight he was sure he alone was sensitive to it.

‘Congratulations, sir,’ Wyl said. ‘Do come closer and allow me to spit on you and the trade you ply.’

Bravo, Wyl, Aremys thought, thank you for saving my life. Now how am I going to save yours?

‘You high and mighty Legion wives and daughters are all the same — don’t think your men are any different. I’ve heard what happened at Rittylworth —’

Aremys was interrupted by the arrival of a Legionnaire at the doorway.

‘Chancellor Jessom, the King wishes to speak to you before he leaves on his ride.’

‘I’ll be just a minute, Farrow,’ Jessom said. ‘Try not to make the wildcat too angry — her claws are sharp,’ and he smiled thinly as he left the hut.

‘What are you doing here?’ Wyl whispered.

‘Listen to me, Wyl!’ Aremys urged in an equally terrified whisper. ‘They are going to kill you.’

‘And that’s supposed to frighten me?’

The big man frowned. It had not occurred to him that this was not a catastrophe. ‘I… I suppose not.’

‘That’s why I’m here — I want him to kill me.’

Aremys shook his head. ‘This is all too much for me,’ he groaned. He stole a look over his shoulder to the courtyard where Jessom was conversing with his sovereign. ‘Look, I used you as bargaining power. I told Celimus I could deliver you to him — it was my insurance to get Cailech and myself out of here alive.’

‘I gathered as much,’ Wyl said, just a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

‘I had no idea you would deliver yourself. It was just a ruse — to buy us time.’

‘Well, I’m here now. What intrigues me is how you and Cailech come to be here together.’

‘It was the Thicket. It separated us.’

Understanding dawned on Ylena’s face. ‘I thought as much. Any plan in mind?’

‘None,’ Aremys said and looked at Ylena’s lovely face with despair.

‘I’ll think of something. When do you leave?’

‘Tonight,’ Aremys replied, then heard Jessom’s footsteps approaching. He gestured to Wyl, who quickly switched Ylena’s expression to one of rage.

‘Get out!’ he screamed.

Jessom entered to hear her shriek. ‘Oh dear, I did warn you, Farrow.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going. What are you going to do to her?’

The Chancellor looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, the King wants her dead, as you know.’ It was a callous comment designed to frighten Ylena.

‘Good, I can’t wait,’ Wyl said.

Jessom was unable to hide his astonishment at Ylena’s fearlessness. ‘I was going to say that I was hoping to persuade him otherwise, but the young lady seems determined to die.’ Jessom shook his head in wonder. ‘I imagine King Celimus will make an example of her.’

‘That’s risky, isn’t it?’ Aremys queried.

The Chancellor sighed. ‘He will want to impress his regal companion.’

‘He won’t — not in this manner,’ Aremys said, desperate to prevent Wyl’s death, no matter how much his friend wanted it.

‘We shall see. Come, Farrow, I trust you have gloated sufficiently. Farewell, Ylena. Prepare yourself to meet your King.’

‘He is no King of mine, Jessom!’ Wyl called out after the two men. A memory of kneeling before King Magnus filled his mind, and he recalled how he had pledged his life for Celimus. ‘And gladly will I give it,’ he muttered now. He hoped Shar would hear and let Magnus know.

Cailech allowed Celimus to ride the exquisite white stallion which had been bred in the Razors. The Morgravian King’s silence as they guided their horses towards the back of Tenterdyn where the lush plains stretched towards the mountains attested to his enjoyment of the beautiful beast.

‘He is extraordinary,’ Celimus finally said, when they halted beneath a small stand of trees.

‘He is yours.’

‘I could not —’

‘No, really. Let me gift him to you to seal our historic union. It is appropriate. I reared this horse from a newborn colt. He has a twin brother, identical. His mother is one of my most treasured brood mares and his sire is a tough old rogue with perfect bloodlines. He suits you as much as he does me. Now we shall both have white stallions of the same family. Fitting, don’t you think?’

Celimus gave Cailech one of his dazzling smiles. This gift pleased him more than anything the Mountain King had brought with him; it meant more than the alliance itself. ‘Thank you. I will think of you whenever I ride him.’

‘His name is Wildfire, like the falling star trails we see on a clear night in the Razors.’

‘And what can I give you in return?’

Cailech shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ he said, and both men laughed.

‘Whatever you want, it is yours.’

‘Be careful. That promise sounds wide-reaching. I might choose your bride-to-be.’

Celimus gave a wolfish grin. ‘Whatever you want that is here in Felrawthy, then.’

‘Our fathers would be proud of this alliance, Celimus,’ Cailech said, his voice suddenly wistful.

‘Not mine. I never made him proud.’

‘What you have done today, and what you have achieved between Morgravia and Briavel, should make him sit up in his tomb and applaud.’

Celimus liked the notion. He laughed, enjoying his companion despite not wanting to, despite deliberately planning to betray him. He liked Cailech. They were similar. Not in looks of course but in… what was it? He reached for that intangible something that he had recognised in Cailech. Texture; that was it. They had a similar texture. Both kings, both ambitious. Celimus believed the Mountain King was as ruthless as he himself was. The likeness pleased him; made him feel confident in a deeper sense, rather than relying entirely on ego. Cailech’s personality, though less flamboyant, was just as large and domineering as Celimus’s own. His father had seen these facets of his son as flaws, and yet here they were reflected in another man whom his father had considered powerful, talented, intrepid. Celimus shook his head.

‘My father hated me, Cailech. We hated each other, in truth. He killed my mother — I’m sure of it — and if he could have been granted a single wish, no doubt he would have seen me dead too.’

Cailech wanted to suggest that this was a paranoid perspective, but wisely reconsidered. The youngster was opening up; it would be imprudent to antagonise him now. Surely this was not part of the planned script for the meeting?

‘You will carve your own way for your own realm, my friend. Forget him. He is dust. Not forgotten, I grant you — you will always feel his shadow falling over you — but remember, that is all it is. A shade, no substance. He cannot hurt you now or command you. You rule Morgravia and you have vision. Your people are fortunate.’

Celimus’s chest swelled with pride to hear his fellow sovereign speak of him with such respect, but it deflated as he pondered the last few words. ‘No, they don’t see it that way. They fear me.’

Cailech reached down to stroke the mane of the borrowed horse he was riding. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘Your people are in awe of you. My people are just frightened of me.’

‘You have the power to change that, Celimus. And within weeks, not just your people, but the citizens of Briavel and even my people, will see what you have achieved: peace throughout the whole region. What an extraordinary time this is and you are the one who has brought it about. I am proud to be a part of it.’

Celimus searched the Mountain King’s face for guile, suspecting this man was simply oiling him up, but he saw nothing but the hard green gaze of a man determined to forge peace. He saw the truth in his neighbour’s eyes and in that moment he made a decision which went against everything that made Celimus who he was. He dared himself to take the challenge. Charged by this man’s encouragement and pride he decided to maintain the alliance. He would not betray Cailech as planned; he would keep his promise and spare lives. He would ensure that the union worked, even though it meant compromising his grand plans of imperialism. In one of the rarest moments of his life, Celimus smiled and meant it. ‘Let it be so then,’ he said, his voice almost catching with the emotion he felt.

Cailech saw it and realised that he had just saved hundreds of lives and ensured a new peace for his kingdom. He felt invigorated by what had been achieved by a simple conversation on horseback. ‘Remind me to gift you a horse more often,’ he said, his eyebrow arching.

Celimus threw back his head and laughed boyishly. ‘I’ll race you across the fields and show you how fine this beautiful stallion really is.’

Wildfire sprang forward and Cailech followed. But inside he felt a twinge of regret, for the Morgravian’s words had reminded him of Galapek and his growing sorrow at what had been worked upon the poor beast.

Gueryn was permitted to walk without being shackled this time. Even his hands were free to swing at his side as he luxuriated in the warmth on his back from another beautiful morning.

‘How are you today, Jos?’

‘Just fine,’ came the mangled reply but Gueryn understood.

‘Only one of you today?’

The big man nodded. ‘We trust you,’ he said and gave his crooked grin.

‘I won’t run away if you have more important duties to attend to,’ Gueryn assured.

The response was garbled but he worked out that Gueryn was Jos’s most important duty. ‘I can’t let the King down by losing you.’

‘All right, I do understand. But you have my word,’ Gueryn offered. His intent with this conversation was to build a friendship and some trust. He had no idea whether he would ever get an opportunity at escape but his chances were increased if he could lull his captors into believing he would never make such an attempt. Descending the Razors was no easy prospect, and vivid memories of an arrow thumping into his body served only to discourage him more, but it was spring and there would never be an easier time with the King and Myrt away.

‘Morning,’ Maegryn called, stepping back from a horse whose hooves he was inspecting.

‘And what a fine one it is,’ Gueryn replied.

‘Did you ache from your work?’

‘Yes, but it felt good.’

‘A treat for you. A ride, with Jos here and another guard.’

‘Oh? How come?’

‘Three of our stallions need a proper exercise.’

Gueryn could see his own pleasure reflected in the grin from the stablemaster. ‘A ride.’ He said it as though the words were brand new on his tongue.

‘I’d come myself but one of the King’s brood mares is in labour and I have to be around for the delivery. She’s struggling a bit so I can’t risk not being close.’

‘Can we help?’ Gueryn asked reflexively. He had been around horses since he was a child and had been involved in enough births to be useful.

‘I appreciate it but I’m hoping the little one will be born before you lot return. And the mother’s best with fewer fussing around her.’ Gueryn showed his understanding with a slight nod. ‘Jos, you’ll be on Charger — he’s out sunning himself over there in the paddock. He’s a fiery character but let him loose. He needs a good run. Rollo will be accompanying you. He’s on Dray, the older stallion.’

‘And me, Maegryn?’ Gueryn asked.

‘Well now, Morgravian, I thought I’d allow you to ride something very special. You might have to prove your worth as a horseman today because you’ll be calling on all your skills.’

Gueryn grinned. ‘Do your worst, Maegryn. I’d ride a donkey right now just for the chance to be back in a saddle again.’

‘This is no donkey, le Gant. This is the King’s most prized horse and he’s a flighty one. That’s him you hear right now making all that noise.’

Gueryn frowned. ‘He does sound agitated. What do you call him?’

‘Galapek.’

The joy of learning he would soon be on horseback, however briefly, had temporarily sapped Gueryn of his wits. It had not occurred to him that one of the mounts could be the very horse he was trying to track down.

‘Galapek,’ he repeated, taking a moment to gather himself and ensure no recognition showed in his expression. ‘That’s a sorrowful name indeed for a fine stallion.’

‘Oh? I’ve been told it’s from the old language. How could you know old Northernish?’ Maegryn asked, intrigued.

‘My ancestors on my maternal side were from a place even more north than here. The old language stayed alive in our family. I learned some of it as a child.’

‘So what does it mean? We’ve all been dying to know,’ Jos chimed in, his excitement torturing the sounds of the words.

Gueryn looked towards Maegryn, baffled. He had missed what Jos was trying to say.

‘I think he said that none of us know what Galapek means.’

‘It means traitor,’ Gueryn answered, surprised. So none of these men had an inkling about the stallion, not even the irony of the King’s choice of name.

‘Traitor?’ Maegryn repeated. ‘What sort of a name is that for a horse?’

Gueryn shrugged. ‘Perhaps your King has a sense of humour.’

‘Stupid name, if you ask me. This is an extraordinary beast, le Gant. You Morgravians would never have clapped eyes on anything as remarkable. He’s the most beautiful stallion I’ve ever seen.’

‘Grenadyne?’

Maegryn’s eyes seemed to sink into his skull even further, if that was possible. ‘He was a present. I have no idea who sired him.’

Gueryn sensed the withdrawal. He had worked too hard to lose this precious friendship, however fragile it was. ‘Well, let’s see this splendid beast. You’ve made me feel envious already.’

‘Here he comes now,’ Maegryn replied, forthcoming again. ‘Admit it, le Gant. He’s the finest horse you’ve ever seen.’

Gueryn felt his breath catch in his throat. The horse was massive through the chest. He came towards them, proud and majestic in gait. He shook his head and his long mane flicked in a shiny wave of fluid movement whilst his black coat all but sparkled in the bright morning. He was beautiful, there was no denying it, but Gueryn saw the ugliness in the horse’s eyes. They were wide, as if in permanent fear, and his flesh appeared to twitch incessantly.

‘Ah, here’s your other companion,’ Maegryn said. ‘Rollo is one of the King’s most trusted men, le Gant. No tricks, eh? He’s also one of our best archers and won’t flinch to sink an arrow back into that shoulder of yours.’

Rollo did not smile. No jest was being made here.

Gueryn recalled with vivid intensity how the arrow had ripped through skin and nerves, muscle and bone. He was in no hurry to feel that sensation again, yet knew he would risk it if the opportunity for escape presented itself. ‘Have no fear,’ he assured, lying easily.

Maegryn gave some final instructions regarding the horses and Gueryn submitted to having his hands loosely strung together.

‘You can still handle the horse with ease. Just a precaution, you understand?’ Rollo said.

Gueryn pulled a face which suggested it was of no consequence to him and then made use of Maegryn’s offered leg-up to hoist himself into the saddle. The other men followed suit and, after a nod from Rollo, the party eased itself away from the stable compound.

‘Give them a slow drink at the lake,’ Maegryn called after them. ‘We haven’t watered them since this morning.’

Gueryn smiled. He had been captive so long he had forgotten how much he loved life, wanted to cling to it, but right now life felt marvellous.

TWENTY

THEY HAD TRAVELLED A SHORT distance that night using magic. Knave had wanted to do a test, mainly to see how much pain it created for Fynch. The boy had performed the magical transportation and then slept restlessly, sometimes crying out, presumably in pain. Now awake, he squatted pale and quiet, chewing sharvan leaves.

Knave wanted to ask Fynch what he had meant the previous day when he answered the kestrel’s question so audaciously, but he did not dare. When Fynch had finally roused from the curious stupor he had fallen into after the bird’s departure, he had been withdrawn and Knave had sensed it was no time for talk. Movement was best and so he had suggested they walk for a time and then sleep until the early hours, which they had done. When the time came, Knave had marvelled at the speed with which Fynch had conjured the spell to create what could only be described as a bridge to the Thicket. When the Thicket responded, Knave felt a pulse like a thick plume of air punched into his side. The next moment he landed, breathless, alongside Fynch on a safe ledge deeper into the Razors and closer to their prey.

‘All right, Knave?’ Fynch had whispered.

Yes, he had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Fynch had settled immediately and slept. Once again, the dog had lain down beside his companion and kept the youngster’s body warm with his own.

Now it was time to move again. Are we waiting for something? Knave risked.

‘For Kestrel. I feel him.’

How is the pain?

‘Not unbearable,’ Fynch answered. ‘Thank you,’ he added and Knave knew he meant it. Then: ‘Kestrel speaks,’ and Fynch opened his mind to share the communication with Knave. Where are you? he asked the bird across the leagues that divided them.

Just outside Sharptyn. I have found her.

Good, he replied calmly, as though talking with a bird was something he did most days. What can you see?

She seems to be a prisoner — she walks with shackled hands and feet. There are others, all women. Men guard them. And there’s a child — a small girl belonging to one of the men, I think. The girl talks to your friend.

Is Elspyth injured?

Pretty name. There was a pause. Not injured but she looks frightened.

What are they doing now? Fynch pressed his temples and Knave knew the pain was back.

I can’t really tell. I would guess that they are stretching their limbs because they came out of a shed a short while ago.

Fynch. You must stop, Knave urged.

Fynch nodded. Kestrel, I am so grateful to you. Can I trouble you to remain there a while longer?

No trouble.

Thank you. I’ll talk again shortly. Fynch closed the link.

You cannot keep doing this, the dog cautioned.

‘We must save her.’ Fynch’s tone was stubborn.

How?

‘You must go to Valentyna and get her help.’ The dog chose silence to show his exasperation. ‘Please, Knave.’

We have a task to complete.

‘And I will finish it as promised. But I also promised that I would help Wyl’s cause. I will not forgive myself if Elspyth perishes.’

We are helpless.

‘Not helpless. Just distant. I can fix that.’

No, Fynch.

‘Yes. If you won’t go, I will.’

A difficult silence lengthened between them as the huge dog regarded the trembling yet implacable boy. Knave knew the suffocating pain Elysius had suffered, even though the sorcerer had used his magic infrequently and with utmost care. Knave could not imagine the burden Fynch was bearing right now.

You’ll send me?

‘And bring you back when you’ve delivered her a note.’

That will still take days.

‘Not if I send you the entire distance.’

Fynch! It will kill you.

‘Trust me. I am stronger than you think.’

The dog felt helpless. He had no doubt his companion would send himself back to Werryl if Knave did not comply. And you will promise to continue on alone? he asked.

Fynch covered his face, pushing his fingers against his eyes. His answer was mumbled and weak. ‘Yes, of course.’

Rashlyn will sense the magic, Knave warned.

‘I don’t care. Elspyth could die.’

So could you.

‘I am already sacrificed.’

Oh, Fynch.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound cruel but you must do this for me. I will prepare a note. Valentyna can send help.’

Can you write? the dog asked, grasping at any excuse which might prevent this madness.

‘I know some letters… enough to convey the urgency.’

Knave looked at him gravely. There is a cave over there. You must rest a while before you travel on.

‘I think you’re right,’ Fynch admitted. He dug into his sack for a scrap of parchment he had had the foresight to throw in, but although he had brought a quill he had forgotten ink in his rush. ‘I’ll use blood,’ he said matter of factly and, without hesitating, dragged a small knife across his palm.

He scrawled five words only, spelt incorrectly but clear enough he was sure: Elspyth, Sharptyn south, huts, danger. He had to dip the quill frequently into the pool of blood in his palm. Knave could not watch, disgusted with this turn of events but also feeling helpless.

‘For Valentyna only, you understand?’

I understand. Knave allowed Fynch to tie the parchment around his neck with some trailing grass vines. It was fragile but would make the journey.

‘Ready?’

Do it! the dog instructed, unable to conceal his disdain any longer.

‘I’ll wait to hear,’ Fynch said, hugging the dog briefly. Without wasting another word he sent Knave tumbling through a magical tunnel arcing from the Razors to Werryl.

Used to this mode of transport by now, Knave landed softly on all fours, checked that the parchment was still in place and then took his bearings. He was in the woodlands just beyond Werryl city, where the Queen liked to ride. Sighing to himself, he set off at a lope towards the palace and, no doubt, a stunned Valentyna.

Back in the Razors, Fynch retched pitifully with the pain, but there was nothing to be expelled. He curled up, exhausted, in the cold but dry cave and, chewing on his decreasing supply of sharvan leaves, drifted towards sleep — the only place where respite from his aching head was to be found.

It was late afternoon of Elspyth’s second day as a prisoner. The first day had passed in a blur, caused by the drug and the shock of her situation. Elspyth was still too stunned to take in all that had happened to her, but it had sunk in by now that she was amongst women only; there were no male prisoners. The men were their captors. Released from the huts, she found the courage to speak to one of her fellow prisoners.

‘What are we doing here?’

‘Finally found your voice then. Don’t worry, we’re all the same when we first arrive.’

‘What is this place?’

‘We’re prisoners. They trick us, trap us and keep us here.’

‘What for?’

‘Who are you? You’re not Briavellian, are you?’

‘My name is Elspyth. I’m from Yentro, northern Morgravia.’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re a long way from home, Elspyth, and you’ll certainly wish you’d never been duped by Ericson. I’m Alda, from south-eastern Briavel.’

‘He’s trapped us, you say?’

Alda nodded. ‘For his sport.’

Elspyth gaped at her companion, unable to decipher what in Shar’s name she could mean by that comment. ‘Sport?’ she repeated.

‘Well, it’s for all of them really. He just gets paid a lot for finding us.’

‘Alda,’ Elspyth said, her voice shaking now. ‘You’ll have to explain because I don’t understand any of this.’

A bird screeched in the tall trees. Both women glanced up but neither could see the kestrel perched there.

‘We fight and they bet on us. After three wins, we’re sold on apparently. I’ve got one more win to go to get out of here.’

Elspyth had not thought life could get more complicated, but it just had. ‘Sold?’

‘There’s a good slave trade out of Morgravia’s south. Didn’t you know?’ the woman asked, clearly surprised.

‘I had no idea.’

‘Oh, yes. A very good trade. Ships from the Exotic Isles slip into and out of a tiny bay called Cheem, east of Ramon, west of Argorn. They pick up slaves regularly.’ She shrugged at the disbelief on the newcomer’s face. ‘At least it’s an escape from this — but you have to survive three bouts, of course.’

It was too much for Elspyth to take in. ‘What sort of fighting is it? Bare hands?’

Now the woman laughed harshly and Elspyth heard a hint of despair. ‘Blades, you fool. This is to the death. You will be fighting for your life tonight, my girl, and the right to be shipped off as a slave. Forget your former self — it doesn’t exist any more.’ Then she became wistful, the bravado shattering. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll see my family again, track down my son, but right now I have to make it through one more fight.’

Elspyth grabbed her companion’s arm. ‘Alda, I don’t know how to fight.’

‘None of us know, girl! It’s pure animal instinct that has kept me alive. I suggest you find some or your blood will be splashed across the main hut’s dust tonight.’

Elspyth could not help the tears. This was all too much of a shock.

Alda pushed Elspyth’s hands from her sleeve. ‘Expect nothing from me, or anyone else for that matter. No one has friends here. We don’t know who we’ll have to kill next to survive. Two days ago I killed someone I liked. I don’t want to know you or feel sorry for you, because you might be the woman I have to kill tonight. They do it for entertainment — they bet on us and then they sell us on. Ericson dreamed it all up apparently. Did he use the young girl to lure you?’

Elspyth nodded blindly through her tears.

‘No good blaming yourself. I fell the same way, accepting a seemingly kind offer of a lift, trying to get back from Werryl to my family more quickly than I could on foot. They’re experts at picking the perfect mark.’

‘What were you doing in Werryl?’ Elspyth asked, desperate to prolong any conversation that might take her mind off what was hurtling towards her. She heard the shriek of the bird again but ignored it, finding herself on her knees in the dust, clinging to the skirts of this woman who had no intention of further confidences.

‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to share anything more with you. Don’t think we’re friends: I can’t help you — won’t help you. You’d best prepare yourself. It’s either kill or be killed. Get that straight now.’

Alda ripped herself away and hurried to the other side of the compound. No one saw the tears she shed there over her own cruelty. What sort of monster had these men turned her into?

Wyl too was preparing for death, except he wanted to embrace it. Dying again would be his salvation in this instance and he wondered who he would become. In truth he did not care; all he knew was that he could not bear to be Ylena for much longer. Instead he clung to Fynch’s quiet belief that random acts could change the course of Myrren’s gift. He desperately wanted to believe in anything that might spare him living as Celimus. As much as he loved the idea of marrying Valentyna, the notion of walking in the body of the present King of Morgravia was repulsive. Every time he saw the vision of Celimus’s face before him he had to draw on all his strength to force it away.

In the end, to distract himself from his downward-spiralling thoughts, he washed Ylena’s face and combed her hair. Wyl tied it back once again, not prepared to allow the soft waves of golden tresses to pool around her narrow shoulders. He also refused to change out of his riding trews. There would be no curtseying today. He did, however, dust his garments as best he could, having decided that Ylena should not die looking ragged and filthy. Wyl knew appearance and presentation were high on his sister’s list of priorities and it was the least he could do for her considering that he was contriving to bring about her death — a second time.

He looked in the small tarnished mirror that Jessom had provided and acknowledged how the glass suited Ylena: both she and the mirror were damaged and no longer much good to anyone. Nevertheless, not even its rusted surface could hide the ethereal radiance that shone from Ylena’s visage. She was gaunt now, but somehow that only added to her ghostly beauty; it reminded Wyl of their mother, when he had seen her laid out following her death.

The wasting fever had shrunk his mother’s willowy figure to a skeletal state, and she died gasping for one more lungful of air, but in her death repose Helyna of Ramon remained breathtakingly lovely. Ylena would be the same, Wyl promised himself, as he stared out through eyes that looked even larger than usual because she was so thin and so full of sorrow.

Wyl threw the mirror down, shattering it across the flagstones, glad that it would never reflect that sad, haunting face again.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. It was Harken, together with the older officer from earlier in the day.

‘I thought you had gone,’ Wyl said, gathering his unravelling emotions.

‘Our company was called back this afternoon to guard the arrival of the Mountain King.’

‘You have been summoned,’ the older soldier cut across them both. ‘The lad here seemed determined to see you again.’

‘And how kind of you to let him,’ Wyl said, bitterness lacing his tone. ‘It is a pity you don’t feel the same loyalties to General Thirsk that I would expect from a soldier of the Legion.’

‘He’s dead, or hadn’t you noticed?’ the man answered with a cruel grin. ‘Thirsk is no good to us now. We’re stuck with the nasty royal brat and the only way any of us will survive is to follow his orders.’

Wyl mustered as much contempt as he could on Ylena’s face. ‘You snivelling coward! The Legion could overthrow him in a blink if it would only find its spine. What has happened to all of you?’

The man did not bother to reply, simply held out the manacles to be put around Ylena’s wrists. Wyl obliged; there was no point in wasting energy on a man like this. He turned his attention to the dumbstruck Harken.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the young man finally stammered. ‘I just had to see you again.’

‘And I’m happy you did. There is nothing you can do for me, but I urge you to rally your men against the Crown.’

He expected the old soldier to strike him for saying something so treacherous, but the man simply laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, lad. These are the ravings of a condemned woman. Follow orders — that’s the Legion’s way, isn’t it? And you have yours.’

‘Harken, look at me!’ Wyl commanded. ‘Do this, if nothing else. Throw your support behind Celimus’s bride. When he marries Valentyna of Briavel, she will be your Queen. Help her. Don’t let him crush her as he has all of you. Make your men pledge their allegiance — she is your only hope against his brutality.’

Harken, stunned, could only nod. His companion gave Ylena a shove. ‘Come on, lass. Let me follow my orders. I’ve got just another winter to get through and then I’ll be out of the Legion and off mending fishing nets in the north-west. After that I don’t care what the young bloods do. Right now we have instructions to bring you to his majesty and that’s what we’re going to do.’

Wyl rubbed at Ylena’s burdened wrists. ‘Let us go then,’ he said.

Elspyth stood with about sixteen other women in what was akin to a cattle pen, which Ericson and his cohorts had built inside the main stone building. She had been forced to strip herself of clothes and given a grubby length of linen to cover whatever she could. One end of the cloth was stained with blood and, with her terror of dying and her crushing despair at failing Lothryn, it was all Elspyth could do not to scream at the testimony of another’s injury, perhaps her death.

The men had been drinking for most of the afternoon. They were well and truly intoxicated now, eager for the naked women, for fighting, for killing. The volume of noise in the building rose noticeably as the audience became more excited, especially when the women were herded into their pen, clutching at the useless fabric which barely concealed their modesty.

The smell of liquor, combined with sweat, vomit and the unmistakable scent of congealed blood, made some of the jumpier women gag. Others began to wail. They knew what was coming and that, in the next hour or so, they could be taking their last breath. Elspyth could cope with the stench but her rising fear would surely undo her. She had learned that the men had not found ‘fresh meat’ for a week or more, and one kind soul had told her she would be a definite on tonight’s menu. There were no more tears to cry and there was no one coming to save her. If she was to survive this, Shar help her, it would be because she managed to kill three of her fellow captives.

Elspyth looked around the pen and wondered who she might be partnered with tonight. She noticed all of the women were in relatively good health; no one older than around thirty-five summers or so it would seem. She smiled grimly to herself. Of course they wouldn’t choose anyone much older — the naked bodies would not offer the same spectacle.

‘I’ve heard they sometimes rape the winner,’ a woman nearby murmured, no doubt awaiting her first bout, her eyes panic-stricken.

‘They’re not here just to look, you fool,’ her neighbour warned.

Elspyth gritted her teeth and turned away, her glance catching that of Alda on the opposite side of the pen. The other woman looked calm yet menacing, as if violence lay just beneath that expressionless exterior. Madness and the threat of death whirled around them all, but Alda’s attention was riveted on Elspyth alone. It was unnerving. When Elspyth saw torches being lit around the central area and a man approaching to get the first fight under way, her emotions frayed. She would not show her fear to the men, but inwardly she screamed her pain towards Lothryn, knowing he too was helpless but needing to say farewell.

She reached Fynch instead.

The boy woke, consumed by Elspyth’s anguish. Lothryn, I love you, I’m so sorry! Shar, help me! Her scream came through a gossamer-thin link that threatened to tear away at any second. But this time Fynch was quick enough.

We’re coming. You must hold on, and then the link was ripped away, her terrified voice a memory. But her fear was contagious and it remained like a bad smell, festering around him. Fynch shivered. The pain was back in his head; he was not sure it had ever left or whether he would ever be free of it again. He wanted to chew on more sharvan but resisted, knowing he was turning to the leaves too quickly. Knave had counselled him to fight the pain, not let it control him.

He focused on Knave now and sent his message. Where are you?

At the palace gates. I believe I’ve just enraged a number of Briavellians with some ferocious barking.

Fynch smiled despite himself. Thank you for going, Knave.

How are you?

I’m all right. I’ve just woken. Elspyth reached me again. She sounds in desperate trouble.

The note is intact. Here they come now. I hope they remember me.

No one could forget you.

We’ll speak again soon. Chew some leaves — you’ll need them after this.

Fynch did not reply. He broke the bond and cast a silent prayer to Shar to guide the message into Valentyna’s hands. She alone had the power to act to save Elspyth.

Knave barked again, for good measure, as the guard limped towards the gate. ‘Shar’s mercy, look at the size of that thing,’ he muttered to his younger companion. ‘I’ll send an arrow into its heart if it doesn’t quieten down.’

‘Wait! That’s that black dog of the boy’s, isn’t it?’

‘Which boy?’

‘You know — that Fynch lad. One of the Queen’s favourites.’

‘Shar spare us, so it is. I must be going mad not to recognise it.’ The older guard made a sound of disapproval, knowing he had been caught napping when he was supposed to be guarding the western gate.

‘Do we let it in?’

‘Search me. You take a message to the Captain.’

‘Looks like it’s got a note tied around its neck,’ the young soldier said, nodding towards the dog as he left.

‘You’d better hurry,’ his companion called after him.

Several minutes passed, with Knave stalking the breadth of the gate impatiently and the older guard watching, a little mesmerised. Knave was convinced the man was still half asleep. He barked, just to make sure he had the fellow’s attention, and the old boy nearly leapt out of his skin.

‘Bastard animal,’ he murmured, then turned to see his superior approaching. ‘Captain Orlyd, sir,’ he said, giving a stiff nod.

‘Barnes,’ the Captain acknowledged. ‘Ah, the dog. Yes, I believe that’s the same one. Commander Liryk says it’s to be given entry.’

‘Righto, sir. You’re sure it’s not dangerous?’

‘It’s a dog, Barnes. Haven’t you seen it playing around these very grounds with the young lad, Fynch?’

‘Er, once or twice, sir.’

‘Then you’ll know it’s harmless. Move, man. Let’s see what the note is about.’

When the gate was raised, Knave padded in and obediently sat in order that Fynch’s note could be taken from his neck. Fynch had taken the precaution of scrawling a ‘V’ on the outside, as he had seen on some of Valentyna’s personal items.

‘This is for the Queen,’ Orlyd said as he patted Knave’s large head. ‘Good fellow. You’d better come with me.’ He shook his head as Knave stood to follow him. ‘Smart too, eh?’

Man and dog took the quickest route towards the royal apartments, where the Captain knew Liryk had been having a meeting with the Queen and the duke from Morgravia. Several high-ranked servants queried the presence of a dog in this part of the palace but as soon as they realised it was Knave, Orlyd was permitted to pass.

He gave a message to a man acting as the Queen’s secretary and wondered again at how sorely missed old Chancellor Krell was. If Krell had been at his desk, Orlyd would probably have been taken directly into the Queen’s chamber. The former Chancellor had an uncanny knack of knowing when something was important enough to warrant such attention. Orlyd was sure this was one of those occasions.

Liryk emerged with a quizzical expression. ‘I trust this is urgent, Captain?’

‘I believe it is, sir.’ He held out the note.

‘Shar strike me. It’s Knave,’ Liryk said as he took the note. He bent to greet the dog and at that moment Valentyna appeared at the doorway, looking for one of her servants. She squealed with delight at seeing Fynch’s dog and their reunion was filled with licks and joyful sounds.

‘Is that a note?’ the Queen asked, still grinning from Knave’s particular form of salutation.

‘It appears so, your highness,’ Liryk replied, handing it to her.

‘It will be from Fynch, of course. I’ve been dying to hear news of him. I presume he is nearby if Knave is with us,’ she said, unravelling the parchment from its leafy twine. It took only seconds for her to read it. ‘Shar save us!’

Liryk, who was in the process of dismissing his Captain, turned back in alarm. ‘Your highness?’

‘It’s Elspyth. She’s in trouble.’

‘How does the boy know?’

‘I have no idea. But I’m glad Crys was lingering over his farewells. He wouldn’t have gone yet, would he?’

‘At the stables still, I imagine. Captain Orlyd, please prevent the Duke of Felrawthy from leaving until the Queen has spoken with him.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘I’ll be straight behind you,’ Valentyna called after him. She looked towards Liryk. ‘She’s in Sharptyn. You know what this is, don’t you?’

He nodded, his expression grim. ‘It ties up with a few other disappearances we can’t explain.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘And now we have the location of where these scoundrels are holding the women. Come, Liryk, Knave. We’ll send the guard with Crys.’

The old man broke his usual sense of protocol by grabbing the Queen’s arm. ‘I trust the duke is not to be put in charge of my men, your highness? We have been chasing clues regarding these disappearances for many months now.’

Valentyna realised that in her excitement she had overlooked something important. She reminded herself to learn from it. Her impulsiveness could make her careless — her father had told her this many times, even though he was usually referring to her horse-riding. ‘No, Liryk,’ she said, covering his hand with her own. ‘You are in charge.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘I will send Crys because Elspyth is his friend and she trusts him. It will give him a reason to leave us too, whereas I think he has been feeling obliged to leave because his presence might cause us trouble.’ Liryk nodded. ‘It also means I send one less man of our own.’

‘Thank you, your highness.’

Valentyna had not moved yet. ‘Commander Liryk, I cannot do all that is ahead without you. I hope you understand how much I rely on your counsel and support. I don’t see myself as an island.’

It was an odd comment and yet a timely one for the old soldier, long in need of some assurance from his sovereign. He found a smile. It felt like his first in a long time.

‘I am obliged, your highness,’ he answered in a thick voice. ‘I sometimes feel us old fellows are no longer much use to you.’

She frowned. ‘You have been part of my growing up, which makes you all the more important to me now. I hope you understand I will never do anything which is not solely in the interest of Briavel.’ Valentyna knew the statement referred to virtually everything that had happened since she had taken on the monarchy — from her relationship with Koreldy to trusting the Morgravians and dismissing Krell.

‘I don’t doubt you, your highness. But you are under more pressure than most royals would face in their first year of rule. Let us get this girl rescued before it’s too late.’

‘I know you don’t like her, Liryk,’ Valentyna added, determined — whilst they were talking so candidly — to take this opportunity to discuss Elspyth. It was time to exert her authority as the ultimate decision-maker for this realm. Until now it was as if she had been serving some sort of apprenticeship, with Krell and Liryk guiding her, smiling benignly at choices they considered wise or grimacing when she followed her instincts and went against what they thought was right. Elspyth came into the latter category.

‘It’s not personal, your majesty,’ Liryk began. He searched her face, as if the words he looked for were written across her forehead. She stared back at him intently, giving nothing away. ‘It’s just that Chancellor Krell and I felt she was a dangerous influence here.’

‘A dangerous influence on me, you mean?’

He sighed. ‘We felt she was driving you to say and think things which might put the realm at risk.’

‘Never, sir. Never!’

‘I’m sorry, your majesty.’

‘You’re entitled to an opinion; indeed, I would be troubled if you didn’t have one.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘But I am also entitled to like whomever I choose without sanction from the people around me.’ Valentyna saw her words bite; she had meant them to do just that, having long ago tired of Krell’s and Liryk’s exasperated glances between each other. ‘Yes, we made our friendship quickly — women often can if they take to each other immediately — but Elspyth seems to know things we don’t. This marriage with Celimus is not as cut and dried as you think. My instincts are screaming at me that it is wrong, that it is a bad decision for Briavel, and yet I can’t convince anyone of it. The nobles want the marriage so much they can taste it! The rest of Briavel wants it so they can get on with their lives in peace. I seem to be the only one who doesn’t want it and yet the Legion are breathing down our necks on the border, seemingly preparing to invade. I have no choice in this, Commander Liryk,’ she said, deliberately lowering her voice to just above a hard whisper. ‘I have to marry Celimus because there seems to be no other option, and yet people like Crys Donal, Elspyth and Ylena Thirsk — all Morgravians — truly believe it is the worst decision I could make.’

Liryk clearly felt it was his turn to be forthright. ‘Your majesty, with all due respect, if you don’t continue with your preparations for the wedding, we will go beyond the point where a marriage can save any of us. The King of Morgravia is threatening war. It is a war we cannot win, your highness, not even if we whipped up a frenzy of patriotism. The sheer weight of his army will crush us, your majesty, and I would have to lead our boys into that fray knowing we would all be slaughtered.’ His voice wavered as emotion swelled through his words. ‘This is not King Magnus, your majesty. This is not a man of compassion. Celimus will brutally slay every Briavellian man and his son, and his son’s son, if necessary, if we choose to go to war against him. What we are seeing now is only the threat. He is making sure we understand that the only thing to prevent this war is you, your highness. You and the gift of marriage. If you love Briavel and you love its people —’

Valentyna stepped back, aghast that he could think otherwise. Liryk continued, ignoring her shock. ‘If you love Briavel and its people,’ he repeated, more gently this time, ‘you will hurry up and marry the King of Morgravia.’

He bowed, not reacting to the telltale glisten in the Queen’s eyes. ‘I shall prepare to leave for Sharptyn, your highness, and I shall bring back the woman of Yentro for you. I give you my word that I will achieve this for you or die trying.’

Valentyna said nothing. She watched Liryk’s broad back go down the corridor and she felt hollow.

TWENTY-ONE

ELSPYTH WATCHED THROUGH her tears as the body of the woman who had been wailing earlier gushed its lifeblood steadily into the sawdust. Her killer, an older woman, stood bowed above, no doubt in shock and bleeding from several wounds. The victor had struck a lucky blow at the top of the wailing woman’s thigh which had hit a major artery in her groin. Death had followed not long afterwards. The men did not even give the woman the grace of a peaceful death; instead they cheered hysterically whilst the winners gleefully collected on their bets. The women in the pen watched in silent horror as another soul was collected by Shar’s Gatherers. Most did not even know her name. As Alda had cautioned Elspyth, there was no point in getting to know each other because it made the killing harder. The corpse was dragged away by the hair and would be burned later with the rest of the dead, their bodies piled up from the evening’s entertainment. The victor, still staring at nothing with glazed eyes, was led roughly out of the arena.

‘It’s her first kill,’ a voice said close by.

Elspyth had no idea that Alda had sidled up beside her during the fight. ‘And the dead woman?’

‘She was on her third fight. If she’d won tonight, she’d be on her way to the boat. Stupid fool — she could have easily won too. Still, one less for me to kill.’

Elspyth looked up at the taller woman. She felt sorrow that a mother had become so hardened. And yet it was because of her child that this woman planned to win at all costs. It did not matter: Elspyth already hated Alda. ‘Get away from me.’

The Briavellian made a sound of disgust. ‘I hope you’re next!’ she said, nodding her head towards the man approaching. ‘Time you found out what it’s like out there.’

Elspyth ignored her, her gaze fixed on the obese fellow waddling towards them with his hated parchment of names. She had given a false one but it would not change anything.

‘Next up, ladies, is Olivya,’ he said in a jovial voice, but they were all too fearful to pay much attention to his manner. ‘Where is Olivya?’

No one moved. Terrified gazes met more resolute ones — those succumbing to a sense of fate.

‘Come on, now. Small, pretty, dark. Ah, there you are, my dear. Cast off that sheet now,’ he said to Elspyth. ‘It’s your turn.’

Elspyth had forgotten she had called herself Olivya. Her legs felt too weak even to hold her body up, let alone carry her across the pen and into the arena. She began to weep. Elspyth did not want to have to kill someone, but that was her only choice if she was ever to escape and find Lothryn.

‘Come on, lass. Haven’t got all night,’ the man urged, scowling now.

Alda pushed Elspyth forward viciously. ‘Who’s she fighting?’

‘Ginny. Where are you, Ginny?’

‘Let me fight her instead.’

‘You’re not down to fight tonight, Alda,’ the fat man replied. ‘We’re going to make you lose some sleep over your third.’ He smiled without kindness, sweat running down his oily face.

‘I’ll make it a real spectacle,’ Alda said desperately.

Elspyth felt her breath had been trapped inside her. What was Alda thinking? She could see the blood lust in her face. She knew the Briavellian would enjoy killing her — perhaps because she was Morgravian, or perhaps because she was pretty and Alda was anything but. More likely, she reasoned through her terror, it was simply that Elspyth looked like she would be easy to beat. Perhaps Alda sensed a straightforward kill and a short cut to the boat and away from this place.

The notion of being considered a pushover dragged Elspyth from her stupor. She sucked in air with a huge angry gasp and suddenly the noise, the smell, the woman’s blood still wet and gleaming on the floor, and now, the fat man and Alda bargaining over her death, galvanised her. Elspyth felt the fear leave her in a tingling, angry rush. It pushed upwards through her throat and exploded in a cry of fury, and something she had never felt before oozed from every fibre of her being. It was rage. It did not burn within like a fire. Instead it bubbled through her as a white-cold flame, torching her thoughts, sparking her emotions, scorching her with its devouring wrath. Fear, which had left a puddle of urine around her feet only minutes earlier when she had seen a woman die, fled.

Elspyth was consumed with hatred and a blood lust of her own. She stepped away from her own mess, cast aside the flimsy linen and addressed the fat man in a voice that was animalistic and predatory. ‘Let me fight Alda!’

The fat man looked at her. This was new. Normally the women fought each other under protest, all but helping each other into the ring, apologising for having to hurt one another, then weeping over each death. But these two women were eager to kill one another; with those sort of emotions, the spectacle was sure to be especially entertaining for the men.

His thick tongue flicked out to wet his rubbery lips as he considered this option. ‘My, my,’ he said, unpleasant smells wafting towards Elspyth as he moved closer to her. ‘You must be confident.’

‘Just announce it,’ she answered, eager to get the fight done. If she was going to die, she’d rather do so now than spend further hours agonising over others.

Alda clapped her hands with pleasure. The Morgravian had admitted she did not know how to fight. It was going to be easy.

‘All right then,’ the fat man replied. ‘Don’t say I never give you girls what you want,’ he added with an obscene chuckle. ‘Off with your linen then, Alda. Both of you oil up. I’ll make the announcement.’

Wyl walked between the two men, his arms held in front and tied at the wrist. He did not feel scared. This was the death he wanted; he just wished he could somehow spare Ylena’s body being mistreated in the process. He spent the time during the frigidly silent walk towards the main hall contemplating what would be the kindest death for Ylena and decided a blade into her heart was preferable — just as Faryl had killed Koreldy. That way, when her body was cleaned, covered and laid out in Argorn, as he fully intended it to be, no one would see the ugly wound that had felled her. She could remain beautiful for eternity in their minds.

But it nagged at Wyl that Celimus was unlikely to have in mind something so straightforward as a knife being plunged into her body. He would draw this out as if it were a game; in the same way that he had taunted Wyl — forcing him to witness Alyd’s death and Ylena’s suffering — he would now mock Wyl’s sister in front of his honoured guests. Except Ylena was not who he thought. This Ylena walked to her death with a light heart.

‘Are you all right, my lady?’ Harken whispered.

‘I am fine. Remember all I have told you. If you think well of the Thirsk family, then be assured they would have sworn their allegiance to Valentyna the moment she became Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel. Do the same, for all of us.’

Wyl sensed Harken’s fear but also his pride at being singled out. ‘I will do it for you, my lady.’

‘Then I am glad to have met you.’

‘Be quiet,’ the older soldier warned. ‘We’re here now.’

Dusk had fallen so quietly Wyl had not noticed. The north seemed to have an ability to drape itself with evening’s calm without the usual cacophony of noisy birds telling the world around them it was time to roost. But there was still sufficient light that he had no doubt of the identity of the man waiting at the grand doorway of Tenterdyn to welcome him towards death.

‘Good evening, Ylena,’ Jessom said, all politeness. Wyl did not reply, simply stared at him. ‘As you will,’ the Chancellor replied, not at all offended.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Wyl forced out of Ylena’s lips. It was meant only for the young soldier and he qualified this with a brief glance towards him. He was careful not to name Harken. Jessom was far too sharp to let the soldier leave if he thought any sort of alliance — no matter how tenuous — had been formed.

‘We’ll take her from here,’ Jessom said to Ylena’s escort. Two burly guards stepped out from behind the Chancellor and took position either side of Ylena. ‘Follow me.’

Wyl was led past familiar rooms towards a part of Tenterdyn he had not seen on his former visit. He heard the murmur of voices and small explosions of laughter, which got louder as they approached a wing which he remembered had been shut off by doors. They were wide open now, the corridor lit by torches and guarded by yet more soldiers. Two kings were present; it was little wonder that the level of security was so high.

‘Wait here,’ Jessom commanded, touching Ylena’s arm. Wyl shook off his hand and the man’s thin smile arrived. ‘I must let the King know his lamb has arrived.’

There was no mistaking his meaning. If Ylena’s mouth had not been so dry with tension, Wyl might have tried spitting again at the Chancellor, for the amusement of soiling his robes if nothing else.

Jessom disappeared around a corner. The sounds of men eating and entertaining themselves filled the frigid silence between Wyl and his guards. The aroma of food wafted towards them and one man’s belly acknowledged it with a growl. Wyl turned towards the sound and met the culprit’s grumpy expression.

‘Do you know that I am brought here to be killed for sport in front of your King?’

The guard shrugged, although Wyl sensed there was embarrassment hidden behind it.

‘We just follow orders, my lady.’ It was the man on his other side who answered.

Wyl looked at him. ‘And as a Legionnaire you are comfortable with the notion of slaughtering an innocent woman — a noble no less — from a fine family who has given its life to the Legion? You are old enough to have known my father.’

The man did not respond but his eyes betrayed him. There was pity in them.

Jessom rescued him. ‘Come, Ylena Thirsk. Your King awaits you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the guard whispered but Wyl ignored him, striding towards Jessom and determined that Ylena would be seen to die with courage by these men who claimed loyalty to her line yet who had betrayed her.

Elspyth stood at the fringe of the rough circle mapped out by string tied to small stakes in the earth. She was naked but no longer cared, ignoring the sounds of appreciation from men enjoying the sight of a lovely body. All that mattered right now was the person on the opposite side of the ring, also naked, also breathing hard, and no doubt hoping that her cold stare would be enough to intimidate her opponent into submission without a blow being struck.

Fat Man was stirring up the excited crowd but Elspyth ignored him too. She knew where Ericson was sitting and briefly entertained the idea of flinging her knife, Koreldy-style, at his bulk. She had a vision of him flailing in shock as the blade hit him squarely in the throat. But in her heart she knew she could never throw true. The blade would probably make it only half the distance and then clatter pathetically on the ground to wild applause, leaving her ready to be slaughtered by Alda. A bell sounded and dragged her back to the insanity before her. She knew her knuckles were white as she clutched the single small blade which stood between her and death.

She heard Fat Man remind her that this fight was to the death, then his explanation that Alda was fighting for her third win and her right to be given over to slavery. The men cheered, no doubt imagining profit from her sale as well as her win. Elspyth forced herself to withdraw completely into her mind. She recalled the long night journey to Deakyn with Wyl — he walked as Koreldy then — and how he had told her that a warrior preparing for battle must draw every ounce of his conscious self into a closed section of his mind that no one could penetrate. She had smiled a little indulgently at his description then; now she understood completely what he had meant by those words. She was not sure whether she was doing it properly but the fear, although still there, was no longer impacting on her. Fury had iced it over and a numbness had taken hold. She felt nothing but frozen wrath for the woman standing before her.

The bell sounded again and Alda began moving, circling. This is it, Elspyth thought. Kill or be killed.

‘To you, Lothryn, my love,’ she murmured, remembering how he had given his own life in order to save others. She suddenly felt sure that Lothryn’s feelings at that moment of decision — the knowledge of certain death, the grief of losing his new son, and sorrow that their love had not been spoken between them — were identical to her own. It was a tearing free of all ties, a casting loose of all fears in the pursuit of one thing: kill or be killed.

Alda lunged and Elspyth’s mind went blank.

Wyl stepped into a large chamber that was warmed by a fire at either end. A few men milled around with goblets in their hands. He recognised none of them, which meant there was no one who might object to a Thirsk being treated in this way. His boots crunched on the floor and he realised he was walking over the remains of Aleda’s fine cranberry-coloured glassware. To him the broken glass represented the state of this once powerful and utterly loyal family of the north: shattered, forgotten.

And then he laid eyes on the man responsible for it all. Celimus, brimming with self-importance, sat at the head of Jeryb’s oak table, goblet in hand, making some toast, his cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the general joviality. Around him was the remnants of his feasting. To his right sat Cailech; the Mountain King looked less comfortable and there was less debris about him, as though he had been more cautious in his enjoyment of the repast. Wyl knew the man well enough to recognise that the smile fixed on his face was fake. Cailech raised his glass in answer to whatever Celimus had said but did not drink; meanwhile his penetrating gaze soaked up all around him as effectively as a sponge. He was bare-armed; the muscles sculpted and tensed, as if he was ready to leap to his feet and charge, like an animal disturbed. No, Cailech was not happy here but he was pretending well enough. Next to him sat Aremys, unsmiling and rigid, no sign of wine or even food about him.

Wyl saw how the three men showed different reactions to Ylena’s arrival. Celimus looked savagely delighted, his eyes darkening with pleasure at what he knew was coming. Cailech, however, looked taken aback. His roving gaze settled intently on Ylena and the contrived smile faded. Her beauty had taken him by surprise, Wyl realised. Poor Aremys looked like a chained dog; one that knew it was about to take a hiding. He paled, his already unhappy expression settling into a blank mask, as if he were steeling himself. He could hardly make eye contact with Wyl, such was his despair.

The room quietened as people noticed their presence but Jessom allowed the hush to settle fully before he spoke. ‘Gentlemen, may I present Lady Ylena Thirsk, daughter of the late General Fergys Thirsk and sister to the much loved General Wyl Thirsk, may Shar bless their souls.’

Some repeated the last few words and Wyl enjoyed seeing the Morgravian King’s mouth tighten. The smile turned acid and Wyl knew he would pay for the loyalty to his family with blood.

‘Ylena Thirsk, how enchanting to have you back amongst your fellow Morgravians,’ Celimus said, flashing a bright smile towards his honoured guest. ‘Come, Cailech, you must meet the woman who escaped my punishment through the aid of a mercenary by the name of Koreldy.’

Cailech turned a cold green gaze to his fellow King. ‘Koreldy?’

‘You know him?’

‘I will flay the skin from his bones when I find him again.’

Celimus, fired by the excellent wine from Jeryb’s cellars and feeling very pleased with himself at being about to do away with the final member of the hated Thirsk dynasty, which had so clouded his own existence, threw back his head and laughed with delight. ‘Then I have done you a service, my friend. Koreldy is dead.’

The Mountain King’s face was set in stone, his eyes unreadable.

‘Well, actually,’ Celimus continued, noticing the reaction and enjoying it, ‘I think we have my bride-to-be to thank for his death.’

‘How so?’ Cailech asked, unable to say much more it seemed.

Celimus drained his goblet of wine and slammed it down. Droplets of red launched from his mouth like blood as he shook his head. It was fitting, Wyl thought, for blood would flow tonight. ‘Koreldy fled to the safety of Briavel, pretending to be a champion to my Queen.’ Celimus made a gesture of nonchalance. ‘She was unaware of his identity, of course, until I revealed it to her.’

‘Why don’t you admit it was the only way you could escape death from Koreldy’s sword, you snivelling coward,’ Wyl shouted.

Exclamations rang out in the hall and Celimus’s eyes shone with hatred. He walked towards Ylena until he towered above her. ‘The Thirsk bitch lies. She wasn’t there so how could she know? Where were you, Ylena? At Rittylworth, wasn’t it? Cringing in the cellar of a monastery before you fled to Felrawthy. It is fitting that your journey ends here. No one can save you now.’ He sounded as cruel as Wyl could ever remember.

‘Nor do I want them to, you son of a whore. Thank goodness your father killed your mother. The only pity is that he did not do it before she birthed you —’

He got no further with his insult. The punch to Ylena’s face was expertly levelled and the room went dark for Wyl. Everyone else stood in shocked silence. Jessom was the first to gather his wits and nodded towards one of the guards to pick up the woman sprawled across the flagstones, her head bleeding from where she had gashed it on the table.

Cailech glanced towards Aremys and saw his stricken expression. He didn’t know what was going on here but he didn’t like it one bit. There was clearly a connection between Aremys and the woman, yet, more than that, it seemed to him that this whole charade was for his benefit. But if Celimus thought his neighbour would get pleasure from watching a noblewoman humiliated and injured in this fashion, he had entirely misjudged. Cailech was the first to admit that he was no soft-hearted monarch; he had not flinched at having the Morgravian woman staked out for roasting, or killing her later to trick Gueryn, but she was a prisoner of battle. She had been caught infiltrating the Razors and Cailech firmly believed in the old saying, ‘A tooth for a tooth’. Celimus had killed too many Mountain people for Cailech not to make an example of the captured prisoners. But this Thirsk woman struck him as a pawn in whatever game was being played out between Celimus and the Thirsk family. And Cailech wanted no part of it. He raised an eyebrow in silent question to Aremys, who glared back at him as if to say ‘Do something’.

Celimus turned back to his guests and rubbed his knuckles. ‘She has a head as hard as stone — like all the Thirsk trolls.’ Nervous laughter sounded in the room. ‘Get her ready!’ he ordered Jessom, who escorted a prone Ylena Thirsk, held in the arms of a guard, out of a side door.

Cailech wanted to bring the evening to a rapid close. It was time to get away from here, but the sight of the golden-haired beauty and her magnificent defiance of the man everyone in Morgravia feared, compelled him to learn more. He knew Celimus was watching him and so he said smoothly, ‘You were telling me about Koreldy,’ as if the interruption had been of little consequence.

Celimus continued with similar aplomb, seating himself and bidding everyone do the same. ‘Yes, forgive the disturbance. I revealed Koreldy’s true identity to Queen Valentyna, who was mortified — as you might imagine — for the mercenary had killed her father, King Valor.’

‘I see. And?’

‘Well, she banished him, which made it possible for one of my assassins to deal with him. I had no intention of allowing Koreldy to roam the land after betraying me.’

Cailech could not believe his ears. ‘You have proof of Koreldy’s death?’

‘A finger, still wearing a signet ring with a deep blood-red stone and marked with the family insignia.’

‘I know the ring,’ Cailech replied, feeling suddenly empty. He had been denied the pleasure of dealing with Romen Koreldy, it was true, but he had not expected the acute sense of sorrow that pervaded him. In spite of their differences, not to mention the bad blood, there had been respect between them. He felt sure Koreldy would have preferred to be felled by a Mountain warrior’s sword than a Morgravian assassin’s blade. ‘I always thought the man had lives to spare,’ he commented, trying to hide the bitterness in his tone.

‘Well, he used them all up once he crossed me, my friend,’ Celimus boasted and urged more wine to be poured.

Cailech had tired of being referred to as friend by the Morgravian King. He gave a subtle nod towards Aremys who understood its meaning but made no move; instead he glanced again towards the door where the woman had been taken. Cailech frowned. What was it between those two?

‘That woman — what is to happen to her?’ he asked, twirling his half-empty goblet.

‘She will be executed in your honour, sir,’ Celimus answered.

Cailech spilled some of the wine in his surprise. ‘Certainy not in my honour!’

The King of Morgravia shrugged. ‘Well, she is to die anyway — I’d like her to be my gift to you. You’re not squeamish, are you?’ It was a challenge.

Cailech did not like the sound of the gift or the suggestion of his gutlessness. ‘Celimus, we have enjoyed your hospitality long enough. You will forgive me if I take my leave now.’

‘I could not forgive you if you did, my friend.’

‘Why is that?’ Cailech asked, gritting his teeth.

‘We still have some time before the appointed rendezvous and I would like you to partake of the evening’s entertainment.’

‘Which is?’

Celimus’s voice was sly. ‘Tell Jessom we are ready,’ he said to a waiting servant.

It was terrifying. Elspyth had never fought in any sort of hand-to-hand combat in her life, not even as a child, enacting pretend swordfights and mock battles with other children in the pursuit of laughter and competition. Now she found herself facing a woman who seemed utterly determined to kill her. Elspyth had no tricks to draw upon, no skills which might help her to protect herself.

Alda’s lips were drawn back in a tight snarl. There was no doubt in Elspyth’s mind that Alda viewed herself as the predator and her opponent as the cornered, helpless prey. The hunter laughed, springing forward and feinting towards her right. The hunted fell for it and tried to dart in the opposite direction, but found that path cut off and a blade slashing towards her. Elspyth shrieked and twisted away, feeling the knife cut cruelly down her back.

The men roared; more bets were exchanged in Alda’s favour. The cheering and jeering continued without respite. The audience insulted Elspyth and shouted that Shar’s Gatherers were running towards her so fast, she might as well give up now.

Again Alda pounced, this time trying to slash her opponent’s face — which was all the prettier, many in the audience conceded, for its pleading expression. Elspyth reacted instinctively and put both her arms up, which won her a nasty gash on the arm where bright blood bloomed instantly. It was not life-threatening but it was the arm she held her blade in and it began to go numb almost immediately. She cried out in despair.

Alda was enjoying herself. Elspyth realised the woman was simply playing with her. She had promised the fat man a spectacle in exchange for being allowed to kill the opponent of her choice, and Alda was delivering on that hard-hearted promise. How many more slashes would she make before the killing blow came, Elspyth wondered through her tears, as Alda leapt again, missing so slightly that Elspyth heard the whoosh of the blade through the air. Alda laughed harder, whilst Elspyth’s exertions made her blood flow freer. It was running down her back, she could feel it, and her front was splashed with blood from her arm wound.

The numbness made it hard to feel her hand gripping the blade. That was probably Alda’s intention, she realised, impressed. Not all for show then. Her would-be killer was making strategic wounds, designed for disabling as much as exhibition. No wonder Alda was still alive and on her third fight. No doubt she would make it to the slave boat.

Or will she? a small voice questioned in Elspyth’s mind. Why must she win? Why can’t you find some spine and at least die attacking rather than be slaughtered mercilessly like a frightened lamb?

She felt the sadistic bite of the blade again, this time expertly delivered across one breast, rapidly followed by the wet sensation of blood spouting forth in answer to the vicious pain. Elspyth staggered, hardly daring to look down at the ruin of her body. When she did she saw only red, running freely and draining her of strength and the will to remain standing. Opposite her swaggered Alda; no cuts or injuries but covered in blood nonetheless… Elspyth’s blood.

And then Alda did something which she had no idea would awaken the primeval instincts in her opponent. Responding to the chanting of the male audience, now calling for the end to the young woman who was ragged, breathing hard and bending as if under the weight of her pain and despair, Alda licked at the blood that spattered her mouth. It drove the men into a frenzy of lust and greed.

But for Elspyth, it helped her find her rage again. Watching that theatrical gesture, as if Alda thought Elspyth was hers to consume, the injured woman felt the searing white flame of anger once more. She straightened, threw back her greasy hair and screamed. And her fury travelled and hit its mark, cutting through the shields of sorcery, streaming loudly into the consciousness of a man trapped in a horse.

It was as if, just for a moment, he saw it all.

Kill her, Elspyth, he cried. Survive! And then he was gone, slipping away from her mind like sand through fingers.

‘Lothryn!’ she shrieked but silence was all that came back. Thick, dark silence and the sinister presence of Alda stalking her.

‘It’s time, Olivya,’ the woman called sweetly, like a mother to her child. Except the sweetness was tainted and false.

‘Do it then, bitch! End it!’ Elspyth screamed back over the excited clamour of the audience, who knew the blade would fall only once more.

Alda was not prepared for this. She had anticipated begging and weeping, but not aggression. Then she frowned to see Elspyth crouch as if in disabling pain and lay her blade in the sawdust.

‘I have no more to give,’ Elspyth whispered, ‘no more.’

Her opponent became angry. ‘You gave nothing! You didn’t even try and defend yourself, you weak fool. Now I have my escape from here. Thank you, Olivya — your life has bought something precious,’ and she quickly covered the ground between them.

‘Make it swift,’ Elspyth pleaded.

‘I will,’ the woman said, wiping blood from her mouth, hardly able to see flesh through the red liquid covering her opponent’s body. ‘Bare your throat!’

Elspyth turned her head slightly sideways, knowing she looked like a lamb with its neck exposed for the quick killing slash.

In her excitement, all Alda saw was a girl giving herself willingly to death. She did not notice Elspyth’s hand reaching slowly for the blade by her side. Some of the men did, and began screaming for Alda to beware, but she could not hear them in the cacophony. She had eyes now only for Olivya’s creamy throat and raised her blade high into the air.

Elspyth wondered if Shar’s Gatherers were queuing behind Alda as the woman raised the knife. She watched the weapon reach towards the zenith of its arc… Now! She could not tell whether she said it aloud or just heard herself think it. Whichever it was, Elspyth moved faster than she ever had before. It was a once-only effort and it had to be accurate. Wyl had told her that when you sense the opening in someone’s defences, you have to strike as fast as your body allows and put your full strength behind it — as a cat does when it leaps or pounces. Elspyth was that cat now. She felt her legs push up hard as she poured every ounce of her courage and her love for Lothryn into one savage leap. Propelling herself upwards, she thrust the blade before her and, unbelievably, saw it embed itself in the centre of Alda’s throat.

Elspyth felt pain as Alda’s knife, intended for her neck, missed its mark and sank itself deep into her shoulder. It hurt, more than she cared to think about, but it would not take her life… unlike Alda, whose spluttering surprise was cut short by a horrible gurgle.

Elspyth, trembling with shock, knelt beside Alda’s slumped figure and took her hand. She did not want her to go to her god amidst hate. The woman wanted to speak — it was in her eyes, already glazing over. Was it regret that she had lost her chance for the slave boat or sorrow for her cold-blooded actions that had brought her this far? Elspyth would never know, but she felt the slightest squeeze of her hand as the dying woman struggled not to relinquish her soul to the Gatherers, even though she knew she had already lost this fight.

A hush blanketed the audience in eerie silence. Much money had been lost this evening for the underdog had won against the odds.

Alda’s blood mixed with Elspyth’s, forming a pool between them. ‘I’m sorry,’ Elspyth whispered, unable to control her tears. ‘May Shar guide you to his peace.’

Alda died with a crooked smile, as if in thanks for Elspyth’s blessing, and then her mouth relaxed into death and her blood ceased pumping over the kneeling victor.

The strangled silence of disbelief was broken by the angry shouts of soldiers who burst into the building. One of them was Commander Liryk, roaring orders, but it was Crys who saw Elspyth first.

The sight of the two bloodied figures in the middle of the makeshift arena horrified him, stopping him in his tracks. One woman was obviously dying, or most likely dead, but the other was sobbing.

‘Elspyth,’ he called into the noise which had cranked up afresh. She did not hear him. ‘Elspyth!’ he yelled, fury overtaking him as images of his own dead family scorched a path to the front of his mind.

She looked up, her body trembling. ‘Crys?’ He saw her mouth move hesitantly, as if unsure what she was seeing was true.

He was at her side in a few angry strides and scooped her into his arms, the blood that covered her body wet against him. Crys was unable to force out another word, such was his shock. All he could do was bury his face in her lank, bloodied hair and weep with her.

Kind hands finally loosened his grip on Elspyth and a blanket was thrown around her shivering body. Liryk squeezed Crys’s arms. ‘Steady now,’ he said, and Crys was grateful for the reminder that he must hold his strength in front of the men. He nodded, communicating his thanks silently to the senior soldier. ‘She’s hurt,’ he said, at which point Elspyth sank to her knees.

‘Get her out of here,’ Liryk barked to one of his men.

‘No, wait!’ she begged. ‘Have you got the leaders?’

Liryk shook his head. ‘Are you up to helping us with that?’

‘Can’t you see her wounds —’

Elspyth interrupted Crys. ‘It’s all right. Please. Ensuring their heads roll at the swipe of an axe means everything to me.’

‘Good girl,’ Liryk said, impressed, for he had seen the woman of Yentro’s injuries and knew most men would be screaming for attention to them by now. ‘Point them out.’

Crys helped Elspyth to her feet and wiped her face with a damp towel he was handed by a guard. The cool water and the cleaning away of the blood revived her slightly.

‘Come,’ Liryk encouraged. ‘They’re rounded up outside.’

‘What about the women?’ she asked.

Liryk gave a low whistle. ‘I’m shocked by this. We had no idea of its extent.’

‘You knew about it?’ Elspyth could not help the accusation in her tone.

‘Suspected it,’ Liryk corrected. ‘But we’ve been waiting for something or someone to give us a lead to follow.’

Elspyth made a sound of disgust but said no more, feeling the slight pressure at her shoulder which was Crys suggesting she hold her tongue. She turned to follow Liryk, but when she tried to walk unaided she fell down.

Crys picked her up gently and Elspyth felt warmed by the sad smile on his face. ‘Let me support you, Elspyth, if you won’t permit me to carry you,’ he said and circled her waist loosely with his arm so she could lean against him as she needed to.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Later,’ Crys replied. ‘Let’s get this ugly business done.’

Outside, Elspyth pointed out the men who had led the betting and then took much pleasure in asking Crys to take her to where Ericson was trying to stand unnoticed in the mob.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘He calls himself Ericson. He is the leader of this rabble, the one who acquires the women for his sport.’ She said the last word as if it was poison in her mouth.

Ericson was dragged from the crowd and bound and shackled alongside seven other men who had been involved.

‘Is this it?’ the commander asked.

‘Yes. The rest are just cruel onlookers.’

Liryk nodded, as if weary of life. ‘We show each other more respect on the battlefield than they have shown these women. Right, men, hear me,’ he said, addressing the soldiers. ‘I want proof of the name of each man here. If he has no proof, he will be executed. Those who provide proof are to receive forty lashes each. If they survive the whipping, they can drag their sorry arses home and explain it how they will. Remember,’ he said, turning back to the prisoners, ‘we will have a record of your names and the towns you hail from. If you err again, at any time, your family will be stripped of their assets — homes, land, money, belongings. Is that clear?’

Elspyth saw the men blanch with fear on hearing about the physical ordeal ahead. Perhaps now they might understand a tiny measure of what they had put the captured women through. She had no sympathy in her heart for them. She wondered what Liryk had in store for Ericson and his band of followers. She did not have to wait long, impressed by Liryk’s speed and ruthlessness in meting out punishment.

‘The leaders will have their heads removed from their bodies,’ he said, glaring at the cowardly Ericson who visibly staggered at the sentence.

Silence gripped everyone.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Liryk said calmly to one of his captains.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Do you mean now?’

‘I do. All of these men are to watch, as a reminder that Briavel’s Queen will not show any mercy to those who break the most sacred laws of life.’

Despite her flagging strength, Elspyth still had the energy to feel sorry for the Captain who, to his credit, gave a salute despite his sudden pallor. Liryk was certainly showing no mercy to these evil men and he soared in her estimation. She stayed conscious long enough to bear witness to Ericson’s sobs as he was forced to kneel and lay his neck across a log. She looked around for his daughter, but the girl with the singsong voice was nowhere to be seen as the axe fell and her father’s head rolled from his body.

‘They say the head knows it has been removed from the body for several seconds afterwards,’ Crys commented absently, still supporting her with his arm.

‘Good,’ Elspyth mumbled and slumped against his shoulder.

TWENTY-TWO

WYL WAS BROUGHT BACK into the hall of the Donals where an air of expectancy greeted him. He glanced at Aremys’s stricken face and wished he could reassure his friend that death did not frighten him any more. Any escape from the sheath of Ylena’s body was welcome.

At Jessom’s bidding, and with an awkward silence prevailing, he was taken by the two guards to a spot at one end of the chamber where his hands were tied to a timber framework, no doubt hastily erected for his benefit. His ankles, still manacled, were unnecessarily tied to the timbers as well. This is novel, he thought. Celimus was obviously getting more creative. He stared defiantly at the Morgravian King.

Celimus took a swig from his goblet. ‘The last of the great Thirsks, strung up for our pleasure, gentlemen. Call in the archers,’ he said, then glanced towards the stony-faced Mountain King. ‘Come on, Cailech, I thought you people were…’ He paused.

‘Barbaric?’ Cailech offered.

Celimus smiled, sly and cunning. ‘Fun-loving, I was going to say.’

Cailech did not reply. He turned to look at the intriguing woman and was met by a hard blue gaze which had fire burning behind it, fuelled by hatred and anger. He felt his breath catch, as it did each time he looked at her. He admired the defiance, her complete disregard and indeed disrespect for where she was, the company she was in and the lack of fear for what she surely knew was coming. She had the courage of the Mountain People in her soul, he thought fancifully, caught by the golden hair which had fallen loose. Ylena Thirsk looked dirty and dishevelled but she was nonetheless desirable, he admitted to himself.

He had to look away from her fierce stare. ‘No trial?’ he asked as two archers were brought in.

‘None required,’ Celimus said. ‘She pays the price for the treachery of the men of her family.’

‘Shar won’t grant you forgiveness for this, you evil scum, Celimus. This is like the Witch Myrren all over again, isn’t it?’ Wyl forced out a laugh as the similarity of the situation struck him. He saw that it struck home with Celimus too and took pleasure in seeing the King flinch. ‘She beat you and I’ll beat you. I won’t scream, I won’t give you any satisfaction, you cowardly —’

‘Shut her up!’ Celimus ordered a soldier.

But Wyl was going to have his say, even as the embarrassed guard moved towards him. ‘Your father wished many times that my brother could be King so you got rid of both of them — and the King of Briavel, Koreldy and the Donals. Watch out, Cailech, he’ll be planning to kill you next. And no doubt his bride. He’ll slaughter everyone until —’

Ylena’s mouth was bound. No sensible words were coming out because of the linen tied across his face, but Wyl kept raging at the man who had destroyed the lives of so many good, loyal people of Morgravia. He saw Cailech shake his head; noticed the Razor King wore an expression of wonder.

‘Where are you going, Aremys Farrow?’ Celimus asked loudly over Ylena’s accusations. ‘Be quiet, Ylena, or I’ll slash your mouth so it can’t move properly.’

Wyl quietened. He had promised himself he would keep Ylena as unmarked as he could. There was nothing more to be achieved anyway. He joined everyone else in the chamber in looking towards the mercenary.

Aremys had hoped no one would notice him slipping away from the hall. He could not witness this. He could not save Wyl — he was one man; they would cut him down before he even reached him. They would both die, but only one of them would live again. Granted he could probably reach Celimus, but then what? He had no weapon. Bite him to death, I suppose, he thought sourly as he straightened from the bow he felt obliged to give before his retreat. But the Morgravian had seen him from the corner of his eye and was now expecting an answer.

‘Apologies, sire. I thought I should go and check on the horses and be ready to move out after the… entertainment.’

‘Everything will be readied for your departure, Farrow. I’d prefer you to stay. In fact I rather thought you’d like to see your prey being felled?’

‘Not in this manner, sire,’ Aremys risked.

Celimus did not react as Aremys thought he would. In truth, the King was enjoying everyone’s discomfort. Except for Cailech, he noted sourly, who seemed more troubled than affronted. ‘Your King has remained, and as this is in his honour, I expect you to share in this gift,’ he ordered.

‘Of course, sire. As you wish,’ Aremys said, glancing towards Ylena and privately agreeing that it was probably for the best. He would need to know which of these men in the room Wyl would become. And then a chilling thought occurred to him. Did Myrren’s gift only work if Wyl was slain by hand — that is, someone connected to the weapon? His mind raced. Wyl had never mentioned it but then perhaps Wyl did not know! Koreldy was killed by Faryl, who plunged a knife into his heart with her own hand. Faryl was killed by Ylena, who held the blade which slashed the assassin’s throat. If Celimus was planning to loose arrows into Ylena, no one would be connected to the weapon when it landed in her body. Ylena would surely die… but perhaps so would Wyl.

The sense that he had stumbled across something important so terrified Aremys that he shouted into the thick, expectant silence: ‘Sire!’

‘Yes, Farrow?’ the King said, his temper rising.

Aremys looked at Ylena and then at Cailech; saw the Mountain King frown and knew he suspected something between him and the woman. ‘King Celimus,’ he began, clearing his throat nervously, ‘this is a messy end, sire, particularly for a celebration. Why don’t I just take her out the back and kill her for you?’

‘You had your chance, Farrow. Now I will show you how to finish a job.’

‘But, your majesty…’ His words died away and he felt a twinge of fear as Celimus turned to stare at him, no longer indulgent of the emissary of the Mountain King, no longer prepared to be generous.

‘Don’t push me, Grenadyne, or you’ll find yourself staked out like the Lady Thirsk there.’

‘I would have to object to such treatment of a protected guest,’ Cailech warned icily and nodded at Aremys to continue.

‘Let me finish what you asked me to do, King Celimus. I will cut her throat here and now before you.’ It was his last desperate try. At least he could be sure Wyl would live on.

Celimus found himself cornered. He wanted to have some fun with Ylena’s death but he could tell he had overstepped the mark where Cailech was concerned in threatening Farrow. He knew from the expression on Jessom’s face that the Chancellor was urging him to take the easy way out: have the mercenary finish off the woman. He was angry but this was not the time or place to make a scene.

‘Well, at least her blood will not be on my hands.’ He smiled. ‘Go ahead, Farrow. Finish the job I paid you to do.’

Aremys risked a glance of thanks towards Cailech, convinced that without the Mountain King’s timely comment and brittle tone, Celimus might not have relented. Cailech returned the gaze with an expression of utter bafflement.

‘I will need a blade, sire,’ Aremys said.

Celimus gave an order and one of the soldiers at Ylena’s side pulled a mean-looking knife from his belt. ‘It’s sharp,’ he murmured. ‘Make it quick.’

Aremys nodded. Everyone wanted this ugliness done with. He took a deep breath. So this was it. He was about to die and Wyl would become him. He stood close to Ylena. ‘As One,’ he said and grinned sadly at the irony of the words. He saw the tears well in her eyes as she heard the Thirsk family motto.

Aremys raised the blade, knowing precisely where to strike to slash the jugular for a swift death. But Ylena began to scream and struggle, disturbing everyone but the two Kings. Wyl saw that Celimus’s eyes shone with joy and a telltale bulge in his trousers attested to the pleasure he was getting out of this horrific scene.

‘Arrow! Arrow!’ Wyl shrieked in Ylena’s high voice, determined to stop his good friend giving up his own life.

‘What’s she saying?’ the Morgravian King enquired, determined to drag out the agony.

‘She’s simply yelling my name,’ Aremys answered.

‘Er, I think she’s saying “arrow”, sire,’ one of the guards confirmed.

‘Oh, perhaps she’d prefer to be killed by the archers?’

‘No, sire,’ Aremys said as firmly as he dared. ‘This is best.’

‘Wait!’ the King replied. ‘Let’s ask her. It’s the least we can do, isn’t it?’ He cast an appealing glance around the hall, playing the magnanimous sovereign.

Aremys glared at Wyl. ‘You fool,’ he said angrily, under his breath.

The guard ripped away the bindings around Ylena’s mouth.

‘Step aside, Farrow,’ Celimus said, enjoying himself hugely again. The big man did so reluctantly, but not before glaring at Cailech who frowned again, taking in all the strange nuances on display here.

‘Ylena,’ Celimus said; it sounded almost tender. ‘As a final act of generosity towards your family, I’m going to allow you to choose how you die. By Farrow’s blade across your throat or cleanly with an arrow fired expertly?’

‘By the arrow,’ Wyl said fiercely, not daring to look at Aremys.

‘As we suspected. Good choice, Ylena,’ Celimus replied and stopped just short of rubbing his hands in glee. ‘Thank you, Farrow. It seems your job is complete. Move away.’

This time Aremys looked at no one as he returned to his spot near the door. He stared at the floor. He would not watch Wyl die.

‘Ylena, my dear, I did have some sport planned with the archers but as everyone here seems to want you to have a speedy end, I’ll send them away and instead I will do the necessary.’

‘As you wish,’ Wyl replied without blinking, knowing he was spoiling Celimus’s fun by being so accepting. It worked. The King’s face darkened with a scowl.

‘Give me a bow!’ Celimus said, his tone furious. ‘Let’s finish this.’

‘Why don’t we?’ Wyl said, in the most bored tone he could achieve. He could hardly believe his luck that Celimus had chosen to do the deed. He would become the Morgravian King within the next few moments and, as much as he hated the thought of being Celimus, what pleasure it would be to finally kill him. ‘Hurry up, sire! I am eager to be gone from here.’ He saw Cailech give a grin of astonishment at Ylena’s bravado but it was the last thing she would say, for Celimus was finally taking aim. He switched his attention briefly to Aremys but his friend refused to look at him. Wyl could not understand why: Aremys knew he would live again and this time he would be King.

‘Farewell, Ylena Thirsk. May Shar send you to wherever your predecessors have ended their days.’ Celimus stretched the bowstring taut. ‘Heart or eye? Or shall I let it be a surprise?’ he asked with a cruel smile. Everyone could hear the slight strain in his voice of holding back the string so tightly.

Wyl refused to answer and instead closed his eyes. Celimus was an excellent shot. He held no qualms that the arrow would end his life as Ylena.

Cailech’s astonishment was complete. This woman was extraordinary; she should not be wasted in this manner. Ylena Thirsk stirred more emotion in him than any woman had in his entire life. Cailech had been accused of being cold towards women. That was not true; he liked women well enough, he had just never met anyone who truly excited him. But Ylena Thirsk fired in him a swirl of inexplicable feelings. He wanted this woman! He had no idea from where this sudden desire had erupted, but one thing was for sure: he was not about to let her die trussed like an animal at the end of one of Celimus’s arrows.

He moved as fast as a pouncing cat and pushed the Morgravian King’s wrist up just as the arrow was loosed. It shot high into the air, burying itself with a resounding thump into a solid beam overhead. Everyone followed the quivering motion of the shaft, not sure whether to be horrified by Cailech’s action or relieved. Wyl opened Ylena’s eyes with angry disbelief with no idea of why the arrow had missed its mark. Aremys had to ball his hands into fists to stop himself clapping.

Celimus turned the darkest of stares onto his fellow King.

‘I’ve just decided about that gift you offered me, Celimus.’

The Morgravian’s expression did not change nor did he utter a word in response.

‘I want her,’ Cailech said, pointing towards Ylena.

‘What?’ Celimus roared.

‘You heard me,’ Cailech replied calmly. ‘I shall take Ylena Thirsk from you. She will travel with us high into the Razors and will never trouble you again.’

‘What possible interest could you have in her?’

‘I’m sure if you think about it long enough you’ll work it out,’ Cailech said and winked.

Impossibly, Celimus began to laugh. Jessom slowly let out his tightly held breath. Cailech had certainly taken a risk but the Chancellor could not think of a better idea to handle this situation. He had even suggested once to Celimus that he should marry Ylena off to a Mountain warrior and be done with her. There would be little chance of her escaping the Razors, and once the royal marriage was complete, no one would care about the Thirsk name. Everyone would be deliriously happy that Morgravia and Briavel were unified. ‘My lord, this is an opportunity,’ he risked.

Cailech grinned. ‘You see, Celimus, even your own counsel likes the idea.’

Wyl began to rage, Ylena’s voice becoming hysterical as he shouted, ‘Kill me, you bastard’ over and over again.

‘Oh, someone get her out of here,’ Celimus said, more exasperated now than angry. He could not help but like Cailech’s idea as he watched Ylena being dragged away screaming.

‘You did promise me a gift. Anything, you said,’ Cailech reminded him.

‘That’s true, I did,’ Celimus agreed, looking at Cailech. ‘There would have to be conditions, though. Koreldy tried something similar.’

‘I am not Koreldy,’ Cailech bristled.

‘Why do you want her?’

‘Why would any red-blooded man want her? Does she not affect you so?’

‘No. Her mere name sickens me.’

‘Well, that’s history, Celimus. I don’t have the same issues. She’s a beauty. Let us truly bind ourselves in our treaty — I will take a Morgravian as my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Celimus exclaimed, unable to hide his incredulity.

‘Yes, why not?’ Cailech was grinning widely now. He glanced at Aremys who could hardly keep his own smile in check.

‘You jest, surely?’

‘I would never jest about anything so grave as the sacrament of marriage. If you can marry a Briavellian, Celimus, why shouldn’t I complete the triangle of our realms and marry a Morgravian?’

‘Why not indeed, sire?’ Jessom said, daring to join the conversation. ‘It is a perfect union.’ His eyes pleaded with his King. This was better than any of them could have dreamed. Surely Celimus could see that?

‘There would be conditions,’ Celimus said again, frowning as his agile mind ran through this new turn of events.

‘As you said,’ Cailech replied. ‘Although I can put your mind at rest. Ylena Thirsk would not be permitted to leave the Razors. I make that pledge to you right now.’

‘Ever?’

‘Ever.’

‘And as your Queen you would not permit her to make any decisions which might affect Morgravia — or our treaty will be disqualified and I will wage war on your people. Not just the Legion, Cailech, but the full might of the combined Morgravian and Briavellian armies.’

‘She would be Queen in title only. I am the power in the Razors.’

‘So how do we effect this?’ Celimus said, looking towards his Chancellor.

Cailech took the lead. ‘I will take her with me now. Your men can escort us to the border and see that she is taken safely into the Razors, from where she will never emerge. Your Chancellor here can draw up the paperwork and your delegates can talk with mine. I will sign whatever you need to effect our treaty and this new understanding regarding the Thirsk woman.’

Celimus shook his head. He could pick no ruse: Cailech seemed earnest in his desire for Ylena. ‘All right, I agree. Ylena Thirsk is yours to take. She is my gift to you.’

‘Thank you,’ Cailech said, surprising himself by how delighted he felt. He turned to his companion. ‘Come, Aremys. Ready the Thirsk woman for travel. She rides with me.’

TWENTY-THREE

IN THE END, WYL WAS GIVEN his own horse for the first part of the journey. He sat sullenly astride the bay next to Aremys, a thick and uncomfortable silence between them as the two Kings made their official farewells.

‘You have no idea how angry I feel by what’s happened tonight,’ he finally said in a low voice to his companion.

Aremys bristled. ‘This was Cailech’s idea, not mine, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m ready to kiss the ground he walks on because of it!’

Wyl glared at his friend. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

The Grenadyne cast a glance around to check they were not being eavesdropped upon, particularly by the Chancellor. ‘It occurs to me,’ he muttered, a bite in his tone, ‘that perhaps Myrren’s gift only works when the killer is still in touch with you somehow.’

Wyl frowned. ‘I don’t get you,’ he replied.

‘Did Elysius explain how the gift works?’

Wyl shrugged. ‘What’s to know,’ he said, bitterness underpinning his reply as he watched the sovereigns clasp hands and shoulders in the tradition of parley and peace.

Aremys sighed. He understood Wyl’s angry mood; it would be ludicrous to even pretend he could imagine what it felt like to be trapped as Wyl was, or how much courage it had taken to welcome the agony of whatever form of death Celimus had wished upon Ylena Thirsk. ‘I began to wonder, back in that hall, whether whoever killed you had to be connected with you through the weapon.’

That won Wyl’s attention. He paused in thought. ‘I’ve never considered that. You mean if the arrow had been shot I might be fully dead, but if you’d slit my throat I would be you?’

‘Exactly,’ Aremys muttered beneath his breath. ‘You might truly have died and then all would be lost. That’s why I acted as I did.’

Ylena’s face looked newly distressed. ‘So I do owe Cailech my life.’

‘Possibly, is all I’m saying. I don’t care to test my own theory,’ Aremys admitted. ‘And I’d prefer it if you didn’t either.’

Wyl glanced at Aremys again and this time Ylena’s expression was chastened. ‘Thank you,’ was all he had time to say before Cailech was striding back to their party.

‘My lady,’ the King of the Razors said. Wyl was unable to read the soft tone or the gentle expression on Cailech’s face. All he could do was nod.

Aremys felt a new fear thrill through him. He had not had time to explain that although Cailech might have saved Wyl’s life, the new situation was just as dire, with the King announcing his intention to marry Ylena. He was glad, in fact, that he had not had to give that explanation yet or deal with its consequences.

When Cailech was seated on his horse Celimus strolled up. ‘Safe travels, my friend.’ Cailech simply nodded. The Morgravian turned to his prisoner. ‘Another lucky escape, Ylena Thirsk, but this time I fear it is your last. I won’t be seeing you again.’

‘Oh, you’ll see me, Celimus,’ Wyl promised, a determined, somewhat sly smile touching Ylena’s lips. ‘In a place I call hell.’

Celimus laughed. ‘Good luck with her, Cailech — as I understand it, her husband ploughed the furrow only once. She’ll be nice and tight for you. Remember your promise to me.’

Celimus’s words shocked Wyl, but he put them aside in order to take this last opportunity to have the last word. He had never heard Ylena’s voice sound as cold and threatening. ‘And you remember my promise to you, Celimus. When we meet again, you will die and I will bear witness to it. Just you and I, Celimus — as it should be.’

The words sounded strangely prophetic to Chancellor Jessom. He was not sure why but the threat felt so very real on this cold night in the north, and yet how could it be, coming from a helpless captive; a young woman at that? Nevertheless, a chill passed through him as he watched Ylena Thirsk stare at the Morgravian King. Jessom was missing something here, he was sure of it, but even his sharp mind could not fathom what it might be. Ylena was too confident, too unfazed by Celimus — she had demanded her own death, for pity’s sake. What person in their right mind did that? It did not make sense. He glanced at Aremys and was surprised to see the mercenary was watching him. The clue sat between Aremys and Ylena; Jessom was convinced of it. He narrowed his gaze in thought and saw the Grenadyne nod towards him as the party, escorted by Legionnaires, moved out of Tenterdyn.

Jessom watched them depart in silence, seized by an unshakeable notion that, despite what either King promised, they had definitely not seen the last of the Thirsks.

The journey back to the border was uneventful and mostly silent. That suited Wyl; he was content to let his horse follow the party whilst he fell into deep thought about this new turn of events. Being pulled further from Celimus was confusing but then Fynch had warned him of the randomness of Myrren’s gift. Perhaps this was one of those occasions. It did not mean the outcome had changed, only the timing. He fully expected to meet Celimus again — and next time, as he had promised, he would not fail. His mind turned to what the King of the Razors might have in mind for him. Why had Cailech stayed the hand of Ylena’s would-be murderer? He felt a sudden gratitude to the Mountain King, for perhaps Aremys was right; so far all his deaths had involved someone killing him with a weapon they held. He noticed Cailech beckon to Aremys, who nudged his horse to draw alongside the King, but he could not hear their conversation and lost himself in his thoughts again.

‘What is it between you and the Thirsk woman?’ Cailech asked Aremys, direct as usual.

‘Sire?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I’m sure I deserve better.’

Aremys sighed. ‘It’s true, my lord. I did not want to see Ylena Thirsk murdered.’

‘That much is obvious. But why?’

‘Because she is innocent of all that Celimus lays at her feet.’

Cailech made a soft sound of exasperation. ‘I can work that out for myself, Grenadyne. Tell me something I don’t know, something which accounts for that look in your eyes that fairly begged me to step in and halt the proceedings.’

Aremys knew he would have to skirt the truth as carefully as possible. Cailech was not about to let this topic go. ‘When I was picked up unconscious in the eastern part of the Razors by Myrt and his companions,’ Aremys began, ‘I had lost my memory, as you know.’ The King nodded but said nothing. The horses slowed to a walk. They could see flaming torches being waved in welcome from a distance. It would not be long now before they were reunited with their men. ‘As my memory returned I remembered the paid task I was involved with at the time of being set upon by the thieves in northern Briavel.’

‘I’d like to hear the end of this before we actually reach the others, Aremys,’ Cailech admonished gently.

Aremys nodded and got to the point. ‘I was hired by King Celimus to track down and murder Ylena Thirsk.’

‘I had guessed as much.’

Aremys was not surprised. ‘Celimus has, as I understand it, my lord, designed the deaths of Wyl Thirsk, Romen Koreldy, King Valor of Briavel, perhaps even his own father, and no doubt countless others.’

‘You knew about Romen?’ Cailech interrupted.

‘It only came back to me recently. I didn’t know him, my lord, only of him.’

‘Why do you think you mentioned him when you awoke from your stupor?’

Aremys was reminded again that Cailech missed very little. ‘I suppose because Ylena Thirsk mentioned to me that he carried a blue sword.’

‘So you did actually meet up with her?’ Cailech said, his mind moving swiftly now.

‘Yes, sire. I met with her at Felrawthy and had no intention of killing her as instructed. We talked of Koreldy because she was so grateful for his help in saving her life the first time. Having learned all that had befallen the Thirsks and accepting that this girl was an innocent, I followed Koreldy’s lead and decided to help her. Mercenary I may be, sire; cold-blooded murderer with no good reason, I am not. It was I who took her into Briavel where I felt she would be safe. We lost each other at Timpkenny when I wandered out for some air and got set upon.’ His story suddenly sounded horribly thin. He continued quickly. ‘We’d already discussed her going to Werryl and throwing herself on the mercy of the Queen, so she must have followed the plan in my absence.’

‘So the note to Valentyna of Briavel, which you claimed to have sent — that was a ruse?’

Aremys nodded. ‘I had to lie — I was trapped. But who would have thought the Queen would give her up in the fashion she did? I had both your and my life at stake, as well as Ylena’s. You’ll recall when I told you about my insurance that I had no idea how to deliver the Thirsk woman.’

Cailech nodded. ‘I could, of course, be forgiven for thinking that Ylena Thirsk wishes to die. Perhaps she forced the Queen’s hand?’

‘Perhaps and, frankly, who could blame her?’ Aremys offered, not wanting to say much more, nervous that he had got this far on lies.

‘And your need to rub salt in the prisoner’s wounds was actually your way of warning Ylena — am I right?’

‘Again, yes, sire. I needed Ylena’s story to match with mine in front of Celimus, or I feared none of us would leave that hall alive.’

‘The Chancellor knows nothing?’

‘Nothing, my lord. He watched Ylena and myself argue. I was fortunate that a message came for him during that time in the outbuilding. We had but a few moments.’

‘I see,’ Cailech replied. He fell silent. They were almost at the rendezvous point — could see Captain Bukanan and the other dignitaries being brought down to be exchanged. ‘One more thing, Aremys.’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Why do you care about Ylena Thirsk? What hold does she have on you?’

And here we come to it, Aremys thought, struck suddenly that he had no answer to this question. Cailech waited as the mercenary’s mind raced to find something to offer the King. The carefully constructed web of lies could be torn down in a second if he said the wrong thing now.

‘What is it, Aremys? Why do you hesitate?’ Cailech asked, more pointedly. ‘Are you hiding something I should be concerned about?’

‘No, my lord. It’s not that —’

‘Then what!’ Cailech demanded. Aremys noticed Ylena glance behind at the disturbance of a raised voice. ‘You will tell me, Grenadyne, before we meet our men… before I permit you to enter the Razors again, before I —’

It was Aremys’s turn to interrupt. ‘Because I love her!’ he blurted, shocked by the vehemence in his voice and surprised by where the statement had come from. But the last thing he wanted was to be separated from Wyl again and this was the best reason he could manufacture. It was not so far from the truth: he loved the person that was Wyl and had certainly desired Faryl. He had admired Romen since he was a lad, so all in all he was not really lying even though he was not wholly telling the truth.

Cailech looked at him, astonished. For a moment neither man spoke and Aremys knew he must hold that hard gaze no matter what. To look away now would show weakness or deception. Who knew which way the wily King of the Razors would interpret it?

‘You jest,’ Cailech said eventually.

‘I do not, sire,’ Aremys said sadly.

‘But —’

‘Let us not speak of it any more, my lord,’ Aremys said, glad for the cover of darkness to shield his embarrassment. ‘I have not yet expressed my deepest thanks for what you did today for Ylena. Let me do so now.’

‘By Haldor’s arse, man, I didn’t do it for you,’ Cailech said, still rocked by the Grenadyne’s admission. ‘I did it for purely selfish reasons. I would be lying if I did not admit here and now that I desire her more than I have desired any woman. I meant what I said.’

Myrt arrived. He took one look at his King and knew something was awry. He nodded to his sovereign. ‘Welcome back, sire.’

‘Get rid of the Morgravian escort, Myrt, and make the official exchange,’ Cailech said and turned back to Aremys.

Myrt accepted the salute of the Legion’s senior officer and oversaw the departure of the men. When he returned, he glanced between Aremys and the King, unsure of what to do.

‘We’ll be right with you, Myrt,’ Cailech said. ‘Take good care of the noblewoman we’ve brought with us.’

Myrt took the reins of Ylena’s horse and led the creature into camp without another word.

‘I mean to make her my wife, Aremys.’

‘Without even knowing her,’ the mercenary replied softly, careful not to sound judgemental.

Cailech looked towards the stars and gave Aremys the truth. ‘I’ve never been so affected by a woman and I’ve barely so much as shared a word with her. She is dishevelled, dirty, angry. She is magnificent. I want her.’

‘She is certainly different to any woman I’ve ever known,’ Aremys admitted, unable to help himself. ‘Be careful, sire.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of getting your heart broken.’

Aremys meant it sincerely. He knew Wyl would shout loud and long when he heard of the King’s intentions and Aremys could only wonder at how long Ylena would keep her life once Wyl set his mind to losing it this time. Minutes probably, after hearing the word ‘wife’ uttered.

Cailech, however, took the mercenary’s meaning a completely different way. A dawning spread across his expression. ‘Oh, poor Aremys. The Lady Ylena has rejected your advances.’

‘No, my lord,’ Aremys corrected. ‘I have never made them.’

‘She doesn’t know?’ he asked, aghast.

The Grenadyne shook his head. ‘I prefer it that way.’

‘Then what do you mean about getting my heart broken?’

‘Only that she loved her husband, Alyd Donal of Felrawthy. She will never love another.’

‘We shall see. She has nothing else,’ Cailech said, matter-of-factly. ‘We have cleared this between us then?’

‘My lord?’

‘I can’t have you mooning around the woman whilst I’m seducing her, man! I don’t want us to fight over her.’

Aremys smiled for the first time in a long time. ‘Good luck to you if she will have you, Cailech.’

The King of the Razors grinned and held out his hand; again, it was palm up in absolute sincerity. Aremys laid his own palm upon it. ‘You constantly surprise me, Grenadyne. Now if you’d be so kind, I’ll ask you to introduce me to my bride-to-be.’

Elspyth was laid out on a makeshift pallet on the ground, blankets piled over her small frame to keep out the bite of the cool spring night. A nearby torch lit her face a ghostly colour.

‘Am I dying?’ she asked Crys who held her hand.

He mustered the crooked grin she loved. ‘No, but we’ve got to get those wounds closed up. Drink this,’ he said, and helped her to sit up slightly. ‘It’s warm, sweetened tea. Good for shock, my mother always says.’ He sighed. ‘Said.’

‘Crys, take me home.’ It was a plea. She squeezed his hand. ‘I know you’ve probably got better things to do than travel to Yentro but I just want to get back to the north.’

‘To Lothryn?’ he wondered, his voice gentle.

‘Both. I can get well quicker at home and I will feel closer to him with the Razors in sight. I’ve had enough of roaming the land. The last time I slept in my own bed, ate in my own cottage, did something simple like going to the market, seems a lifetime ago. I need to see if my aunt is still alive and I need to take stock of my life. Wyl doesn’t need me now.’

‘Will you promise me that you won’t go off into Cailech’s lands if I do take you home?’ Her pause was telling. ‘I won’t let you waste yourself, Elspyth. You know how I feel about you —’

‘Don’t, Crys,’ she begged softly.

‘I don’t mean it like that,’ he urged. ‘I know where your heart lies. But I care too much about you to let you risk yourself, and Wyl would kill me anyway if I did.’

She found a smile for him. ‘He’d be wrathful for sure. You saw him in Werryl?’

He nodded and laughed. ‘Supremely cranky too. He’d got the flux and he made an inappropriate move on the Queen.’

Elspyth could not help but be amused by Crys’s well-timed jest, and the theatrical arch of his eyebrow had her spluttering into painful laughter and then groaning at the way it tore at her wounds. ‘Oh, I mustn’t laugh at him,’ she said, ‘but I can’t help it. I wish I’d known Wyl before Myrren’s gift.’

‘He was no painting,’ Crys commented, determined to see her smile again. His timing, as always, was perfect and she found herself giggling once more.

They were interrupted by Liryk. ‘Well, this is all very heartening.’

Crys cleared his throat. ‘Anything to keep her conscious and her mind off her woes,’ he admitted and winked.

Liryk nodded. ‘Elspyth, I’m so sorry we let you down.’ It was the second time he had apologised but he felt this time she was paying more attention. ‘I promised my Queen I would find you for her.’

‘Please, Commander Liryk, the fault is all mine. It was stupid of me to leave as I did and even more naive to fall for that man’s cruel trap. Did you find his daughter, by the way?’

‘We did. We’ll take her back to Werryl and see if we can find the rest of her family.’

‘Good. She was part of the scheme, I know, but she’s so young. Her father used her as much as he used the women.’

‘Well, he’s gone to answer for his sins to Shar now. Now don’t think me odd but we do need to get you stitched, my girl. Those wounds risk infection if we don’t and that would be life-threatening even if the injuries aren’t.’

‘Do you have a physic in the company?’ Crys asked.

Liryk gave a nervous smile. ‘No, but as it happens a Master Rilk passed through an hour ago. One of my men recognised him and hailed him.’

Elspyth nodded. ‘Is he a doctor?’

The Commander looked sheepish. ‘He’s a tailor.’ He waited for the outburst from Crys to settle. ‘Hear me out. Next to Madam Eltor, there isn’t a more adept person with a needle and thread in the whole of Briavel. He crafts for the top nobility in Morgravia too — that’s where he is travelling from.’

‘A master tailor to sew me up?’ Elspyth queried.

‘He has the finest silken thread and a light touch, Elspyth. It’s the best we can do. He’s rather nervous but has agreed. Those wounds need to be sutured and rather than let one of my men do a hack job, I’d far rather allow a talented craftsman to work on your skin.’

Elspyth felt even more light-headed at the notion of being laid out like fabric for a tailor to work on.

Crys was frowning. ‘I suppose, under the circumstances, this is the best option?’

Liryk nodded; he had already motioned to the soldier behind him to bring the tailor forward. ‘This is Master Rilk,’ he said, and looked at the craftsman. ‘This is Duke Crys Donal and our patient, Elspyth.’

Crys shook the tailor’s hand. ‘She’s got four major cuts.’

The little man was already perspiring, even though it was a cool night, and Crys had to wonder if he was up to such a grisly task. ‘Can you stomach it, sir?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes. I’ve done something similar but it was for my son’s beloved pet.’ He chanced a grin but no one returned it. ‘I’m sure Miss Elspyth will have far finer skin,’ Rilk assured and then his tone became brisk and businesslike. ‘Can we have her gently moved to a table, please? I’ll need lots of light and clean linens and hot water. I presume you have some antiseptic?’ Liryk nodded. ‘Good, I’ll need plenty of it. Do you have any shorrock or liquor with you?’

‘I’m sure we can find some,’ Liryk said.

‘Do it quickly, please, and get some down Miss Elspyth’s throat to dull the pain. Not too much, mind, just sufficient to help her drift off a bit.’

Elspyth had already drifted, frightened yet too exhausted to keep her attention on what was about to happen.

Knave was back at Fynch’s side. The boy was pale and trembling from the exertion of returning the dog to the Razors.

This is exactly what I was afraid of, Knave growled into Fynch’s head.

‘I’ll be all right soon. I just need to sleep.’

Have you taken some sharvan?

‘No. Just let me be.’

Knave looked around, quietly exasperated. Fynch had made no progress since they had parted. He had obviously become too weak to send himself anywhere after the efforts of transporting Knave.

‘How was Valentyna?’ the boy mumbled.

Worried about you. Liryk and his company left immediately.

‘Good… ah wait, here is Kestrel.’ It took Fynch some pain to open up his mind but he wanted Knave to share this.

Kestrel’s thin voice entered their heads. Elspyth is safe. Quite badly injured from what I can tell, but alive and talking to some of the men who arrived.

What are they doing? Fynch asked.

Perhaps I can show you? Kestrel wondered.

Yes, let’s try, the boy said, a new excitement cutting through his pain.

Knave sighed. He felt sure Fynch would die before they even left this plateau.

Fynch concentrated. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. That’s right, Kestrel. Open your mind completely to me. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just want to see through your eyes, if I may. There was a pause and suddenly a picture appeared in Knave’s mind.

I see it, he admitted grudgingly to Fynch.

An awning of sorts had been set up. Torches burned brightly around it and some men held candles as others bent over a prone figure. Kestrel must have perched himself on a low branch nearby; his sight was keen and they could clearly see all that they needed to.

‘They seem to be sewing her,’ the boy said. ‘There’s Commander Liryk. And… oh, wait, is that Master Rilk?’

You’re right, Knave said. It’s the tailor.

‘He’s mending her,’ Fynch said in wonderment. They watched Rilk snip a thread then step away and arch his back. She’s pretty, isn’t she? Fynch said absently into his companions’ minds. I’m glad we were able to help. She’s going to be all right.

Is that enough, Fynch? Kestrel asked.

Enough, Knave answered, determined now that his charge would rest.

Perhaps I’ll follow the pretty lady, the bird added. I’ve got nothing better to do.

Thank you, Kestrel, Fynch replied weakly, his head pounding.

We’ll speak again soon, the bird said and all connections closed.

Knave bristled. I can feel the echoes of your pain, Fynch. You’ve got to stop using magic for a while.

‘We can’t,’ he moaned and retched helplessly into some bushes.

We have no choice. You must recover your strength before we proceed. We’ll make camp here. I’m going to find you some food. You may not feel like eating but your body is mortal, Fynch. It needs nourishment.

The boy did not reply. He had collapsed into a small, curled shape like a tiny animal and he slept.

TWENTY-FOUR

VALENTYNA LOOKED AT HERSELF in the mirror and glumly permitted a brief, silent admission that the dress was exquisite.

‘Oh, my Queen, you make the most glorious bride,’ Madam Eltor said. ‘The fit is perfect.’ She looked at the breathtaking woman before her and sighed. ‘A smile would help.’

‘I’m sorry, Margyt.’

‘I have to ask you to try on the veil now, my dear,’ the woman continued.

Its cream gauze and seed pearls completed the beautiful vision.

‘Thank you, it’s lovely,’ was all the Queen could force out.

‘You know, Valentyna, perhaps it’s not my place to speak, but we would all like to think that you enter this union with some joy.’

The Queen and the seamstress had known each other too long for lies. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot,’ Valentyna said. ‘I do this for Briavel, Margyt, because I know it brings us peace and, I hope, new prosperity but I cannot love him. There is no joy.’

‘Because of another?’ the woman risked.

Valentyna shook her head gently. ‘No. Simply because I don’t love him. We can’t help our feelings, can we?’

‘No, child. This is true. My husband and I could never claim to have loved one another as I know other couples do.’

‘But you have a good partnership,’ Valentyna said.

‘More than that, to be honest. We are the closest of friends. But yes, a great partnership too — as you will enjoy with King Celimus. You will make it so. You will give us heirs and make us proud.’

A smile ghosted across Valentyna’s mouth. ‘That is my fervent wish.’

Margyt Eltor patted her Queen’s hand. ‘Let me snip those threads now and release you.’

‘Are all the preparations in hand?’

‘Yes, your majesty,’ Madam Eltor said, back to her formal role. ‘I shall be taking two dressers and a couple of other girls for errands and any other needs we might have. The various gowns we spoke of are also ready.’

‘And the new riding clothes?’

‘Completed. You didn’t want new boots too, did you?’ the seamstress asked, frowning, her mind already racing towards how quickly the cobbler might work.

‘No, I like my comfy old ones,’ Valentyna replied.

‘As I understand it from our earlier discussion, your highness, we depart for Morgravia in ten days?’

‘Yes. The wedding was supposed to be at the close of spring but I see no point in holding off and will send a message today to King Celimus. It should please him. I’ll have one of my assistants confirm everything with you shortly. We’ll take it slowly with a view to four days’ journeying. I can visit some of the towns and villages along the way to pay my respects to our people.’

‘I imagine the party will be quite large,’ Margyt commented as she sliced through the threads that had effectively stitched the Queen into her wedding gown.

‘I suppose so,’ Valentyna said, not really caring. ‘Perhaps Commander Liryk will split it into smaller groups and send them by different routes.’

‘Yes, that would be sensible,’ the seamstress agreed. Then: ‘Are you giving the King a ring, your highness?’

The Queen nodded. ‘Studded with jewels in the colours of Briavel.’

‘Lovely,’ Margyt said, as she helped her sovereign to lift the gown over her head.

‘Why are you alone this time?’ Valentyna’s voice was muffled from beneath the garment.

‘Because I don’t want my girls twittering that our Queen goes to her marriage as if to a funeral,’ Madam Eltor admonished. ‘I sensed from our last fitting that you were not getting any pleasure from the preparations. I thought privacy was best, your highness.’

‘Thank you again, Margyt. Your sensitivity always makes you my favourite,’ Valentyna said, finding a playful tone.

The seamstress responded, glad of it. ‘Oh? I hear Master Rilk gets plenty of your business, your highness,’ she said archly.

‘He wanted the wedding gown,’ Valentyna replied, pulling on her clothes.

‘The cheek of the man!’

The Queen laughed. Madam Eltor and Master Rilk had been married for as long as she could remember. And between them they crafted everything Valentyna wore.

‘I will take my leave, your highness. There’s still plenty for me and my girls to do.’

‘You’re a treasure. I promise to be smiling next time we see each other.’

‘Make sure of it, child. You will be preparing to take holy vows in the grand Pearlis Cathedral next time I stitch you into this gown.’

Madam Eltor’s words remained with Valentyna long after she had departed, reminding the Queen that there was no way off the path she was now on. Her meeting with the nobles had gone badly. Having called them together to broach, once again, the subject of the marriage being a sham, Valentyna had been met with cheers and rounds of congratulations that the Legion had begun to withdraw from the border. Word had begun to filter down from the north as troops dropped away.

She had listened to the deep voice of Lord Vaughan, quietly praising her actions in returning Ylena Thirsk to King Celimus, and when Valentyna had displayed astonishment that he could know such a thing, Lord Vaughan had simply nodded and admitted that there were spies everywhere.

‘Watching me, do you mean, sir?’

‘Observing all that happens in the capital, your majesty,’ he had corrected with his habitual sombre expression.

The nobles were a network of their own, she realised for the first time, and there were few secrets, if any, she could protect. It was a useless exercise gathering them like this and hoping for their support. Now she knew for sure that they were counting the days to the marriage ceremony, many intending to take their families to bear witness to the event in Pearlis. Ylena Thirsk’s arrival had made not a scrap of difference; in fact, they were delighted she had been returned to Morgravia, back into the clutches of its hateful King.

Valentyna had not even bothered to air her carefully planned speech. Instead, she smiled as required, accepted their praise and hid her despair behind the mask she knew she would now wear permanently at either court.

Nothing and no one was going to save her from Celimus. She wasted no further time in sitting down at her desk and crafting, with her own hand, a message to her groom to set a final date for their wedding ceremony.

Wyl recognised Myrt and several of the Mountain warriors, all of whom treated the stranger, Ylena, courteously. He was not sure what to think of this new situation. It felt dangerous — all his senses told him so — but at the same time it was reassuring to be back with Aremys.

Someone handed him a bowl of broth. ‘My lady.’ It was Myrt, Wyl realised, when he lifted Ylena’s chin to glance at the owner of the soft voice. ‘The King tells us you have been treated inhospitably in Morgravia.’

‘He speaks true,’ Wyl admitted.

‘I’m sorry there is still a long journey ahead but he hopes you will eat something before we leave.’

‘We leave tonight?’

‘Yes, my lady. We wish to be deep into the Razors by midnight.’

‘So you travel comfortably in the dark?’ Wyl wondered.

‘We need no light but the moon,’ Myrt said, with a polite nod, then left.

The broth was surprisingly good. Hearty and rich with the flavour of meat. Wyl finished the bowl, glad for the warming nourishment. Aremys entered the cave holding a candle. He looked distracted and hesitant; Wyl figured it could not be easy for the mercenary to find time alone with the Mountain King’s new captive.

‘We’re breaking camp now, leaving immediately. How are you?’

‘Fed,’ Wyl said. ‘Myrt brought me food.’

‘Does he know you recognise him?’ Aremys asked, alarmed.

‘No, I’ve been careful about it.’

‘Good. He’s sharp.’

‘How much aren’t you telling me about this turn of events?’

‘There is more, but first let me tell you the story I’ve given to the King about you and I.’ Wyl nodded and Aremys briefed him. Someone called into the cave that the King was preparing to leave in a few minutes. Aremys asked the man if scouts had checked that Celimus had sent no tracking party. The man confirmed that they had and there were no spies trailing them.

‘So, are you going to tell me the rest?’ Wyl asked. ‘We don’t seem to have much time.’

Aremys scratched his head. It was best to give it to Wyl straight, he decided. ‘Cailech’s taken a fancy to you.’

‘Oh, Shar save me!’ Wyl groaned. This was alarming news. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you,’ he said, and it was no question.

‘It gets worse,’ the big man continued.

‘How can it?’ Wyl asked, letting Ylena’s head drop between her knees.

‘During your absence from the hall, Cailech declared to Celimus that he would make you his wife.’ Wyl looked up sharply. His horror was reflected in the Grenadyne’s despondent expression. ‘It took everyone by surprise. There was nothing I could do.’

‘I understand, Aremys,’ Wyl admitted, bile rising. ‘You were helpless back there. But we’re not helpless now,’ he declared, standing to Ylena’s full height which barely reached halfway up the mercenary’s chest.

‘Please, Wyl,’ Aremys said, checking they were not being listened to. ‘Go along with this for the time being.’

‘Go deeper into the Razors, back to that fortress?’ Wyl hissed. ‘Are you mad? I’ve escaped it once. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again.’

There was nothing for it but to tell Wyl all that he knew. ‘I’ve found Gueryn,’ Aremys said firmly, knowing it would stop Wyl’s tirade.

It did. Ylena grabbed his shirtfront angrily. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

Aremys nodded. ‘We spoke briefly. I said I’d come back for him. He’s in the dungeon and, considering his situation, looks quite good for it, but now that Cailech knows Romen Koreldy is dead I fear for his life. And then there’s Rashlyn, the most unpredictable factor in all of this. Apparently he’s used magic on Gueryn a few times now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Too long in the telling now. Suffice to say it’s been used for good in healing the arrow wound, but for bad too and it’s rattled your old mentor.’

Wyl paced, pulling at his ear, thoughts racing as to what would be the best course of action. He did not want to go with Cailech — the Mountain King’s intentions for him were just too revolting to contemplate. But Gueryn’s needs called strongly. He could not desert his dearest, oldest friend, not after the sad way they had parted.

Aremys sensed Wyl needed a final push and gave it. ‘I’ve also found Lothryn.’

Ylena’s eyes blazed in the soft light. ‘He’s alive? I knew it!’

‘But not how you remember him, Wyl,’ Aremys cautioned.

‘How so?’ Wyl asked. His frightening dream at Felrawthy, of the man’s voice screaming at him from behind a barn door, returned to haunt him.

Before Aremys could reply, Cailech appeared at the mouth of the cave. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’

‘I can’t imagine it would matter if you were,’ Wyl replied, flustered by his friend’s various revelations and the discomfort of seeing his captor — his husband-to-be — smiling so disarmingly at him.

‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t,’ Cailech admitted, his smile broadening. ‘I hope my men have treated you deferentially, my lady?’

‘Thank you, sire,’ Wyl replied, remembering Ylena’s manners. He glared towards Aremys though.

Cailech did not miss the glance between them. ‘Ah, I suppose Aremys has explained why you’re here.’

‘He has, King Cailech.’ Wyl was at a loss for what else to say. He understood his friend’s reasons for wanting him to return to the fortress, but this was a perilous situation for him now.

‘Don’t be frightened, my lady. In the south you know us as barbarians but we may surprise you.’

‘Romen Koreldy spoke highly of you, my lord. He told me much about the ways of the Mountain People and I have an appreciation for your sophistication,’ Wyl said, believing it best to flag now that he knew something of the culture. Any misjudgements he made in seeming too familiar with the Razor Kingdom, he might now be able to hide behind Romen’s teachings.

‘Did he now?’

‘He liked you,’ Wyl offered.

‘I hope you will too, Ylena. Come now, we must journey.’

There was nothing for Wyl to do but follow the King’s guiding hand. ‘You will ride with me, my lady,’ Cailech added, and it was fortunate indeed that neither the King nor Aremys saw the look of despair that swept across Ylena Thirsk’s face at this news.

Wyl gritted his teeth and allowed strong hands to help him up onto the saddle, but much worse was the sensation of the King climbing up behind him. Cailech’s arms passed around Ylena’s tiny waist and took the reins from her.

‘Allow me,’ he said graciously.

Wyl grimaced towards Aremys who looked away in embarrassment.

‘Comfortable, Ylena?’ the King enquired.

‘May I not ride a horse of my own, sire?’ he risked.

He sensed the King’s wry grin behind him. ‘It is good for my men to see me take ownership of you, my lady. It is critical they understand how highly I regard you. Life in Morgravia is no longer possible, Ylena, you surely agree?’

‘I do, my lord,’ came the grudging reply.

‘And it seems your life is now worthless in Briavel too, where a Queen must bow to the whims of her powerful neighbour and soon-to-be husband. So the only realm where your life can be protected — and, might I add, revered, my lady — is the Razor Kingdom. My men are surprised by your presence, I’ll not lie,’ Cailech said, his mouth so close to Ylena’s ear, Wyl felt sickened. ‘But in seeing us together like this, they will now offer you the highest respect, my lady, as befitting a noblewoman and my future wife.’

Gueryn was still smiling from the thrill of riding Galapek. Not even the sound of the door hammering closed on his tomb again — as he had come to think of it — or the sound of the key turning in the lock could tarnish the day’s experience.

He, Jos and Rollo had taken the horses around the lake and beyond for several hours, returning late in the afternoon. Gueryn had felt exhilarated. It was true he had not had a chance to confirm his suspicions about Galapek, but the joy of being in the open and on a horse again was exquisite. He had wept towards the close of the ride, when they neared the stables again, embarrassing himself.

Jos had given him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you are our prisoner, Gueryn,’ the young man had offered.

‘I too am sorry,’ Gueryn had replied, ‘but thank you for this wonderful escape, however brief it has been.’

‘What do you think of our fine stallion?’ Maegryn had asked on their return.

‘That I wish he was mine,’ Gueryn had answered truthfully.

The stablemaster had laughed. ‘Everyone does. But he belongs to our King.’

‘Can I rub him down?’

‘Most certainly,’ Maegryn said, but sadly for Gueryn, who had hoped to be left alone with the horse, the head of the stables had remained.

Despite Maegryn’s presence Gueryn had managed to whisper once to the horse, begging the animal to give him a sign that he was Lothryn but nothing had occurred. And yet he could not doubt the sincerity of the stranger, Aremys. As the incredible words had tumbled from the big man’s mouth, horror lacing each one, Gueryn had nevertheless believed. His brief but terrible experiences with Rashlyn confirmed that the mercenary had hit on the truth.

Being Morgravian, Gueryn had always been scornful of magic; frightened of it too. Along with most Morgravians, he had accepted the persecution that not so long ago had been visited on anyone perceived as a witch or warlock. But now, after hearing Aremys’s story and feeling the effects of Rashlyn’s power for himself, Gueryn was forced to accept that magic was at the heart of the mystery surrounding the horse Galapek, and indeed Wyl himself.

Myrren of Baelup came to mind and, inevitably, Wyl’s attempts to protect her from further suffering. The memory surfaced fresh and clear now. At the moment of the witch’s death Wyl’s eyes had changed colour, reflecting the exact strange hues of Myrren’s eyes. The very reason for her persecution was mirrored in Gueryn’s own beloved Wyl Thirsk. And he was not the only person who had seen it. The tiny gong boy, Fynch, had shared the experience. They had not both imagined the presence of some magic.

Gueryn’s good mood evaporated as the sour thoughts overtook his mind. If he could accept that Wyl had somehow been touched by the magic of the witch, then surely it was possible that Lothryn could be so remarkably changed by sorcery, especially when wielded by one so deeply wicked and heartless as Rashlyn. But what about Wyl? How had Myrren’s magic affected him?

He was still wrestling with the question, haunted by the memory of how Romen had tricked him into believing he was Wyl, when the key turned again in the lock. Gueryn was startled. He moved back into the shadows, away from the nub of candle and its light which was now permitted him as a small kindness.

He instantly recognised the figure that appeared in the doorway and his stomach clenched in fear.

‘Le Gant,’ Rashlyn said, in his light, irritating voice. ‘You can’t hide from me in this dungeon.’

‘Have you come to share my ration of water, Rashlyn, or perhaps some conversation?’ Gueryn asked, forcing himself to fight back his fear.

The small man laughed. ‘After tonight’s proceedings, I imagine conversation will be the furthest thing from your mind. Take him,’ he commanded to two men, who now pushed through the doorway. Gueryn recognised neither. His heart lurched with new terror.

‘There will be a reckoning with your King over this, Rashlyn,’ he warned in desperation, all bravado gone now. If he was to die at this man’s hand, who would back up Aremys’s claim?

‘But it was the King who gave me permission, le Gant. He agreed that I could use you for my own… um… interests, shall we say. Come now. I’m sure we’ll both find it interesting.’

Gueryn did the only thing left to him. He struggled with the guards and bellowed his protestations as loudly as his lungs could manage, in the faint hope that someone might hear and bear testimony to his disappearance at the hands of the barshi.

TWENTY-FIVE

FYNCH LAY STILL ENOUGH to be dead, curled on the floor of the small cave they had come to call home these past few days. Knave had worried throughout the first day at the boy’s weakness, but Fynch had grown stronger through long healing sleeps and the dog had to assume that this was the way of the magic. No doubt Elysius had done the same. He regretted they had not asked the manwitch for more information about the sickness.

Kestrel had communicated that Elspyth was also healing through long rest periods after her surgery with Master Rilk. Knowing that Elspyth lived and would recover from her injuries had helped Fynch to let go of Wyl’s friend and become more focused on the trial ahead and his own health.

Knave understood that the boy had no idea of what they were up against. Not even he could imagine it, to tell the truth, but he had heard the gravity in Elysius’s voice when speaking of his brother and had seen how much the manwitch had fretted at the thought of passing the magic to such a youngster and essentially presenting him to whatever Rashlyn might do to him. But all of that had paled in comparison to the arrival of the Dragon King. His presence alone had impressed upon Knave the dire task they faced. For the King of the Creatures to come to them from his abode high in the mountains of the Wild, where no man or possibly no other animal had ventured, made it clear that Fynch’s trial was more important than any of them could know.

The dog was still to ask Fynch about his claim to be the King of the Creatures. They had shared few words since that moment when Fynch had answered Kestrel’s question so audaciously. But Knave was patient. Fynch’s survival and his health was all that mattered right now.

The youngster stirred, his eyelids fluttering as consciousness arrived. Then his eyes opened and he regarded the dog. ‘You make me feel so safe, Knave,’ Fynch admitted.

Knave only wished he could protect the boy from all that was coming towards them. But this was no time to scare him. They needed to be strong together. I’m never far, remember? the dog replied.

Fynch sat up and stretched. ‘I feel better than I have in days.’

You must eat, Knave said, unable to hide the elation in his voice.

‘You sound like my sister.’

Well, perhaps it’s because we both love you.

Fynch reached out to hug the dog. ‘I’ll eat for both of you then.’

He was able to start a fire with the smallest trickle of magic and Knave quietly marvelled at how quickly his friend had accepted and embraced his new powers. Fynch himself did not talk about or even comment on the wondrous nature of the new skills he possessed. Knave understood that the lad treated this gift as he treated everything in his life — with serious care. The dog knew Fynch would never be playful with the magic or test its boundaries; he would no more send messages to animals unnecessarily than he would try out his own ability to fly or even become invisible… if he could. Fynch simply accepted his lot, as presumably he always had.

The boy refused the rabbit which Knave had killed for him. ‘I can’t, it repulses me for some reason.’

You don’t like rabbit?

The boy frowned. ‘I don’t think I like meat any more. How strange. I’ll find some berries.’

There were some cirron berries growing nearby and Fynch made a meal of them with a knuckle of bread.

‘I feel well enough to travel now,’ he said in between tiny mouthfuls.

It is time we made a move, the dog agreed. He was about to say that they should travel as far as they could during the morning, and that Fynch should sleep in the afternoon before sending them ten leagues east or thereabouts, when Fynch cut across his thoughts.

‘I’m going to risk Rashlyn today.’

This caught Knave off guard. What do you mean?

‘Well, I’m tired of all this patience. I’m tired of feeling sick and wearied by the magic. If it’s going to be this harmful to me, then let’s not waste more time. Let’s really use it.’

What are you talking about, Fynch?

‘I’m talking about sending us all the way. I did it for you to Werryl, and I know I can do it now for the two of us. I can get us right to the door of the fortress if we feel that bold.’ Then he grinned shyly. ‘Perhaps I should send us somewhere a little safer.’

No! Knave replied. Too risky, too dangerous for your health, too —

‘Hush, Knave. I know my limitations.’

I’m not sure you do, Knave said, more testily than he had ever spoken to the boy.

Fynch knew it was fear taking hold in the dog. ‘Trust me. I think I can blur the magic.’

I do not understand. Exasperation gave way to weariness in the dog’s tone.

Fynch shrugged. ‘Hard to explain, but whilst I was sleeping I think I dreamed an idea or perhaps…’ He hesitated.

Perhaps what?

‘Perhaps the Dragon King spoke with me,’ he finished, embarrassed.

Knave was surprised but he pressed on. And?

‘I believe I can try and muddy the magic going out, so to speak. Whether Rashlyn senses it or not, I might be able to confuse him sufficiently that he can’t lock onto us or what we are.’

That’s a big gamble.

‘Yes, but time is not on our side. I’m getting bad feelings about things.’

Things?

The boy pulled a face. ‘Just a sense; again, hard to explain. I thought it was my fear for Elspyth but it’s more than that. It’s Wyl, it’s Valentyna. There’s something very bad happening in the Razors; something not right.’

Unnatural, you mean?

‘That’s it. That’s exactly what I mean. There’s a taint of evil on the wind or in my mind. I can’t tell. But it’s talking to me in my dreams.

What do you see?

‘I can’t really see them, only sense them. Two men. Both in pain. One I believe I might know but can’t be sure… I mean, how could I?’

And Rashlyn’s behind it?

Fynch nodded glumly. ‘I think he’s the source of what’s bad. I could send a creature to find out more… perhaps Kestrel even. But it’s more time-wasting. We should go ourselves.’

Perhaps that’s why the Dragon King spoke to you.

‘Yes, it’s what I believe. So will you trust me?’ Fynch said, picking up his small sack and pulling it around his body.

Now?

The boy grinned again, not so hesitantly this time. ‘I’ve already opened the bridge to the Thicket. It awaits us.’

Knave suddenly felt the thrum of magic from the Thicket. He took a deep breath. I’m ready.

Fynch put his arms around the dog and Knave sensed the pressure of the air thickening around them. He knew what came next and braced himself for it. The next thing they were rolling, but on this occasion Fynch had mastered his sending skills and had used a pillow of air to cushion their landing. Knave was on all fours in a blink and by the side of the little boy who was vomiting violently into the undergrowth.

Take your time, he whispered helplessly, wondering what kind of toll the magic would take this time, so soon after Fynch’s last use of it.

Fynch grasped for his sack and the sharvan leaves. He forced a handful into his mouth, which tasted sour from the recent meal he had lost.

Knave could only feel guilt that he had agreed to this madness when he had just managed to get his charge to eat something. Sip lots of water, he advised. I’m going to scout around.

Fynch said nothing, chewing intently to get the painkilling juices flowing down his aching throat. Using the magic might have been a good idea, but it was a bad one in terms of his health. He felt as though he could die.

Knave saw that the boy’s eyes were bloodshot and, for the first time, a thin rivulet of blood ran from his nose. The dog felt uncharacteristically angry with everyone: himself, Elysius for passing on the magic, his King for entrusting this lovely child with such a huge task, even Fynch for accepting the challenge of sending them so far. He could not begin to count the cost this would take on the boy’s health. He stalked away, his mood as dark as the fur that covered his body, and blended into the cover of the foliage. When he returned, his companion lay on the ground; he looked dead. Alarmed and forgetting what he had hurried back to tell, the dog nuzzled the boy, his fear almost making him whine.

‘Knave?’ Fynch croaked, his complexion ghostly as he raised his head.

I’m here, the dog replied, his relief evident. There are people coming and horses, quite a reasonable number of them, but we’re well hidden so we just need to remain still.

‘It’s Wyl,’ Fynch said groggily.

The dog was confused. Wyl was in Briavel, with Valentyna. How do you know?

‘When I sent us, I tried something new.’ He coughed and blood splattered from his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his tone flat.

No! I am, Knave said, his anger at last finding its way into his tone. This is not right, Fynch. You’re going to die if you don’t stop using this magic.

Fynch looked at his friend with a sad expression. ‘I’m going to die soon anyway, Knave. Be at peace over this. I accepted my end gladly. I have met Roark and I have paid homage to the Dragon King, and I have been privileged to know you. I am prepared,’ he said gravely.

The dog was lost for words, so Fynch continued, wiping his bloodied mouth on his sleeve. ‘I cast out as we travelled, trying to lock onto Rashlyn and using the magic of the Thicket to shield us. I found Wyl instead. I think the Thicket did this deliberately.’

Why?

‘Probably because Wyl is not meant to be in the Razors. He should be in Briavel with Valentyna. It’s warning me. It knows Wyl and I are linked souls.’

Did it tell you what to do?

‘No, unfortunately. That’s up to us, Knave. I think we should just follow at a distance and take stock of the situation. He’s surely not here by choice.’

Are you up to following them?

‘I’ll manage,’ Fynch said.

Knave had to look away, unable to bear the pain in the boy’s face. They’ll be a few minutes yet, he said. Just lie down until then.

For once Fynch obeyed.

Crys made a sound of exasperation. ‘It’s too soon.’

‘I don’t want to spend another second in this blood-soaked place,’ Elspyth said, grimacing as she pulled her cloak on.

‘Please, Elspyth. At least let me take you to Sharptyn.’

‘No, Crys. I want to leave the region. I nearly died here and I’m not talking about from my wounds. Before you arrived…’ Her voice quavered but she steadied it. ‘Before you brought the Briavellian Guard, which I still haven’t thanked you for.’

He waved her embarrassment aside. ‘Master Rilk said —’

‘Master Rilk is a tailor!’ Elspyth cut across his words. ‘I’m grateful to him, grateful to you all, but I’m leaving now.’

‘Where will you go? Surely not into the Razors?’ he beseeched. His hurt expression added new injury to her aching heart.

‘No. I’m not fit enough for that. I shall go home first.’ She looked around her. ‘This place almost looks…’ she searched for the right word ‘…clean again.’

Crys risked reaching forward and buttoning her cloak for her. ‘Liryk and his men have done a good job.’

Elspyth smiled at his gesture but wished he would not show his affection for her quite so openly. ‘They have. When does the Guard move out?’

‘Today, I believe.’

‘Then my timing is perfect. And you? Where will you go?’ she asked. Where could he go that was not hostile?

Pain fleeted across Crys’s open face but he wrestled his expression back under his control. ‘Not Briavel. I’m a hindrance there and Valentyna will be making preparations for her journey to Morgravia now.’

‘Poor soul. She intends to go through with it then?’

‘She has no choice. I don’t believe it can be avoided, Elspyth. And with Wyl taking himself off to die again at the hands of Celimus…’ He trailed off.

‘She could just say no,’ Elspyth blazed, then grimaced at the sour look her words won from her friend. ‘No, I know. That would mean war. Do you think the next time we meet Wyl, he’ll be the King of Morgravia?’

Crys gave an involuntary bark of a laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, a helpless tone in his voice. ‘Wyl’s so stoic. Where did he find the courage to march into Celimus’s den, knowing he goes towards a horrible death?’

Elspyth sighed. ‘I think we’re all capable of being heroic when it comes to those we love, Crys,’ she said sadly, and knew he understood by his equally sorrowful nod.

‘Well, a happy ending for Wyl and Valentyna perhaps?’ he tried brightly.

‘But not for us, eh?’ she responded in kind.

‘It could be if only you’d let it,’ he said then wished he had not. ‘I’m sorry, Elspyth.’

She accepted his apology readily. ‘Come with me,’ she said, knowing how badly the Duke of Felrawthy needed the anchor of friendship, and she herself did not feel like hitching any more rides with strangers for a while.

‘Really?’ Crys said. He could hardly believe he had heard right.

A smile lit Elspyth’s face. ‘Why not, but there are terms.’

‘Of course. No kissing or any attempt at seduction,’ he said, grinning. ‘No suggestion that Lothryn is a wasted cause or that you’re too small, too fragile, too womanish to save him.’

She laughed openly now. ‘I like that you use your wit to hide your emotions, Crys,’ she said, meaning it with affection.

‘It’s all I have now. I feel so bruised and battered, I need to hide. Thank you for allowing me to accompany you. I won’t let you down, Elspyth.’ They both knew what he meant by that comment.

‘I appreciate that,’ she said. ‘Did Wyl have any ideas before he left?’

‘Well, yes, he did suggest I could stir up some trouble within the Legion.’

‘In what way?’

‘Reinforce the name of Thirsk, remind the men that the Donals were true, insist that Celimus is a destroyer of realms.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘And a slayer of souls.’

She touched his arm. It was all the solace she could offer right now. ‘Shall we go via Pearlis perhaps?’

‘Could you stand to? I mean, it’s not as direct as you probably want.’

Elspyth paused to consider his question. ‘No, but I’m not really well enough to be any good to anyone, and a couple of extra days will not make much of a difference to my journey.’

‘Perfect. Can you ride?’

‘Let’s take Ericson’s cart. He’s not going to be needing it,’ she said, feeling ghoulish at her pragmatism. ‘You have a horse, don’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Then we’re set. Let’s go and do some damage to our King.’

Crys felt the thrill of danger course through him. He loved this woman’s spirit. He wanted to kiss Elspyth, to tell her that his fondness for her was not diminishing and that it was unlikely he could keep all of his promises, but he would not break his word. He owed her that much.

Rashlyn stepped back to admire the fruits of his toil. He was drenched in sweat; it beaded in his tangled beard and soaked the already soiled shirt he had worn for days. He chuckled. ‘Better, definitely better,’ he muttered, and swallowed a cup of the rejuvenating brew he had made before he began his ugly work.

He knew from past experience that crafting this sort of magic was exhausting, but now he believed it actually drained the life from him. A measure of his essence had been used to create the spell — that was his sacrifice, the price he had to pay to get better at this manipulating magic. And better he had certainly become. The dog stood on all fours before him, trembling so badly Rashlyn was sure it would collapse soon. It snarled, despite its obvious suffering.

‘I suspect that was none too pleasant for you,’ he said to the creature. ‘In fact, I imagine it was nothing short of excruciating. I’m surprised you lived through it… and rather pleased you did.’

Again the dog growled weakly, baring its teeth, pulling helplessly at the restraining chain that held it to a ring in the wall.

‘How does it feel to be a dirty dog, le Gant? A filthy Morgravian dog?’

The dog leapt forward and managed to make the sorcerer flinch. But the chain dragged it back viciously and it fell over. It lay on the ground panting hard, eyes glazed, its energy spent.

‘Oh, don’t die on me now, le Gant. I do so want to show the King my handiwork. I’m going to give you to him so he can feed you the crumbs from his table, or perhaps break your ribs with his boot if that takes his fancy. I suggest you change your attitude, Morgravian dog. You are nothing now. You never were,’ he finished.

The dog snapped once, but so weakly that Rashlyn did not even hear its jaws come together. He was lost in admiration at his skill. The dog could hear and could react. The horse Galapek seemed nothing more than a void, but le Gant the dog showed spirit. Very good.

He was so close to full control now. He could hardly wait to present his latest creation to Cailech. Together they would rule not only the men of the land but its creatures and birds as well. Imagine Cailech going to war with the south with bears, wolves, wild cats, even a troop of ekons under his command — it was more exciting than Rashlyn had ever dared to dream.

The barshi left the semi-conscious dog to lie in its own mess, slamming the door shut on yet another tomb. The dog, hurting deeply and wondering how it could bring about its own death, whined softly as it passed into unconsciousness and a dream of running alongside a majestic black stallion.

TWENTY-SIX

WYL SANK INTO A GLUM SILENCE as their party neared the higher ground and the inevitability of the fortress. The terrain was familiar and once again he felt a weak but nevertheless sickening pull of Romen’s fears as what little was left of him recognised where they were.

Cailech had been generous enough to leave Ylena to herself during the journey. At night she was permitted to sit alone in a tent made from animal skins which the warriors rigged up for her rest. Fresh water was always found for her ablutions and Cailech had even promised a dip in a hot spring where he insisted she would have privacy. He had been formal and courteous in all conversation and their only physical contact had been during the hours on horseback. Wyl realised that Cailech must be enjoying the feel of Ylena’s slim body pressed against his chest and although Wyl made a huge effort to sit as far forward as he could, ultimately by day’s end the journey would wear him down sufficiently that, without meaning to, he would be leaning against the King’s broad, hard body. There were occasions when Cailech wanted to show something to Ylena and then he would win her attention by gently touching her arm or speaking quietly close to her ear as he pointed out a soaring eagle or a particularly jagged series of peaks, so distinctive to the Razors. And each time Wyl would withdraw just a bit further within to what was purely him.

This was the third morning and they had broken camp a couple of hours ago. Aremys dropped back to ride alongside Cailech in the middle of the party where his warriors insisted their King ride for safety. This deep into the Razors Cailech had no fears of ambush but he respected their desire to protect their sovereign. Wyl had been surprised to find that Aremys had essentially ignored him these past two days, preferring to keep company with Myrt and a fellow called Byl. He guessed that the mercenary was anxious and embarrassed by the situation Wyl found himself locked into.

‘I imagine they’re restless to be home now,’ Cailech commented, nodding towards the men Aremys had just been talking with.

‘They are. I don’t think any of you Mountain People feel comfortable outside of the fortress and its compounds.’

Cailech grinned. ‘This is a good thing.’ He inhaled the sharp mountain air. ‘Can you smell that, Ylena?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those are tiny white flowers called thawdrops which burst through at the first hint of spring and flourish towards mid-spring when their perfume becomes intense, as it is now. The fragrance is being blown here from the valley where you’ll see the flowers soon. It’s quite a sight. I shall pick you some.’

Wyl remembered the valley — it had been bare last time he passed this way. It meant they were just miles from the fortress now. His stomach clenched at the thought.

‘Your friend is very quiet, Aremys,’ the King said, amused, as if Ylena was not there; not encircled by his arms, not the prisoner of his words or his promise to marry her.

Aremys shrugged, not daring to look Wyl’s way. ‘I hardly know her, my lord, to appreciate what her personality is like,’ he said carefully.

‘You have us baffled, Ylena, you see?’ Cailech said and Wyl could feel the King’s face touching the back of Ylena’s head as he leaned forward. ‘Are you not happy to have escaped Celimus again? Can you not share your pleasure with us?’

‘I wanted to die, sire. You denied me my revenge.’

‘How so?’

‘I wanted the blood of both Thirsk heirs on his hands, your majesty. I wanted it mingling with that of the blood of the holy men of Rittylworth and the loyal souls of Felrawthy whom he had slaughtered.’

‘And Koreldy’s,’ Cailech said quietly.

‘Yes, Romen’s too. And King Valor.’

‘Do you think he will kill his bride?’ Cailech suddenly asked, wonder in his tone.

Wyl flinched. ‘He is capable of it.’

The King nodded. ‘Is that his plan though, do you think?’

‘No,’ Wyl admitted. ‘He wants heirs. Perhaps three, one to sit in each realm,’ he added craftily.

It did not rattle Cailech as intended. ‘I have an heir, Ylena,’ he replied. ‘His name is Aydrech, and I am hopeful you will give me more sons.’

Wyl felt a fresh wave of nausea, all his own, mingle with Romen’s. He fought back, unwisely. ‘I hear that Aydrech is not truly your own though, sire.’

Cailech’s right hand left the reins and raised itself in the air. The men behind obediently slowed and stopped their horses, as did Cailech. Aremys looked uncertain, glancing between King and guest.

‘What did you say?’ Cailech said, his voice hard.

It was too late to retract it; besides, Wyl felt he had nothing to lose. He hated his life as Ylena and the threat of being touched by this man was coming closer by the minute. Death was surely stalking him whichever way he looked at it, because nothing in Shar’s name could convince Wyl that sleeping with Cailech was worth any cause.

‘You heard what I said, your highness, and your very reaction proves its truth.’

Myrt had dropped back. ‘My King, is everything all right?’

‘Move all the men forward, Myrt. I have a private discussion to finish.’

The big warrior nodded and shot a surreptitious glance towards Aremys who also felt the dangerous tingle in the air but had no idea what was going on. The other horsemen moved by, averting their eyes, and Aremys made to follow.

‘Wait, Aremys,’ the King commanded, leaping down from his horse with agile grace. He walked around to where he could look his bride-to-be directly in the eye. Wyl knew that stare well. ‘Now, Ylena. Finish what you have to say or I shall slit your throat here and now.’

‘I have said it, my lord, so go ahead and do your worst,’ Wyl replied. ‘Celimus wants your kingdom. He wishes to destroy it and you. He dreams of empire, your majesty, can you not see that? If he has a brood of children with Valentyna, he will ensure each takes a throne for maximum control.’

‘He may try, Ylena,’ Cailech said, gentle condescension in his voice, ‘but he will not succeed.’

Wyl shrugged Ylena’s narrow shoulders. He could not care less about either of these ambitious Kings. There was only one sovereign now whose life he would protect and, sadly, she was the one most likely to lose it.

‘It is not your prediction, however, that intrigues me, my lady. It is your accusation,’ Cailech continued.

Wyl remained silent. Aremys shifted uncomfortably on his horse.

‘What do you know about my son?’ Cailech said, and his tone was now edged with a fire that had not been directed at Ylena previously.

‘Only what I said, sire.’

‘And how do you come by such information?’

Wyl considered his options in those few moments of highly charged tension. He was tempted to say that he had learned it from a dream, but then visions of Ylena being hailed as some sort of witch and handed over to Rashlyn’s care came to mind. He decided that no one could hurt Romen any more, so he could be the scapegoat.

‘It was Koreldy.’

The King looked shocked. ‘How could he know?’

Aremys wanted to know as well, although he feared Wyl’s answer and feared even more this nest of vipers which Wyl had seemingly deliberately uncovered.

‘Did anyone mention to you the love between Romen Koreldy and Queen Valentyna, my lord?’ Wyl asked, and enjoyed watching the surprise flit across Cailech’s face and then immediately be masked.

‘You jest, of course.’

‘I have no reason to, your majesty. You heard Celimus tell you that Romen was at Werryl Palace, acting as champion to Queen Valentyna.’

Cailech nodded. ‘She fell for his charms,’ he said, and smiled at an old memory of Romen’s flirtatious manner.

‘She fell in love, your highness,’ Wyl corrected. ‘He was not charming her… he was wooing her.’

‘It sounds like Koreldy,’ Cailech said, somewhat disparagingly. ‘So what?’

‘So he told her things — things he would normally keep to himself. A man truly enraptured by love reveals far more than he would to a woman he simply lusts after.’

‘He told her about my son,’ the King finished.

‘He told her about a man called Lothryn whose wife bore a new son, sire.’

‘Aydrech is of my flesh, Ylena… or perhaps the Queen did not hear the whole story.’

‘She knew of it, my lord, and mentioned as much. Lothryn explained to Koreldy about the boy. I gather it shocked Romen, as it does me, to learn that you would take another man’s wife purely to produce an heir.’

At this the King found his lazy grin again, which infuriated Wyl. ‘As I am doing with you. You were married to Alyd Donal. I’m sure he won’t mind if I bed you, although I am sorry that you see me in such a harsh light. I am genuinely intrigued by you, Ylena. You have kindled a fire in me I have not felt burn so bright.’

‘And I’m supposed to be flattered by that?’ Wyl asked incredulously. ‘What about how I feel?’ he hissed. ‘You are treating me with the same contempt that Celimus treats Valentyna.’

Cailech did not react to Ylena’s stinging words but changed topic adroitly, frustrating Wyl who had hoped to enrage the King sufficiently to end Ylena’s life here and now. But Cailech was too wise to fall for the baiting. ‘You sound as if you admire the Queen, Ylena.’

Wyl shook Ylena’s head at the deft way Cailech could defuse tension. He glanced at Aremys, who looked as anxious as he had in the hall at Felrawthy. ‘I do, more than any other woman I’ve ever met, sire.’

Cailech made a sound of disgust. ‘This is the same woman who sold you out to Celimus, knowing full well he was hunting you down and was determined to kill you.’

Wyl’s anger flared. ‘And if you believe that, your highness, you are even more ignorant than the southerners believe you to be.’

It happened fast. Wyl felt Ylena’s body being wrenched from the saddle. Cailech’s strength was immense and her body in his hand was like a rag doll. She hung on the end of the Mountain King’s fist, the tips of her boots only just touching the unforgiving rock they stood on. Aremys was off his horse in a blink, unsure of what to do.

Cailech dragged Ylena even closer. ‘Don’t you dare use that high-handed Morgravian tone with me, Lady Ylena. Remember, you breathe only because I allow it.’

‘Then disallow it, sire,’ Wyl taunted. ‘Kill me now as you threatened. I don’t wish to marry you. I would sooner die. Why can’t you understand that I went to Celimus to lose my life?’

The light green gaze narrowed and studied her hard. ‘You went to Celimus? Willingly?’

Wyl nodded as best he could in that grip.

The King let go of Ylena and Wyl explained. ‘Valentyna was as determined not to release me from her protection as I was to leave it. She could not help me, sire. But I could help her. Presenting myself to Celimus, as if I had been relinquished by his bride-to-be, meant I could probably get the Legion called off. It only needed some small spark to ignite a fire which could turn into war and Celimus is so unpredictable that I could not be sure he wouldn’t welcome it. So I made the sacrifice.’

‘Why? Why do you owe her anything?’

Wyl had no ready answer to this most pertinent question. ‘Because Wyl died trying to save her, to save her father. My brother must have had good reason to swap his allegiance to Briavel, sire. Can you imagine a Thirsk doing that without cause?’

Cailech said nothing, continued to stare at Ylena. Wyl looked towards Aremys whose expression begged him to win back Cailech’s trust. ‘I decided to give what little I had to General Wyl Thirsk’s cause, my lord: Queen Valentyna. I have no reason to live. She has every reason to. Don’t be misled, my King, Valentyna alone is what stands between Celimus and the Razor Kingdom.’

‘How so?’

‘I think she can influence him. If she handles this right, Valentyna might just guide him from the path of war.’

‘I don’t know her but I agree,’ Cailech admitted. ‘Something occurred back there at Felrawthy. I can’t be sure but my instincts usually serve me true. I believe Celimus might hold to the promise we made to each other.’

‘And you, my lord?’

‘I have no reason to start a war, my lady, or I would not have wasted my own time or breath in meeting with Celimus.’

‘I would be lying if I said I was not impressed.’

‘Perhaps we can build on that then?’

Wyl looked sharply at Cailech. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Ylena, that I understand your reluctance to be here and your fear of the Mountain Kingdom, its people and particularly its sovereign. But perhaps my determination to forge a lasting peace with the south is a place from which we can build this new relationship. Your life is forfeit anywhere outside of the Razors — you do understand that, don’t you?’

Ylena nodded.

‘Good. Then take my protection. It is mine to bestow on whom I please. I will not rush you, my lady, but I will make you my wife. I have given my word to our neighbour. It is on that understanding that he released you.’

Cailech watched her take a breath to interrupt and went on: ‘I know you wished for death. I could see it in your eyes. But I will not permit such beauty to be wasted, nor such a feisty spirit. You are the last of the great Thirsk family, Ylena, surely you wish to see its name flourish again?’

Wyl was ill-prepared for Cailech to touch on the very topic that was closest to his heart; one that provoked such a storm of emotion and pain for him. He felt Ylena’s eyes water and turned away. It was in that moment of despair that he caught sight of a dark shadow which disappeared almost the instant he saw it. Knave! It was definitely the dog. Which meant Fynch was here too. Why?

New fears and confusion erupted. He was cold and he was tired. Ylena’s fragile body needed rest and it was obvious he could not provoke Cailech into a swift killing. Despite his private anxieties, he could not help but feel his spirits lift at the thought that his friends were close. How they could be here was a mystery but it meant help. He would have to go along with Cailech’s plan for now and rethink his options once inside the fortress.

And so he gave Cailech a response which he knew would please the King. ‘I wish that more than anything in the world, sire. I just could not see how the Thirsk name could survive.’

‘Through me, Ylena,’ Cailech said gently, greatly relieved by her answer and beguiled by her sorrowful beauty. ‘I give you this pledge: any child of ours will bear the name of Thirsk. This will infuriate Celimus, of course, which is really rather satisfying,’ he said, winking at Aremys. ‘Does this please you, my lady? I would allow you to call him Fergys or even Wyl to honour your dead.’

‘It pleases me, sire,’ Wyl replied, taken aback by Cailech’s generosity.

‘Then come, my lady. Let me take you to your new home and allow me to show you off to your new people. I will make you a Queen, Ylena.’

Wyl sighed and dredged up a wan smile for Ylena’s face. ‘You honour me, sire,’ he said. His mind was racing for a way to escape the Razors again and quickly — or, at the very least, to die trying.

Fynch could barely raise his head when Knave returned.

It is Wyl, as you warned. I think he is with King Cailech, the dog said.

The news roused Fynch, although he could not sit up, could only open his eyes. ‘How do you know it’s the Mountain King?’

I heard them talking and I saw the men defer to him. Ylena shares his horse and his cloak is far grander than any of the other men who travel with him.

‘How in Shar’s name could this have occurred?’

No point in us speculating. They had an altercation. From what I can gather, Wyl was at Briavel but somehow convinced Valentyna to hand him over to Celimus.

‘Celimus! Where is he?’

I couldn’t tell from their conversation. But I do know Wyl tried to get himself killed.

‘He cannot invite death!’ Fynch exclaimed and coughed. Knave saw blood on the boy’s hand when he took it away from his mouth. ‘Elysius mentioned it to us, remember… after Wyl stormed out of the cottage in the Wild?’

I do. He risks much — the King got angry but it didn’t go any further.

‘We’ve got to see him, Knave,’ Fynch bleated, feeling helpless.

You don’t seem so well. Knave deliberately kept his voice toneless.

‘I’ll be all right,’ Fynch replied, lying. It did not fool Knave.

Stand up then. Let’s be on our way. The dog loped off.

Fynch tried and failed. Tried again. Knave reappeared, looming over him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the boy whispered.

The dog hardly heard the apology, his mind searching for the best course of action. You can’t stay here, Fynch. It’s too open. The warrior scouts could pick you up.

‘I can drag myself to somewhere perhaps?’ the boy offered, feeling ashamed that he had let Knave down.

Use what strength you have and climb onto me.

It was obvious that Fynch understood the depth of his sickness or Knave knew he would have objected. Instead the boy used his reserves of will and somehow got himself draped across the large animal’s back.

I’m sorry, Knave.

Don’t send! Save yourself. Now let me get you somewhere safe and dry.

Knave moved silently and slowly, picking his way, careful not to dislodge the child lying across him. He hardly felt the weight. The boy fell asleep and the dog was relieved. At least with sleep there was no pain. A new thought came to him, so strong that he stopped walking. The Thicket! It could send them both to a safe spot, surely? It had done so before when they were travelling. He called to the magical place; disappointment knifed through him when it replied and he learned that he was no longer connected to it in the same way. He could feel its magic but only through Fynch’s link. The Thicket had turned its focus to the boy. Knave was considered part of Fynch now and no longer had the powers of the Thicket at call. He wished he could tell it that Fynch was dying, but then he grasped that the Thicket probably knew and had made its own decision.

He pressed on towards a ridge and sent a plea to whoever might be listening that there would be some protection here from the elements, and that it would not be the final resting place of Fynch the gong boy.

Kestrel had tried to reach Fynch but could not raise a response. He had followed the pretty woman and her companion as far as the outskirts of the big southern city known as Pearlis. It was obvious they were headed into its centre and that was where he would lose them, he figured, and wanted to let Fynch know. He sighed as he watched the two people blend into the constant flow of people either making for or leaving the main city gates; time for him to leave. Kestrel dipped his wing to the right and made a new course. It was warmer here and he would not have minded a few days of hunting with the sun warming his outstretched wings. Spring was already turning its face to welcome summer in the south, but north was where Kestrel was headed — to cooler climes and an intriguing young lad who compelled Kestrel to obey him and dared to call himself King of the Creatures.

Elspyth had no idea that a bird of prey had just bade her a silent farewell. She was not feeling at all well and, for all her bravado, thanked Shar’s blessing that he had seen fit to send her an angel in the disguise of Crys Donal. To tell the truth, without Crys she wondered how she would even have left Briavel. Sheer will was one thing but having the physical strength to carry out one’s will was a different matter entirely. Her injuries reminded her constantly of her ordeal and the pain sapped her energy. She would never have made it into Morgravia if she had carried out her threat to head off alone. Yentro seemed wishful thinking, and the Razors and Lothryn a plain impossibility now.

Self-pity was corrosive and pointless. She pushed away the melancholy that threatened to overwhelm her and permitted Crys to use his body to shield her against the sudden crush of people. They had travelled in the cart until they neared the city and then left it at the roadside for some fortunate finder. Crys’s horse carried them both from there, but progress was slow because of the stream of people flocking into and out of Pearlis. Still, it was not nearly as crowded as Elspyth’s last journey into the city, when she arrived with her aged aunt for the tournament. That felt like a lifetime ago and yet she would have fingers to spare if she counted back in moons. Was it really such a short period since she had first clapped eyes on Romen Koreldy in Yentro, before she had learned that he was no longer the dashing mercenary but General Wyl Thirsk of Morgravia?

She thought about Wyl as Ylena; felt a pang of sorrow for his suffering and wondered where he was now. Was Ylena already dead and Wyl walking as someone new? Time alone would tell. Time and a password which would reassure them he still lived.

‘A regal for your thoughts?’ Crys murmured from behind.

‘That you’re clutching me too close,’ Elspyth replied.

He squeezed her harder. ‘My only legitimate chance,’ he said.

‘Is it always this busy?’

‘Yes, so I gather. Still, it was a good idea of yours to ditch the cart and expensive clothes.’

‘How does it feel to be an ordinary citizen?’

‘Better. The Donal name is cursed for the time being.’

‘We’d better think of a name for you.’

‘I can be your brother, how’s that?’

‘I approve. I’ve always wanted a brother.’

‘And what would you call a brother if you had one and could choose?’

‘Jonothon.’

‘That’s who I am for the time being then. I’ll hop down and lead you in on the horse. Hopefully we’ll slip by unnoticed.’

‘There’s no register at Pearlis,’ Elspyth offered.

‘Nevertheless, some bright spark might recognise me. Alyd and I are… were incredibly alike in appearance.’

‘Good idea to tie your hair back like that then.’

‘Thank you, sister. Here we go. Don’t look anyone in the eye but don’t avert your gaze too obviously.’

‘Let’s just talk. You’re making me nervous with your instructions.’

‘So how old would cousin Jemma be now?’ Crys replied, without skipping a beat.

They were passing through the main gate now and Elspyth risked a laugh towards Crys. ‘Oh, I think she’d be marriageable age. I hear she’s very pretty.’

‘I don’t like flaxen-haired women. I like dark-haired beauties as you well know,’ Crys continued conversationally. He nodded at a guard, who ignored him, and then he laughed. ‘I am not marrying her even if it does mean you can come and live in the city.’

‘We’re through,’ Elspyth said, touching his shoulder with relief.

‘Well done.’

‘Now where?’

‘Lord and Lady Bench are old friends of our family. I think they’re the best starting point and they will be able to get some medicines for your pain. You look pale.’

‘Are you sure we’ll be welcome?’

Crys grinned his reassurance. ‘Trust me.’

‘Famous last words,’ she groaned but felt safe for his confidence. She could tell that the wound on her shoulder had reopened and was glad her cloak was dark enough not to give away their secret. ‘Let’s hurry.’

It took longer than Crys had anticipated to wend their way into the quieter, more affluent neighbourhood where Lord and Lady Bench kept their family home. In the end, he stabled their horse and hailed a carriage to take them the final half mile or so.

‘This is better, Elspyth. If for any reason their house is being watched…’

‘Why would it be?’ she said, collapsing into the seat.

Crys gave the driver instructions. ‘I don’t know,’ he said patiently. ‘But we should know from his track record that Celimus is too smart to allow one of the most powerful people left in this kingdom to go about his business without some form of observation.’

Elspyth did not want to talk any more. It was all she could do just to hold herself together now. The pain had stepped up to a most determined throb, she could feel heat at the shoulder wound and her head was pounding.

‘Infection,’ Crys muttered when she told him. ‘You need a physic. The Benches will see to it.’

‘Let’s hope they’re home.’

Fortunately the Bench mansion was encircled by a huge privet hedge and the driver was able to take them into the sweeping driveway and unload them unseen, not that he was aware of any clandestine behaviour from the couple he was depositing. Crys paid him some extra coin nevertheless; it might buy silence for a while. Then he all but carried Elspyth to the door, which was swiftly opened by a dour-faced servant.

‘Is the family at home?’ Crys enquired.

‘That depends, sir,’ the man said, looking the shabby couple up and down. ‘Who is calling?’

‘If Lord Bench is in residence please inform him that…’ Crys hesitated; perhaps this fellow could not be trusted. It paid to be cautious. ‘Tell him it is an old family friend from Brightstone.’ Crys remembered that the Bench family had a seaside property in the far north-west, and also recalled a nickname his father had for his long-time friend. He had called him ‘Booty’, for apparently there was no item that Eryd Bench could not appropriate if he set his mind to it.

‘I will need a name, sir,’ the servant said. He had an irritating manner of condescension, closing his eyes as he contrived a fake smile.

Crys took a breath. ‘Just say it’s Booty. Now hurry, man, this woman needs medical attention.’ Elspyth was feeling like dead weight in his arms, although she was conscious and gave him a brave grin as the manservant disappeared.

‘Booty?’ she asked.

‘It will work, I promise. The main thing is that he is home.’

They stood awkwardly in a hush for a minute then suddenly there was a lot of noise. A plump, powdered woman came bustling through some double doors closely followed by a tall, silver-haired gentleman, presumably Eryd Bench.

‘Shar’s wrath,’ the woman exclaimed. ‘Is that woman sick?’

‘She is, my lady, and urgently requires attention.’

Before Crys had finished speaking, the older woman, obviously Lady Bench, had turned to the manservant. ‘Arnyld, why are you still standing there? Fetch help, man, and send a runner for my physician at once! Tell Physic Dredge to waste no time.’ She turned back to Crys. ‘Put her over here, son,’ she said gently, pointing to a long low bench seat.

‘I’m bleeding, Lady Bench,’ Elspyth began, ‘I’ll ruin —’

‘Hush, child,’ Helyn admonished. ‘Do as you are told.’

Crys obeyed. He bowed and took his chance whilst there were no servants visible, turning to Lord Bench. He was met by a grim-faced stare.

‘I wondered who had the audacity to use old Jeryb’s nickname for me to gain entry,’ Eryd Bench said in his melodious voice. ‘Introduce yourself truly now, before I call a Legionnaire.’

‘Lord and Lady Bench, my apologies for arriving in this manner, but circumstances demand it. I am Crys Donal, Duke of Felrawthy.’

The couple standing before him were obviously too shocked to respond. They looked thunderstruck and Lady Bench reached for her husband who helped her to sit down next to Elspyth. Crys felt instantly guilty and looking at their blanched expressions he was relieved to know the physic was on his way.

TWENTY-SEVEN

KNAVE WHINED SOFTLY, HIS great head on his paws, his body encircling the sleeping boy whose breathing sounded dangerously shallow. Something was happening to Fynch but his close companion could not reach him. All he could do was watch, wait and pray to the Dragon King that this was not Fynch’s time.

Fynch was dreaming but it was not like any dream he had ever experienced previously. He felt himself flying, with the wind whipping through his hair and whistling past his ears. He thought he might be dreaming he was a bird. But the view around him looked too real, the wind felt too real, and so was the voice that suddenly spoke.

Not long now.

It was the Dragon King and Fynch realised he was riding him, feeling each powerful beat of his wings as they worked in tandem to drive the creature faster through the air.

My King, Fynch sent, his voice unashamedly filled with awe. Where do we go?

To a private place, my son. Somewhere safe. Where you will be free from your pain and where no one can hear us.

Am I truly with you?

Your body is with Knave, Fynch. Your spirit is here.

How can I do this?

It is my way of honouring you.

Honouring me?

We ask so much of you.

Whatever you ask, sire, I give it gladly.

Brave boy. You are more than worthy.

Of what, my lord?

Of Kingship, Fynch.

Fynch did not understand.

You will, the King said gently into his mind.

What, sire?

Understand. It is why I have brought you here.

Wyl felt a sense of despair as they entered the gates of the fortress. Cailech was immediately surrounded by well-wishers welcoming back their King, and stealing interested glances towards the golden-haired beauty he had left on the horse. It was Myrt who arrived at Ylena’s side to help her dismount.

‘May I show you to your rooms, my lady?’ he asked, taking her hand to help her from the horse, much to Wyl’s discomfort. ‘The King has requested you attend supper with him later.’

Wyl worked hard not to show how he felt about such an invitation. It reminded him of being trapped in Leyen and having to meet Celimus. ‘Thank you, er…?’

‘Myrt.’ Aremys had arrived and now offered the formal introduction. ‘He is a friend, Ylena. You can trust him.’

Wyl nodded towards Myrt who gave one of his rare smiles. Aremys had already explained that Myrt knew about Aremys’s suspicion of Lothryn’s fate, but he could not come clean about Ylena and so the etiquette of Aremys being polite but distant to Wyl’s sister had to be observed.

‘I will see you later perhaps?’ Aremys said to Wyl, and then to Myrt, ‘Shall we meet at the stables?’

The big warrior nodded. ‘Come, my lady,’ he said, and Wyl had no option but to be guided away, deeper into the fortress of the Mountain King.

They had landed but Fynch remained curled on the Dragon King’s vast back. The creature’s darkly vibrant colours seemed to pulse bright one moment and soft the next, illuminating its scales. Fynch felt warm and safe for the first time since leaving the Wild, yet he knew he was not really here. He was back on a freezing ledge near the home of the Mountain King and he was dying, with Knave’s body curled around him.

He twisted to lie on his back, loving the deep connection between himself and the Dragon King. The magnificent beast remained silent whilst his guest acclimatised himself to the breathtaking scene below. They were on the highest peak of the Razors, but not in the north-east where Fynch’s body lay.

Are we in the Wild, my lord?

Yes, Fynch.

The boy sighed. If I died now amongst this beauty, my King, I would die happy.

The King did not reply.

I am dying, aren’t I, sire?

This time the creature did answer. You have pushed yourself too hard. The magic you have called upon is so potent it is poisoning you.

Elysius managed to live with it, Fynch said.

This is true, son. But Elysius did not draw upon the magic of the Thicket, nor was he required to use magic for years on end. He preserved himself by prudent use.

I am sorry I have been so careless with it.

The Dragon King twisted his sinuous neck and his massive head came close. A monstrously large eye, which seemed to Fynch to be all-knowing, regarded the tiny figure that lay on its back. You need make no apology to me, Faith Fynch.

It moved Fynch to hear these solemn words and tears ran down his face. I am not afraid to give my life, my lord — I hope you know this. But I am so afraid of failing you that I am impatient to reach Rashlyn.

The Dragon King gave a murmured growl of agreement. I know, child. You will not fail us.

But I am not sure I can recover in time, my King. I will likely end my life where Knave and I lie.

That is why I have brought you here, Fynch, the King said, his voice so deep the boy could feel it rumbling the length of his own body, and yet it was so gentle in its tone. I shall restore you. But, as always with magic, there is a price.

I will pay it, Fynch said bravely. I wish only for my strength back to do your bidding.

I accept your sacrifice, and in return you deserve an explanation. I have seen something in you, Fynch, which you must know.

I felt it too, my lord, he admitted. I sensed you recognising a part of me I barely know myself.

Can you not guess, child?

Fynch considered the King’s question and closed his eyes. Yes, he could guess, but he wanted to take this moment to be sure it was something he truly wanted to know. Fynch assumed that the price he must pay for the temporary restoration of his health was death. This did not deter or frighten him. He had already accepted as much, and if it had to be sooner rather than later, then he would not fuss. Life could never be the same anyway. He made his decision.

It is connected with my mother, I feel.

Go on.

Fynch felt a breeze break through the protective wings of the huge beast and brush against his cheeks. More tears were falling but he ignored them. He was not crying because he was sad or frightened; he was weeping because this was the most emotional moment of his life. The Dragon King was about to confirm a fact that was integral to Fynch’s being. The boy understood that the knowledge was something he had always known but had held buried within, never even allowing it to surface as a tease to lure him to learn more. It was a secret but, even without clues, he had sensed it. It was something far more devastating than the magic which he had recently learned he possessed and that which he had been given. This secret had far-reaching repercussions and could affect the course of a realm were it revealed. But the secret had been kept until now.

I believe I am not of my named father’s flesh.

A tremble passed through the Dragon King. You are correct, my son. So who fathered you?

Fynch did not want to speak the name. He didn’t know why he was so sure it was the truth; all he knew was that in the moment the Dragon King saw it, he had glimpsed it within himself too. It had surprised the King of the Creatures, but for some strange reason it had not surprised Fynch; it had empowered him. It was one of the reasons he could face death now with no grief other than the loss of his siblings and Wyl.

Fynch looked out again over the majesty of the Razors, its hidden valleys emerging from beneath the snows as spring staked its claim.

I didn’t know it would thaw this high up.

We are in the Wild, my son. Everything is possible.

Fynch nodded. The Dragon King was giving him plenty of opportunity to consider his decision, but now it was time. My mother was fey. At each new moon she would experience a sort of madness, or so I was told. When I was old enough to understand it, I gathered that the madness took the form of lust. He hesitated.

Go on, Fynch.

She would tempt other men. She had no control over it.

And?

I was conceived during one of those moon times.

Yes, you were. Who is your father, Fynch?

My father is… He almost dared not speak the name but knew he must. My father is Magnus, King of Morgravia.

Indeed. You are part of the dragon throne line and thus a part of me.

Was Magnus aware of who I was during our conversations at Stoneheart?

He felt a strong connection to you, Fynch, as you did with him. But no, he never knew you were of his flesh.

At the great creature’s final word Fynch felt a rush of warmth and love seep into his body. He did not know whether it was at the news of who his true father was or whether it was the dragon himself — but he was certain of some sort of new and intense link between it and himself. Whatever the reason, Fynch experienced a new and powerful sense of belonging to both Kings.

TWENTY-EIGHT

ELSPYTH WAS PROPPED IN a chair, determined not to miss out on the conversation with Lord and Lady Bench. Helyn’s physic had called, had commented that the wounds were neatly sutured and it was only the one at the shoulder which had begun an infection. Fortunately it had been caught in time and the physic promised to send over a course of a special brew that would clear up the problem within days. Rest and quiet were also integral to the healing. Helyn had not hesitated in confirming that Elspyth would remain with them until she was fit and well.

‘I cannot impose on you for so long, my lady,’ Elspyth said.

‘Child, you’ll be going nowhere until the fever is gone and the infection has cleared. Be assured of this,’ Helyn had cautioned and Elspyth understood there would be no arguing with this powerful woman.

Now they sat comfortably in a drawing room hung with family portraits and softened with lush furnishings and drapings. Crys and Elspyth had related the worst part of their tale. A small porcelain brazier burned gently in the corner. Elspyth thought it similar to those the Mountain People favoured and said so.

‘As a matter of fact it is from Grenadyn,’ Eryd replied, ‘but I am impressed that you have seen one in the Razor Kingdom and intrigued as to how a young woman — a Morgravian — has lived to tell the tale.’

Elspyth blushed. ‘It is a long story, sir, and after the one we’ve just told you, I can’t imagine you would want more of the same,’ she said, hoping to deflect his attention from how she had come to be so far north.

‘Indeed,’ he said, eyeing her gravely but not pursuing it for now. After the story of the murder of the Donals, the Benches were already in a state of shock. ‘Crys, I regret having to tax you further on this subject but are you quite sure that the Crown was behind the slaughter at Tenterdyn?’

Crys nodded. ‘My mother died in my arms and her last wish was for revenge. Her haunted eyes spoke of the horrors she had witnessed — the killing of my father and brothers and then the burning of their bodies. The massacre at Rittylworth was also definitely the work of Celimus — Ylena Thirsk confirmed it and Elspyth happened along quite soon after the raiders had left. She took the message from Brother Jakub to my father.’

Helyn handed Crys a goblet of wine. ‘None for you, I’m afraid, Elspyth. Sorry, please go on,’ she said, with a soft smile to the young duke.

Crys hoped the tremble in his voice would disappear with the help of the liquor. ‘As I explained, we have been at Queen Valentyna’s court. She offered her protection without question. I hadn’t expected the diversion of tracking down Elspyth,’ he said, ‘or I would have been here much earlier.’

‘What can we do though?’ Lord Bench wondered aloud. ‘I feel so helpless.’

‘Wy—’ Crys stopped himself in time. ‘Ylena suggested that I come to Pearlis and try to stir up some trouble for the King.’

‘Ylena Thirsk did? Where is that girl now?’ Lord Bench demanded. ‘To tell the truth, I thought she must have gone home to Argorn after Wyl’s death. Now we know about her husband’s murder, all the more reason for her to flee Stoneheart.’

‘No, sir. Ylena was thrown into Stoneheart’s dungeons and it was a mercenary called Romen Koreldy who rescued her.’ Crys quickly outlined how Koreldy fitted into the tale, manipulating the truth by telling them how he made a promise to the dying Wyl to find his sister. ‘Then, after escaping Rittylworth, Ylena fled to Felrawthy. She carried proof of my brother’s murder there with her — which is why Celimus sent his assassin to find her. Leyen, of course, never —’ He stopped abruptly as both his hosts flinched with obvious alarm. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Leyen?’ Lady Bench said, her expression aghast. ‘Is that the name you used?’

Crys nodded, glancing towards Elspyth for guidance. They were getting in deeper and everything pointed towards Wyl Thirsk. How would they keep him a secret?

‘Can you describe this woman?’

There was little point in lying and Crys was not one to tell untruths to such fine people as the Benches, who had been close family friends since before he was born. He gave a quick summary of Leyen’s appearance.

‘But that’s her!’ Helyn exclaimed, her expression all confusion. ‘I know this woman. She came to our house, for Shar’s sake. I have been protecting her from Celimus since I first met her and he began asking questions about her. She told me she was a messenger — a go-between for the King and Queen Valentyna!’ she said, exasperated.

‘She is an assassin, you say?’ Eryd said gravely, looking towards his wife to be calm.

‘Well…’ Crys hesitated. He had made a mistake. He should have said Aremys Farrow, but how was he to know that the Bench family would know Faryl or Leyen or whatever her name was!

‘Out with it, young man,’ Eryd urged. Duke or not, Lord Bench saw Crys as a young pup still. It was inconceivable to Lord Bench, even after days of trying to accept it, that Jeryb Donal was dead. The old rogue was stronger than several oxen; he had been destined to outlive them all. Friendship aside, it upset Eryd deeply to think that Morgravia had lost not just such a fine man but also its finest remaining strategist and soldier. Celimus would pay for that loss.

Crys looked helplessly towards Elspyth. She knew he wanted to tell the truth, yet he would not break his promise to Wyl. Crys was trapped by duty whichever way he turned: to his parents, to the realm, to these fine people, to a friend. She had broken her promise to Wyl once before, though, and although there had been traumatic consequences, breaking that promise again was still easier for her than it would be for Crys to betray his oath to Wyl.

‘My lord, my lady,’ she interrupted, and both turned towards her, sensing something pivotal had just occurred. ‘I have a story to tell, which you will not want to believe; no doubt won’t be able to believe once you have heard it. But I am telling you the truth, for I have borne witness to it with my own eyes.’

‘As have I,’ Crys joined in, a mixture of terror and relief flooding his body as he saw that Elspyth had made the decision for him. He hated breaking oath with Wyl but he hated lying to Lord Eryd Bench even more, particularly as the old man reminded him so much of his own father. And the truth was, they needed allies. Someone had to help share the burden of Wyl’s woes. It had sounded fair enough at Tenterdyn to keep this terrible secret, but someone in power had to know of Myrren’s gift. Others must be convinced and rally to Wyl’s cause. All of this churned in Crys Donal’s mind as he justified to himself what he and Elspyth were about to do.

Eryd glanced between them. ‘This sounds dire,’ he said. He had thought he had heard their worst but it seemed far more terrible information was yet to be revealed.

‘Why do I suddenly feel I don’t want to hear what you’re about to tell us?’ Helyn Bench added, surprising herself that in this instance she could resist a tantalising tale.

‘You might regret our sharing of this with you, Lord and Lady Bench. But once told, you must promise us you will aid us and act on it.’

‘My dear,’ Helyn said, truly wishing now she had joined her daughter, Georgyana, for a day of shopping, ‘you make it all sound so sinister. What is this about?’

‘It is the story of Wyl Thirsk, and I shall tell you everything I know, even though he will never forgive me for sharing it.’

Elspyth began.

As Elspyth was explaining the truth behind Wyl Thirsk’s death to a stunned couple in Pearlis, in the Razors Wyl was explaining to the women attending Ylena that he preferred not to wear either of the two dresses that had been brought to his chamber.

Cailech had organised for Ylena to be accommodated in a suite of rooms. Once again, Wyl was arrested by the simple beauty of the Mountain People’s creativity. A fresco of vines and their fruit trailed the circumference of each room’s ceiling and the whitewashed walls were hung with paintings on wood of the stark Razor landscape. A thick rug on the floor and an equally colourful bedspread added yet more brightness to the natural light flooding in through the huge windows favoured by the King throughout the fortress; he liked to bring the mountainscape he loved inside.

Last time Wyl was in this stronghold, in winter, as Koreldy, braziers had warmed each room. Only the endless hallways and cavernous spaces connecting the chambers were left unheated, and those were freezing he recalled. But it was well into spring now and the hardy Mountain People had done away with the heating.

Ylena’s body trembled from the cold as he tried again to politely decline the garments. ‘Thank you, but I prefer not to,’ he said.

‘Both gowns are woven from the coat of polders, my lady,’ the woman assured. Her tone suggested this was equivalent to being spun from gold.

Wyl was none the wiser for the explanation but was courteous enough to touch the dress and smile. ‘It is very beautiful,’ he agreed.

‘Please, my lady, we will get into trouble if you do not wear one of these dresses.’

‘Oh, surely not.’

They nodded. ‘Our King told us to dress your hair as well. He has had fresh thawdrops brought up from the valley.’

Wyl looked towards where the women glanced. He had not noticed the vase holding the tiny white flowers Cailech had spoken of and promised to pick for Ylena. He felt more trapped than ever. It struck him that this situation had a horrid sense of inevitability. He wished he could reach Aremys. Perhaps he should just make a run for it and hope someone would bring him down and, if he was lucky, kill him. It would likely be a man and then at least he could inhabit the body of a male again, but if he was felled by an arrow or a knife thrown at him, then he may not live to see Valentyna again or avenge Ylena or any of the other people he loved who had been murdered.

Valentyna. His heart ached as he remembered the disturbed and disgusted expression she wore the last time they were together. If only he could be a man again he would somehow make it up to her… even if only to apologise on Ylena’s behalf for her stupidity.

The women were staring at him and the silence had stretched embarrassingly long.

For you then, Valentyna, so I can see you just once more, he decided and nodded to the waiting women. ‘Which one suits me best do you think?’

The two women beamed. One reached out and touched Ylena’s hair. ‘You are so beautiful, you would do either of them justice.’ Then she took Ylena’s hand. ‘We have longed for the day when our King would take a woman for his own,’ she said shyly.

Wyl was touched in spite of the horror he felt. ‘Do you not mind that I am Morgravian?’

She shrugged and looked towards her companion who made a similar gesture. ‘That you have captured his heart is enough. You will be his Queen… our Queen. That lifts our spirits. And, my lady, rumours abound that our two kingdoms have signed a peace treaty. This makes your marriage to our King even more special. How could we not accept the woman our King loves?’

‘Loves?’ Wyl repeated, aghast. ‘He doesn’t even know me.’

‘The King is a great judge of character,’ one said, stubbornly. ‘He has chosen you, my lady. We do not question his choice, and in truth there is no one suitable within our own kingdom. Whoever he chose to marry, it would have caused jealousy between the factions. You have no allegiance to any Mountain family. This way he offends no one and at the same time bonds our realms closer.’

‘He’s told you we are to be married?’ Wyl asked, further alarmed.

They nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ the other woman said. ‘The news is spreading like fire around the fortress.’

‘And has he said when?’ Wyl held his breath.

They hesitated, sensing her trepidation. ‘The day after tomorrow, my lady,’ the older one said finally. ‘A gown is being stitched from pure white polder — our most rare colour. Animals are being slaughtered today for the feast and people are already gathering to catch a glimpse of you.’

They saw the noblewoman’s hands fly to her face and press against each cheek in horror. Her look of desperation frightened them.

‘He will be gentle with you, my lady,’ the older one assured, imagining the angelic beauty was fearing for her wedding night.

‘Oh, stop, please,’ Wyl said, determined now to find a way to flee or bring about his own death. Then he remembered the warning from Elysius and realised that this was why, despite all of his taunts, neither Celimus nor Cailech had killed Ylena. It was not possible for him to invite his own death, and clearly Myrren’s gift had been resisting it or protecting him. But randomness was still possible, as young Fynch had assured. That was what he needed now to save him. A random act — be it madness, violence or anger. Whatever occurred, he had to be rid of Ylena’s guise within the next few hours.

‘You’re sure of this?’ Myrt hissed in a whisper.

Aremys nodded, trying to look nonchalant as he lifted the latch on the side door leading into Galapek’s stable. He forced himself not to glance over his shoulder which would immediately look suspicious. ‘Where’s Maegryn?’

‘He’s always around somewhere. You’d better have a story at the ready if we’re caught.’

‘Perhaps you should wait outside,’ Aremys suggested. ‘I can’t risk you getting into trouble with Cailech. Once committed there’s no going back,’ he warned.

Myrt shook his head. ‘I have to see the horse and its reaction for myself.’

The set of his friend’s mouth assured Aremys there would be no further discussion. He nodded and stepped into the darkness. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the minimal light that filtered through the stable’s timber boards. A snort told him Galapek was in the shadows to his right. He immediately began a stream of soft words to the creature.

Myrt closed the door and remained silent behind Aremys. He realised he was holding his breath, in dread of confirmation that his friend was truly trapped inside this beautiful beast. He watched Aremys raise his hand and place it on the animal’s majestic face and, as man and beast touched, he felt a surge of emotion. Was this really Lothryn?

‘Lothryn,’ Aremys murmured, ‘if you’re there, give us a sign. I’ve brought Myrt.’ He nodded at Myrt to step forward. ‘Say something,’ he whispered.

Myrt moved from behind the Grenadyne and cleared his throat. ‘If that’s you, my friend, prove it.’

‘I can feel the magic shivering through his body,’ Aremys said. ‘He’s fighting it, that’s why his flesh is trembling.’ He turned back to Galapek. ‘Come on, Lothryn, do it for Elspyth. She’s alive. She’s coming for you. And Wyl’s here too!’ he added, hoping it might help. The horse reared up onto its hind legs and squealed. Aremys fell to the floor, pain filling his head as a voice, equally pain-filled, growled into his mind, Turn me loose!

‘It’s him!’ Myrt whispered as he tried to calm the horse, which was kicking and pounding at the wall. ‘Quick! He could hurt you.’

‘He won’t hurt me,’ the Grenadyne said, disgusted with himself for falling. His head throbbed but his satisfaction was intense, as was his awe for this sickening magic. ‘It is him, Myrt. He spoke to me. He wants to be turned loose.’

The warrior turned an anxious gaze towards him. ‘What do we do?’

Aremys frowned, as much with frustration as helplessness. ‘Well, we can’t just let him go. We have to think this through. There’s Gueryn to consider too.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t lose any sleep over a Morgravian soldier,’ Myrt said. ‘I care only about Lothryn.’

‘Understood. Listen —’ He got no further. A shaft of sunlight made them both swing around towards the side door where Maegryn had just entered.

‘Myrt? What are you doing here? And that’s the Grenadyne with you, isn’t it?’ the stablemaster said.

Myrt was not so adept at lying as Aremys and his hesitation, as well as the guilty glance towards his companion, was telling. ‘I… that is, we…’

‘We got back today,’ Aremys continued for his faltering friend. ‘I was hoping we could go for a ride.’

Maegryn looked quizzically at them. ‘But you’ve been riding for days.’

‘This is true,’ Aremys said, mentally kicking himself and giving an embarrassed grin. ‘A lot has happened these past few days, Maegryn. I felt like being as alone as I am permitted to be. Can’t think of a better place than in Galapek’s saddle.’

‘Surely you weren’t thinking of taking the King’s horse without his or my permission?’

‘Of course not,’ Myrt said, regaining his composure. ‘We were just passing and thought we’d look in on the animal. Aremys is fond of him — brought him a red apple because he knows he hates green ones.’

The stablemaster was not to be put off so easily. ‘I heard Galapek. What was all the noise about?’

Both men shrugged and Aremys knew they looked more guilty for that single concerted gesture than any of their stammered responses or awkward pauses. The stablemaster had already made it clear to Aremys in a previous discussion that he would not be drawn on information relating to the King’s horse, and the Grenadyne mercenary could tell from the guarded look in the stablemaster’s eyes that Maegryn was suspicious of their intentions.

‘Where are you going?’ Aremys said when the man turned away. He knew very well where Maegryn was headed but he was desperately stalling for time.

‘The King… if he’ll see me. I’m sorry but I have my orders.’

‘Who from?’ Myrt demanded, thinking much the same as Aremys now: they were in serious trouble and needed time to think through their next move.

‘Rashlyn.’

‘Since when do you take orders from him?’ Myrt spat.

‘Since le Gant went missing,’ the stablemaster replied. ‘The barshi insisted that anyone acting suspiciously around the King’s horse would meet the same fate.’

Aremys felt a chill move through him. ‘What do you mean “fate”?’

Maegryn shrugged, not picking up the fact that Aremys should not know of the Morgravian prisoner. ‘According to the barshi, le Gant has been dealt with.’

‘Dealt with!’ Myrt repeated. ‘I thought only the King made decisions about our prisoners?’

‘Listen, Myrt,’ Maegryn began, his anger stoking fast now, ‘I hate Rashlyn. You of all people should know that. But I won’t interfere in the King’s business — you should know that too. Lothryn, Haldor rest his soul, learned the hard way about crossing the King. I don’t intend to be given into the keeping of Rashlyn because I’ve invoked the ire of King Cailech. I can’t help you.’

‘Is that what’s happened?’ Aremys pressed. ‘Rashlyn took le Gant?’

Maegryn looked down. ‘I don’t know what’s happened. I suspect Rashlyn took him from the dungeon, yes.’

‘What are we coming to, Maegryn, when we are too scared to speak out,’ Myrt commented. He did not mean it as an accusation; it was more a sad-sounding reflection on his own shortcomings.

‘Lothryn stood up to the King and Lothryn paid the price!’ Maegryn yelled. ‘I don’t have his courage.’

‘True. And where is Lothryn do you think?’ Myrt asked, advancing on the stablemaster.

‘Be careful, Myrt,’ Aremys murmured, his senses highly tuned over the years to when a man was feeling a blood rage.

‘I… I don’t know. Dead, I suppose,’ Maegryn answered, stepping back. ‘Don’t threaten me, Myrt.’

‘An honourable death, do you think?’

Maegryn nodded slowly, unsure of where this interrogation was headed.

‘He’s not dead. He’s alive!’ Myrt boomed, close to Maegryn’s face. ‘Rashlyn told us as much. It’s just taken me a while to work it out.’

Maegryn’s expression was shocked now. ‘Alive? Where?’

‘Here, Maegryn. Right beneath your nose,’ Myrt said, a cruel tone to his voice that Aremys had never heard before. Myrt was too upset. This was dangerous.

The stablemaster frowned, stepped back again, closer to the door. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about magic, Maegryn. I’m talking about Rashlyn and his sinister ways.’

‘I don’t understand,’ the man muttered, licking his lips nervously. He looked deeply scared now, as if he too sensed that the situation had turned nasty.

‘You’d be right to feel petrified,’ Myrt went on, noting the man’s fear. ‘Lothryn is in your care.’

Maegryn’s eyes widened, the nonsense of Myrt’s words giving him courage. ‘You’re talking in riddles, man. What’s he saying, Grenadyne?’

Aremys was not convinced this was the right path. Sharing what they knew with Maegryn, who was as loyal to Cailech as any of his warriors and did not share Myrt’s single-minded dedication to Lothryn, was fraught with danger. ‘Maegryn,’ he started, his mind racing as to how best explain such a terrifying concept and calm what had become a somewhat explosive situation. ‘It’s going to be hard for you to believe us —’

‘Galapek is Lothryn, you fool!’ Myrt interrupted, spitting his fury and advancing on the cringing stablemaster. ‘Rashlyn, with the King’s permission, used his dark magic to change him into Galapek. That’s why you don’t know where the horse came from, and why the King is so careful about who rides him or asks questions about him. And that’s also why you’ve been sworn to secrecy. You’ve always known there was something odd about the whole situation surrounding the horse. Admit it, damn you!’

‘Lothryn?’ Maegryn repeated, shaking his head in confusion. He looked at the huge horse and saw the anger in its eyes then returned his anxious gaze to Myrt. ‘No,’ was all he said, his head moving slowly from side to side in denial.

‘You know it’s true, Maegryn. You’ve had doubts of your own from the start. Right from the beginning when Cailech said he would break this horse’s spirit and earn its loyalty with trust. What do you think that whole charade was about, eh? I don’t blame you, because I was taken in by it too. If not for Aremys, none of us would be any the wiser. The King was humiliating Loth, destroying his closest friend, his truest follower, and then rebuilding him in the form of a beast. A mute beast which would have to carry the King on his back for the rest of his life and thus pay homage like any slave or lowlife. An honourable death was too good for our best warrior, Maegryn. The King wanted to make him pay; he wanted revenge and humiliation for Loth’s betrayal.’

Maegryn retaliated, reacting to the pain of realisation that he was hearing the truth even though he could not bring himself to believe it. ‘Lothryn chose the Morgravian woman over his own King, his own people!’ he cried, desperate to make Myrt understand that he would never be a part of something as dark as he was describing.

‘And he deserved to become this, did he?’ Myrt boomed. ‘An animal! He still lives, Maegryn. That’s the worst of it. He knows. He’s trapped inside that body, in agonising pain.’

The stablemaster shook his head again, as though he himself was in pain. ‘No. This isn’t true. Can you prove it?’ he demanded, looking between the two men. ‘Show me how this is Lothryn. How can you know?’

Aremys answered in a tone of such resignation, Myrt knew they had lost the opportunity of convincing Maegryn. ‘I can feel the taint of the filthy magic.’

‘That’s it, Grenadyne — your word? And what… you are gifted with sentient power?’ He looked at his fellow Mountain man. ‘Have you gone mad, Myrt? You would trust this foreigner over your own King?’

‘It’s the truth, Maegryn.’

The stablemaster gave a harsh laugh, feeling a small measure of control return. ‘The truth?’ he scorned. ‘Says who? Another prisoner? For that’s what he is. I have no gripe with you, Farrow, but don’t ask me to take your word over that of my King.’

Aremys said nothing. What was there to say?

‘You don’t know anything of substance, Myrt,’ Maegryn continued. ‘You’re just believing the Grenadyne. Have you heard Lothryn speak? Has the horse communicated anything to you?’

Myrt shook his head, anger trembling through his body. ‘He spoke only to Aremys.’

‘To Aremys!’ Maegryn repeated, still more scorn in his tone. ‘No proof, nothing but this man’s say-so, and you’re prepared to believe that Lothryn has been turned into a horse. Does that not sound ridiculous to you?’

Myrt nodded. ‘It does, but not when you say that same sentence with Rashlyn attached to it. The barshi is evil and you know it. His influence on the King is curious, to say the least. Lothryn felt it and said as much to me. I don’t think our King ordered this. I think Rashlyn did. I believe, as Lothryn did, that the barshi is able to sway the King against his own wishes.’

‘Rashlyn uses magic against the King?’ Maegryn clarified, aghast.

‘Yes. That’s what I now believe. I think he can persuade Cailech to agree to things he would not choose himself.’

Maegryn put his hands up in a warding gesture. ‘That’s enough, Myrt. I don’t want to hear any more. You speak treachery against our sovereign and it is my sworn duty as one of his men to make this betrayal public. I’m sorry, Myrt.’

The stablemaster had just opened the door slightly when he felt the breath cut off from his lungs as huge, powerful hands closed around his throat. He let go of the door’s iron ring, gasping. Fear pounded through his ears and the blood pumped desperately through squeezed veins and arteries. As if from faraway he heard the Grenadyne yell to Myrt to stop. He found enough strength to twist around to see through his bulging eyes the rage in the bigger man’s face but he could not loosen the warrior’s grip to beg for his life. ‘I’m sorry too,’ were the last words he heard before Myrt intensified the pressure and crushed his victim’s neck. Maegryn slumped in his killer’s arms, dead.

Aremys was shocked that this terrible event had unfolded so fast and angry with himself for not preventing it. But the deed was done. Instead of accusations he offered help. ‘Where can we hide the body?’ he said matter-of-factly. Myrt was in a state of shock, his rage gone the moment Maegryn had died beneath his fingers. He did not reply, crouching instead by the corpse. ‘Come on, man! It’s done with. You can’t bring him back. We have to hide him.’

‘I’m a dead man. We Mountain folk are strict about killing our own kind.’

‘We’re probably both dead men anyway. It will all unfold quickly now, Myrt. There’s a lot happening outside of this that you don’t know about.’

‘Like what?’ The big man scowled at him.

‘Trust me, neither of us needs to involve ourselves,’ Aremys said carefully, wishing he had not spoken. ‘Come on, help me. We have to hide him and buy some hours.’

‘For what?’ Myrt said, all sense of hope vanished.

‘Everything is going to unravel, my friend. The King is getting married to a woman who does not want him and whom he does not know well enough,’ he said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Strange stuff is going to happen — believe me. Time is our enemy now. I know you don’t want to, but you have to choose between Lothryn or your King and you have to do it now! This is what I wanted to avoid, why I asked you to remain outside.’

Myrt nodded sorrowfully. ‘I have already made my choice, Grenadyne. I chose Lothryn.’

Aremys continued, more gently this time, ‘All right then. We now know we are in the presence of your friend and we must find a way to release him.’

‘Can we?’ Myrt asked, his spirits lifting.

‘By death if necessary,’ Aremys answered gravely. ‘We need to find out more from Rashlyn.’

‘He has Cailech’s protection,’ Myrt warned.

‘Not whilst the King is enamoured by Ylena Thirsk he doesn’t. We must get to Rashlyn now whilst the King is preoccupied… and perhaps he will lead us to Gueryn.’

‘I told you, I don’t care about him.’

‘But I do. And so will Ylena Thirsk when she finds out her guardian is a prisoner here.’

Myrt looked at him, startled. ‘Her guardian? Does the King know?’

Aremys shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so but I’m going to tell him. I’ll seek an audience with the King. You establish where the barshi is and keep him from Cailech at all costs.’

‘And Galapek?’

‘Will have to be patient a little longer,’ Aremys said softly, turning to stare at the stallion in the shadows. ‘Myrt, this choice you’ve made — you do understand you’ll have to leave the Razors?’

‘Escape, you mean?’

Aremys nodded. ‘I won’t let you go alone.’

The warrior sighed. ‘This is how Lothryn must have felt when he helped the Morgravians to escape. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. I will betray those I love whichever choice I make. I’m sorry, Aremys. I can’t promise I’ll leave.’

Best not to force the issue, Aremys realised. The circumstances would no doubt make all the decisions for them. ‘Come on, we’ve got to hide this body,’ he said.

Myrt nodded. ‘I know where.’

TWENTY-NINE

LADY HELYN BENCH WAS begging her husband to reconsider his decision. How the tables turn, she thought, remembering how, such a short time ago, he had been in her dressing room pleading with her to see reason over Leyen.

She reluctantly held his jacket as the man she loved slipped his arms into the sleeves. ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ she began again.

He turned in her arms and hugged her. ‘My mind is made up, my dear. I don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff. I think we must air the grievances tactfully.’

‘Eryd,’ she said, fear combining with exasperation, ‘how tactful can you be when you’re about to accuse someone of murder?’

‘Indeed,’ he said, and pointed to a silk scarf. ‘Would you help me with that, please?’

She flounced to the chair and picked up the length of silk draped across it. ‘And not just anyone,’ she continued. ‘The King!’

‘Helyn, I am not a dimwit. Perhaps you have noticed this over the years?’

‘Taking witnesses won’t stop him!’ she cried. ‘He’ll just have you all killed.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Kill me and then Lord Hartley? Then I suppose he’d have to kill Lord Jownes and Lord Peaforth because they would follow in our footsteps. And then who else is left to advise, to cajole, to administer this city? He needs us.’

‘Then don’t go. Don’t do this.’

‘I shall know from the way he reacts whether he is lying or not.’

‘Eryd!’ she replied, just short of a screech, hating the way her husband closed his eyes in despair. ‘Do you believe that the Donals are not dead? Not hacked to bits, raped, burned? Or that the massacre at Rittylworth was a misunderstanding and the monks are in fact alive and well?’

‘No, Helyn,’ he said and the tone in his voice chilled her. She wished she had not resorted to sarcasm. He was deeply angered now; she knew it. She had overstepped the mark. The first time since twelve years ago, when she had interfered in a deal, speaking out when she should have kept her own counsel. The deal had fallen through and Eryd had blamed her. He was right to: her words had been ill-chosen and yet, for the life of her, she could not remember now what she had said to so offend. His deep voice dragged her back to her latest mistake. ‘Please do not speak ill of the dead. I am painfully aware of the deaths of my friends, the Donal family, and the innocent men of Rittylworth.’

‘I’m sorry, Eryd, I —’

He cut her off, too angry to hear more. ‘Enough, wife. The three remaining powerful lords of Morgravia cannot disappear! Now hush your ramblings and get this scarf tied, or I shall be late.’

‘What did you tell the others?’ she asked, understanding there was nothing more she could do to stop her husband walking into the dragon’s den.

‘All that we know.’

‘Not about Wyl Thirsk, surely?’

‘No. That revelation I am keeping to myself until I can see this phenomenon with my own eyes.’

‘Do you believe our guests though?’

He nodded, slowly, reluctantly. ‘How could I not? Their tale is so shocking and mysterious, no one could make that up. Jeryb Donal’s son would not lie to us, Helyn. You can see it in his face that he is as petrified of this… this Myrren’s gift, as they call it, as he is intrigued by it. We have known Crys Donal since he was a babe in arms. He is as open a man as any, I am sure. No, there is no lie there but I can’t accept it fully yet.’

‘That Wyl Thirsk is his sister, you mean?’

‘That he was the Koreldy assassin, that he was Leyen, whom you delighted in so much, that, yes, he has become his sister.’

‘But it does make sense, doesn’t it, my love?’ she said. ‘If he did not become this Koreldy fellow, it is odd that a Grenadyne mercenary would bother to rescue his enemy’s sister from the dungeon of his benefactor.’ Eryd nodded. ‘Then take her to safety before going to look for that Widow Ilyk person to learn more about himself.’

‘Is that the seer’s name?’

‘Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit she has done readings for me in the past.’

‘It’s all nonsense, Helyn, you know that,’ Eryd grumbled.

‘I thought so until now,’ she replied, before hurrying on. ‘Then the Grenadyne is trapped, taken into the Razors and, instead of bargaining his way out — as presumably he could with that Mountain King — he risks everything to get Gueryn le Gant and Elspyth away. Does that sound like a hardened mercenary, or like Wyl Thirsk trapped inside the body of one?’

‘I agree, Helyn. It’s not that I need convincing. I just —’

‘So then he makes his way to Briavel to offer his protection to Queen Valentyna. Why? Well, of course, he’d saved her life once before from a potential assassination attempt and had fought to save her father’s too, losing his own life in the effort. But then King Celimus comes along and it all goes wrong. Wyl gets killed by the King’s own assassin, Leyen —’

‘They called her Faryl too.’

‘Whatever her name was. That girl, as much as I liked her — and I guess now it was simply Wyl I was liking all over again — was not used to womanly things.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the baths. Remember I told you?’

‘You must have.’

‘And you weren’t listening as usual,’ she admonished. ‘She was so hesitant about going into the pavilion — that’s where we first met. She was terribly embarrassed about showing her body, and let me tell you, Eryd, no woman who looks like that is ever coy about her body. She had no idea about the soap leaves and when I mentioned the razing of Rittylworth, her whole demeanour changed. That’s because it was Wyl, fearing for his sister.’

Eryd nodded. ‘I understand, Helyn. I want to believe it, but I believe what I see with my own eyes, not hearsay.’

‘I know. As you say though, it’s too chilling not to be real. I believe it, I need no further convincing.’

‘About what, Mother?’ came a light voice. It was the Benchs’ daughter, Georgyana.

‘Were you listening?’ her father asked, anxious that his young, fanciful daughter might have heard more than he wished.

‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I had,’ she answered and pulled a face at him, but not before taking his hand and squeezing it. That father and daughter worshipped each other was obvious. Helyn sometimes wondered how they ever found room for her in their lives. ‘Did you meet our guests, darling?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Georgyana said, shaking her golden tresses which she wore long and loose.

‘We have visitors downstairs,’ her father said. ‘I suppose you came in through the back like a servant?’

‘I’m hungry,’ his daughter pouted. ‘I wanted to see what was cooking.’

‘Well, come and meet them,’ Helyn said, glad of Georgyana’s noise and distraction.

‘Do I have to?’

‘You’ll like them,’ she assured.

‘Who are they?’

‘The Duke of Felrawthy and a lovely girl called Elspyth who is from the north.’

‘Oh, another stuffy old man like father?’ Georgyana said, winking towards Eryd.

‘Far from it, my love,’ Helyn replied. ‘Crys Donal is one of the best-looking men in Morgravia, and soon to be the most eligible when word gets around of his new status.’

‘Ooh! What are we waiting for, Mother?’ her daughter squealed. ‘Off you go, Father. Bring me back something small and sparkly.’

Eryd rolled his eyes with exasperation. ‘I am hoping for an audience with the King, Georgyana.’

‘Well, steal something from the palace for me then,’ she said and giggled as she left the chamber.

Helyn gave her husband a searching glance. ‘My love, please —’

‘Don’t say it,’ he warned gently. ‘You know I will be.’

She said nothing and left, fearful of letting herself down with tears.

Knave was amazed at Fynch’s recovery. His surprise drew a grin from the boy. ‘Truly, I am well,’ he said, stretching. ‘I’m even hungry.’

No headache?

‘All gone… for now.’

How can this be?

Fynch owed it to Knave to tell him more. ‘The King came.’

The Dragon King? Again! He was here?

The boy nodded. ‘But not in the way you think. He came to me in my dreams. I flew with him, Knave. He carried me to the Wild.’

You were here all the time, Knave said quietly. I noticed you were restless in your sleep though. I feared it was pain… death, he admitted.

Again the boy smiled, gently and without smugness, but there was something in it that Knave noticed. Some knowledge perhaps.

I don’t mean to pry, Fynch, but you appear miraculously well.

‘I am,’ Fynch said, and laughed. He stood. ‘And I don’t need sharvan either. He healed me.’

The King did?

‘Yes. He said he would restore me so I can fulfil my task.’

Suddenly Knave could not look at him; he understood the way of things. But nothing comes without a price, am I right? he asked, sadness in his voice.

‘Don’t dwell on it,’ Fynch replied softly. ‘I am at peace, my friend. The King shared something with me which has made me happy. Happier than I have ever felt before.’

And this sharing was a secret?

He nodded.

I understand, Fynch. I’m glad you feel so well. I hated to watch you suffer.

‘I know. You are a better friend than any I could wish for,’ he said, and he hugged the large dog. ‘Now,’ he continued brightly. ‘I must eat something and then we must go. I am strong now, Knave, and ready to face our enemy.’

Knave said nothing. He had not anticipated when he first clapped eyes on the small gong boy in Stoneheart that he would lose his heart to him in friendship. He had been given a task by the Thicket but had never guessed he might come to resent the burden placed upon his shoulders.

It was as though Fynch read his thoughts. ‘If we don’t destroy him, Knave, he will destroy the world we love and the Thicket. The magical creatures will die and the Dragon King will be exposed. We have no choice.’

Knave did not respond but Fynch sensed the resolve in the dog and knew he had said the right words at the right time to remind his companion of their role in life.

Eat, Knave finally said. We have a journey to finish.

The Duke of Felrawthy was getting on famously with the unashamedly flirtatious Georgyana Bench. From the moment they touched hands and the young woman curtsied to the duke, Elspyth realised Crys might never stare at her in that sad-eyed, wistful way again.

She was surprised how it hurt, tried to shake it off as simply feeling clingy about the person who rescued her from death, but she knew deep down it was all about her longing for love. She did not want Crys Donal — of this she was sure, for she loved only one person — but she would be lying if she did not admit to enjoying the duke’s attention.

It was embarrassing when Lady Bench dropped in on her private thoughts. ‘Forgive my daughter, my dear. I had made an assumption that you and the duke were… well, attached.’

Elspyth reddened and smiled awkwardly. ‘Not at all, Lady Bench.’

‘Oh, do call me Helyn,’ she interrupted, touching Elspyth’s arm as they sat together, withdrawn from the pair who were chatting animatedly.

‘Thank you, Helyn,’ Elspyth said. ‘Crys and I are great friends. I think terror and fear bring people painfully close, and we have shared much, not the least of which was learning of his family’s deaths. But our relationship is platonic, I assure you.’

‘You have been very strong for him, Elspyth. Don’t underestimate how he might feel.’

Again Elspyth smiled, sadly this time. ‘He’s made that perfectly clear actually,’ she said. ‘But I love another, Helyn, and I really must make tracks soon to return to him. I’m glad, truly, that Crys and Georgyana are getting on so well. He needs a reason to smile and a woman who might enjoy him.’

Lady Bench lifted her eyebrows. ‘I know I shouldn’t speculate so soon, but it’s true that they would make a marvellous match, and Eryd would be delighted to join our family with the Donals.’

‘Where is Lord Bench?’ Elspyth frowned, not really wanting to discuss a potential love match between Crys and Georgyana.

Helyn Bench grew serious and looked away from her laughing daughter and into the soft eyes of Elspyth. ‘He’s gone to the King.’

‘What?’ Elspyth started to rise.

‘No, wait,’ Lady Bench calmed. ‘You need to understand.’

‘Lady Bench, he is sworn to secrecy about Wyl Thirsk!’

‘And that secret will be kept, my dear. Have no fear, we are not about to start broadcasting news of magic in this city.’ She shook herself, as if casting off a dire thought. ‘We only stopped burning suspected witches less than a decade ago, as you would know.’

‘So what will Lord Bench say to Celimus?’

Helyn Bench’s face darkened. ‘I believe he intends to confront the King — in his wonderfully articulate and polite way — about the Donal family and no doubt Rittylworth.’ She put a hand in the air to stop Elspyth’s oncoming tirade, then noted the fear in Elspyth’s face. It reflected her own anguish, although she hoped she was disguising it well enough.

Elspyth glanced towards Crys who was clearly entranced by the vivaciously pretty girl who had engaged him in lively conversation. She returned her gaze to Lady Bench. ‘I think his action is unwise, Helyn.’

Her carefully chosen words sent a chill through her companion; they echoed her own anxiety that Celimus would not permit Eryd Bench to leave his court alive. She began to weep, no longer able to hide her worries.

‘Oh, Helyn, please don’t. Can we reach him?’

The older woman shook her head. ‘And he is adamant anyway. He would not listen to me earlier when I begged him not to do this.’

‘What is his reasoning?’

‘He believes in sovereignty, Elspyth. He desperately wants our King to act like the true Crown of Morgravia, to behave with care and compassion and to listen to wise counsel from his own lords.’

‘Eryd has listened to our horrific story and still believes he can change this cruel King into a compassionate ruler?’ she asked, shocked.

‘He believes we must follow the rules of our kingdom. Talk before action. No accusations before all information is sought and gathered. He does not intend to ruffle feathers, Elspyth. Eryd will be careful.’

‘Listen to me,’ Elspyth said, enunciating carefully as if talking to a dimwit. She did not mean to act so; she was frightened. Petrified, in fact. She knew Crys had noticed her fraught body language when he excused himself from Georgyana and crossed the room. ‘Helyn, Eryd is in grave peril. His life is at stake. So is yours and that of your daughter. The moment he raises this topic with the King, he will flag how much we know and the King will instantly see him for the danger he has become … unintentionally.’

Helyn was weeping again. ‘I feared as much.’

‘Elspyth?’ It was Crys. She told him briefly what had transpired and watched him pale. ‘He killed my father on a simple suspicion and then had the rest of my family executed just for good measure,’ Crys said. ‘Lady Helyn, forgive me, but what Lord Bench has done is virtually signing his own death warrant. We have to get you out of here. Immediately. Elspyth, do what you can — I’ll ready transport. Pack only essentials, and warm clothes. We’re going north.’

Helyn Bench, trembling, reached towards her daughter. She seemed as if in a trance.

Georgyana, however, began to protest. ‘This is preposterous. I have engagements and —’

‘Be quiet, Georgyana, and do as you’re told!’ Elspyth admonished. ‘We’re trying to save your life.’ Elspyth seemed to be the only woman thinking clearly. Suddenly the pain of her recent injuries was no longer important. Fear took it away. Fear of death and failure again and the need to flee.

Crys tried a different tack. ‘Georgyana,’ he said, amazed at how his stomach flipped when she turned those huge eyes on him, ‘I could not live with myself if anything should happen to you.’ His expression pleaded with her to follow them without further protest.

Clearly she saw something else in that expression, something Crys thought he had disguised. ‘Oh? Could you not, Lord Donal?’ she replied, and her smile said it all.

Eryd Bench and his colleague sat in a small waiting chamber at the foot of Stoneheart’s war tower. He had no idea why they had been escorted here, but Chancellor Jessom emerged just as he began to privately question the reason for this curious venue.

‘Lord Bench, Lord Hartley, it’s good to see you on this mild eve. Are you both well?’ The visitors made all the right noises and Jessom continued. ‘My apologies to have kept you waiting. The King, as you see, is working from his war room tonight — I hope you don’t mind meeting with him here?’

Eryd was slightly less anxious for Jessom’s warm greeting. ‘Not at all. I am grateful he could see us at such short notice.’ He looked towards Hartley who simply nodded in agreement. Lord Hartley had offered to come along as support when Eryd had confided his reservations about the truth of the slaughters at Felrawthy and Rittylworth.

Jessom smiled benignly. It was not an expression that came easily to him, particularly in the light of the situation. Two lords asking for an audience at sudden notice, and Lord Bench at that — it all smacked of trouble. ‘Thank you, Lord Bench. As you know, his majesty has only just returned from the north. I’m sure he will be pleased to tell you more when you see him.’

‘I look forward to it, Jessom,’ Eryd replied. ‘I heard he was at Tenterdyn?’

‘That’s right,’ Jessom said carefully.

‘And rumour has it there was a meeting of Kings at Tenterdyn.’

The Chancellor attempted another smile. ‘No smoke without fire, Lord Bench. Perhaps you might enquire of the King for more information. I am a simple chancellor.’

‘Nothing simple about you, Jessom,’ Eryd said, deliberately softening his voice to avoid giving offence.

Jessom bowed to the two lords. ‘Not long now, gentlemen.’

He returned several minutes later. ‘Lord Bench, King Celimus will see you now, alone.’

Eryd looked towards Hartley who stared stonily back. ‘Go ahead, Eryd. You speak for all of us,’ he said cryptically.

‘This is unusual. We are both here for an audience with his majesty,’ Eryd tried, but the thin Chancellor shrugged.

‘My apologies, Lord Bench, this is what the King requests.’

Eryd nodded. Too late now. He would just have to be especially careful with the slippery sovereign, with no one else present.

‘Will you wait?’ he asked Hartley, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Chancellor,’ he said, gesturing for Jessom to lead the way. At least with Lord Hartley in attendance, he had someone to vouch for him even if not to bear actual witness to his meeting with the King.

He followed Jessom, filled with intensifying trepidation as his wife’s cautions rang in his ears. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. Perhaps Hartley was not the right choice. He was an unmarried man; his only son dead of the fever some years back.

Which had been precisely the King’s thinking when he heard of the arrival of the two lords. ‘Separate them and take Hartley down to the dungeon,’ he had ordered.

‘But, sire,’ Jessom had said, startled, ‘could we not wait and see what it is they wish to discuss with you?’

‘We know what they’re here about, Chancellor!’ the King had said, voice rising. ‘They’re here because they don’t believe that the noble family of Felrawthy was slaughtered by Razor warriors. They suspect this because word has got around that I was meeting with the Barbarian King. It’s not hard to follow their thought patterns, Jessom.’

‘No, sire. But the dungeon is a fairly radical step for someone of Lord Hartley’s status.’

‘So is death, Chancellor. Be careful I don’t ask you to kill him for me.’

At which point Jessom had kept his thoughts to himself. Experience told him it was the same old argument which he would never win. Expecting the King of Morgravia to show restraint, respect or even the most simple of courtesies was a waste of energy. He was a power unto himself, not caring for any advice. In fact, Jessom, if he was truthful with himself, was well past the point of believing there was a prosperous future to be shaped under Celimus. His personal dreams of becoming a kingmaker had been cracked by Rittylworth’s shame, shattered by Felrawthy’s calamity and, he suspected, were now well on the way to dust for he did not expect to see Lord Eryd Bench live out this night. Not if Bench was here to question the King’s actions and motives, no matter how elegantly couched those accusations might be.

The fragile treaty with Cailech would also be broken soon enough, Jessom suspected, and was saddened by it. King Cailech had shown tremendous courage and foresight in his actions and the Chancellor rather admired his man, Farrow, for brokering the meeting. Bringing Ylena Thirsk to Celimus had been the mercenary’s trump card under intense pressure but still he had shown himself to possess a cool head within the eye of a storm. All these men could be valuable to Morgravia and yet Celimus was systematically destroying any chances of loyalty. How much longer would the nobility put up with his ways? Not long, Jessom suspected, and he was not about to be the King’s scapegoat.

Their only chance, in truth, was Queen Valentyna. This marriage presented opportunities and not just in deflecting attention away from Celimus’s ugly deeds since he had taken the throne. Valentyna was bringing something positive and shiny bright into the lives of Morgravians.

A dazzling Queen crowned during the pomp and ceremony of a formal wedding was their new hope. Her beauty and composure, not to mention her personal power and wealth, was the sparkle that had long been missing in Pearlis — not forgetting the promise of heirs. Valentyna was the ideal diversion from all the death and destruction. It would not go away of course, but it would be put aside for a while — perhaps long enough to lose some of its potency, by which time Valentyna of Briavel would have worked her own magic simply through her presence. With the people’s hearts won, no one — not even the lords — would want to upset the balance of the two realms with hard questions. Sleeping dogs would be left to lie, as they say, Jessom thought, as he guided Lord Bench up the tower stairs. He could hear the old man puffing behind him.

His mind turned again to Valentyna, and something bright and sharp, like the first ray of sunlight that slices through the dark sky at dawn, cut through his thoughts. Perhaps his own loyalties should be aligned with the Queen. She was intelligent and wanted peace and prosperity for her nation; this meant she was open to advice and still young enough to be malleable. Perhaps it was Valentyna he should dedicate himself to; he could be not a kingmaker but an empire-maker.

Jessom arrived at the King’s chamber feeling far more light-hearted than when he began the climb. He looked behind him.

‘All right, Lord Bench?’

‘Yes,’ the man wheezed. ‘I had forgotten the tower was so tall.’

‘It is deceptive,’ Jessom answered, and tapped on the door.

‘Come!’ the King called.

Jessom swung open the heavy timber door and announced the visitor.

‘Eryd,’ Celimus said, beaming from behind the desk. ‘I imagine you are familiar with this chamber, eh?’

The voice was so friendly that Lord Bench felt himself relax momentarily. ‘Yes, my lord. Your father spent much time here briefing us in years gone.’

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 if 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 commotion 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.

‘Myrt and Farrow, they…’ Borc looked embarrassed.

‘What? What did they do?’ the King demanded.

Borc took a breath. ‘They talked to Galapek, sire.’

Wyl had not thought the atmosphere in the room could get more potent with foreboding or that the King could hold himself more still or more tense, but he now saw he was wrong. It was an ominous sign.

Borc tried to fill the silence. ‘The Grenadyne spoke to the horse as if it could hear him, sire, and so did Myrt. They… well, I feel awkward about this, sire,’ he said, looking to his King for help.

‘Say it!’

‘They called your stallion Lothryn.’

Cailech swung around, a sound of anger combined with anguish escaping his throat. He swatted at the clay flagon nearby and it shattered on the granite floor, the smell of honey and syrupy sweet wine wafting through the chamber.

‘Finish it, Haldor damn you, Borc!’ the King said, rounding on his warrior. It was the first time Wyl had ever witnessed Cailech lose control.

Borc swallowed. ‘The horse reared when they called to him, sire, then it began to scream and kick at the walls. Farrow told Myrt that the stallion wanted to be let loose.’

‘Did they do that?’ Cailech demanded.

Borc shook his head. ‘Maegryn interrupted their planning. He questioned what they were doing around Galapek. Myrt seemed unsure at first, sire. The Grenadyne did all the talking, said he wanted to go out for a ride or some such excuse. Maegryn said he had to report them because the barshi had given orders since the disappearance of the Morgravian prisoner that anyone acting strangely around Galapek was to be singled out.’

Wyl kept Ylena’s gaze on the floor but sensed the King steal a glance towards her at the mention of Gueryn. He worked hard to give the impression that she was embarrassed to be sharing this information and especially did not react to the mention of the prisoner.

Borc was in full flight now, racing to the end of his sordid tale. ‘Maegryn said he was coming to see you, sire, and that’s when Myrt grabbed him. Farrow told him not to but there was blood rage there, sire, Myrt couldn’t stop. He strangled Maegryn but I didn’t stop to see what they did with the body, your majesty. I jumped from the small window upstairs and came straight here, although I gather the Grenadyne is also on his way to see you,’ he said, looking behind him as if Aremys might already be standing there.

‘And Myrt?’

‘Has gone to find Rashlyn, your majesty. Farrow wants to know what has happened to the Morgravian prisoner. Maegryn mentioned that he thought the barshi had taken him for his own uses.’

Cailech twisted away in angry thought, staring out of the window. He could only barely see the great shadows of the mountains in the distance now, as darkness fell quickly in the Razors.

‘Borc.’

‘Sire?’

Cailech’s voice was as cold as the ice that covered the Razors’ peaks in midwinter. ‘Assemble the senior warriors. Tell the gatekeeper no one leaves, not even our own. Send reinforcements to the portcullis in case they use force. Have several guards posted on every gate — even those into the town. Neither Myrt nor the Grenadyne are to be permitted access in either direction. Release the dogs. Understand?’ Borc nodded. ‘Send Rollo to me immediately with one other of his choice — have runners sent for him if necessary. Tell Rollo everything and then find Myrt. Go now, don’t fail me.’ Borc bowed and departed.

The King turned slowly to face Ylena. Wyl set her face impassively and took the lead. ‘I’m sorry, your majesty, that I witnessed this. I’m sure it was a private concern.’

‘It was not your fault, Ylena. I should have taken more precaution.’

‘That man of yours was speaking about Gueryn le Gant, wasn’t he?’

The King nodded, staring so intently at Ylena that Wyl felt himself falter slightly. Perhaps it was not a good idea to question Cailech right now. But there may never be a better opportunity, and time was their enemy. ‘Gueryn le Gant is my guardian,’ he said. ‘When our mother died, Gueryn was all we had, for my father was away at Pearlis with the King. When I was sent to Stoneheart to be raised as the ward of King Magnus, Gueryn was there too. He is family. He is all I have left.’ Wyl made Ylena’s soft tones beseeching.

The news took the King by surprise but he had no time to respond for there was another knock. Once again he hushed Ylena with a gesture. Both knew who it was going to be this time. The same servant appeared with an expression of apology but Cailech hardly noticed.

‘Is it Aremys Farrow?’ he asked before the man said anything.

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Send him in.’

Aremys was shown in and Wyl immediately sent him a look of warning.

‘Sire, you were expecting me?’ Aremys said, trying hard not to show his surprise.

‘I guessed you would come around soon enough,’ Cailech said, his tone casual and his body language relaxed. Behind him Wyl shook his head towards Aremys, desperately cautioning him against saying anything incriminating.

Aremys faltered. The smile he would normally give to the man he now considered a friend did not arrive. He realised that someone had reached Cailech or Wyl would not be communicating such a warning.

‘Care for a cup of wine, Farrow?’

‘No, sire, I came here only briefly to pass on a message. Forgive my interruption, I thought it was important.’

‘Apparently there are a number of important messages to be communicated tonight,’ Cailech replied.

The cryptic response was not lost on Aremys. ‘I can come back later, sire.’ He saw relief move across Ylena’s face and then froze as Cailech also glanced towards her. The King was fast and much too smart to be duped.

‘No, please, come and join us,’ Cailech said, affably this time. ‘I’d like to share some wine with you.’

Wyl looked at the shattered flagon and Aremys followed his glance, taking in that something dangerous had occurred here tonight. Tempers perhaps had frayed, for if it was an accident Cailech would have called for a servant to clear the mess. ‘Are you well, Ylena?’ he said, suddenly wondering whether Cailech had hurt Wyl.

‘I am, thank you, Aremys. I was just about to tell the King about Queen Valentyna and all she mentioned to me from Romen’s tales of the Razors.’ Aremys nodded, frowning slightly, and Wyl took the risk. ‘You know, about Romen’s escape with the help of Lothryn, and how he later worried about what might have happened to the brave warrior who betrayed his King.’

Wyl had fast reflexes but Ylena’s body moved slower than he was used to. He saw the King’s sudden action but could not avoid the hard, stinging slap. Another blow from a different King but with the same result: Ylena’s small body flew across the room. She gashed her leg on a small table and sprawled across a chair before tumbling to the granite floor. He lay still, trying to assess if anything had been broken. From the terrible pain, he suspected her slim shoulder had dislocated during the awkward fall.

Wyl heard Cailech ranting above his sister’s body. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, Ylena?’

Wyl had no choice; he spoke quickly to his friend. ‘He knows about Maegryn,’ was all he managed before he felt himself lifted easily from the floor and flung again across the chamber. He glimpsed Cailech’s enraged face and heard his roar of anger. Ylena’s body crunched awkwardly against the stone fireplace and this time something definitely broke. It was her leg, badly snapped with bone poking through the shin. Fresh pain klaxoned through her frail body. Wyl released a scream, part out of helplessness, part designed to keep Cailech’s attention on Ylena and not Aremys. It was too late though — Cailech’s men had arrived, amongst them someone Aremys clearly recognised.

‘Hold him, Rollo!’ the King commanded, pointing at a startled Aremys who was unsure whether to run towards Ylena or out the door. Either way he had left his decision too late and Wyl closed Ylena’s eyes in despair. He moved her bleeding, broken body into a sitting position and prayed the King would not hurt her body further. He could handle the physical pain but the battering of Ylena both at Tenterdyn and now here was more than Wyl could bear emotionally. He wanted to scream that she had already suffered enough, but of course that would make no sense to anyone except the other prisoner in this room, now desperately struggling in the arms of his captors.

‘Be still, Farrow!’ Cailech commanded. ‘There is no escape.’

Aremys obeyed. ‘What is this about, your highness? I thought I was a free man.’

‘You were,’ Cailech said, advancing on his new victim, Ylena forgotten. ‘Until Borc brought me some dark news this evening.’

Aremys wore a confused expression. ‘What news, sire?’

‘You snake!’ Cailech spat. ‘Am I that gullible, Farrow? Perhaps I am,’ he said, answering his own question with a weariness in his voice. He smiled ruefully. ‘I trusted you. I thought you were on our side.’

‘King Cailech —’ Aremys began.

‘Don’t, Grenadyne,’ the King warned. ‘Don’t begin to spin any lies. Rollo, is everything secured?’

The man nodded. ‘Borc and others are seeing to it, sire.’

‘Myrt?’

Rollo looked uncomfortable at the mention of the senior warrior’s name. ‘He is being followed to the barshi’s quarters, sire, as you ordered.’

As soon as Aremys heard Myrt’s name, he lowered his chin and his body slumped slightly in the grip of the men. They were all as good as dead now. He looked over at Wyl, equally helpless at the other end of the room, and felt something inside him break.

Rashlyn had been experiencing an inexplicable sense of doom for the past few hours. The Stones, which he had cast for himself, kept showing him the coming of a dragon. It made no sense. Dragons were creatures of myth, along with the winged lions, unicorns and other strange beasts worshipped through the ages — and still revered in Morgravia. The Stones had never given him such a picture before and yet they insisted, time and again. Considering he had cast the Stones only a few times in his life on his own behalf — and had always found them accurate — this was wildly unsettling, particularly as it made no sense.

He had been pondering this curiosity for many hours, wondering what it could mean for Cailech and, more to the point, himself. Now, he felt a light was dawning: perhaps the vision pointed towards the changing of a sovereign in Morgravia. It had come to him that the King of Morgravia sat upon the dragon throne; that the King’s emblem — and mythical creature of the Crown of Morgravia — was always the dragon. So did the coming of the dragon shown by the Stones mean a new King for the southern realm?

That made little sense, however, for the present King was young, virile and seemingly in excellent health according to Cailech, whom the barshi had spoken to briefly on his return. They had exchanged a smattering of words with the promise to meet later that night. He was awaiting the summons now, eager to share with his King this telling from the Stones.

Perhaps they were suggesting that the marriage of Celimus to Valentyna would change the Crown somewhat, bringing a new Queen to the throne. Except the Stones were specific: they spoke only of the dragon and a new coming. Valentyna was not in any way connected to the dragon throne, nor, to his knowledge, did the Briavellians have any link to mythical creatures in the manner of Morgravia.

No, he pondered, pulling at his tangled beard, this was specifically about the Dragon King. There it was again: change. Before Cailech had left for Morgravia, the Stones had spoken of change and Rashlyn had thought they referred to something sinister. As it turned out, Cailech had returned triumphant, not only with a new truce and a peaceful neighbour but a bride as well. Rashlyn nodded to himself, congratulating the Stones on their accuracy. Change had indeed occurred for the King of the Razors. Everything had changed for the better.

But now this… this time it felt sinister, threatening. The Stones pointed towards the coming of the dragon, but he had done this casting purely for himself, not Cailech. This foretelling was about him. The dragon was coming for him — was that right?

Deep in his thoughts, he jumped in alarm as the door of his chamber crashed open and the huge body of Myrt filled the doorway.

‘Good evening, barshi,’ Myrt said. The words were polite, but the tone and the expression on the big man’s face belied them.

‘What are you doing here?’ the small man stammered, immediately summoning a spell of protection.

‘I’ve come for the truth about Lothryn — or should I say, Galapek?’

Rashlyn’s madness was his best protection; better than any spell. The insanity that held the barshi in its grip took over now and he no longer felt intimidated. However, he was sufficiently intrigued by the big man’s discovery that he held back the magic he had prepared to hurl at Myrt. ‘What do you know?’ he asked, his voice light and taunting.

‘Where is the Morgravian prisoner?’ Myrt responded.

The barshi gave a mad cackle. ‘I’ll be happy to show you,’ he said, and pointed to the corner where a large grey dog sat, chained and quivering.

Myrt was aghast, unsure of whether to take the deranged barshi seriously, yet somehow knowing he was being shown the truth. ‘Gueryn?’ he asked the dog tentatively.

The dog whined. It was in pain but it pawed the floor in frustration and strained against its chain.

‘Like my work, Myrt? It’s so much better than Lothryn, whom I’m afraid I must have killed in the process. As you can see, le Gant is alive within the beast and fully aware of his new status.’

‘You stinking —’

Myrt got no further. Pain exploded in his head and his nose and ears began to leak blood.

‘Shut up!’ the barshi screamed. ‘Or I won’t even give you a choice of what I turn you into, you stupid fool.’ Myrt was moaning unintelligibly. ‘I guess that hurts, eh?’ Rashlyn continued. ‘Well, listen to me now, big man. I’m going to take away the pain and then you are going to tell me who else knows my secret.’

Myrt shook his head vigorously and blood spattered the barshi. Rashlyn seemed not to notice; instead he stepped up the punishment and the warrior’s eyes bulged as a fresh wave of pain hit. His arms became rigid and hung unnaturally in mid-air, his torso began to tremble and his breathing came in erratic, shallow grunts.

‘Do just as I say, Myrt,’ Rashlyn warned. His fingers moved slightly and the warrior was pushed back and held against the wall. ‘Better?’ he asked, dispelling the pain.

Myrt refused to co-operate even though his body was released from its agony.

‘Who else knows?’ Rashlyn asked, moving towards the warrior.

‘Just me and, I presume, the King,’ Myrt spluttered. Although the pain had lifted, the toll on his body was significant enough to make him gasp still.

‘Oh, yes, the King knows. It was his choice to punish Lothryn that way, you see. I think it’s beautifully subtle. And Galapek is so magnificent —’

Rashlyn suddenly stopped and cocked his head, as if listening to something. He turned slowly, fear coursing through every fibre of his being.

‘What?’ Myrt said.

‘Ssh!’ Rashlyn hissed, swivelling his body as if trying to lock onto something. ‘It’s coming,’ he murmured.

Myrt, connected to the barshi through the madman’s magic, also sensed the approach of something. He was stunned at the immensity of power which was being communicated. ‘What is it?’

‘The dragon,’ Rashlyn whispered, suddenly letting go his magic hold on Myrt as his own fears got the better of him.

Myrt fell to the floor, hitting his knees hard and yelling his protest. He was forgotten as the barshi began to spin around in the chamber, a look of terror on his face. Myrt took advantage of Rashlyn’s confusion to drag himself across the floor to the dog, who cocked his head towards a key on the table. Myrt nodded, reached for the key and unlocked the chain that secured the dog. It barked once and stretched on unsteady, gangly legs.

Blood was running freely from his nose; Myrt only noticed it now. He tried to wipe it away but more replaced it. He was thinking he should ignore the weakness imposed by the barshi’s magic and somehow make his way to the door, crawling if necessary, when the doorway was filled by a large figure.

‘Hello, Borc,’ he said, disdain lacing his tone. He did not like this young man, blamed him for the capture and torture of Lothryn.

The warrior looked over at Rashlyn who seemed to be in a trance, mumbling to himself. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded of Myrt.

‘Nothing. He’s off in his own world, muttering about the coming of the dragon or something. Why are you here?’

‘Why are you on the floor… bleeding?’ Borc continued angrily, dismissing the question levelled at him.

‘The last time I checked,’ Myrt began, working hard to ignore the weakening sensations in his body, ‘I was your superior, Borc. Do I need to remind you of how to speak to a superior?’

‘And the last time I checked, Myrt,’ Borc sneered, ‘you were busy murdering someone.’

‘Ah,’ Myrt replied, hiding his shock. He would not give this snivelling youngster the satisfaction he surely craved of the most senior of the warriors grovelling to him.

‘I told the King,’ Borc added triumphantly.

‘Yes, I’m sure you have, you arse-licking fuck!’

Borc’s reply was cut off by the arrival of a boy who appeared to step straight through the granite blocks of the high tower’s wall. He was surrounded by a shimmering light which blinded the three men momentarily before it dissipated. He looked around at them and Myrt realised this was no vision; the boy was flesh and blood — scrawny and small but terrifyingly real.

Rashlyn’s wildness intensified. ‘Who are you?’ he screeched.

‘I am your destroyer, Rashlyn,’ the boy said.

Everything happened so fast, Myrt hardly saw it unfold. Rashlyn leapt through an open window. The drop meant certain death yet Myrt glimpsed the barshi hovering in the open air before he disappeared from view.

He noticed the boy smile before he seemingly dissolved back through the wall. Borc watched it too, open-mouthed and filled with disbelief. It was his slowness to recover which gave the grey dog a chance to leap and bring the man down.

Myrt watched in horror as the dog, its limbs still trembling, struck for Borc’s throat. Myrt reached for his dagger but so did Borc. The younger man was strong and despite his fear he struck at the dog with the blade, wounding it many times in its side. The creature refused to let go. It had him by the throat at last and it was experiencing the blood madness that comes over both man or beast when defending its life or those it loves.

Myrt raised himself painfully, still suffering the effects of the magic, and all but fell onto Borc and the dog. It was growling fiercely now, its huge jaws locked around the man’s neck, tearing at his throat. Borc made one final valiant effort and managed to gouge at the animal’s eye and sink his blade once more, this time into its chest. The dog screamed and rolled away but Myrt was not going to let Gueryn’s quarry live. He would mete out death on behalf of the dog who had saved his own life. Raising his dagger he struck deep into Borc’s lacerated throat and hit the artery he was looking for. The younger man stared with dismay at the plume of blood that erupted and grabbed at his neck in a sad attempt to retain the precious liquid. He even managed to drag himself to his knees before Haldor claimed him and Borc of the Mountain People fell heavily across the prone dog, dead.

THIRTY-ONE

CRYS DONAL RODE ERYD BENCH’S chestnut mare through the Pearlis town gates and nodded to the watchmen.

‘Shar guide you,’ they called to the lone rider, who raised his hand in friendly salute but said nothing in return.

Not long afterwards a black carriage, like any other public carriage that plied its trade on the streets of Pearlis, also left the gates.

‘How long, Gordy?’ one of the watchmen cried as the driver paid his toll, recognising him from the pool of men who entered and exited the city many times a day with paying passengers. The man shrugged and the gatekeepers caught sight of two women in the carriage whom they recognised as Lady Bench and her daughter. ‘Evening, Lady Bench,’ one said, showing the right courtesies.

Helyn Bench smiled back, the men never knowing how much courage that gesture took. The younger woman did not look at them at all. ‘Onwards, driver,’ Lady Bench called.

It was at least another fifteen minutes before a petite figure, cloaked in blue, walked a horse out of the city gates to whistles of approval from the men. It was not dark yet so they could see her pretty features set in a pale face. Fortunately for Elspyth they could not see the dark bloodstain on her cloak or the fierce effort it required for her to first mount and then urge the horse to carry her gently beyond the reach of King Celimus. She forced a smile and said, ‘See you soon, lads,’ as if she was only going to be away for a few hours, then she too disappeared down the road. She knew she had two bends to make before the third one would claim her fully from the watchtower’s view. It felt like a lifetime and she wondered if the men were scratching their heads and asking each other why the horse was being walked so slowly down the road.

Finally she caught sight of Crys Donal. He rushed towards her and, as much as she wanted to be composed and not show how sick she was, Elspyth all but fell from the horse as she leaned towards him. As they had before, the strong arms of the Duke of Felrawthy cushioned her and she was carried gently to a patch of soft grass. She would be lying to herself if she did not admit it felt good to be in his embrace again, even though right now his eyes held anything but mischief in them.

‘Elspyth,’ Georgyana said, ‘I’m sorry you had to do that but —’

‘Hush, Georgyana,’ she replied. ‘There was no other way. It would have looked too odd for you to ride out after your mother’s carriage, especially alone.’

‘We can only hope those guards make no connections. Two of us were strangers and easily forgotten,’ Crys reassured. Elspyth noticed how his gaze softened when it fell upon the Benchs’ golden-haired daughter. She felt another pang and a reminder that Crys did not belong to her and that she had pushed his gentle and usually amusing advances away too often. She was spoken for… but was it by a dead man, she wondered sadly.

Crys glanced towards Lady Bench, who sat on a milestone staring straight before her at nothing in particular, clearly dwelling on thoughts of her beloved Eryd. He walked over and put his arms around her. She was a friend of his mother’s, around her age. He tried to imagine how Aleda must have felt watching Jeryb Donal die. Crys was sure Eryd was dead by now too, and knew the effect on Lady Bench would be no less painful for not witnessing it.

‘I’m so sorry, Helyn,’ he said softly.

‘Are you sure it’s useless, Crys? I mean —’

He cut off her teary words which were too painful to listen to again. ‘We cannot risk Georgyana, Lady Bench. You must see to her safety first. I promise you I will return to Pearlis, but first I insist on ensuring you three ladies are out of danger.’ He hugged her again, suspecting that her inclination was to send Georgyana on with him and take her chances back in Pearlis. ‘Please, Lady Bench, Celimus showed no mercy to my parents, or my brothers, the youngest of whom had barely reached your daughter’s tender years. He will have no qualms about killing you, Lord Bench, Georgyana and anyone else who looks like getting in his way.’

‘In the way of what?’ she said.

‘Of whatever it is that he wants,’ Crys said, keeping his voice calm and not withdrawing his embrace. ‘He is mad, Lady Bench. He dreams of empire. The wedding is a sham. He will destroy Valentyna and Briavel one way or another — it just appears more respectable if he can do it diplomatically. Listen to me,’ he said, taking the liberty of turning her face towards his earnest one. ‘If he is prepared to murder my father, who was the most loyal of Morgravians, then he will respect none of his senior counsellors’ lives. Please trust me.’

‘So you think Eryd is already dead,’ she said, her voice flat.

There was no point in giving empty placations after making them flee for their lives. ‘I do.’

She did not break down into sobs as he had expected; she did not even shed another tear; instead she echoed the words of his mother. ‘Avenge him,’ she said, ‘for all our sakes.’

‘Celimus has many deaths to answer for, my lady. I intend making him accountable for each of them, rest assured.’

She squeezed his arm, unable to speak for her tumbling emotions.

‘Come, we will ride in pairs now,’ he continued. ‘Elspyth won’t be able to make it far so we will split company once I am sure we are in a safe place.’

Elspyth, breathing hard and helped by Georgyana, arrived at his side. Crys reached for her hand. ‘Can you go a bit further?’

‘Yes, let’s go,’ she said, unfairly enjoying his touch in front of Georgyana.

‘You and Lady Bench ride together, Elspyth. Georgyana can come with me,’ Crys said, instantly putting to rest any delusion that he was not utterly infatuated with the young noblewoman. It was fitting that he align himself with his own kind and they would make the most handsome of couples, Elspyth thought. She scowled privately, but convinced herself that her acid mood was from the throb at her shoulder.

‘Where are we going?’ Georgyana asked, unaware of the sour emotions of the pretty woman by her side.

‘They will expect us to go north,’ Crys said, ‘as we all have homes and links there.’

‘So we go south?’ Georgyana finished for him and he smiled indulgently.

‘Yes, my lady. South to Argorn.’

Jessom stared at the sputtering candle. Its erratic flame held his attention in an otherwise darkened room. His thoughts were distracted, roaming. A light perfume wafted up from the soap leaf he had used to wash his hands after touching Eryd Bench’s body. He had killed twice himself, and had many deaths carried out at his order, but none had ever felt like this one. Lord Bench’s death had been as unpleasant as it was unnecessary. Unpleasant because Jessom had been forced to administer the poison personally and very much against his own will, and unnecessary because it had achieved nothing but another dirty secret to keep hidden.

He linked his newly washed fingers as he contemplated the afternoon’s proceedings. To the King, the report of another corpse, no matter how high-ranking, was akin to hearing that a kitten had died from the kitchen cat’s latest litter. He just kills on a whim, Jessom thought bitterly. Bench and his fellow lord could have been so easily diverted, sent on some special mission even, but left alive to remain important in the fabric of Morgravia.

‘Shar knows, that fabric is wearing very thin,’ he muttered now.

If Lord Bench was questioning the King and his motives then this was surely the end of the road, for Eryd Bench would never have considered making his concerns public without many weeks of soul-searching. If Lord Bench, the most loyal of the senior courtiers, was wavering, then most of the others would have had their say on the King’s actions long ago.

‘And civil unrest is the next stage.’ Jessom finished the thought aloud.

It would only take someone like Crys Donal, now the Duke of Felrawthy, to stir up sufficient emotion and the civil unrest could turn into an uprising. Jessom was not so naive as to believe that the famous Legion would not follow its instincts, which would be screaming in favour of Lord Donal after what had happened in the north. The Legion had suffered several blows recently — enough to provoke the men into turning against the King they hated.

Jessom listed them in his mind: Alyd Donal, Wyl Thirsk, Ylena Thirsk, most of the Donal family, Rittylworth’s holy community. Even the death of King Valor of Briavel was beginning to be viewed suspiciously, particularly given that Wyl Thirsk was in Werryl on the King’s business when he lost his life alongside Valor. Jessom had heard mutterings that the two deaths were not as cut and dried as they were said to be. Then there was Jorn, a popular lad around Stoneheart — his torture and death had hit hard and for what result? The Legion had not recovered from the deaths of its own men either — all in the pursuit of missing taxes. Too many had been impaled and left to die long, horrible deaths. Celimus was too cruel; too quick to punish without consideration of the repercussions. As for all the mercenaries who had lost their lives — well, few cared, but Jessom hated killing for no good reason. Almost all could have been spared — they were on the Crown’s side anyway.

He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. And now Lord Bench was dead and Hartley was languishing in the dungeon. Jessom had finally rebelled against Celimus and refused to kill pointlessly again. He would find a way to spare Hartley yet.

Chancellor Jessom lit a fresh candle and extinguished the sputtering one with a pinch, hardly feeling its warmth on his fingertips. He was too deep in thought about his own future. He assessed his options. They were few and mostly unpalatable. He could remain with Celimus and stay loyal to his belief that the King of Morgravia was too strong to be challenged. He could raise the Legion himself by telling its officers the truth, but then what? They could unseat Celimus but there was no heir, which potentially meant some distant relative from Parrgamyn perhaps laying claim to the throne. Jessom’s experience of the Parrgamyse told him that was not a wise path. Alternatively, he could argue that a new dynasty be created from within — someone like the new Duke of Felrawthy perhaps — but Jessom, kingmaker or not, could not be sure of bringing about such a change in culture. He could leave. Disappear this night and begin a new life elsewhere. But where? And if Celimus survived as King then he would have Jessom hunted down. The Chancellor could not bear to dwell on what the King would do with him when caught… and he was sure he would be caught, even if it took Celimus years.

That left one last option. And as he reflected on its merits, he realised it was, without question, not only the best of the alternatives but perhaps his most inspired idea ever. If it worked, he would never have to worry again. If he failed, it meant an horrific death. So he must take precautions.

He would need the help of an expert in fashioning a failsafe capsule of the juice of the Deathbloom, a plant so rare most people had never heard of it. But Jessom had and he was taking no chances with Celimus. If he was caught in this last and desperate measure, then he would not hesitate to bite down on the capsule which would deliver death so swiftly that no one would even realise what had occurred. By then, his body would be stiff in the rigor the plant’s poison so effectively provoked.

He smiled thinly. ‘Not that I intend ever taking that capsule,’ he whispered.

Wyl stared at Aremys through Ylena’s glazed vision. He must have passed out momentarily, he realised; he had slumped to one side and must appear dead. It looked as though the fight had gone out of the Grenadyne. The King was pacing before him, poking his finger into his chest, sneering at him with cutting words. The two guards either side of Aremys looked uncomfortable. Wyl fought the pain back as Gueryn had taught him and righted Ylena’s frame against the hearth. No one saw his movement; everyone was intent on Cailech.

He had to move, broken leg and dislocated shoulder aside, not to mention sundry other fractures. Go down fighting — was that not the Legion’s way? Wyl rallied his spirit and called upon anything left within him of his and Ylena’s predecessors to find the strength to move towards Aremys.

‘So you don’t deny Maegryn’s death?’ Cailech demanded of the mercenary, his anger back under icy control.

‘No, sire. It was a mistake.’

‘Mistake!’

Aremys blinked. There was no way out of this; no possible explanation — except the truth, of course — for the death of the stablemaster. He no longer cared about Cailech and the peace treaty or about the Mountain People. In truth, if he boiled it down, he cared about the man trapped in the broken woman’s body in the corner, he cared about a man driven mad with pain and anguish by being transformed into a horse, and he cared about bringing about the death of a southern King.

Nothing much else mattered — not even his own life, it seemed, because it had not occurred to him to count it in his list. He stole a glance at Ylena and realised she had moved. Not dead then; brave Wyl was crawling towards him in a broken body. What could they achieve against two huge warriors and an enraged King now reaching for his blade?

‘Lost for words, Farrow? Perhaps this will loosen your tongue,’ Cailech said, swiping his knife across the Grenadyne’s face.

Aremys saw the red splashes spatter across Rollo’s face. The man blinked but said nothing. To his own credit, Aremys hardly flinched. Perhaps it had been too fast. How he found the wit he would never know, but he enjoyed it. ‘Haldor be praised that your blade is kept so keen, Cailech. I didn’t feel a thing.’

The King’s gaze narrowed as he watched the bright blood drench the face of the man he had called friend; the man he had thought might fill the yearning gap of friendship caused by the loss of Lothryn. But this man was now facing death because of Lothryn.

‘Why, Aremys? You could have had it all with me,’ Cailech said, a touch of sadness creeping into his tone.

‘Because you are a puppet King,’ Aremys replied, defiance rising in him as he accepted death. He could see the pulse at Cailech’s temple beginning to throb.

‘Explain yourself, Farrow.’

He shrugged, revelling in his nonchalance. It was amazing to let go of fear; he suddenly felt empowered. This was how Wyl must have felt when he was baiting Celimus into killing Ylena at Tenterdyn — except Wyl had not expected to die, he thought, and a rueful grin crept across his bloodied face.

‘Answer me!’ the King roared, raising the blade.

‘I’m not afraid to die, Cailech, so threatening me will not help you learn what you need to. But I shall tell you anyway. You are a puppet to Rashlyn. Ask your men. Ask Rollo here what he thinks of your mad barshi and the way he controls you. Ask poor Myrt, who would crawl over the very icecaps for you but hates you now for what you have done at the barshi’s whim. If only you had bothered to ask Maegryn, he would have told you the same. You are controlled by the mad sorcerer who uses magic on you, my King, and makes decisions for you.’

Aremys felt the change of atmosphere in the room immediately. The grip of his captors lessened and he saw Cailech’s face move through a series of expressions from disbelief to rage.

‘You lie!’

‘No, Cailech. Look at your men. Ask them. You turned Lothryn into a beast. Galapek is an abomination — your abomination — but it was not your idea, was it, sire? It was Rashlyn’s. And now the Morgravian prisoner has disappeared. Where is Gueryn le Gant, your majesty? Magically twisted into another abomination, that’s where. Can your people trust you with this sort of misery and sorcery hanging over them?’

When Rollo spoke, it broke the spell. ‘My King, is this true? Have you used magic on Lothryn?’

Cailech’s hesitation was damaging.

‘And now he’s going to have Myrt killed, Rollo, because he knows the truth too.’

Rollo dropped his hands from Aremys and his second followed suit. ‘I cannot permit this, sire,’ he said, shaking his head, disbelief raging in his eyes. ‘I hate the barshi. But I loved Lothryn like a brother, and Myrt is our leader even though you are our King. You would kill the two I trust most? Rashlyn is evil, sire.’

Cailech’s eyes darkened in the granite face. He was the only man in the room with a weapon. ‘Do you challenge me, Rollo?’

The warrior backed away. ‘I don’t know the truth, sire. I don’t understand any of it. If Myrt killed Maegryn then I wish to hear why. I want his side of the story, not the words of Borc who would sell his own grandmother to get into your good books.’

‘I order you to take this man to the dungeons,’ Cailech said. His words were slowly spoken and chillingly intense as he willed the man before him to obey.

Rollo shook his head equally slowly, hardly believing he was defying his own sovereign. ‘Not until you bring Rashlyn here… and Myrt.’

The room had become still with tension. Cailech stared at Rollo and then back at Aremys. His silence was telling as he considered his options. Finally he nodded wearily. ‘Go. Bring them both here.’

Relief flooded the warrior at the King’s capitulation; inside, he was still reeling from his stand against Cailech. He wasted no time and nodded to his second to follow and then to Aremys, who would have liked to thank Rollo for his courage. It was pointless though. As he stared at Cailech and the King returned the glare, both knew the Grenadyne would not live beyond a few moments of the two warriors’ departure.

Aremys could have said as much, and perhaps changed the course of how things unfolded, but he had seen something out of the corner of his eye, something everyone else had missed. It might work. He cast a prayer to Shar and, just in case, one to Haldor as well, then left it to the gods to decide which would answer it.

When the two Mountain men had departed, Cailech rounded on Aremys.

‘I know you don’t intend to let me live long enough even to clap eyes on Myrt again, sire,’ Aremys said, playing for time.

‘How instinctive of you, Farrow. I’m glad we understand one another. You have betrayed my trust.’

‘Lothryn got to be a horse. Nothing so exotic planned for me, Cailech?’

‘Nothing leaps to mind,’ Cailech growled, stepping closer.

‘Or do you have to wait for the puppeteer to arrive in order to make the decision for you? So he can cast his magic and make you dance precisely as he wishes?’

Cailech shook his head in mock disgust but Aremys could see him grinding his jaw so hard, he felt sure teeth were being shattered in the process. And then his plan was destroyed. Cailech turned nonchalantly to gaze down at the figure of Ylena Thirsk, who had painfully and silently crawled the length of the room, a trail of blood behind her.

‘Ah, Ylena, good. You’ve arrived painfully I see and just in time to watch your rescuer die. I think Aremys was counting on you to divert me, although I have to wonder what, without a weapon, he had in mind. Perhaps he was going to bite me to death.’ He laughed. ‘Here, my dear, let me help you,’ and he reached down almost tenderly to pick her up.

Aremys felt his gut twist. It was over then. He had been counting on Wyl to achieve some diversion. Between them they might have been able to get the blade from Cailech and hold him off until the others returned. It was a stupid idea, but desperate people conjured desperate thoughts in desperate times.

‘There we are,’ Cailech said, placing a grimacing Ylena into a chair just in front of Aremys. ‘Now you have a good view.’ He lifted her skirt to look at her leg and made a tutting sound. ‘Nasty. That must really hurt. I’m constantly impressed by your courage, Ylena.’ He returned a savage gaze to Aremys. ‘How would you like this done, my friend? Throat? Gut? Heart?’ he asked, irony lacing his voice.

‘May Haldor rot your heart, Cailech!’ Aremys said, helplessness washing over him. He looked once more upon Ylena. ‘I’m sorry I failed you.’

‘You haven’t yet,’ Wyl answered. ‘Remember who I am. Use me!’ he urged.

Cailech smiled. ‘Such a brave pair. What is it between you two? I could almost feel jealous. You seem to have one another in some sort of thrall. It’s not ardour or lust, for I would have sensed it. It’s more than that —’

Aremys was not going to listen to it any more. ‘Get on with it then and look to your back, Cailech. Celimus will never allow you or the son you foisted on Lothryn’s wife to live.’ He rolled the die once more. Perhaps there was a chance yet. ‘I’ve already told Celimus about Aydrech. Security, in case you did not keep faith with me. He will come looking for both of you. The boy will not live to see a year.’

Cailech’s howl at the biting threat was filled with a venom that Aremys had only previously experienced in battle. It was beyond anger or fear; it was a state in which a man cared for nothing else except the kill. Many hardened fighters spoke of the moment when nothing but blood — the enemy’s blood — could cleanse them of that wrath.

Aremys saw the blade rise in tandem with the King’s howl of despair and took his chance, feeling sickened as he did so. It was up to the gods now.

It was no god that came to his rescue that day but a damaged man trapped in a woman’s body. Broken and bleeding Wyl allowed Ylena’s slight frame to be wrenched up by Aremys with perfect timing and thrown between the blade and the place where it was meant to bury itself.

The mighty blow nearly cleaved Ylena in two, cutting flesh and sinew, cartilage and bone, finally coming to rest buried between her breasts.

Her sad, lovely eyes met Aremys’s as she fell to her death at last. Her gaze was triumphant.

Cailech groaned. The sound was deep and guttural, and filled with rage. He was bent double, his body was shaking and his large hands clutched at his head as it swung angrily from side to side as if in denial. The Mountain King suddenly arched his back, fists clenched, his expression a contortion of such pain that Aremys took a step back. Cailech let out a final low and desperate growl, slumping forward before he straightened, staring at the bright blood on the hand and arm that had dealt the murderous blow. The King took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his formerly light eyes to meet those of Farrow.

Aremys, hating to have put Wyl through more pain, noted their curious ill-matched colour and did not know whether to cry with relief or share the despair of loss. He laid his hand onto the hard, muscled arm of King Cailech and whispered, ‘Welcome back, Wyl.’

Wyl Thirsk, now King Cailech of the Razors, flexed his broad shoulders and sighed. ‘Let’s go find our friends,’ he growled in Cailech’s deep voice.

THIRTY-TWO

FYNCH SAT CROSS-LEGGED, STARING at the man who had brought so much hate and potential destruction into the world. Now he must die.

Rashlyn did not know Fynch could see him, but he could feel the boy, sensed his powerful presence here amongst the Razors. He looked so small and helpless; how could a child possess such potent magic?

Rashlyn had fled without thinking, but leading the boy into the small wood behind the fortress now seemed like madness. Perhaps the child would die of cold. Perhaps he might. He summoned a spell to warm himself and pondered his next move.

It was not in Fynch’s nature to be violent, but he was a destroyer whether he cared for the role or not. The blood of the dragon line pounded in his veins and the Dragon King himself demanded this of him. He would not fail. He might die but he would not let them down.

Not far away from him sat Knave, silent, filled with dread and powerless. His part in this adventure was over. He had guided Fynch to Rashlyn and now all he could do was bear witness.

It seemed to Knave that the barshi had disappeared, but still Fynch sat and waited.

How do you feel? Knave could not let go of his concern.

Well enough to face what I must.

Does your head still pain you?

Yes. There is no more sharvan, before you ask.

Where is he?

Hiding, he thinks. He is confused and frightened but he will face me soon enough.

Are you frightened?

No.

I am.

Don’t be. This is what you and I were meant to do.

Who are you, Fynch? Please share it with me before… Knave hesitated.

Before I die? Knave did not reply and Fynch did not force it. I am the son of King Magnus of Morgravia, half-brother of Celimus. I am of the dragon’s blood.

Is that what the King saw in you?

Fynch nodded.

What does it mean?

Nothing really, Fynch said, shaking his head gently. Hardly anyone knows. My mother, and she’s dead. The Dragon King, you, and me. Magnus perhaps, but he is cold in his tomb.

Shouldn’t you tell someone?

Fynch smiled and shrugged. Best kept between us. I know who I am now and where I belong. It is enough. I am one with the Dragon King. It’s why he took me away as I slept — he wanted me to know the truth before I faced Rashlyn. He restored me temporarily so I could fight a King’s fight.

So where is the barshi?

Over there, Fynch said, pointing to the wooded area. He thinks he is hidden.

Invisible?

Apparently. But I see him.

Fynch, what are you planning to do?

Nothing.

What does that mean? You won’t fight him.

He must attack me.

But you’ll then respond?

Wait and see. Be brave now, Knave, you’ve told me that often enough.

I don’t want to see you die.

Hush, here he comes.

When Jos arrived at the antechamber outside King Cailech’s meeting room he was greeted by a look of disdain from the servant who manned the desk. Guards were posted as normal.

‘Are they sending halfwits to the King now?’

‘Shut up,’ Jos growled, towering over the man and glad to note the words sounded perfectly enunciated. ‘Do your job and let me do mine.’

The man sneered but backed away and knocked at the door. Curiously, the King opened it himself. This dismayed the servant. He was not used to talking to his majesty in person. ‘Er, sire, there is a messenger for you.’

Wyl looked over the servant’s head to the bear of a lad behind him. No memory of his face registered within Cailech. ‘Who are you?’

‘Jos, sire. I’ve been sent by Rollo.’

The King looked back into the room, spoke briefly, then nodded. ‘Come in.’

Jos entered to find the Grenadyne wiping blood from his face with a dampened linen and a woman, clearly dead, laid out on the floor with the King’s cloak covering her face.

The King looked at him with a stony expression. ‘I believe you know Aremys,’ he said. Jos nodded, his eyes riveted on the dead girl. ‘This is Ylena Thirsk. She was not a good choice in the end as a bride,’ Cailech said.

‘What did you have to tell us, Jos?’ Aremys prompted, the blood finally cleaned away although the wound still seeped slightly.

The warrior turned his confused gaze on his King and bowed. ‘Apologies, your majesty,’ he said, remembering his manners and the message he had been sent to deliver. ‘Rollo sent me. They’ve found Myrt, he’s badly injured. Borc is dead. Rashlyn is nowhere to be seen.’

Wyl sighed. ‘Where is Myrt?’

‘In the barshi’s tower.’

‘All right. Jos, I would consider it a personal favour if you would have Ylena Thirsk’s body shrouded and readied for travel on horseback. I’m returning her to Morgravia where she belongs. Please use people we trust; no one with a loose mouth — you understand?’

‘Of course, your majesty.’

‘Good. Then can you ready some horses for myself and Farrow.’

Jos’s eyes sparked with pleasure. He was rarely involved in any tasks other than lifting, carrying and general menial duties around the fortress. ‘Certainly, your majesty.’

‘And, Jos, after we depart, I am leaving Myrt in charge. Rollo will be his second and I am appointing you as Rollo’s deputy.’

The hulking lad looked towards Aremys and could not subdue a beaming grin. It did terrible things to his already twisted mouth — which was why he rarely smiled — but that did not matter any more. ‘Thank you, your majesty,’ he repeated, bowing again. ‘You carry on, I’ll fix everything here,’ he added, hoping the King understood him.

He did. ‘Good lad.’

The King and Aremys left hurriedly, with strict orders that only those whom Jos permitted were allowed to enter the King’s meeting room. Jos gave a twisted smirk towards the servant who was not quick enough with his bow to miss the young man’s sarcastic gesture.

‘How do you feel — or is that a stupid question?’ Aremys asked as they strode through corridors.

‘Shaky, but I’m getting used to this strange arrival into another’s body. Relieved to be a man again.’

‘A King, don’t forget.’ Aremys watched Cailech’s face break into a reluctant grin. ‘You wear him well.’

Wyl took no pride in knowing he had just destroyed another life. ‘I didn’t think I was going to make that leap.’

‘Neither did I. When I heard you scream, I just figured you’d used the wrong leg.’

Wyl could not help but laugh. Aremys had good timing for his jests. ‘Cailech fought me. I wasn’t sure I could win.’

‘Inside do you mean?’

He nodded. ‘Such anger. I don’t know what he saw — presumably me, the real Wyl Thirsk, but perhaps he glimpsed Romen as well. I certainly saw him. Whereas the others capitulated in shock, he was savage in his intensity to hang onto life. But Myrren’s gift was too strong.’

‘It’s a pity he had to die. Cailech had admirable qualities. He was a good King most of the time.’

‘Without Rashlyn he would have been the greatest sovereign of his time,’ Wyl agreed.

‘We have another King to worry about now,’ Aremys reminded.

‘Poor Ylena. I so wanted to keep her whole.’

‘You did her proud, Wyl. Don’t dwell on it. She’s at peace now and we aren’t. I presume we’re headed to Pearlis?’

Wyl shook Cailech’s proud head. ‘Werryl. I have to see Valentyna, if I can make it before she leaves for Stoneheart and Celimus.’

‘You can’t prevent the marriage,’ Aremys warned, knowing it was a useless waste of breath.

‘I know. I just have to see her. Do you know where we’re going?’

‘Yes. Up these stairs and then out across the courtyard towards that tower over there. And what makes you think the Queen of Briavel will take kindly to a visit from the King of the Razors?’

‘Valid question. I’ll think of something. Knave is here by the way; I saw him before we arrived at the fortress.’

‘Does that mean the boy is here as well?’ Before Wyl could answer, Aremys added beneath his breath, ‘Remember to acknowledge your people, King Cailech.’ He nodded towards a group of warriors approaching.

Wyl received their salutations appropriately, Cailech’s essence guiding his gestures and facial expressions. He answered Aremys: ‘Yes, Fynch is most likely here too, though I can’t for the life of me think why.’

More people, more polite salutations, and then Firl, the lad Aremys had allowed to beat him during swordplay when he first arrived in the Razors, greeted them. ‘Your highness; Farrow,’ he said breathlessly and bowed.

Wyl nodded. ‘How bad is he?’

‘I’m not sure, sire. We can’t find Rashlyn to help.’

‘Have any other healers been called?’ Aremys asked.

‘Arrived a minute ago.’

Wyl pushed Cailech’s tall body past the young man and ran up the stairs with Aremys directly behind. Rollo’s men were guarding the door but automatically stepped aside at the sight of the King. Wyl entered the chamber. He had anticipated the worst but was surprised to see Myrt sitting up.

It was Aremys who spoke first. ‘I hope you haven’t made us run up those fucking stairs for nothing, Myrt.’

It broke the tension and Rollo and Myrt grinned whilst Cailech’s face twitched in that way it did when he was amused but thoughtful. Wyl realised he still had to win Rollo’s trust and clear up the business of the barshi and his effect on the King.

He immediately addressed Rollo. ‘We need to speak.’

Rollo raised his hands. ‘The fact that Farrow is still alive, sire, says plenty. Forgive my insubordination of earlier.’

‘Already forgotten, though we will speak more about your concerns shortly,’ Wyl replied. He moved towards Myrt and glanced at the dog lying on the floor, Borc’s body next to it. The dog did not seem to be breathing and had puncture wounds on its body. For some reason Wyl felt dizzy and nauseous. It was not the sight of its blood, but the feeling that the animal was tainted with magic.

‘Are you all right, sire?’ Aremys asked, noting the King’s sudden change in demeanour.

‘Is that Rashlyn’s dog?’ Wyl said, fighting back an urge to throw up.

Myrt had already received a signal from Aremys that the King was on their side; was to be trusted. He did not understand what had changed but he trusted the Grenadyne and desperately wanted to trust his sovereign. He glanced towards Aremys now, then nodded at Rollo who moved to shut the door. ‘Best to keep this between ourselves for now, sire.’

Wyl frowned. ‘Speak,’ he said, moving away from the animal and positioning himself where he could suck in some fresh air from the open window.

‘According to the barshi, the dog is…’ Myrt hesitated, looking embarrassed, and glanced again at Aremys. The mercenary had only just become aware of the smell of magic. He no longer had to touch the beast to know it; he could sense it. The reek was not as bad as it had been with Galapek but it was there all right. He despaired for Wyl at what was surely coming.

Wyl followed Myrt’s gaze, sensed the awkwardness. ‘Say it, Myrt.’

‘Yes, sire. Um… Rashlyn was boasting that the animal is the Morgravian prisoner. He used sorcery to turn him into a dog.’

The King’s face was suddenly a mask of anguish. ‘He what?’

Aremys moved to his side. ‘Careful now, Wyl,’ he muttered. ‘You mean like Lothryn?’ the Grenadyne said aloud, already knowing the truth as he looked back to Myrt. The big man nodded, his eyes fearful.

Aremys decided to impress some reassurance on these men, now so apprehensive around Cailech — and with good reason, he thought. If only they knew who Cailech’s puppeteer was now. ‘We can speak freely,’ he said to the Mountain warriors. ‘The King has accepted that he’s been entranced by Rashlyn on occasion and magically urged to agree to things he would normally never entertain. We’ve deduced that the spells only work if the barshi is near to the King, or his majesty would never be free of his hold — as he is now. He will execute the barshi when and if we find him.’

He looked directly at Rollo now. ‘It is because of this sorcery that our King has been duped into allowing Lothryn to be… changed,’ he said carefully. ‘It was not his idea. He would never have agreed to something so horrific, so against our law of honourable death for our own.’

Wyl spoke up as if in a trance, stunned at the horrifying news about Gueryn. ‘He will never have that effect on me again. I am free of him. Do you men believe me?’

Something in the timbre of his voice, its ferocity, and his cold, hard gaze had the right effect. Both Myrt and Rollo nodded.

‘I will find Rashlyn and kill him,’ he added and they believed him. He moved to crouch by the dog and stroked it tenderly, battling the revulsion the magic caused. ‘Gueryn still breathes.’

‘He saved my life, sire. Borc would have killed me if not for the animal’s courage.’

Wyl stopped himself from saying all that he wanted to about Gueryn’s bravery; he was ferociously fighting back the tears and took a moment to compose himself. ‘I will personally deliver Rashlyn to whichever god will accept him,’ he said.

‘No need, sire,’ Myrt said. ‘You haven’t heard the rest of my story.’ And he described the mysterious arrival of the boy through the tower walls, bathed in light and claiming to be Rashlyn’s destroyer.

Wyl closed Cailech’s eyes. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘His name is Fynch,’ he said into the heavy silence that followed Myrt’s startling revelation. ‘He is known to me.’

No one dared ask how or why, which was fortunate, Aremys thought, because he could not imagine how Wyl would explain it. Cailech looked haggard, he noted. It had been one shock after another for Wyl: his sister, then Gueryn, now Fynch… not to mention another death, another body, another person to learn about.

‘And you are recovered?’ Aremys asked Myrt, taking the attention off the King so Wyl could gather his thoughts and emotions.

‘Rashlyn used his filthy magic on me to weaken me but the effects are wearing off. I’m ready to do your bidding, sire.’

‘Good!’ Wyl growled. ‘Because you and Rollo are being left in charge here.’

‘Where are you going, sire?’

‘To Briavel,’ came the reply. It provoked surprise and confusion on the men’s faces but Cailech’s tone suggested it would be imprudent to argue. ‘Call for the animal physic,’ Wyl commanded.

Rollo nodded and opened the door to the guards. ‘Get Obin. Hurry!’

‘Gueryn’s life is to be saved, so help you all,’ the King muttered. Rollo and Myrt exchanged another confused look. ‘Where did Rashlyn and Fynch go?’ Wyl continued.

‘Sire, as I said, one floated out of the window, the other through the walls,’ Myrt said, shaking his head. ‘I still think I was seeing things.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ the King replied, deadly cold. ‘You were witnessing two sorcerers throwing down the gauntlet at each other in a fight which has nothing to do with us.’

It had come to Wyl now what this was about. He sensed it related to the sense of doom he had felt for Fynch when he left him in the Wild. He pieced it together as he paced the room, waiting for the animal doctor. Elysius had said they would not meet again. The sorcerer had died, Wyl guessed, and he remembered now a strange sensation of loss he had felt when he first arrived into Briavel, courtesy of the Thicket. He had dismissed it as worry at leaving Fynch and his fretting over Ylena, not to mention being magically tossed hundreds of miles across the land. But perhaps Myrren’s gift had kept him linked with Elysius and when the strange little man died, Wyl had felt it. But you didn’t die without luring Fynch into your web of despair, did you? he thought savagely, hating Elysius in that moment.

He addressed the men again, his anger at what was happening to Fynch and what had been perpetrated on Gueryn spilling into his tone. ‘Everything which has occurred tonight stays between us and a young warrior called Jos, whom I’ve appointed as your deputy, Rollo. In my absence, Myrt makes the decisions for our people. Agreed?’ The Mountain men exchanged worried glances. ‘Is that clear?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sire,’ they said in unison, neither wanting to point out that nothing was clear about tonight. Not the King’s strange behaviour; nor the incredible sight of a ghostly boy appearing through granite walls or Rashlyn jumping through an open window and hovering outside; nor talk of sorcery or men being changed into beasts. Nor why Myrt, who really did not want the task, was now leading the Mountain People.

‘What about Lothryn, my lord?’ Myrt risked.

‘I’m going to find Rashlyn. Before I kill him, he will restore Lothryn and Gueryn le Gant.’ No one wanted to ask what would happen if the magic could not be reversed.

‘Aremys,’ Wyl said.

‘Sire?’

‘Stay with the dog for me. If he dies…’ Wyl could not finish. ‘Just see him cared for. I’ll meet you all at the stables in one hour.’

Fynch bowed, much to Knave’s surprise. ‘Rashlyn,’ he said. ‘I have been sent.’

The barshi had appeared as if out of nowhere. He looked rattled.

‘By whom?’

‘Can you not guess?’ Fynch asked, echoing a King, a dragon, who had promised him so much not long ago.

‘Elysius?’ Rashlyn whispered in wonderment.

Fynch nodded.

‘Why could he not face me himself?’ the barshi demanded. He sounded deranged, his voice controlled and soft one moment, high and angry the next.

‘He is dead.’

‘Then I do not fear you,’ Rashlyn cackled.

‘You should,’ Fynch said, unfazed by the madman’s baiting. ‘Elysius was not the only one who wishes you destroyed.’

Rashlyn sounded arrogant now. ‘I know dozens just amongst the Mountain People who would slit my throat happily, if not for the King. I have his protection.’

‘Not any more, I’m afraid.’

That won the barshi’s attention. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Cailech is dead.’

Rashlyn could not speak as he tried to absorb the terrifying news. Then, ‘I don’t believe you — you’re just a child.’

‘You should. My age makes no difference. You have no protection now; Cailech will not save you. In fact, I would imagine the King of the Mountains is stalking you this very minute for the abomination you have imposed upon two men.’

Rashlyn began to yell at Fynch and then stopped. ‘You just said he’s dead. How can a dead man stalk me?’

Fynch just grinned.

‘Why are you here?’ the barshi screeched. ‘If Cailech is dead then I am lost anyway, as good as dead.’

‘Not good enough. We wish to destroy you.’

‘We?’

Fynch nodded. ‘The Dragon King.’

The sorcerer looked at the boy, puzzled by the riddles he was giving for answers. He regarded the self-possessed child from beneath hooded lids and asked the obvious. ‘Who is the Dragon King?’

‘He is the King of the Creatures.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I am the Dragon King,’ Fynch replied and opened a bridge to the Thicket.

Wyl ran on long, muscled legs which covered the hard ground easily. Before leaving the tower he had taken a deep breath and laid his hand once more on the barely breathing dog. Its eyes were glazed and blood seeped from its nostrils. Its tongue lolled on the floor from between its jaws and it was all Wyl could do not to weep as he whispered to Gueryn to hold on. The dog did not move and Wyl left, not risking another word for fear of his voice breaking.

‘Let him live,’ he prayed to Shar as he ran now. He felt the wood calling to him; sensed the hum of a powerful magic. It was the Thicket, he recognised its trace. And something else. Something bright and powerful and good, overlaying an ugliness which he presumed was Rashlyn.

He burst into the clearing, drawing his sword, and pulled to a sharp stop when he saw Fynch standing there, bathed in a fierce glow of golden light. Knave was nearby and instantly covered the gap between himself and the new arrival, nearly knocking the King over with his welcome.

‘Hello, Wyl,’ Fynch said, not turning his gaze from Rashlyn. ‘I’m sure you know who this is,’ he added.

‘Fynch,’ Wyl replied, feeling a new sense of awe as he looked at the small gong boy suddenly so infused with power, so composed… so brave.

‘King Cailech, I —’ Rashlyn began. He looked still more confused, his gaze darting between boy and man.

‘I am not Cailech,’ the familiar voice said, turning a hard gaze on Rashlyn. ‘I am Wyl Thirsk.’

The man groaned. ‘The General? You can’t be. I… I would know it.’

‘Your eyes deceive you, Rashlyn,’ Wyl replied. ‘You didn’t know me when I came here as Romen Koreldy either. Your brother’s magic has given me this power to possess others. Clever, eh?’

‘No! I won’t believe this,’ the man said, shaking his head against what he knew to be true. It looked like Cailech but did not behave as Cailech; worse, Rashlyn could almost taste the magic emanating from his former protector.

‘You know I speak the truth,’ Wyl said.

‘Tell me how,’ the barshi begged. ‘I must understand it!’

‘Not until you lift the spell on Gueryn le Gant,’ Wyl demanded.

The wild man’s mouth split into a thin, cruel smile beneath the tangle of his beard. ‘I cannot. It is irreversible.’

Wyl had to fight his urge to rush at Rashlyn and cut him down.

‘Don’t,’ Fynch warned, reading his thoughts. ‘It is what he wants.’

‘And Lothryn?’ Wyl asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Even more of a problem. At least with your friend le Gant, I knew what I was doing. Didn’t hurt him as much. But Lothryn — that was horrible, even for me. He could not have survived it anyway. You’re wasting your time. The barbarian scum is dead.’

It was Cailech, not Wyl, whose anger rose now, who raised the sword and ran at the barshi. Wyl could not help but join with Cailech’s lust to hack the magic man from skull to feet.

‘No!’ shouted Fynch and Wyl felt Cailech’s body slammed high into the air. It felt as though he had hit a stone wall. ‘Do not attempt to kill him. That is my job,’ the little boy commanded. His tone demanded respect.

Rashlyn screeched with laughter. ‘Now even your own people work against you, Thirsk. Perhaps I should kill you.’

‘You cannot. My protection will repel anything you cast against him.’

Rashlyn did not believe Fynch. He moved his hands and a huge flaming ball roared towards Cailech’s suspended body. Wyl held his breath. There was no way he could escape this, even if he had free movement. But the ball of flame bounced against something Wyl could not see and fell away helplessly to extinguish itself in a pool of thawing snow nearby.

‘Wyl, I want you to go now,’ Fynch said.

‘I can’t leave you.’

‘You did before and you will again. We walk different paths now.’

‘Will I see you again?’

‘I think not.’

‘Fynch —’

‘Don’t, please. There is nothing more to say except that I have loved you as a brother. Go now and do what you must.’

‘I need Knave.’

‘I know. He will go with you.’

I am not leaving you, Fynch, the deep voice growled in the boy’s head.

You must. It is the only way we can save Wyl. You are his guide now.

I don’t understand.

You will. Now go.

Fynch …

Knave, go!

‘Rashlyn is running,’ Wyl warned.

‘He cannot escape me.’

‘Why do you have to do this?’ Wyl’s tone was pleading.

‘Because no one else can.’

‘Let me go then,’ Wyl said wearily and felt Cailech’s body being lowered gently to the frosty ground. ‘What about Gueryn and Lothryn?’

‘I do not know,’ Fynch said, knowing he broke Wyl’s heart. ‘I must deal with Rashlyn.’

And you will die, Knave crashed into Fynch’s mind.

So be it.

‘Do you and Knave talk?’ Wyl wondered, noting the odd silences and the expression on Fynch’s face.

‘Yes, ever since Elysius passed his magic to me.’

‘I thought as much,’ Wyl said, feeling helplessly sorrowful.

‘Wyl, Valentyna is to marry Celimus in a matter of days. You cannot save her that trial, you know that, don’t you?’ Wyl nodded. ‘But I know you wish to see her and you have something to tell her.’

‘I do.’

‘Tell her everything. Let there be no secrets between you. She must understand who you really are.’

‘I cannot!’ Cailech’s expression became dismayed.

‘You must. Please, trust me,’ Fynch urged. ‘And in turn she will trust you.’

Wyl had no answer to Fynch’s request. The boy had never been wrong before.

‘Now please go. It is time I faced the barshi.’

‘Who are you, Fynch?’ Wyl asked, fearfully.

Fynch’s face broke into a beatific smile. His golden hair seemed to radiate a bright glow which spread to outline his tiny frame. ‘I am the Dragon King, Wyl,’ he said, and vanished.

Knave threw back his huge black head and gave a chilling howl. It silenced the twittering birds that had come home to roost amongst the trees and echoed throughout the Razors.

It was the heralding of death and Wyl knew he would never see the brave boy again. Somewhere deep inside he felt a part of his heart had been cut away. No tears and no amount of time would ever heal the loss.

THIRTY-THREE

OBIN HAD TAKEN ONE LOOK AT the grey dog and shaken his head. Aremys nodded, sad for Wyl. Another death he had not been able to prevent and, knowing his friend as he did, Aremys was sure Wyl would blame himself for this one too. One man; so much sorrow. Myrren and her father had plenty to answer for in Shar’s plane. Aremys thanked Obin and then, wrapping the dog in a sheet he found in Rashlyn’s rooms, he hefted the animal into his arms.

‘I’ll take you to Lothryn,’ he murmured to the dog, who was still breathing in short, desperate pants. The dog whined but its eyes did not open.

When Aremys finally made it to the stable, staggering under the seemingly dead weight of the large dog, he heard Galapek whinny. The horse knew; Lothryn knew. Another man had been broken by Rashlyn’s twisted magic.

Aremys lay Gueryn down in some fresh straw and lit a lamp. He explained to the horse who this was; all self-consciousness about talking to a horse had ceased. The animal reared, angry, and Aremys tried to calm him with soft words and soothing hands. As he touched the stallion he sensed the enormous and agonising effort it took for Lothryn to communicate with him. The horse begged to be set free. Aremys was torn with indecision as to what was best. Footsteps approached and the new King of the Razors stepped inside the stable and immediately flattened himself against the wall.

‘Fight it, man,’ Aremys said, realising Wyl was overcome by the tainted aura of magic. ‘You’ll get used to it, as I have.’

Wyl lost the battle momentarily, gagging and then retching into a corner. ‘Oh, Shar,’ he groaned. ‘What has he done to them?’

Galapek whinnied again, a sound which nearly broke Wyl’s heart and his spirit. He forced himself to find composure, wiping his mouth on Cailech’s sleeve. He saw Gueryn lying in the straw.

‘Could Obin save him?’ he asked.

Aremys shook his head. No point in lying.

Wyl leaned against the wall again, closed his eyes and groaned. It was so filled with anguish, Aremys had to look away. How much more could Wyl take, he wondered, before he gave up on his fight. Or, more likely, found a way to take his own life.

A huge black dog entered the stable, startling Aremys out of his bleak thoughts. ‘Shar’s wrath!’ He had never seen a dog so big.

‘Meet Knave,’ Wyl said, flat-toned.

‘Ah, the famous beast,’ Aremys replied. ‘May I?’ he asked Wyl, his hand reaching to stroke the animal.

‘Knave alone decides,’ Wyl said, and Aremys detected a hint of humour in the tone. Perhaps Wyl would get through this.

‘Hello, Knave,’ the Grenadyne said and risked touching the great head. Knave growled with pleasure as Aremys scratched his dark brow.

‘Welcome to the chosen few,’ Wyl said, coming back from the dark place he had been moments ago. ‘Knave is particular about who he lets touch him.’

The black dog gave a deep-throated, suspicious bark and walked over to the horse first. Galapek did not flinch. Knave sniffed the creature and whined gently. He knew. Then he padded over to where another dog lay dying. This time he growled softly and began licking at the wounds of the grey dog.

‘Speak to Lothryn,’ Aremys suggested, wanting to divert Wyl’s gaze from the touching scene in the straw. It was too painful to watch. ‘Breathe through your mouth, it makes it easier.’

‘That’s how Fynch overcame the major hurdle of being a gong boy,’ Wyl said, his mind going back to a time when he lived the simple life of a Legionnaire.

‘Where is Fynch?’ Aremys wondered.

The fragile shell Wyl had built around his emotions fractured again. ‘Gone to his death, fighting Rashlyn.’

Aremys wished he could bite his own tongue out. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. None of us do, except perhaps Knave. It is not our battle.’

The big man had no idea how to respond so he left it as yet another heart-wound for Wyl to cope with. ‘Come, Lothryn can talk to us.’

Wyl stepped up to the horse. ‘He’s beautiful despite the repulsive magic.’

‘So true. Touch him.’

Wyl did so and his eyes widened. Startled, he fought the reek of the evil magic and laid his head against the sleek forehead of his rescuer and friend. ‘Lothryn,’ he wept, ‘it’s me, Wyl.’

The magnificent horse nuzzled him, as if in thanks, and Aremys too felt the sting of tears. This was so moving and yet he knew in his heart that worse was surely to come for Wyl and those who supported him.

Wyl, the horse whispered weakly into his mind, I knew you would come. Didn’t expect you to look as you do now.

‘I’m sorry I took his life.’

Don’t be. He lived it fully. Paid the price for his decisions.

‘We will find a way to restore you.’

Turn me loose, I beg you. Tie the dog onto my back and let us go.

‘Aremys,’ Wyl gasped, ‘touch him. Hear what he’s planning.’

The Grenadyne laid a hand on Galapek and shared the conversation.

I must save my strength, Lothryn said, what little is left. Please, put Gueryn on my back and turn us loose.

‘Why?’ Wyl beseeched.

I don’t know, in truth. It seems right. Don’t leave us here like this.

‘Do you know how to rid yourself of this guise?’ Aremys asked, heart lurching with hope.

No. But something is compelling me to escape from here.

Wyl frowned. ‘Why take Gueryn?’

Do you want him to die here… in a stable?

Aremys grimaced at the harsh words. ‘Where will you go?’

I don’t know. Give him to me. You must leave, let us do the same.

‘We could lose you for ever,’ Wyl pleaded.

You’ve lost us already. Let me try — let me see what or who this is calling to me.

Wyl nodded, resigned to the endless misery of losing those he loved. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Aremys.

They fashioned a sling from the linen in which Aremys had carried Gueryn to the stable and found a sack to hold the dog. Knave finished tending to the grey’s wounds.

‘Odd that he would do that,’ Wyl commented absently.

‘An instinctive attempt to heal the wounds perhaps?’ Aremys offered.

‘Or simply Knave’s way of showing his sorrow.’

‘He can breathe easily through the sackcloth,’ Aremys said.

‘He won’t be breathing much longer,’ Wyl said, stroking the dog’s face.

‘Come on, Wyl. You have to be strong,’ Aremys warned. ‘Like Fynch.’

Fighting words. They rallied Wyl’s flagging spirits. ‘Yes, you’re right. Fynch is off fighting a lost cause; I should at least try.’ He hefted the injured dog into the sack and together he and Aremys tied the sack into the sling then onto a saddle on Galapek’s back.

Aremys watched the King reach again towards the majestic face of Galapek. He knew this was intensely difficult for Wyl.

‘Haldor protect you, Lothryn,’ Wyl said.

Shar go with you, Wyl. We shall see each other again.

‘Elspyth will kill me in an ugly fashion if not,’ he said, trying to lighten the heavy moment.

Lothryn did not reply, simply waited for Wyl to make his farewell to Gueryn.

Wyl cupped the grey dog’s face in his huge hands and kissed it, hoping that love and honour would somehow pour through that touch and reach the brave, dying man trapped inside.

‘As One,’ he whispered to the dog, and then the horse was off, moving through the great doors Aremys had pushed open.

Galapek did not look back or make any noise of farewell; he simply cantered off into the blackness of the night.

Rashlyn felt himself compelled to return to the clearing, even though every fibre of his being told him he should run. Curiosity had him in its grip and now he knew that the boy, Fynch, called himself the King of the Creatures, he wanted to know what that meant.

‘Come, Rashlyn,’ a voice called. It startled him, for he could see no one. Then Fynch shimmered before him. ‘It is time.’

‘For what?’ the barshi screamed at the child.

‘For you to die,’ Fynch replied, a new gravity in his voice. He too had left behind everyone he loved, deliberately cutting himself away from Wyl and Knave. He could not carry out his task, could not offer himself as Sacrifice, if they were near.

Sacrifice. He understood now. It had taken some time to ponder its meaning and how he must apply it to this battle with Rashlyn. It meant more than death. It meant yielding. Fynch smiled, pleased that his neat, ordered mind had worked it out and could put it away now. He no longer had to tease at its complexity to unravel its secret.

Faith Fynch. Sacrifice.

The first wave came as Rashlyn hurled a magical avalanche of blows at Fynch, screaming with madness and anger as he loosed his powers.

Around them the creatures of the mountains quietly gathered in awe. They had instinctively known for many hours that something momentous was about to occur, but were not sure what exactly. Now they knew. Ekons, ice bears, deer, snow hares, even the birds who had been spreading the news since dusk, gathered side by side, predator and prey, forgetting their fear or hunger for the time being as they witnessed a wild man doing battle with a creature they had never seen before. They knew of it only through stories handed down through the ages. A dragon.

Rollo, Myrt and Byl saw Cailech glance at the muslin bundle tied over a horse. They could not see past the stern expression to the emotional battle going on inside. Wyl steeled himself not to look at Ylena’s corpse again. It was over. Her life was spent and had been given bravely, like all Thirsks before her.

Beside Cailech’s horse stood a huge dog. He explained its presence to the Mountain men. ‘This is Knave. He is going to help us with what we must do, and is one of the reasons why Rashlyn no longer has any hold on me.’

‘Where is Rashlyn, sire?’ Myrt asked. He seemed fully recovered from the barshi’s attack now.

‘He is dead,’ Wyl risked, hoping he was telling the truth.

‘And Lothryn, your majesty?’ Rollo added.

They deserved to know. ‘I have released him. Aremys here can talk to him and that was what Lothryn wanted.’

Rollo gasped. All the talk of magic had been confusing enough, but now the King was saying the Grenadyne could communicate with the magically created animals? It was too much. ‘What? How?’

‘Myrt knows,’ Wyl replied. He was not in the mood to go into further discussion tonight. ‘He will explain. Right now we ride for Briavel.’

‘May I ask why, sire?’ Myrt said. His tone was hesitant but his manner firm.

‘To make a new peace treaty, this time with a Queen who needs the support of the Mountain People.’

‘Against the Morgravian Crown?’ Myrt asked, quickly grasping his King’s intent.

It was Aremys who replied. ‘Celimus has no intention of keeping his promise to the Razor Kingdom. Our only hope of peace is with Briavel.’

‘But, sire,’ Rollo pleaded, ‘she is marrying Celimus. Her loyalties stand with him!’

‘Not necessarily,’ his King replied in a tone that discouraged further argument. ‘I need you to trust me. I have never led our people wrong so far. I will not do so now.’

‘Shouldn’t we come with you, sire?’ Myrt asked, far preferring to ride headlong into danger with his King than take over royal duties.

‘No. I need you here, Myrt. You and Rollo will keep everyone steady. And in case the horse returns — he will need friends, allies who know the truth.’ He said no more. It would not serve any purpose to get their hopes up that Lothryn might be restored.

Myrt asked anyway. ‘Can the spells be reversed?’

‘It’s my keen hope they can be. According to Aremys, it is why Lothryn asked to be released.’

‘Where has he gone?’

‘We don’t know,’ Aremys replied. ‘But he took the grey dog with him. We just have to hope he knows more than us, now that Rashlyn is finished.’

Myrt nodded unhappily, a glum Rollo by his side. ‘Haldor keep you safe, sire.’

Cailech nodded back, appreciating the warrior’s suffering and his wish to protect his King. ‘It is better this way, Myrt. We two can slip into and out of Briavel far more subtly than a mass of Mountain barbarians storming Werryl Palace.’

‘Get word to us the usual way,’ Myrt said and cocked his head towards a small box fastened to the side of the horse that carried Ylena.

Wyl frowned, taking a moment to delve into Cailech’s memories. He understood. ‘I hope those pigeons are strong flyers,’ he said.

‘The best,’ Myrt answered. ‘Rollo’s top birds,’ and he grinned towards his companion.

‘All right. Keep faith. Look after Aydrech. If anything happens, if Celimus sets a raid, the boy must be protected at all costs.’

The big man nodded. ‘I will take care of him personally.’

‘Good,’ Wyl said, adding, ‘Rotate the watches more regularly. I have no idea whether Celimus will attempt anything or not.’

‘Possibly not with a wedding not far away,’ Aremys commented drily.

‘Nevertheless,’ Wyl replied, ‘the child’s safety is paramount.’ He leaned down and clasped each man’s hand in farewell, knowing full well that neither of these loyal Mountain warriors would see their King again.

The horse arrived at the edge of the wood. Lothryn felt drawn towards the trees and as he entered their cover he felt the pulse of magic emanating from somewhere deep inside the forest. He also noted that he was feeling stronger, more himself, than at any time since the change had been inflicted on him. It was as though his own essence was a tiny flame flickering within the horse and now that flame was burning a fraction brighter. Pain continued to be his companion but, although he reminded himself he could be imagining it because the stunning arrival of Wyl in the guise of Cailech had so warmed his spirit, he believed the pain had lessened ever so slightly.

Lothryn was reassured by the connection between him and the dog. He could feel its heartbeat — weak but still there. Hang on, Gueryn, he passed through the link, even though he had no idea whether the trapped man heard him or could even register something as subtle as another’s thoughts.

Still following the compulsion, Lothryn pushed deeper into the wood until he came to a clearing. He stood at its fringe and looked in wonderment at the sight that confronted him — a huge dragon coated in a shimmering armour of scales. Its serpent-like neck was twisted and the great head was thrown back but there was no sound. The great beast was silent as wave after wave of sickening magical power pounded its body. Lothryn saw that deathly magic as a sickly brown colour, impenetrable by light. It was Rashlyn who was dealing the blows, his face a twisted mask of hate.

Lothryn felt the impulse to rush forward and pummel the barshi with every last ounce of strength he could muster from Galapek’s powerful body, and yet something stopped him. He stared at Rashlyn and knew that if hate, madness and despair could be embodied then it would look exactly like the sorcerer punishing the magnificent winged creature before him. The dragon looked to be foundering as Rashlyn muttered a stream of unintelligible words. Although the sorcerer looked exhausted he was standing and seemed to be in control of this frightening drama.

Looking around, Lothryn became aware of other creatures — dozens, no scores of them — clustered amongst the trees and dotted around the nearby foothills. He even saw ekons and flinched in fear, before realising they were as paralysed by the same awe that he was experiencing.

A dragon! Who would have thought they truly existed? Lothryn had always considered them creatures of myth.

Fight back! Lothryn begged.

He won’t, replied a voice, startling him.

He twisted to see who it was. A bird on a nearby branch stretched its wings. Who are you? the horse asked.

I am Kestrel.

And who is that? Lothryn asked, hiding his surprise at being able to communicate with a bird.

That is the King. The King of us all. And he is sacrificing himself to save us. He was once Fynch.

I gathered Fynch was a child?

He is so much more.

But I see him as a dragon, Lothryn persisted. There’s no boy there.

He is still a child but the dragon reflects who he truly is.

Lothryn was none the wiser for Kestrel’s explanation. He looked back at the dragon, which staggered slightly. Why doesn’t he use his powers? Surely he can topple a man!

Oh yes, he could overcome the sorcerer with ease but he refuses to kill. That is the child in our King. He made a pact with himself, I think. I sensed it when he first spoke to me. There is no violence in Fynch. He agreed to destroy Rashlyn but in his own way.

Lothryn felt his spirit lurch with grief for this brave boy, Wyl’s friend, now — like all of them — somehow changed by enchantment. So how can he beat the barshi?

Kestrel’s sorrow came into his mind like a gale. By taking everything that is Rashlyn. He will absorb the storm of magic, consume the pain, devour the evil. Already his glow lessens. When the battle began, the King of the Creatures burned golden bright. See how the murky evil has dimmed him.

But then he will die himself, Lothryn said, aghast.

I suspect so, Kestrel agreed, bitterness now in his voice. But not before Rashlyn burns through his power until there is none left.

Both creatures fell silent and kept vigil with all the other animals of the mountains, still gathering to pay homage to their King.

THIRTY-FOUR

WYL AND AREMYS SET OFF FROM the fortress in the dead of night, Knave trotting at their side. The Grenadyne chanced airing his concern to the grim-faced King at his side. ‘We cannot travel the Razors successfully at night, Wyl. Surely you know that the way down is treacherous?’

‘I do. We won’t be going far,’ came the reply, which hardly addressed the question.

‘If you’re intent on this mad journey into Briavel, why not leave at first light? We would easily make up the poor advantage of departing now.’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t explained myself,’ Wyl said, turning to look directly at his anxious friend. ‘Leaving by horse was purely for appearances.’

‘What?’

‘I have another method of travel, much faster — though horribly unpleasant.’

‘Has becoming a King gone to your head?’ Aremys began to sound truculent. The night’s proceedings had worn down his emotional reserves. He was tired, angry at losing Cailech, furious at failing Lothryn and Gueryn, sad for Wyl and altogether sick to the back teeth of magic. He must have murmured the last thought aloud because Wyl answered him.

‘Well, just a little more magic to go. It was you who gave me the idea.’

‘Me! Whatever are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about the Thicket, Aremys. We will use the Thicket to travel.’

That won the Grenadyne’s attention. He felt like he had been punched in the belly and could not speak for a few moments. Finally he said, ‘How?’

‘Knave. It’s why I insisted he come.’

‘He looks none too happy about it.’

‘He isn’t, believe me. I’ve never known him be this aloof.’

‘Because he had to leave behind Fynch presumably?’

‘Correct. The two of them are inextricably linked.’

‘But you told me he was your dog.’

Wyl sighed. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said and smiled sadly. ‘Knave loves us all and has protected all of us. Now he is having to suffer each of us dying, and me so many times over.’

Aremys did not want to talk of death again. ‘So how can the dog help us?’

‘He is of the Thicket. He is our connection to it.’

‘And?’ Aremys was still baffled.

‘Remember how you suddenly found yourself between the fringe of Timpkenny and the Razors…?’

Aremys frowned, and then a dawning occurred. ‘Oh no, you jest, surely?’

He saw Cailech’s eyes — now settled back to their pale green — sparkle in the light of the flaming torch he carried. ‘Not this time, my friend.’

Aremys began to stutter, words falling out on top of each other. ‘But how do you summon it, command it, control it?’

Cailech’s shoulders shrugged and a twitch of a grin at his mouth disappeared as rapidly as it arrived. ‘We just have to trust the Thicket.’

‘That place is no friend of mine, Wyl. It cast me out, remember? What if it hurts me this time?’

‘It won’t.’

‘You sound so confident,’ Aremys blustered, unsettled by this idea of Wyl’s. He did not trust the Thicket.

‘I am. The Thicket will not hurt either of us — firstly, because we travel with Knave, and secondly, because of our connection to Fynch. The boy means everything to the Thicket, I believe.’

‘How do we know it can do this?’

‘It threw me all the way to Briavel in seconds,’ Wyl said.

Aremys gasped. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘There is so much you don’t know,’ Wyl said, his voiced laced with regret. ‘The fact that Fynch will die this night, doing what he has done since I first met him.’

‘Which is?’

‘Acting out of sacrifice, loyalty, love. He has always put others before himself. Or that Valentyna will marry Celimus, come what may.’

Aremys now felt utterly baffled. ‘I thought we were going to Briavel to try to prevent it?’

He saw Cailech shrug. ‘I can’t read the future,’ Wyl said. ‘Elysius told me that she will marry the King of Morgravia.’

‘Why do we go then?’

‘Because Fynch told me that Myrren’s gift is still subject to randomness.’

Aremys looked quizzically at the King of the Mountains. They were moving slowly, often raising an arm to acknowledge scouts and guides on higher ridges who were recognisable only by the flicker of their small fires. A special flame burning on top of the fortress told these guards that their King was passing, so the two men had no fear of being attacked or stopped. ‘I don’t understand any of this, Wyl.’

‘I hardly understand it myself,’ Wyl admitted. ‘Fynch believes that random acts can still affect the outcome of Myrren’s gift.’

‘And so you will try and do something to prevent the Queen marrying Celimus, is that right?’

‘In truth I don’t see how I can. I think I am going there simply so that I may see her before I die again.’

Aremys reined in his horse and Wyl followed suit, knowing his statement was too provocative to be ignored. ‘Why?’ his friend demanded. ‘Stay as Cailech — you can achieve so much. Let’s turn back. You say yourself that you cannot affect the outcome of the marriage. We have friends here, loyal people. You are a King. You can live. Stop the gift now!’

‘Only one thing will stop it, Aremys,’ Wyl said, weariness in his tone now.

‘What?’ the Grenadyne asked, sensing Wyl knew more.

Wyl raised King Cailech’s head and looked his friend directly in the eye. ‘When I become the sovereign of Morgravia.’

‘Celimus?’ It came out as a choked exclamation.

Wyl nodded. He was deadly serious now and Aremys was shocked to the core. ‘Is that what this is all about? Myrren’s gift is to make sure that you become him?’

Cailech’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘It’s about revenge. Myrren suffered at Celimus’s hands, so she and her father worked out a way to make him suffer in return.’

‘But why involve you? You did nothing but offer her pity.’

‘I am nothing but a pawn in this complex game,’ Wyl said softly. ‘She has used me to avenge her torture which Celimus so enjoyed.’

Wyl could see the big man’s horror at this news written all over his face. He recalled his own despair at the discovery of the truth of Myrren’s gift. Now Aremys was reflecting a similar anguish. Perhaps it was even worse for the mercenary, Wyl thought, having always believed that watching those you love suffer was more intolerable than living through the suffering yourself.

‘Wyl,’ Aremys began, recovering himself. ‘This is worse than I could ever have imagined, I’ll agree, but can you not think of it in the more positive light,’ he ventured carefully, ‘that you will be King of Morgravia and your Queen will be Valentyna? Can the notion that you will be together soften the damage which has been done? You cannot bring back those you have lost but perhaps you can make their lives count by making Morgravia great again under a good King. Sire heirs with Valentyna and establish a new dynasty. Imagine it — Morgravia ruled by you, not Celimus. One more death, my friend, that’s all it will take.’ There was a new brightness in the Grenadyne’s voice, as if suddenly he felt everything could be righted.

Wyl looked down at his new large hands with their prominent knuckles and long, blunt fingers. He had thought of the same scenario which Aremys was now so taken with many times since learning of his destiny. And every time he tried to convince himself that this terrible episode of his life could end happily, he hit a wall. The wall was called Celimus. ‘Aremys,’ he said softly into the chill spring night. ‘I don’t want to be him.’

Aremys had not considered this. ‘You have no choice apparently.’

‘I will not live as Celimus,’ Wyl said, slowly, defiantly. ‘I would sooner die.’

‘But you will have everything —’

Wyl cut him off. ‘I will have nothing but hate and despair. You don’t understand — when I become someone new, much of who they are remains with me. I have their memories, their dreams. I have their ways and mannerisms. I have their darkness, Aremys. I will not live as the person I hate most in this world and who in turn has hated the Thirsks for two decades.’

‘So what are you going to do — die again?’ Aremys’s tone was heavy with sarcasm as he hoped to jolt his friend from this current attitude. Wyl remained silent and continued staring at Cailech’s hands.

The Grenadyne shook his head slowly with disbelief. ‘Tell me you’re not planning to die once you’re him, Wyl?’ Aremys urged, a fresh wave of fear washing across him. He realised that once Wyl became Celimus, he would no longer have Myrren’s protection. He would be as vulnerable to death as anyone.

Wyl spoke in a grave tone: ‘When it happens — and it will, for my destiny is to become the sovereign of Morgravia — you will end my life once and for all.’

Aremys was rocked by Wyl’s words. ‘I won’t,’ he shouted. ‘I won’t do it.’

‘You will! You will do it because I demand it. I will be King of Morgravia, don’t forget, and I will command you.’

‘Or what? Kill me?’ Aremys yelled.

Wyl ignored him, kept speaking: ‘We shall set it up as an accident. It doesn’t have to be by your hand as such, if that revolts you too much. We can manipulate it through others, but you will help me to achieve my death. An arrow, clean and swift to the heart. I would prefer it to be you, Aremys, I know you shoot accurately. This is about friendship, love, loyalty.’

‘No, Wyl. What about Valentyna?’

‘I can’t think about what might happen after my death. That will be beyond my control. But Valentyna will be released from her sentence of being married to Celimus, free to return to Briavel and begin her life afresh.’

‘But it’s not him. It’s you.’

‘Valentyna will not know that. She will look at me with disgust: she will detest my touch and speak my name with loathing. No, Aremys,’ Wyl said sadly, ‘I would rather be dead, truly. Elysius said I cannot contrive for others to kill me but I am counting on the fact that once I have become Celimus, as Elysius and Myrren intended, the gift will have run its course and will no longer be able to hurt me or those I care about.’

Aremys shook his head; it was too painful. They had battled against so much and come through it, but for what? Only for Wyl to die, and for good this time. ‘Don’t make this decision yet,’ he beseeched. ‘Fynch warned of the randomness — let’s wait and see how it all turns out.’

Wyl recalled Fynch begging him to tell Valentyna the truth, and was reminded once again that the boy had never led him astray. Fynch had always been true. He would make his own decision on whether or not to share the truth with Valentyna when he met her again, although, if he was honest with himself, he knew he could never live sheathed within Celimus. Even if it did not revolt her — and it should, looking daily at the man who had organised the deaths of her father and Romen as well as countless others — it would certainly revolt him. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘We will not discuss it again until I become Celimus, after which I will give you one night’s grace, which I shall spend with Valentyna, and the next day I will expect you to take my life. Agreed?’

Aremys was cornered. There was no way out of this bargain. ‘Agreed,’ he said, deeply unhappy.

‘Good,’ Wyl replied, feeling suddenly brighter for airing the decision he had been brooding on for so long. Now it was time to ask for the Thicket’s help.

‘Come, we’ll try from there,’ he said, pointing to a small outcrop of rocks.

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Aremys asked, leading his horse in the direction of the rocks.

‘Not really, but the journey will take too long by conventional means. I have to try.’

Aremys sighed audibly. ‘So what do we do? Turn the horses loose or remain on them?’

Cailech shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I haven’t even brought anything for her,’ he said, his mind elsewhere.

Aremys lifted his eyes to the heavens and asked Shar to help them. ‘Come on, Wyl, what do we do?’

Wyl collected his thoughts. ‘Knave,’ he said, ‘please would you call on the Thicket? I need it to send us to Werryl Palace, like it did for me before.’

Knave could not explain to his friend that he no longer enjoyed the same contact with the Thicket.

There was nothing for it now, he realised: he would have to contact Fynch… if he was still alive. He growled at the King, knowing Wyl would understand.

Knave let his mind flood with the trace that was Fynch and cast out to him, begging him to be alive, to answer him… not because he needed his help but because he wanted to hear his sweet voice again.

Knave. It sounded more of a groan.

Always here, the dog answered, keeping his voice steady even though he was frightened by the pain communicated in that single syllable of Fynch’s response.

Is Wyl safe?

Yes. Knave knew not to waste time on small talk. Fynch was fighting for his life. We need to use the Thicket to travel quickly to Briavel. I’m sorry to —

Wait. There was a silence and then Fynch was back; his voice sounded even more fractured and filled with pain than just moments earlier. I’ve set up a bridge. Use it, but hurry — I can’t hold it together for long.

Fynch, what’s happening?

Hurry, Knave. Please.

Knave closed his eyes in grief. It sounded as though Fynch was near to death. He linked to the Thicket, feeling guilty at drawing on Fynch’s waning reserves. He could not understand it. Fynch was strong in his power. Surely he could easily overcome Rashlyn?

It was Rasmus who answered the unspoken question. Fynch is following his destiny, Knave. You must do what he has commanded. The Thicket will allow this request.

There are horses too, Knave replied, disguising his rising fear for Fynch.

The owl made a sound of disgust in his mind. Wyl Thirsk never makes it easy, the bird said testily. We’ll have to be careful how they land. Tell the two men to sit on horseback. Then we only have to control three ‘parcels’.

Just two. I plan to return to Fynch.

No. You have been commanded and you must do as he wishes. Now make ready.

Knave cut the link angrily. He was unused to feeling such emotion, but then he had never loved anyone before. He felt a keen loyalty to Wyl and would give his life for him if asked, but with Fynch it ran much deeper. It was love. Not something you turned your back on.

Thank you, Fynch, he sent, filled with sorrow.

He could barely hear the reply but he felt it. I love you, Knave, farewell.

If a dog could cry, Knave would have done so at that moment, when he felt the loss of Fynch as the boy cut their link. Knave whined softly, then he turned to Wyl and gave a low growl.

Aremys shook his head. ‘Do you understand him?’

Wyl nodded. ‘Sort of. I’ve been around him long enough to grasp what kind of message is being communicated.’

‘And that one meant?’

‘We wait.’ He turned to Knave. ‘I know you’re hurting, boy, but I need you to come with us.’

Wyl’s comment was timely. Knave realised, much as he hated to admit it, that he was not of much use to Fynch right now, whereas Wyl needed him for this trip to Briavel. He would go.

The men began to dismount but Knave barked.

Aremys frowned. ‘What now?’

‘Wants us to remain on horseback, I think,’ Wyl said. ‘Is that right, Knave?’

The dog gave a familiar growl and Wyl nodded to his friend. ‘Yes. I guess we’re taking the horses.’

‘This will take some explaining at the other end,’ Aremys said as the air around them began to thicken.

‘Here we go,’ Wyl cautioned. ‘It’s not pleasant, I warn you.’

‘I think I remember it now,’ was all Aremys had time to say before he felt a huge pressure on his body and all went dark.

The blinding golden light which had initially shimmered around the dragon had gradually dimmed to a soft glow and taken on a dirty bronze colour. The dragon’s wings hung limply and each breath was laboured but still it stood upright and continued to absorb the magic slamming into its body.

‘Die, beast,’ the barshi screamed, clearly confused as to why the creature would not retaliate. ‘You came here to destroy me,’ he yelled. ‘Yet you can’t even shield against my magic.’

He blasted the dragon again with a powerful spell and saw the beautiful beast stagger for the first time, its head drooping.

Fynch! Lothryn screamed.

He can’t hear you, Kestrel warned. He won’t listen anyway. He is dying, wants to die… has to die, I think.

We must do something, Lothryn sent back to the bird. He marvelled at how much stronger he was feeling. His own light — if he could call it that — was burning bright.

We are. We bear witness to his sacrifice.

We let him die? We could all rush at Rashlyn together and destroy him. He can’t kill all of us at once, surely? Lothryn tried.

Kestrel tutted. He is already being destroyed.

What do you mean?

With every spell the sorcerer weakens. He cannot feel it yet but we can see it. His magic is a filthy brown, tainted and ugly, not bright and golden like that of the Dragon King. The man has been careless — he has used most of it up.

And?

Fynch will absorb the evil magic, the pain until there is no more left in the sorcerer. And by doing so, he sacrifices himself.

A collective groan echoed around the forest and up to the mountain ridges as the animals saw the dragon slump to one side, its golden light no more than a slight wash of colour around it now.

Rashlyn was laughing maniacally. ‘It is you who dies, you fool. Am I so strong? Can you not fight me? I am the King of the Creatures, not you. I will rule them all. I can change them and bend them to my will.’ He shook his bony fist towards the animals who watched. ‘You will all hail me as your King. Look at the dragon now. He dies. I have vanquished him and I shall take all of his power and wield it as I will.’

It was true. The King of the Creatures had rolled onto his side and was breathing so shallowly now that death was surely imminent.

If Lothryn had not been mesmerised and moved by the boy’s courage, he would have closed Galapek’s eyes to avoid seeing the dragon die. But he could not do that. Instead he focused on Rashlyn and, because he was helplessly linked to him through the evil man’s filthy magic, he could feel the barshi summoning everything he had within. Curiously, Lothryn himself felt stronger than ever. He was truly himself again inside this horse; no longer a shrunken spirit barely clinging to existence. The pain had diminished; his flesh no longer twitched and trembled. The enchantment was waning as Rashlyn gathered all of his power to hurl at the dying dragon.

‘Finish it!’ the animals heard their King whisper. Fynch’s words were met by a hysterical cackle from Rashlyn.

The barshi unleashed a primeval howl and launched every ounce of magic he possessed towards the dragon. The animals who had gathered to pay homage bore witness as Fynch, King of the Creatures, rolled back onto his clawed feet again in a last defiant show of strength and will. He too loosed a roar — a death roar — which every creature felt rattle through its chest, and he accepted the powerful killing spell, magically dragging it towards him… except when he had absorbed the spell he did not stop. He went on, sucking hard at the barshi whose twisted face of triumph turned to surprise. He was no longer giving his magic, it was being stolen from him, pulled in a great and dirty arc into his opponent.

I take it all from you, Rashlyn, were the dragon’s final words.

Lothryn and Kestrel watched in awed silence as Fynch, howling with anger, dragged the very essence of the barshi’s being into himself and consumed it in golden fire. The brilliant light pulsed brightly around the dragon before extinguishing itself.

The King of the Creatures fell and appeared to be consumed by himself, reducing in size and stature until, where the mighty dragon had stood so proudly just hours earlier, the tiny shape of a boy lay curled tightly into himself on the forest floor.

Each creature present cried out in sympathy and then, as if on a given signal, all but the ekons began to move towards the child, who looked as though he was sleeping. One by one they nuzzled or sniffed the tiny body, each whining softly in thanks for the sacrifice that had been given to preserve their lives and their ways.

In Briavel, Knave threw back his head and howled; a sound to chill the souls who stood nearby. He did it again and again and Wyl knew the black dog was grieving for Fynch.

He lowered King Cailech’s head in grief. ‘Fynch is dead,’ he said to Aremys, and the mercenary knew better than to offer hollow words of comfort.

A man staggered between the trees, his body burned and shrivelled, his hair flaming. His tangled beard was a blackened mass and patches of charred flesh ate at his face. His eyes were unseeing, scorched black, and he moaned, arms outstretched as he blindly felt his way. He was a mere husk of who he had once been. He began to scream and his empty cries echoed off the mountain peaks and returned to taunt him.

‘Yes, scream, you evil bastard,’ a voice said.

Lothryn looked around, wondering which of the animals had spoken aloud, but it was no animal who mocked Rashlyn. Beside the stallion stood a man; a tall, handsome older man with silver grey shot through his hair and the same silver glint in his short beard.

‘Who speaks?’ shrieked Rashlyn, swinging around in the direction of the voice.

‘It is Gueryn le Gant.’

‘The dog?’ Rashlyn whispered, awed.

‘The man,’ Gueryn said, and it sounded like a threat. ‘You have no more magic, Rashlyn. You cannot bind me and so I am freed.’ He looked at the horse, sorrow knifing through him. ‘I see his magic was not used in such sophistication on you, my friend. You remain entrapped.’

Having felt his spirit soar with untold joy at seeing Gueryn whole, Lothryn experienced the sickening fall of disappointment at realising that he, of course, remained as Galapek. He turned his great head towards the man but could no longer communicate with him by sending thoughts.

Gueryn lifted his finger to his lips to calm Lothryn. ‘We will find a way,’ he whispered to the horse, knowing the man inside could hear.

‘How did this happen?’ yelled Rashlyn, his voice trembling. ‘You were stabbed, dead.’

‘The other dog, Knave, healed me. He licked each of my wounds and sealed them with his own magic. He sensed I would be returned if you lost your power.’

‘Lost my power,’ the barshi echoed, as if he had not registered the change.

Gueryn advanced on the wild man. He could smell the charred flesh and took great pleasure in noticing injuries which would normally turn his gut. ‘Try your magic now,’ Gueryn taunted. ‘If you can.’

Rashlyn screamed his despair as he discovered his loss.

Gueryn laughed. ‘Fynch may not have had the desire to kill, but I do, Rashlyn,’ Gueryn said. ‘I do.’ He closed on the staggering man who was now walking in circles, arms outstretched. But then he looked up and had a far better idea. Most of the animals had scattered since the demise of their King, but one type of creature, the most intimidating, remained. They were gradually closing in on the three that remained in the clearing, but Gueryn could see their attention was focused on the charred man rather than himself and Galapek.

‘Ah, a better idea,’ he said gleefully. ‘A fitting one, Rashlyn.’

Spinning towards his voice, Rashlyn began to weep. ‘What?’

‘Do you know what ekons look like?’

The barshi fell to his knees and began to plead for mercy. Gueryn laughed, amazed at the man’s audacity. ‘Go to your god, Rashlyn, and I hope he burns you in eternal fire.’

Gueryn bent down to the boy, not wasting time to check for a pulse or even whether he breathed. He lifted the tiny mass of limbs and cradled the child in his arms. Fynch’s head rolled against the soldier’s chest. Gueryn called to Galapek and rapidly hefted himself onto the stallion’s broad back, Fynch all but weightless in his arms, and bade the horse to get them out of there.

Galapek’s powerful frame carried them swiftly from the grisly scene that unfolded in the clearing as two massive ekons descended on a screaming man who understood all too well, blind or not, that death had finally arrived. Only one creature remained to witness the barshi’s bloody end — a kestrel perched high in a tree’s branches.

THIRTY-FIVE

AREMYS FELT THAT COMING TO Werryl was a stupid idea. It was clear from what Wyl had said that Knave would prefer to be back in the Razors, and even Wyl’s good sense must surely be screaming at him to get as far away from Briavel as possible. And yet here they were, taking deep breaths to recover from travel by magic and preparing to waltz up to the Queen of Briavel and present King Cailech to her, sworn enemy of the southern realms and newly agreed partner-in-crime with the treacherous Morgravian monarch.

‘Do you think the Queen will start screaming like a banshee or do you imagine she’ll keep her composure and offer the Mountain King high tea?’ Aremys said sarcastically. ‘That is, if we make it past the hail of arrows.’

‘We’ll send Knave,’ Wyl said, smoothing back Cailech’s long golden hair. ‘How do I look?’

Aremys laughed, harsh and brief. ‘Like the fucking King of the Razors.’

‘I meant,’ Wyl replied calmly, ‘am I untidy?’

Aremys shook his head. ‘What does it matter? Let’s go, Wyl, and get this done with.’

‘Trust me, my friend. She will see us.’

‘And kill us,’ the mercenary growled.

‘Not with Knave leading us, she won’t. She trusts the dog more than me.’

‘Who is “me”, Wyl?’ Aremys asked angrily.

‘Romen,’ Wyl corrected. ‘You’re welcome to remain here,’ he offered, tiring of the Grenadyne’s bitterness even though he understood.

‘No, it’s always fun watching you die,’ Aremys cut back swiftly. He regretted it instantly as he watched pain sweep across Cailech’s face, the eyes darkening with barely contained sorrow. ‘Forgive me, Wyl,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ his friend said softly. ‘I just have to see her once more, Aremys, before I become Celimus and am forced to see her through his cruel eyes.’

‘How will it happen do you think? The Queen will turn you over to him… again?’

‘Probably,’ Wyl said, resigned to his fate. ‘Come, I hope she has not already left for Pearlis.’

Valentyna was taking a late supper with Liryk. Conversation was hard won from her this night, just a day before their departure to Pearlis. She was trying, of that the commander was certain, but gradually her gaze had clouded and now she had withdrawn into her private, no doubt grim imaginings of life as Celimus’s Queen.

Liryk wished he could spare her the sorrow she was feeling, but he thought of her father and imagined how proud Valor would be of his only child and the brilliant gift she was giving Briavel. The gift of peace.

He watched her pushing food around her plate, her fork never once lifting any of it towards her mouth and the only sound in the room its clink against the porcelain. He watched sadly as she lifted her beautiful face to look at him, aware of his gaze.

‘Forgive me, Liryk.’

‘Nothing to forgive, your highness.’

Valentyna smiled wanly. ‘My thoughts are elsewhere this eve — a bride’s prerogative, I think.’ She tried to widen the smile but failed. Tears welled instead. Liryk rushed to share with her his thought about her gift of peace to the realm. ‘Thank you, that’s really very lovely. I shall think on it as I make my wedding vows.’

‘But still you keep hoping something might save you from the marriage?’ he ventured.

She shrugged. ‘Nothing can save me from this, Liryk.’

They both started at the sound of a knock at the door.

‘Let me, your majesty,’ Liryk offered and rose to answer the messenger. He returned tight-lipped and frowning.

‘Important?’ she asked, presuming it was for him. ‘Don’t fret, you’re excused from my dazzling repartee this evening.’ He gazed at her, wishing he did not have to tell her anything, wishing they could leave for Pearlis tonight. ‘What is it? Not bad news, please… unless,’ she laughed harshly, ‘it’s to tell me that Celimus had died in an accident.’ She instantly apologised with her eyes, her demeanour suddenly contrite.

‘Far more intriguing, your highness. Knave is on the bridge.’

She stood. ‘Knave’s back! Is Fynch with him?’

‘No, your majesty.’ Liryk’s hesitant tone snapped her to attention.

‘He’s not alone though, is he?’

‘He brings with him two men. One is Aremys Farrow.’

Valentyna’s mouth dropped open. ‘The man Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy spoke of — the one brokering the peace treaty with the Mountain King?’

Liryk nodded.

‘And who accompanies him?’ Valentyna asked, then frowned at Liryk’s silence. ‘Come on, Commander, the suspense is irritating.’

Liryk wiped away the perspiration which had coated his forehead since the wide-eyed messenger had brought the news. ‘King Cailech of the Mountains, your majesty.’

The silence that met his words felt as heavy as the dread in his own heart. He watched his Queen’s hand fly to her throat but, to her credit, she gave away nothing more than the initial shock. She visibly gathered her composure and turned towards the double windows, unlatched and threw them open, then stepped out onto the balcony.

He joined her in looking down upon the famous Werryl Bridge where three figures stood, surrounded by soldiers. One was familiar; as if on cue, the dog raised his great dark head now and looked directly at Valentyna. Liryk considered it uncanny but Valentyna read it differently. She felt that penetrating gaze cross the substantial distance between them and pierce her heart. She had to stop herself clutching her breast, where an old ache, barely buried, resurfaced to taunt and frighten her.

‘He has brought him back to me,’ she whispered to herself as a notion, more insane than the thoughts of the lunatics they sent for safekeeping to the Isle of Maguria, hit her.

‘Beg your pardon, your majesty?’ Liryk said.

Valentyna closed her eyes momentarily then calmly replied, ‘Bring them to my study.’

‘Your majesty, I don’t —’

‘Now, Liryk, please. Search them and remove their weapons. I’m sure you will organise an armed guard too?’

‘Yes, your highness.’

She disappeared from the balcony, leaving Liryk to look down upon the strange trio once more.

‘Now what have you sent us, Shar, to disrupt her peace?’ he muttered.

Valentyna splashed icy water on her face and took several deep, steadying breaths as she held the drying linen to her cheeks. She groaned. What was happening to her? Where had that strange and maddening notion come from?

She raced through the various questions alarming her. How could Knave know the Mountain King? Why bring him here? How could they have come so far without encountering the Briavellian Guard? It was impossible, she realised. Unless they materialised out of thin air, she thought sarcastically. Two riders and a huge dog would not escape notice.

Knave’s return inevitably reminded her of Fynch and she recalled his last conversation with her, when he had implied that the man she loved was not decaying in a tomb within the palace crypt. If I suggested this was simply a dead body and not really the Romen Koreldy you loved, what would you say? he had asked, shocking her. And she had replied that it would be cruel to say such a thing. Still he had tried, dear Fynch, to make her understand something which she could not believe, and yet now felt so deep in her heart. Although Romen’s corpse lies here before us, the man you knew — the man you loved, your highness — is not dead.

And looking down at the trio on Werryl Bridge, she had felt as much, even though neither of the two men looked remotely like Romen. But if Fynch was right, and Romen was not dead, then what could possibly provide an explanation for such madness?

‘How in Shar’s name… unless…’ She hesitated to even say the word, but it hovered nevertheless on the tip of her tongue. Magic.

‘Magic,’ she said aloud, recalling Elspyth’s warning about being open to different ways of understanding. She had spoken of reincarnation and told her that love might return in the shape of another. Elspyth had been trying to convey a message; Valentyna had heard it in the urgency of her tone, her desperation to imply something important whilst not actually saying it. Elspyth had said that love might present itself as a woman even and Valentyna had laughed. Yet Ylena Thirsk had tried to give her love. Valentyna had rejected it, disgusted and upset that a woman would make such an approach to her. But that was no ordinary woman, was it, she thought to herself now, throwing down the linen and staring at her reflection in the mirror. If you were truthful to yourself, you would admit there was an attraction there. You could not explain it if you were asked to, but if your life depended on it you might whisper that Ylena behaved with you as a man would… as a particular man would.

She watched helpless tears roll down her face as she permitted the truth of her thoughts to be unleashed for the first time. Ylena Thirsk walked and talked like a woman but acted like a man. Like Koreldy, damn it! She even had the same curious habit of pulling at her ear and pacing when in deep thought.

Say it! she urged herself.

‘Like Romen,’ she whispered to the mirror. ‘She kissed me like Romen did.’

But there was more — Fynch had connected Romen with Wyl Thirsk too. The boy had told her a long time ago that he believed Romen embodied General Wyl Thirsk, the red-headed, shy and courageous emissary from Morgravia who had saved her life and given his own in an attempt to save her father. Both her father and Wyl had died but somehow Romen had survived. Koreldy was a mercenary in the pay of King Celimus who had ordered the slaughter, so why did Romen then search out Ylena Thirsk, who was nothing to him? Thoughts clamoured and clashed in her head until she could no longer bear it.

She heard a gentle tap at the door and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She looked tousled and unsure of herself but had no time to care about inconsequentials when the worst and most terrifying notion of all was threatening to overwhelm her.

Fynch had told her that Knave responded to no one but those whom Wyl Thirsk loved. Wyl hardly cared for Romen Koreldy or King Cailech or indeed Aremys Farrow, another stranger. And yet the dog had effectively brought all three of these men to her. Why… if they weren’t connected to Wyl?

Valentyna dug deep and found enough strength to call out, ‘Enter.’ Even so, she was not ready emotionally for the two strapping men who stepped into the room behind Commander Liryk, both towering over him. Knave pushed around their legs and bounded towards her.

Tears came to her eyes at the sight of King Cailech, and the unshakeable, inexplicable feeling that she was once again in the presence of Romen Koreldy. She pretended they were for the dog and bent to pat his head and then hugged him fiercely, whispering, ‘Thank you’, although she was not sure why.

The rattle of her guard’s weapons as the door closed behind her visitors reminded her who she was and where she was. Valentyna straightened, ignoring her wet cheeks, and raised her eyes to meet the warm, dark eyes of Aremys Farrow and the cool yet somehow burning gaze of the Mountain King who was staring at her hungrily.

‘Gentlemen, forgive me. As you can see, I am overwhelmed to see my friend Knave again,’ she said, amazed that her voice sounded so steady.

‘Your majesty,’ King Cailech said, bowing low, ‘the apology is all ours for disturbing you at this hour.’

Valentyna felt a thrill tingle through her body at the warmth in his tone. His voice was as deep as she had expected, yet also layered with humour and something else… affection, she thought fancifully. She curtsied, paying due respect to a King. ‘I’m not sure how we should greet you, your highness. This is altogether unusual, as I’m sure you can imagine,’ and she saw those light green eyes sparkle with amusement at her understatement. ‘You must be Aremys Farrow,’ she continued, turning to the bear of a man who stood awkwardly beside the King. She stepped forward and extended her hand. ‘I have heard about you from Lady Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy.’

Aremys took her hand and kissed it. ‘Your highness,’ he said, wanting to say a dozen other things but resisting the urge.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘are you hungry?’ Both men shook their heads. ‘A drink then, of my father’s finest wine. I cannot imagine the tale I am about to hear about how two men of the Razors — one a King, no less — covered hundreds of leagues of my realm without a single guard spotting them.’

‘Indeed,’ Farrow muttered.

‘Valentyna.’

Something in the way Cailech said her name made her heart leap in her breast.

‘Yes, Cailech?’ she responded, and they both smiled at the sudden lack of formality.

‘May we speak as sovereigns… in private?’

She noted how Aremys Farrow glared towards the King. It was an odd reaction, unless theirs was a friendship that extended beyond that of monarch and bodyguard.

‘Of course,’ she offered, glancing towards Liryk who looked astounded at the suggestion.

‘Your highness,’ he began, determined that she not be left alone with this man.

Valentyna held a hand in the air to stop her commander, knowing precisely his concerns but somehow not at all daunted by the supposed enemy in their camp. ‘Can we trust you, King Cailech?’ she said.

‘Far more than you can your husband-to-be, Queen Valentyna,’ he responded, and Valentyna saw Liryk close his eyes with despair at the King’s inflammatory words.

Aremys was fuming as Commander Liryk escorted him from the room. If he had had a knife in his hand he felt sure he would have happily plunged it into Cailech’s chest himself, out of sheer frustration. Nevertheless, he could not blame his friend. Ever since a treacherous King had sent him on a mission of death, Wyl had known nothing but violence and despair, frustration and sorrow — save a few days in Briavel, as Romen, when he wooed a Queen.

And here he is doing it again, he thought, not realising he had voiced that thought.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Liryk said. He looked as angry as Aremys felt.

‘I’m sorry, Commander, it’s been a long journey,’ the mercenary said. He noticed the man’s eyes widen in further wrath.

‘Yes, I’d like to talk to you about that, Master Farrow.’

Aremys sighed. He did not want to discuss it, had no idea how to explain their mysterious arrival. ‘Actually, first I need to relieve my bowels,’ he said, knowing this remark would throw off even the most persistent pursuer. ‘Also, I am famished and I need to bathe and rest. Then I shall attempt to answer all of your questions, I promise. But please remember, I am only a bodyguard to my King. A foot soldier if you will. It would be best if you saved your wrath for him.’

And with that, Aremys Farrow took himself off in the direction Commander Liryk, filled with surprise at the rebuttal, pointed. Aremys just hoped Wyl had some plan to get them out of here as easily.

Valentyna, self-conscious and uncharacteristically blushing, showed the tall Mountain King towards the comfy sofas in her study. The room had once been her father’s but was now very clearly her own. Wyl noticed the Valentyna-esque touches around the room: a painting of horses being led out of a stable, flowers in vases on various surfaces and the unmistakable fragrance of lavender being crushed underfoot.

‘Are you cold, sire?’ she asked, then her face fell as he smirked. ‘Ah yes, how silly of me, I hear your people don’t feel the cold.’

He shook his head gently. ‘I’m sorry. By all means, let us sit by your fire.’

She smiled. ‘I’m afraid I do hate to be cold,’ she admitted, ‘although I must give it away soon. Each eve is milder than the next these days.’

‘Which means summer is beckoning,’ he reminded, and she did not miss what was left unspoken.

‘Is that why you are here?’

‘Yes. This is a most pleasant room.’

‘Thank you. Is Farrow your friend?’

He grinned at the odd question. ‘As a matter of fact he is.’

‘Which would explain his fury at being asked to leave?’

He nodded. ‘No doubt, although he has no right to feel that way.’

‘Indeed, sire. I hear that you don’t treat your friends all that well,’ she baited, handing him a cup of wine.

‘I can’t imagine what you refer to, Valentyna.’ He feigned confusion.

‘I refer to Lothryn, your second in command, your closest friend. The man you murdered.’

‘He is not dead,’ Wyl answered simply, glad for the banter as he began to wonder why in Shar’s name he had come here. How would he explain any of this to her? What could he possibly say — other than that he worshipped her — which would make her listen to him and not order the courier to be sent to Morgravia this night?

‘Not dead?’ she spluttered. ‘But Elspyth told me —’

‘Elspyth is wrong, your highness. I have left Lothryn alive in the Razors.’

Valentyna knew that there was no love lost between Cailech and Elspyth and that, given the chance, he would have her killed. But every fibre of her being screamed at her that this man was an impostor, in the same curious way Ylena Thirsk had seemed to embody someone else, and she decided to test him. ‘Elspyth may never live to hear that good news, my lord.’

‘What?’ Cailech said, spilling wine on his hand as he leaned forward in his chair. His demeanour suggested fear for someone he cared for.

Intrigued by his reaction, she continued: ‘The last I heard, she was near death and being carried to Pearlis — or so Liryk tells me.’

The King’s face drained of colour momentarily. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Why do you care? She is a Morgravian slut to you, surely?’

She watched the King hesitate, his gaze darkening as he collected his thoughts.

‘I care,’ was all he said. ‘Is she alive?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But that’s all I know.’

Wyl put the cup down and, without realising it, began to pull at an earlobe as he thought on this news. He did not notice the sudden sick expression that crossed the Queen’s face. Presumably Crys Donal was with Elspyth, he decided. He asked as much and the Queen nodded. He could not know that she did not trust her voice to speak, her eyes riveted on the habit she had seen in four people now, starting with Wyl Thirsk.

‘Valentyna,’ Cailech began, but the Queen was no longer interested in the strange game that was being played out between them. She stood suddenly and demanded: ‘Why is it that Knave sits at your side? He belonged to Wyl Thirsk and looks kindly only on those Wyl loved. So why does he choose to accompany you?’

Wyl could no longer stand the tension between them. He put down his wine and stood also, facing the woman he so loved. He was very close and a head taller than she. To her credit, he thought, she did not flinch. Any other woman would have been screaming for the guard by now, but the defiance in Valentyna’s eyes only fired his desire more and he took her hand and pulled her towards him. This time he would kiss her as a man and to hell with the consequences.

Valentyna did not fight him. She did not think she could have resisted him even if she had wanted to. It shocked her to realise that she did not much care whether she was kissing Wyl Thirsk, Romen Koreldy or even Ylena Thirsk, for Cailech, King of the Mountains, had a raw and blistering charisma that burned around him like a halo. If her heartbeat had increased for Romen then it was hammering for Cailech, and if her body had yearned for Romen’s touch then she wanted to throw herself down now before the hearth and have Cailech take her like the barbarian he was purported to be. The ardour she had felt for Romen was nothing in comparison to the carnal desire she was experiencing for this golden man who was standing too close, his huge hands gripping her upper arms, their faces a hair’s breadth apart, the fire of passion burning between them.

Wyl found his courage. He kissed Valentyna and instantly became lost in a sizzling rush of desire and need he had hungered after for too long.

The fire had burned so low it was only glowing embers but neither noticed the cool of the air. Their naked bodies were still entwined and to Valentyna it was as though they were one. She could not feel where her lean limbs began and his muscled limbs ended. They lay facing each other and she stroked his golden hair while he held her in an embrace she never wanted to leave and stared at her in a way that made her heart leap all over again.

‘Perhaps I should have asked first?’ he said.

She laughed, full-throated and tinged with a devil-may-care happiness she had never thought she could feel again. ‘Particularly as it was my first time,’ she said, pulling a face.

‘I’ll kill myself if I hurt you,’ he admitted.

‘That’s not the sort of comment I would expect from a barbarian King.’

‘We are not barbarians,’ he said, dropping his hand away.

Her expression betrayed her anguish. ‘Oh, Cailech, no, I didn’t mean it that way. It was a jest. It’s just that…’

‘Just what?’ he asked softly, returning his hand to the crook of her back and resting it in the soft dip before the rise of her buttocks.

She felt his fresh arousal and smiled to herself as she realised what power women had over men. Even a King could be made so weak. No weapon, no threat, no blood; just a woman’s body was all it took to make an enemy King compliant. Celimus should have come and seen her before to discuss the problem in the north — she and her kind could have solved it in an instant, she thought. But this man is no enemy, she thought, delighting in the fact that she had just lost her virginity to him. She did not have to gift it to Celimus.

‘It’s just that I feel as though I know you,’ she risked, daring to venture towards her wild thoughts of earlier.

‘You do,’ he said gently, watching her carefully.

She sat up, her breasts high yet irresistibly heavy and rounded. Wyl wanted to pinch himself to make sure that he was really here with her and she was not just returning his affections but inviting them, loving them. He too sat up and reached towards her but she took his hands and put them into her lap.

‘We’ve known each other less than a couple of hours, Cailech, and we’ve spent more than half of that time making love. No preamble, no honeyed words and romantic gestures. It’s impossible that I would act this way — impossible! But I felt a burning for you from the moment we met. Before, in fact. I watched you from my window as you stood on Werryl Bridge, surrounded by guards, and my heart was pounding for you then.’

‘Valentyna, I —’

‘No, wait. I have to say this.’ She smiled, suddenly embarrassed, and pulled around her the dress which she remembered him unbuttoning not so long ago and helping her to step out of. ‘There are a lot of voices crowding in my mind — a boy called Fynch, for one, whom I adore.’ She noticed something dark flicker across his face at the mention of Fynch but she pressed on, determined to say what had been niggling at her for so long. ‘He once said something profound to me, which I dismissed as a child’s fancy. I think now I was wrong. Then Elspyth encouraged me to open my heart to someone else after I was betrayed by the man I loved, Romen Koreldy. He was not true, but I have never stopped loving him.’

Again Wyl tried to speak and again she hushed him, this time with a hand to his lips. Tears welled in her eyes at the mention of Romen. ‘A noblewoman called Ylena Thirsk came to me to offer her help and then gave herself up like a sacrifice to King Celimus so that the Legion would be withdrawn from our borders. You were there at Felrawthy, Cailech, you would have met her. It was a lie that I sent her to him. It was all her own selfless idea to walk into the dragon’s den.’

He nodded and she saw the grief in him. ‘Where is she now?’ she asked, almost too frightened to hear the truth.

‘She is dead, Valentyna. She showed the courage to match her name. The Thirsks have always been true to Morgravia and yet both Wyl and Ylena pledged themselves to you. They both loved you in their own way.’

His words made her weep openly now. ‘Who killed her?’

‘I did,’ he whispered.

She looked at him, not understanding. ‘You?’

He nodded so sadly she had to believe him. ‘It was an accident. I rescued her from the grip of Celimus — he had planned a horrible death for her which I won’t sully your presence by describing. Suffice to say it was up to his usual cruel and humiliating standard. Aremys and I took her away from Felrawthy and into the Razors.’

‘What happened there?’

‘She did something very brave — may I leave it at that? I find it painful to think on.’

Valentyna heard the tremor in his voice. The description Romen had given of Cailech was of a man who was anything but tender like this. She ticked it in her mind as another factor on the side of impostor. Too many ticks were mounting on that side of the ledger and so far nothing pointed to this being the arrogant sovereign of the Mountain People. But then that description was hearsay — always second-hand. She needed to find out the truth for herself.

‘I will grieve for Ylena. She was my friend.’

It was Wyl’s turn to take a chance. ‘She told me you parted on bad terms.’

Valentyna pushed her hair back from her face. ‘We parted amicably, although there was something between us… Ylena tried to make love to me,’ she stammered, surprising herself with her candour.

Cailech looked down at their linked hands. ‘Yes, she told me her error. Wished she could take it back.’

‘I wish I could have reacted differently. But Knave, Cailech — how is it that this dog favours you in the same way he favoured Wyl Thirsk, Fynch, Ylena and Romen?’

I could tell her, Wyl thought frantically, and see what happens. Or he could preserve the lie and not trouble her life with talk of magic. Already a plan was forming in his mind. Now he had possessed her so completely he knew he could never let her go, never allow her to be with Celimus. The most daring yet logical scenario seemed to be to call the Mountain warriors into Briavel and take their chances on war with the Legion. If Crys Donal had taken his advice, then he would be stirring up trouble within the Legion anyway, and with powerful people such as the Benches behind that push perhaps Celimus would not have so many of his Legionnaires to count on.

He made his decision. ‘I have a plan, Valentyna, which may prevent you marrying King Celimus. It is fraught with danger, and no doubt spells death for some Briavellians, but I believe it is the proud path for your realm. You know Celimus has killed so many, not the least of whom was your own father,’ he said, hating to see how his words brought tears, ‘and so perhaps it is the way you want to go anyway. Until now I haven’t been able to help you. I thought you were as trapped as I am.’

She looked at him and frowned. ‘You’re not making sense. Why are you trapped?’

It was time. This had not been his intention when he set out from the Razors, but then he had not expected for a moment that he would be holding a naked Valentyna in his arms and able to speak the love he had felt for her for so long. Sharing her body had changed everything. He swallowed hard, wondering at how she would react. ‘I have to tell you something,’ he said.

‘I hear fear in your voice,’ she replied. ‘Why does what you are about to say scare you?’

‘Because it requires an honesty I have been unable to find before with you. I was scared it would push you away.’

She shook her head. ‘But you have never met me before,’ she said, feeling the soft hairs lift on her arms and behind her neck. This was it. This was what she had searched her soul for. He was going to give her the answer.

‘I have met you before, Valentyna. I first met you and fell in love with you in this very chamber. Your father was present and we took supper together and you laughed at me because I was too short in your opinion to be an emissary from the King of Morgravia.’

If time could stand still, if a heart could stop beating, if all breath could cease and one could still live, Valentyna would believe that was what was happening to her now. She kept silent, her eyes riveted on Cailech’s.

‘And when I met you again, my beloved,’ the King reached for his trousers, pulling from them a handkerchief, ‘you gave me this.’

Valentyna was sobbing now, deep, heartfelt sobs. She shook her head in denial. What she had wanted to hear suddenly sounded too frightening to contemplate. ‘I gave that to Romen Koreldy,’ she pleaded, squeezing Cailech’s hands so tight her own felt numb. ‘He was a Grenadyne nobleman, a mercenary.’

‘He was me,’ Wyl said gently, tears welling in his own eyes. ‘It was me you loved, Valentyna. Romen was dead — you never knew the real man. I am Wyl Thirsk and I was trapped in Romen’s body.’

Words failed her. It was as if she was listening to a language she did not understand. He continued, driving the nails of pain into her heart.

‘I returned to your life as Ylena, my own sister. My brave girl tried to stand up to Romen’s killer.’

‘Hildyth, the whore,’ Valentyna whispered.

‘Her real name was Faryl. She was an assassin sent by Celimus to kill Romen, which she successfully achieved, except that it was me inside Romen’s body and the magic, known as the Quickening, forced me to take over her life and she died instead.’ He pulled Valentyna close and, to his surprise, she permitted it. He went on, determined to say it all. ‘Ylena heard about Faryl. She took her chance at Tenterdyn as I raced to catch up with her and Elspyth, and a lucky blow killed me once again, this time compelling me to take my sister’s life.’

Valentyna gave an audible sob.

‘I had to see you, to try and help you,’ Wyl went on. ‘I came back to Werryl and tried so hard not to make a fool of myself, but still I succeeded in doing so. I have loved you, Valentyna, since that very first night. I’m sorry for humiliating you and making you feel so bad about Ylena.’

Valentyna took the linen handkerchief from his lap and dried her eyes. She told herself to find some strength. Her father would be ashamed to see her so undone, and yet it was unlikely he had ever faced anything this daunting in his long life. She sniffed and tried for a watery smile, but failed. She raised her hand to wipe away Wyl’s tears too.

‘I think I knew it then. Your sister showed too many masculine traits — habits I recognised as belonging to Romen. But I just couldn’t make myself believe something so incredible. And so,’ she continued for him, ‘Ylena lost her fight again and became King Cailech, is that right, Wyl?’

To hear her speak his true name was more than he had ever dreamed. He kissed her and stroked her hair. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘I’m Wyl. I’m so sorry for duping you but I was just trying to protect you.’

‘From myself,’ she said harshly, ‘because I wouldn’t accept the existence of magic.’ She thought of all the occasions when Fynch had tried so hard to convince her.

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Wyl urged. ‘I would not have believed it either if it had not happened to me. I am cursed. Cursed by the witch Myrren with a gift I never asked for.’

‘But you see, Wyl, others believed you — I presume Aremys knows?’ He nodded. ‘You see. You have people who trust you. I hate myself because I did not.’

‘You didn’t know!’ he said, desperate not to upset her any further.

‘I saw the clues. It was all there for me. Knave did everything but speak to me,’ she cried. ‘But that means Romen wasn’t real.’ She was wavering between belief and denial again.

‘Oh no, Valentynta, no! Don’t cry. Romen was real. As real as I am here. I was Romen; he was me. It’s me, Wyl, who loves you, who said all of those things to you as Romen.’

‘You?’ the Queen said, dazed. ‘Wyl Thirsk. Poor red-headed Wyl.’

‘That’s right,’ he whispered, sad to feel her draw away from him. ‘It’s always been me. I stopped you giving yourself to Romen that night; I planned the feast celebrations; I gave you a dove mask and told you I loved you. I wore the black mask and fought Celimus. I would have killed him too, if not for you. It broke my heart to see my betrayal reflected in your eyes.’

She stared back at him, wanting to believe but struggling to cope with such shattering news. He understood.

‘Know this, Valentyna. Whatever happens now, I have loved you with all my heart. I love you now and I will love you for ever, whoever I am. There is nothing you could ever do to make me feel another way, and I shall never give my heart to another. It is yours — I am one with you.’

Valentyna sighed. What could she say in response?

He rescued her. ‘May I tell you my plan?’

She hesitated, then seemed to relax. ‘I don’t really know how to reply to your sweet words. I… I loved Romen, and I cannot give you — whoever you are — up.’

Wyl nodded, afraid, yet daring to hope she might be able to love him back. Her suggestion of not being able to give him up now made his spirits soar.

‘Wyl,’ she began again, but was interrupted by a frantic knocking. Her soft expression turned to one of terror. ‘Quick, we must dress!’

Wyl was into his few garments in moments, and was impressed at how quickly and deftly the Queen threw on her gown despite the intimidating banging on the door. ‘Stall for time,’ he hissed, helping her to button the back.

Valentyna was about to call out some excuse for the delay when the door burst open. It was Aremys. He took in the scene in a second and a look of deep apology swept across his face, but the palpable sense of fear which entered the room with him caused all three to forget their embarrassment.

Valentyna was at his side rapidly, praying to Shar that none of her men would notice her dishevelment or guess that her gown was still undone at the back. ‘We’ll be fine, thank you,’ she said, closing the door on the anxious guards.

‘What is it?’ Wyl asked, stepping to Valentyna’s side and finishing off the buttons on her dress.

‘Celimus,’ Aremys answered. He could not hide the distress in his voice.

‘What? Here?’ Valentyna rushed to the window.

‘I’m afraid so. Come on, Wyl, we leave now!’

‘You called him Wyl,’ Valentyna said, turning from the window. She had seen the riders flying Legion colours below. It was true then. Out of Wyl’s affectionate embrace, the intimate moment lost, the reality felt harsh and suddenly ridiculous.

Aremys shrugged, sheepish. ‘Well, your highness, I assume he has told you the truth. Is that right, Wyl?’

Wyl nodded, glancing towards the Queen with a heavy heart. It was over so soon… before he had even had a chance to put his plan into action.

‘Wyl!’ Aremys repeated. ‘We go now! Sorry, your highness.’

Wyl did not move.

‘Go!’ Valentyna urged, catching Farrow’s infectious anxiety. ‘Please. The Legion is entering the palace.’

‘Is Celimus here?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t —’

Aremys interrupted, angry now. ‘He’s here in person, Wyl. I beg you, let’s go.’

King Cailech took some time to right his clothes, then a calm smile broke across the rugged face that truly reflected the mountain region which raised him. ‘This is meant to be, Aremys,’ he said, his voice soft and sad. ‘This is it, the culmination of Myrren’s gift.’

‘No!’ the Grenadyne yelled, striding towards his friend. ‘We can escape. If you won’t think about yourself, think about Valentyna and how your presence might reflect on her.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Valentyna said. ‘Why is this meant to be?’

Aremys caught the stern glance from Wyl and knew this was one secret which was not going to be shared. He knew when to keep his own counsel.

Liryk saved them further argument by barging in, all protocol disregarded. He was startled to see Aremys there. ‘Who let you in, Farrow?’

‘Sorry, Commander, I told a lie to your guards.’

‘This is preposterous, your majesty. I am supposed to be taking care of your security and it seems anyone can come and go as they please.’

Wyl had not considered how Celimus might react to finding him here. Aremys was right: he had to leave, if only to protect Valentyna from any suggestion that she was consorting with the enemy behind the Morgravian King’s back.

Valentyna took charge, concerned now that King Celimus might catch her in Cailech’s company. ‘Liryk?’ The tone brooked no further delay.

The commander adopted a formal tone which old Chancellor Krell would have been proud of. ‘My Queen, although this seems rather unlikely, I am here to tell you that King Celimus has just arrived in the bailey.’

Valentyna took a steadying breath. ‘Thank you. King Cailech cannot be seen here and I need to… tidy up.’

Liryk was still flustered at finding Farrow in the room with them. If only he knew, it would have been safer for Valentyna had Farrow been there all along, Wyl thought.

‘King Cailech,’ Liryk said, ‘I will organise an escape route and divert the Morgravian party but you will leave now. You have made your peace with Celimus — now let us make ours!’ The vehemence in his voice surprised them all. ‘Your majesty, please go ahead to your chambers. I will let your husband-to-be know that you are not far away,’ he finished, choosing to emphasise the word ‘husband’ as he took in her dishevelled clothes and the heightened colour in her cheeks.

Liryk had no idea what had transpired during their conversation but he could see for himself that the rug was crumpled and the lavender stalks strewn on the floor were crushed in one spot. Their fragrance overlay another one he knew well from places like the Forbidden Fruit… no, he certainly did not want to take his thoughts down that path. One more day and Queen Valentyna would be on her way to Pearlis where she would marry King Celimus and finally unite the two realms. That was all Commander Liryk cared about right now and he would permit nothing to get in the way of that vision.

Valentyna felt cornered. She nodded at Liryk. ‘Thank you, Commander.’ Then, ‘King Cailech, it has been enlightening,’ she said, extending a hand. The Mountain King kissed it too long and too tenderly for Liryk’s liking.

‘Come, gentlemen,’ the commander urged. ‘Your highness, I will wait for you in the main salon.’

‘Use the secret door,’ she said and he nodded.

Liryk did not miss the long, meaningful glance exchanged between his Queen and the Mountain King, but felt more relieved with every step he and the two visitors took closer to the door and the passageway which would lead them out of the palace.

Cailech turned just before ducking to enter the secret stairwell. ‘Valentyna, remember all that I’ve said. It’s the truth.’ And then he was gone. Gone again from her life. Leaving her to face Celimus and a desperately unwanted marriage whilst her heart’s light burned fiercely for Wyl Thirsk.

THIRTY-SIX

AREMYS HAD PERSUADED Wyl as far as the gates, hurrying Cailech’s bulky form down into the bowels of the palace. The guard accompanying them directed them to a little-used gate, which brought them out into a courtyard near the chapel.

When Aremys cursed their lack of weapons, Wyl remembered that Koreldy’s blue sword was stored in a secret spot in the chapel. Against the guard’s wishes they hurried in, startling Father Paryn.

A familiar voice greeted them. ‘Aremys!’ Turning, they saw young Pil, the monk who had escaped with Ylena from the massacre at Rittylworth.

‘You know these men, child?’ Father Paryn asked the novice.

‘I know Farrow — we met at Felrawthy, Father. But I don’t know his friend.’

‘Pil,’ Aremys said, his voice spilling its relief. ‘This is —’

Wyl would not permit it. ‘I am King Cailech of the Razors,’ he said, bowing.

Father Paryn drained of all colour. To his credit, young Pil recovered quickly and bowed. ‘Why are you here, your highness?’

‘We’re running from King Celimus,’ Aremys growled, hurling an angry glance Wyl’s way.

‘King Celimus is here?’ Father Paryn asked.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Wyl said calmly. ‘We must not be found or it will look bad for the Queen, you understand?’ Clearly neither of them did, going by their confused expressions. Wyl pushed on; confusion was good in this instance. ‘Anyway, we need Romen’s sword.’

‘No fighting in the house of Shar, King or not,’ the priest cautioned.

‘There won’t be, Father. We just want to take the sword and leave. I promise no blood will be spilled.’

It was too late. There were shouts outside and the guard accompanying them shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, sire,’ he said, ‘I shall have to turn you in. I’ve been briefed by Commander Liryk not to risk the Queen’s reputation.’

Wyl nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘What?’ Aremys roared. ‘Wait!’

‘Be quiet, Aremys,’ Wyl commanded and suddenly everyone paid attention to King Cailech. He turned quickly to Father Paryn and Pil. ‘Hide him,’ he said, indicating the Grenadyne, ‘and help him escape the palace compound. I ask no more than you give him Koreldy’s weapons. Queen Valentyna will thank you for it,’ he said firmly, adding, ‘She has sanctioned it.’ It was a lie, but he no longer cared at this point.

Both holy men nodded dumbly then watched King Cailech of the Razors stride out to meet the Legionnaires and the Briavellian Guard.

‘Quick!’ Pil said, and, with no choice left to him, Aremys Farrow hung his head and followed the novice.

A few minutes later he heard the soldiers walk in and receive a predictable roasting from Father Paryn for bearing arms in the chapel. They tried to explain but achieved nothing but the threat of damnation in Shar’s eternal fire if they did not leave at once. ‘Curse you all for disturbing a man at prayer,’ the priest called after them.

Pil left Aremys in a small room behind the main chapel while he went for news from Father Paryn. ‘Where did they take the King?’ Aremys asked when Pil returned, wondering how he might free Wyl from a company of Legionnaires and the Briavellian Guard.

‘I gather he’s in the gatehouse. There are soldiers everywhere. Is he really the King of the Razors?’

Aremys looked sorrowfully at Pil and nodded before adding, ‘He was also Ylena Thirsk, Faryl of Coombe and Romen Koreldy.’

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Wyl Thirsk!’ he exclaimed in a hushed tone of wonder.

‘That’s right. And now the King finally has him in his clutches.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Pil asked, terrified.

Aremys decided that trying to rescue Wyl right now was pointless. He needed time to think it through, and Celimus would not do anything too risky on Briavellian soil just a day or so before his wedding. No, he would save Cailech for some sort of spectacle after the marriage ceremony, no doubt.

‘You’re going to stay here and keep our secret,’ he told the novice. ‘And I’m going to take Koreldy’s sword and make my way to Pearlis.’

‘That’s where he’s being taken, I gather, to Stoneheart.’

‘Good work, Pil,’ Aremys said, knowing the praise would help the frightened young monk.

‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Lead me out safely and then let the Queen know that I’ve escaped.’

‘What about a horse?’

Aremys shook his head. ‘Too risky and Celimus is too smart. No, I’ll go on foot and hitch a ride somehow.’

‘There are plenty of nobles and merchants headed for Pearlis, Master Farrow,’ Pil said excitedly. ‘I’m sure you can get a lift with one of them.’

The Grenadyne tried to smile but failed. ‘That’s what I’ll do then.’

Most of the nobles making the journey to Pearlis for the royal wedding had their own men for protection but Aremys was counting on the strata of society below the nobles not having reliable security. A number of middle-class families had decided the opportunity to witness the marriage ceremony combined with a sight of the great city of Pearlis was irresistible and were also preparing for the trip.

After lying low in the northern part of Werryl for a couple of hours and carefully watching the procession of travellers, Aremys offered his services to three couples who were obviously travelling together. Aremys knew he possessed one of those inherently honest faces, which was certainly a helpful asset in his more secretive assignments. In this instance it won favour with the ladies — along with his suggestion that although Briavel was relatively safe, Morgravia was riddled with bandits who preyed on wealthy merchants.

And so Aremys found himself sitting alongside Mat, a purveyor of fine foods to the nobility, who was driving the carriage that carried the rest of the party whilst another man, Bren, brought up the rear, riding one of the two fresh horses they had brought along.

‘I’ve never seen a sword tinged with blue like that one,’ Mat commented.

‘Aye,’ Aremys answered, more sadly than he meant to sound. ‘It belonged to a friend who gave it to me as a gift.’

Mat whistled. ‘Some gift. Must have set him back a penny or two. My brother’s a craftsman in weapons but I’ve never seen him work on anything like that.’

‘I believe it was made by Master Craftsman Wevyr.’

‘At Orkyld,’ the man said in awe.

Aremys nodded. ‘He was a good friend.’

‘I guess so,’ Mat agreed, some irony in the grin he cast the Grenadyne’s way, then the two men settled into a comfortable silence as the carriage cleared the city and headed onto the main road which led to Morgravia.

Aremys appreciated the quiet to be alone with his grim thoughts about how he had lost Wyl in the panic of Celimus’s arrival. It had been his panic alone, if the truth be told; Wyl had not so much as raised an eyebrow in distress. He remembered Wyl’s chilling words: It is meant to be, he had said. This is it, the culmination of Myrren’s gift.

Mat’s voice brought Aremys back to the present as the carriage bumped along the road.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, you’re very quiet. Is everything all right?’

‘Sorry, when I’m concentrating on the road I can lose myself.’

‘No bandits this close to Werryl, Farrow. Relax, join us in a song,’ Mat urged.

Singing was the last thing Aremys felt like doing as he imagined what Celimus had in store for King Cailech.

THIRTY-SEVEN

VALENTYNA DESCENDED THE staircase to the main salon, feeling as though she were now two people: the one who was gliding in a soft blue gown to welcome her betrothed, whom she despised; and the one who — in mind, certainly — was fleeing with King Cailech and Aremys Farrow.

The truth of the Mountain King’s identity had still to fully sink in. It was all she could think about, her mind moving back through time spent with Wyl when he was himself, with Romen, with Ylena. And as much as she wanted to find holes in the story — just one would do — it was complete. There were too many arguments in favour of Myrren’s gift being the truth. She had never really got to know the real Wyl, but comparing Romen with Cailech yielded frightening similarities and when she threw Ylena into the mix it left her numb. Why had he never tried to tell her?

She answered her own question: she would never have believed it. Not when he was Romen; not even with the miraculous arrival of the chaffinch, which seemed to herald Ylena’s visit. She had considered the finch’s song as a timely coincidence, not magical, but it had been magic of some kind she now realised. Wyl had not had time to tell her about Fynch; how he was, where he was, nor enough of his idea of how she could avoid marrying Celimus. What would she not give to hear it now? She had considered every scenario possible and had not been able to find a way out. Only a few more steps now, she realised, emerging from her disquieted thoughts, and Celimus would be kissing her hand and offering sugary platitudes. What could he be doing here? Well, he could just turn around and go home. She still had one more day before she had to leave for Pearlis.

She took a deep breath and nodded at the guards outside the salon as the doors were pushed open for her entry. Valentyna had already pictured King Celimus bowing elegantly, then striding majestically forward, smiling widely with those perfect teeth. She had already planned her own contrived expression — a delicate balance of surprise and feigned pleasure that he was in Briavel. But she did not have to contrive any surprise. It came up and slapped her hard in the face when she swept into the room to be confronted by a snarling, struggling Cailech and a smugly grinning King of Morgravia.

‘Valentyna, my love,’ Celimus said, expansively, ‘look what I found sneaking out of your palace like a rat.’

She stopped all movement and was convinced her breathing had stopped too, such was the shock. She saw Cailech shake his head, knew what he wanted her to do. Her heart broke. Again; it was happening again. Once more he was offering himself up to save her.

Everyone was waiting for her to speak.

‘I’ve already explained,’ Wyl yelled, shaking off his captors’ hands, ‘that I never got to speak with the Queen.’ Valentyna noticed the manacles around his arms and ankles.

‘I heard you the first time, Cailech,’ Celimus spat, turning back towards his bride. ‘My dear, is this true?’

Don’t hesitate, Valentyna, just agree, Wyl prayed.

For Briavel then, she decided, rapidly assessing the helplessness of the situation. She summoned her most regal tone and hurled it back at Celimus. ‘Of course it’s true,’ she answered tersely. ‘Who is this man?’ She pointed towards Wyl — presumably Aremys had escaped, ‘And how dare you hold anyone against their will in my court, King Celimus.’

That startled him. He was not prepared for her wrath, having already decided she was as guilty as the Mountain People, conspiring against him. His first instinct not to trust Cailech had been right; it was a mistake he would never make again.

‘Your majesties.’ It was Liryk. ‘Allow me to escort the prisoner to a secure place and perhaps then you might discuss —’

‘Yes, why don’t you do that, Commander,’ Valentyna agreed, cutting across whatever else he was going to say and so seizing control. ‘This is unforgiveable, King Celimus. You called him Cailech. I still don’t know who he is.’

Celimus had also regained some equanimity. ‘Don’t you? Let me introduce you to the treacherous King of the Razors, who just days ago was signing a peace treaty with Morgravia at Felrawthy.’

Valentyna feigned shock, which hid her despair as the man she had loved through so many lives was led away.

Cailech turned his head, spoke over his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you have finally met me, your majesty.’ The word ‘me’ was loaded with meaning only she would grasp. ‘We’ll meet again,’ Wyl said to her alone.

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Celimus said. ‘I shall insist my wife is present for your execution.’

She saw Cailech’s sad smile and did not understand it. Dismissing everyone, she swung around on Celimus the minute the door had closed. ‘How dare you, sir!’

‘Valentyna, please,’ he cajoled. ‘I came with only romantic intentions. My Chancellor suggested that it would be wonderful for both our peoples if we could be seen together. His idea was that I bring an escort to accompany you on this symbolic journey across our two realms. I know I should have sent word but it sounded like such a worthy plan I was excited and in a hurry to catch you here before you left Werryl Palace. I’ve had a special carriage made, my love, emblazoned with our new heraldic device which my craftsmen have been designing for months now. It flies the colours of Briavel and Morgravia, sweet Valentyna, and no, they don’t clash. We have woven the crimson with the emerald and violet so beautifully, it seems we were always meant to be one,’ he gushed.

Valentyna was taken aback by his enthusiasm. She could see how the idea had great merit for the people of their realms but she hated surprises being sprung on her at the best of times, let alone by the hated King of Morgravia.

She had promised herself one day. One final day to mourn the loss of her status. One night to remember with love the touch of Romen, of Cailech… of Wyl Thirsk. Now Celimus had taken that from her too.

‘What do you plan to do with Cailech?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I shall be taking him with us to Stoneheart.’

‘Surely you don’t mean a trial and execution?’ she wondered, a new terror chilling her. He could not die again. She could not lose Cailech as she had lost Romen.

‘I said I don’t know. Death would be my choice.’

‘Why must he die?’ she demanded.

‘That you need to ask such a question baffles me, Valentyna,’ Celimus replied calmly but followed it with a condescending smirk.

‘But you said yourself that you’d just signed a peace treaty.’

The King’s famous temper began to stoke. He had done well to get this far without losing his patience. ‘Which he broke by setting foot into Briavel — and that, I might add, is a whole new mystery. How the King of the Razors can infiltrate your realm and cover almost its entire length without being noticed is a puzzle.’

‘It certainly is,’ Valentyna replied abruptly. ‘Which is why I don’t agree to any decision on your part, sire. He is my prisoner on my land. I will decide his fate.’

A new note crept into Celimus’s voice, one she had not heard before but one she was very sure was more true to this cruel King of Morgravia. Gone was the affected brightness, the sugary tone. ‘I’m sorry, Valentyna, you will not. I’ve noticed how you deal with treachery — you send it off to a brothel for the night.’

If only he knew how deep his words cut. ‘Leave me, Celimus,’ she commanded, not trusting herself to say more.

He impaled her with a stare, which she returned with defiance, and then he nodded. ‘Fine. We shall leave tomorrow as you had planned, and Valentyna, you had better wipe that scowl off your face by then. I will marry you and I will reserve the right to execute my enemies if they are found on my soil.’

‘You mean my soil, don’t you, Celimus?’ she hurled back, trembling from the hate that was threatening to overwhelm her and make her do something unwise.

He shook his head. ‘It’s mine from now on, Valentyna. Get used to the idea. We can marry and please our realms and I’ll provide peace for your people. Or we can do it the hard way and I promise I will slaughter every man, woman and child of Briavel if it comes to it.’

She had not thought he could shock her but the venom with which he spoke now — in a way she had never been spoken to before — chilled her to the point where she felt the wispy hairs on her arms stand on end. This was no way to speak to a Queen and in her own palace, but she felt powerless to stop him. All she had was words for weapons. She threw them at him now.

‘You are a snake, Celimus. Wyl Thirsk was right.’

‘Wyl Thirsk is dead, Shar rot him, as you will be if you don’t put on a happy face, come serenely to Pearlis tomorrow and take those wedding vows in a few days, as planned.’

‘I think I would rather be dead.’

‘It’s your choice,’ he snarled. ‘No more wooing, Valentyna. This is your new life — as my Queen but not my equal. The only good you’ll do me is to give me the sons I crave and, believe me, if you won’t give them to me willingly, I will take my pleasure as I see fit.’

Wyl sat glumly in the guardhouse. Liryk could not bring himself to have the King of the Razors incarcerated in the palace dungeons. This way it felt less like he was imprisoning him and more like he was offering rustic guest accommodation. Legionnaires were posted throughout the guardhouse — one for each Briavellian soldier.

‘Did Aremys get away?’ Wyl asked Liryk.

The man nodded. ‘You shouldn’t have hesitated, sire.’

‘It was wrong of me to run.’

‘Your pride aside, this is all very dangerous for our Queen.’

‘She handled it well. I won’t make any further problems for her. Thank you for upholding our secret.’

The old soldier sighed. ‘I’m not sure I understand your coming here, or your calm acceptance of what is certain death at the King’s hands.’

‘This is how it is meant to be,’ Wyl said, resigned to his fate. ‘This is Myrren’s gift playing out precisely to plan.’

‘Myrren’s gift?’

Wyl smiled. ‘Take no notice of me.’

Liryk was baffled by this man but his relief that Valentyna had not told the truth to Celimus overwhelmed his curiosity. ‘How did the King know? He sent men looking for you immediately upon his arrival.’

Wyl shrugged. ‘It was my horse,’ he replied, grateful to Cailech’s memories.

‘What?’

He pulled Cailech’s hair back from his face and tied it behind his head. ‘I gave Celimus my white stallion as a gift at Felrawthy. He fell in love with it so I insisted he have it because I had its twin back at the fortress. Identical.’

Liryk understood now. ‘He saw your horse, the twin.’

‘He’s probably riding its brother. How could he miss it? You won’t tell him about Aremys, will you, Liryk?’

The old man shook his head. ‘No, sire. I want no further grief for her majesty. No one needs to know about the mercenary, and the Briavellian Guard can be trusted to keep the secret.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I shall see to your comforts, sire. We leave for Pearlis tomorrow at dawn.’

Wyl nodded, no longer caring.

Valentyna escaped her anger and Celimus by taking her horse out, refusing to have him accompany her. This would be her last ride as a single woman through the woodland of Briavel and onto the moors. Next time — if there was a next time, she thought, remembering the King’s threat — she would be married to Celimus. She would have the grand title of Queen of Briavel and Morgravia, but it would be an empty title.

She glanced back at the odd medley of guards following her, comprising her own men and Legionnaires. Celimus was taking no chances with her. There was nowhere to run and hide anyway, and it would be unseemly for a monarch to flee her own realm. No, Valentyna was made of sterner stuff. She would face this trial and bestow the gift of peace she had promised upon her people.

But the memory of Cailech’s touch still burned in her mind and on her body, which had responded so eagerly. It had been such a rushed, frantic episode and yet she could remember each moment of it, relive it in her thoughts in a delicious slow-moving scene. No longer being a virgin was still hard for her to grasp; it had all happened so fast. She could never have planned for this to occur and yet nothing gave her greater satisfaction — nothing! — than knowing her greatest possession had been given to the man she loved, not the one who would steal it from her under false pretences.

Cailech… no, Wyl, she reminded herself, was such an enigma. She could claim she had known Romen and yet she knew so little about him really, other than that he had loved her, would die for her — had died for her. Poor Wyl, she thought, sympathising at how he had learned to cope as a woman; two women in fact. She could not imagine how he had survived the killing of his sister. Wished she could ask him, have time with him.

Well, it was up to her now, she decided. She would marry Celimus and she would give everything of herself towards preserving the life of the King of the Razors. Even if she could never see him again, it would be enough to know that he lived. Celimus would not execute Cailech because she would forbid it. She had taken the wrong approach with Celimus, she realised. All she had done was anger him, corner him into making rash statements. Her father had always said she must learn to curb her tongue. Being a good royal, he had cautioned, was about diplomacy, careful choice of words and always giving oneself time to consider. She had ignored his advice with Celimus, but then she had not had time for consideration: she had been put on the spot and it was either lie and save lives or tell the truth and cause bloodshed.

No, she had done the right thing, but she should never have argued with Celimus later. He had obviously been shocked to find Cailech in Werryl and, like a wounded animal being baited, had struck back. She should have sensed the danger lurking there; Valentyna admonished herself for such clumsiness. If she was going to survive in the court of Celimus, she would have to play him more intelligently than she had today. She must fuel his vanity, make him feel omnipotent, make herself irresistible. Valentyna slowed her horse to a walk, in no rush to be back in the palace, and remembered how powerful she had felt on realising what a woman can do to a man. For all his strength and stamina, his status and bearing, Cailech was so vulnerable. He was only a man, she smiled, and faced with naked desire and a compliant partner, he became putty. Could she achieve the same with Celimus?

She recalled that Chancellor Krell had intimated that, if she approached the marriage smartly, she could use her feminine wiles to get what she wanted. Her revulsion for Celimus aside, if she could play the role of affectionate Queen, impress his people and thus please him, she might be able to enjoy small wins of importance to her.

Her first priority was Wyl. She understood that there was no changing his status as prisoner; Celimus would want to make an example of him. So be it. But she would put all her efforts into ensuring that was the extent of the punishment. They had lied once already. No doubt Wyl could dream up some clever reason as to why he had come to Briavel. Surely there must be a feasible explanation. Her mind raced towards what this could be, and was pleased to come up with the idea of a secret festival that Cailech wanted to organise with Celimus’s Queen in homage to the magnificent King of Morgravia for forging peace between all three realms.

The idea gained purchase in her mind. She would need to get word to Wyl.

THIRTY-EIGHT

THE JOURNEY ACROSS BRIAVEL and into Morgravia passed uneventfully. In any other situation, Valentyna would have truly enjoyed the trip and the chance to mix with her people, for they came out in their hundreds to wave the royal procession through their towns and villages. And what a procession it made: the Briavellian Guard was in full formal dress in emerald and violet, whilst the Legionnaires looked dashing in their crimson and black. Trailing the rear came a cavalcade of nobles, dignitaries, servants and attendants, not to mention Madam Eltor’s personal retinue in charge of the Queen’s wardrobe, as well as cooks, pastrymakers and bakers — all the people required to provide a joint wedding feast that blended Morgravia’s culinary specialties with Briavel’s fine foods.

And in the midst of the brightly coloured entourage rode a smiling King and Queen, graciously accepting the crowd’s blessings for their happiness.

‘You can almost believe it,’ Valentyna commented and aimed a shy smile towards the King.

He did not look at her but she heard the softer tone in his voice. Perhaps it was hard work being vicious all the time, she thought. ‘Why not? They love you. And they love me for marrying you and for bringing peace to the region.’

‘It is a good thing, Celimus.’

‘Do you mean that?’

She caught a posy thrown by a young lad and blew him a kiss which won a roar of approval from the happy mob. ‘I regret my behaviour of yesterday, and indeed throughout our courtship.’

Now he finally turned away from the mass of happy faces and looked at her. ‘And?’

‘I wish us to start again, here and now. Neither of us have parents to guide our choices, no family to lean upon.’ She sighed. ‘We are trying to achieve something extraordinary: two young monarchs, new to their thrones, forging peace and prosperity. I did a lot of soul-searching last night, Celimus, and realised that what you have worked so hard to bring about will become a landmark era in the history books.’

It was clear he could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘But last —’

‘Yesterday was different. You frightened me and I was rattled to think that King Cailech had infiltrated Briavel without my knowledge. Did he tell you why?’

‘No. I thought I’d find out courtesy of Stoneheart’s clever men of the dungeons,’ he offered unkindly.

Valentyna did not react. Celimus, like any bully, was always looking for ways to hurt others. He had not changed from the little prince who had smashed a princess’s clay doll simply because he could. Yes, Celimus was still the angry child. Instead she planted the first seed of her lie. ‘Cailech told Liryk that he wanted to meet with me to talk about a surprise festival he wanted to throw in your honour.’

Celimus had not expected this. ‘My honour!’

‘Yes. He wanted to hail you as the region’s peacemaker who is bringing long life and prosperity to the three realms.’ She held her breath through the pause that followed, forcing herself to wave to the crowd, smiling incessantly through her fear.

‘That might change things,’ he said softly.

Instead of leaping on his words and giving away her excitement, Valentyna shrugged. ‘Yes, well, it is of no matter to me but perhaps you can find out more in due course. It would be a pity to lose a friend in the Razors now that you have worked so hard to establish the truce.’

‘Indeed,’ he said drily, but obviously the notion that Cailech was not in Briavel for sinister reasons had been successfully planted. She would need to water it subtly throughout the journey, Valentyna realised.

‘To get back to what I was saying earlier, my lord, you can rely on me to be faithful and dutiful. Let us make this marriage the success everyone wants so badly.’

He laughed derisively. ‘I know you don’t love me, Valentyna.’

‘As you don’t me, sire,’ she countered with care. ‘But that doesn’t mean we cannot be a successful royal couple. Respect, affection, co-operation — surely these are all qualities we can work towards?’

‘Surely. But I don’t understand.’

‘What puzzles you, sire?’

‘The change in heart. One minute a spitting cat, the next a kitten.’

‘I dreamed last night of my parents, Celimus. They came to me,’ she lied, trying not to recall her true dream of Cailech’s passionate embrace, his ardent yet gentle deflowering of her maidenhood, his kisses so tender and deep. His declarations of love — she felt herself going hot in all the wrong places.

‘Yes?’ the King prompted.

‘And… and they urged me that this was a match made by Shar for the good of the realms. They told me that Shar’s angels, if we let them, will guide us to hold our marriage fast and be good to one another. That we will have sons — strong boys — four of them,’ she said, feeling nauseated now at her own creative invention. ‘Are you superstitious, Celimus?’

‘Not really,’ he lied, although she knew he was. ‘Why?’

‘This morning I found a white rose on the bush my father planted for my mother at her death.’

Celimus looked at her quizzically although she could tell he was intrigued. ‘What is the significance?’

‘Ah, perhaps it is only in Briavel we believe this. Legend has it that if a white rose bush produces a single bloom, which opens before any other buds show themselves, any dream recalled from the previous night is destined to come true.’

‘No matter whether it is good or bad?’ he asked.

‘Apparently. We all believe it. That is why I went looking for the rose, because my dream was so profound, so vivid. I could see our sons, Celimus — dark, strapping boys, like their father.’

He grinned. ‘That’s very interesting, Valentyna. I’m pleased that you feel so positive suddenly.’

‘I intend to be a good wife to you, sire. I will make you proud and happy.’

Celimus looked into her clear blue gaze and saw no guile. He reached across the distance between their two horses, his white, hers black, and took her hand. The crowd gasped, then cheered uproariously when King Celimus bent to lay his lips against the back of the hand of his Queen.

Valentyna felt nothing but revulsion. She was relieved she had chosen to wear gloves this day.

King Cailech was travelling amongst a different cavalcade but towards the same destination. Tied, gagged and thrown in a covered wagon, he was driven hard. There were no stoppages for food or rest. Fresh horses took over at various points until, just by the smell of the air, he knew he was approaching the city of Pearlis. Wyl had lost track of time and thought. His mind felt like a skein of tangled wool and it was easier to give up on the business of separating all the threads of thought than to fight it and keep thinking of ways of escape.

He imagined how Stoneheart would be looming up ahead of them now — proud, dark, defiant. Its famed gargoyles would see them first, he thought, recalling a fanciful notion which had struck him the very first day he arrived at the Morgravian palace. He’d been just a young lad then, Gueryn by his side, some of his father’s retainers riding with them to add weight to the arrival of the new General of the Morgravian Legion. How much older he felt now. Not just because of the body he was in or those he had travelled through, but old in his mind, weighted with despair and a savage sense of loss.

Those early months at Stoneheart had been happier times, especially when Alyd arrived, even though it had felt so bleak to be forced away from Argorn. Barely thirteen and still capable of being lost in daydreams, Wyl had looked up at the daunting stone monolith that first day and had spotted the gargoyles. Three of them. He had given them names and fancied that they were the King’s private lookouts who could spy friend or foe long before the Legion’s scouts could.

‘Can you see me now, Bauz?’ he whispered to the leader of the gargoyles, the one with a beak. ‘It’s me, Wyl Thirsk, returning.’

‘Stoneheart ahead!’ he heard a soldier cry and smiled to himself. Death was upon him. Myrren’s gift was reaching its climax and the Quickening would come to an end.

He hoped Aremys had managed to make his own way to Pearlis and that his friend would keep his solemn promise to end the life of King Celimus the moment the change occurred. He thought briefly on Fynch’s caution of randomness, and took solace from it. It was randomness that had given him Valentyna by the fireside not so long ago. Nothing could ever take away that time of exhilaration, that delicious loss of thought and control, that intense passion which had sealed his love for her.

Valentyna was his. They were one, coupled in love and desire; it had been like an exquisite pain when they reached that final dizzying, breathtaking pleasure in one another. He would take that sort of pain over and over if he could, but if he could only have it the once, that was enough too. He had known her in a way no other had. Her maidenhood had been given gladly, lovingly, to him and he had taken it with a trembling, feverish joy. Celimus might marry Valentyna but the Queen of Briavel belonged to the King of the Razors … to Wyl Thirsk.

If he was permitted only one experience of Fynch’s randomness, then he would not swap his lying with Valentyna for anything — not even in exchange for his life. He could die happily now, for he was loved — and loved as Wyl Thirsk. She had uttered his name.

His thoughts were interrupted by soldiers unfastening the hood of the cart. He cast a final thought towards Knave, wished he had had a chance to say goodbye to the faithful dog, then did not struggle as rough hands dragged him from the cart and led him to a place in the depths of Stoneheart. A place from which few people returned.

For the first time in his life Knave had neither mission nor magic to call upon. He was still driven though, urged by a force more complex than anything he had known before. It went by the name of sorrow.

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 perhaps, 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.

Jessom smiled thinly. He was curious to hear the bargain this imprisoned, doomed King could offer. The Chancellor stepped closer but drew his blade to show the man of the mountains that he was not naive. He would shake hands but he would be cautious too.

‘No need for that, Jessom. I have no intention of anything but sealing our bargain.’

Palm met palm and Cailech’s fingers closed around Jessom’s hand. The King was smiling and there was something unnerving in that predatory expression. The Chancellor baulked, tried to release himself from Cailech’s grip, but it was too late. A shimmering blue light flowed around their hands. A seal.

FORTY

VALENTYNA STOOD FORLORNLY in a grand chamber at Stoneheart, her own heart feeling as cold as the dark stone surrounding her. Madam Eltor had permitted only her most senior and trusted assistant to help her dress the Queen. Valentyna sensed rather than saw the surreptitious glances between the two older women as they took in her grief-stricken expression.

‘Come now, my Queen,’ her seamstress tried once more. ‘Please don’t stain your face with tears.’

‘There are no more tears left within me,’ Valentyna replied.

‘This is your wedding day, your highness. The happiest day ever for the people of Briavel and Morgravia,’ the assistant risked.

‘Not for me though,’ she replied, not caring that it provoked a raising of the assistant’s eyebrow and a stern gaze from her superior.

The women had worked fast and fluidly. Valentyna was already stitched into her gown, although Madam Eltor had tut-tutted, warning. ‘You’ve lost weight, my girl. This was perfect last week.’

Valentyna just shook her head. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

‘That will be all, Maud,’ Madam Eltor said, dismissing her assistant. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you that what is discussed in our presence always remains private.’

Maud curtsied and left hurriedly, the news no doubt already spilling out of her that the Queen went to her wedding as full of grief as when she had attended her father’s funeral. ‘Valentyna!’ the seamstress snapped. ‘Stop this!’

‘I don’t love him,’ she said, balling her fists and closing her eyes, trying to get a grip on her spiralling emotions.

‘We don’t care!’ Madam Eltor replied, deciding that harshness was the only solution now. ‘He brings our peace. I regret that you are the currency we buy it with, your highness, but it is too late now.’

Valentyna was stung. ‘Yes. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.’

The seamstress wished she could take back the brutal words, but Valentyna’s whole attitude to this marriage was wrong. There was no way out so she needed to straighten her shoulders, lift her head high and act like the Queen she was.

‘Be stout of heart, Valentyna. You are Briavel’s jewel. The brightest jewel now in Morgravia’s crown — do not forget this. Imagine how proud you would make your father today.’

‘Yes, by marrying the man who murdered him,’ Valentyna muttered.

Her companion gave a gasp of shock and Valentyna realised that hurting Madam Eltor achieved nothing. The truth of Valor’s demise did not change the fact of his death or her decision to marry Celimus. She hated the way she veered between courage and weakness: one moment she felt sure she could make the marriage work, would bear his children, would make Briavel safe and prosperous. The next, she plunged into gloom, remembering a passionate hour or so in the arms of King Cailech. How could she wipe that from her thoughts? How could she lie with Celimus this evening and not feel anything but revulsion?

Because you must, she told herself in a small, urgent voice. Because Briavel’s future rests upon it.

‘I’m all right,’ she reassured her seamstress. ‘My nerves are jangling. I’ll be fine once we leave for the cathedral, I promise. Put the veil on.’

Madam Eltor did not believe her but she obediently followed her Queen’s instructions. She draped the exquisite veil over Valentyna’s head and face, primped it a little, then stepped back to admire her work. ‘You are breathtaking, your majesty. The Morgravians will fall in love with you instantly.’

Valentyna found a small smile for her lifetime friend. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

Celimus had ordered a glistening white carriage to convey his bride to the cathedral. It sported the new device linking Morgravia and Briavel: the intertwined initials of the King and Queen painted in their national colours. Four stunning white horses, imported from Grenadyne, pulled the carriage. Accompanying the Queen were members of the Briavellian Guard, beautifully outfitted in emerald and violet. A proud Commander Liryk waited, as did all the crowd, for their first glimpse of the Queen.

As if Shar himself had ordained it, the sun appeared from behind a cloud and bathed the main square of Stoneheart in a dazzling golden light. People screamed their delight as the Queen appeared on the steps of Stoneheart’s main entrance in that same moment.

Trumpets sounded above the din and, without a male family member to do the honours, it was left to Commander Liryk to walk stiff and proud up those stairs to escort her. He bowed low before her, as did all gathered.

Valentyna was moved. A lump formed in her throat and she recalled the similar tumultuous welcome she had been given on her arrival into Pearlis. It had been a deafening, exhausting couple of hours making their way through the cheering city. Everyone had seemed to be holding squares of linen in the colours crimson, black, emerald and violet. They were waving them hysterically now, creating a sea of moving colour that mingled the two realms more effectively than any other device could.

She curtsied low and long to the people. The gracious acknowledgement drove them into even wilder applause. Liryk smiled into her eyes hidden behind the veil. ‘You are already their Queen,’ he said, his breath catching.

Valentyna thought she might cry again. ‘I hope my father is watching,’ she managed to say.

He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘He will be cheering alongside your beautiful mother, both of them so proud.’

‘Thank you, Liryk, for all you have done for me. I’m sorry I have been difficult in recent times.’

‘Your highness,’ he said with genuine reverence, ‘I am your servant.’

Valentyna was warmed by the sentiment of her commander and the pride his words evoked within her. She could do this. She would win their hearts and become Morgravia’s Queen and somehow… somehow, she would work out how to exist alongside Celimus without fracturing the peace their two realms considered so very precious.

‘Come, Liryk. Lead me to my husband.’

Wyl could hear delirious cheering as he was led out of the dungeons into a courtyard he had never seen before. The people of Morgravia were clearly delighted at the prospect of a new Queen.

‘Has the Queen left the palace?’ he asked one of the senior soldiers, a man he recognised.

‘I think so,’ the man answered, embarrassed by his task. This was a King, after all, and they had been led to believe a peace agreement had been made with the Mountain Dwellers.

‘And where do you take me now?’

The man hesitated and checked the manacles were secure on their prisoner. ‘We have orders to move you, King Cailech.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question, soldier,’ Wyl insisted. ‘I asked where.’

To his credit, the soldier looked directly into the hard eyes of the Mountain King. ‘To the block, sire.’

Wyl sighed. ‘I see.’ Celimus was wasting no time in executing his northern rival. He wondered if the cruel sovereign would force Valentyna to witness the death. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew in his heart that Celimus would revel in the notion of making her watch. And she would have no choice. Executions were something royalty had to face whether they had a stomach for it or not. Perhaps days ago the victim might not have mattered to Valentyna. But now she would not be watching a stranger die; she would be watching the head of the man she loved be severed and lifted in triumph above his slumped corpse. He hated to think about how this would hurt her very soul, and did not want to ponder how she would respond to his transference into Celimus. He did not have to dwell on that, however, for he had no intention of remaining so. No matter how much anyone argued that it was Wyl Thirsk inside, he could not, would not, live as King Celimus.

Wyl heard the crowd cheer again and wondered how the Queen of Briavel must look today. Serene, he decided; she would rise above her sorrow and do her realm justice. Her gown would be simple with little if any adornment, as was her way. He imagined she would wear her raven hair loose, and smiled sadly to think how the bridal veil would be a welcome sheath between her and the reality of her situation, a barrier between herself and Celimus. But not for long. Once their vows were exchanged, the King would claim a kiss to seal the holy pact made before Shar. Celimus would then raise that veil and tear away Valentyna’s last protection. She would feel suddenly naked but she would find a smile to cover her despair and, in spite of her sadness, be the most beautiful bride for Celimus.

Wyl could not help but recall how he had fallen in love with Valentyna at first sight. Dusty and dressed in riding breeches, she had smudges on her cheeks and her hair was falling about her face; she had reeked of horse and leather. Yet it had been his pleasure to kiss her hand and his heart’s desire to ask for it in marriage himself, rather than petition her father on behalf of another. A smile had broken across her face like new sunlight; he had bathed in its warmth and his heart became instantly hers.

But that was over now. The struggle to save her from Celimus was done with. Above the roar of the crowd he could hear the cathedral bells pealing, heralding the impending marriage. Soon she would be the Morgravian Queen, married to his enemy, and he himself would be past caring about.

Wyl felt sickened. He stumbled slightly and the soldier walking by his side instinctively threw out a steadying hand. ‘I’m not used to being in chains,’ Wyl lamented. The man nodded, clearly awkward about his role.

And so I move between Kings today, Wyl thought; it was his greatest sorrow in this sad life of his. He had let his father down. He had not lived out the great Thirsk tradition and fought to the death on a battlefield; instead he succumbed to death enmeshed in a battle of magic he could not win. He was nothing more than an unwilling puppet, chosen because of his connection to Celimus.

‘Wait.’ Wyl stopped as a new notion occurred to him. ‘The King will be present, I take it?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Relief flooded him. ‘Good. I want him to share my death,’ he said, and surprised the Legionnaires around him by smiling fiercely.

Wyl realised he had been brought to the rarely used courtyard through which he had escaped with Ylena a lifetime ago — or so it seemed. It was sparsely guarded but he was not going anywhere anyway. This was it. He wanted Myrren’s gift to be done with him. It struck him as odd that Celimus had not organised to display the Mountain King to the people of Pearlis and proclaim his treachery. But perhaps the notion of a public execution hard on the heels of the first royal wedding in decades was too vulgar even for Celimus’s sick mind.

Aremys arrived only hours before the wedding procession, exhausted and dirty but relieved that he had made it into Pearlis in time. To those at the front of the sea of people, it was despicable that this huge bear of a man, who had got to the cathedral long after they had, used his strength to bullock his way to the front. One man risked hurling his displeasure at the bear who simply turned and scowled at him through dark, hooded eyes. ‘Shut up!’ was his reply and all within earshot did just that.

Valentyna caught her breath at the first sight of the famed Cathedral of Pearlis. Its grandeur had a powerful impact. Bells were pealing and heralds trumpeted her arrival into its grounds. She tried to imagine what Celimus was feeling inside the cathedral. Satisfaction, she decided. He had won. It seemed he always did where she was concerned.

Meanwhile, inside the hushed cathedral, King Celimus took the nod from Jessom that the Queen’s carriage was pulling into the compound. He stood and conferred with the man, who looked more thin and vulture-like than he had ever seen him. Celimus had heard the whispered jokes about his Chancellor’s likeness to a carrion bird. It was actually a very good description, particularly today, he thought, wondering what was passing through Jessom’s sharp and slippery mind. He did not trust him as much as he once had. There was defiance lurking behind that well-guarded facade. The King was not fooled: Jessom would switch allegiance in a blink if he thought the cards were going to fall the wrong way. And Celimus had begun to believe that his Chancellor might be considering his future quite carefully.

Jessom’s fierce disagreement with the King’s latest idea regarding King Cailech’s execution had further fuelled Celimus’s mistrust. Where did the Chancellor’s interest lie that he would advise so strongly against taking the Mountain King’s life?

‘Is everything ready?’ he whispered now.

‘Her majesty arrives, sire, yes,’ Jessom confirmed.

‘Not her, you fool. Cailech!’

Jessom nodded in that slow, reptilian manner of his. ‘As you ordered, sire.’

‘Good. Now get out of my way, you’re blocking the view of my latest conquest. This is a good day, Jessom. A very good day. Two monarchs brought to their knees before me.’

He laughed quietly, straightening the front of his black jacket. He knew he was resplendent in a dashing outfit of crimson and noir with flashes of gold and a cape of the blackest yarn lined with the fiery red of Morgravia. He was looking forward to claiming Valentyna’s maidenhood tonight and did not plan on being gentle about it either. A husband must impress on his wife that he was in charge. He would dominate her with his strength and his prowess as a lover.

Aremys watched with a heavy heart as Queen Valentyna alighted from the carriage, aided by Commander Liryk. He had mixed feelings for the Briavellian who had helped him escape whilst at the same time aiding in the capture and imprisonment of King Cailech.

The Grenadyne presumed Wyl was already cooling his heels in Stoneheart’s dungeons. During the frenzied dash from Werryl to Pearlis, he had been comforted by a sort of peace he found in his fatalistic capacity to accept events and worry only about aspects he could personally influence. His focus had been on getting to the capital and finding a way to help Wyl rather than dwelling on what had already occurred.

The promise he had made to Wyl burned brightly in his mind now. Would he be able to do it? Could he murder his closest friend in the land? He had watched this man’s strange journey through three lives and had come to love him in the same way that King Cailech had once described his feelings for Lothryn: brotherhood, friendship, loyalty. Aremys felt all of this for Wyl, coupled with an intense sorrow for his suffering, but he was not sure whether he could find the courage to kill the man he loved as his brother, even out of kindness.

Aremys had worked hard to understand the depth of Wyl’s pain and how he could never live as Celimus. But he could not grasp how anyone could choose death over life. If only Wyl could see how good his new life could be as King of Morgravia, living alongside the very woman he had loved for so long. Surely that was worth wearing the skin of the enemy?

Not for Wyl, it seemed. He was true to himself and he demanded death.

Aremys pulled himself out of his dark thoughts and watched Valentyna approach. She looked more beautiful than he could ever have imagined, gliding alongside Commander Liryk, smiling softly to the crowd and carrying herself proud and erect. As she passed, and the cheering around him increased to its highest volume, he roared her name, not really expecting her to hear. Amazingly, she did, swinging around towards his voice.

When she saw him she faltered. ‘Aremys,’ she mouthed as she passed and he lifted a hand in greeting. They were both thinking the same thing: Wyl. When she cast a last glance over her shoulder, looking at him through her veil, he nodded his encouragement as if to say: You can do this. Be strong.

And then she was gone in a fanfare of trumpets, through the massive double doors of the cathedral, which swallowed her into its dark depths and an uncertain future.

Crys Donal had seen the bride too, but had not been able to make eye contact with her — not that she would have recognised him easily if he had. His yellow hair was now a deep brown and he sported a beard and moustache, also darkened. Gone were the fine clothes, replaced with the uniform of a Legionnaire. He blended into the crowd perfectly and, as neither King Celimus nor those he kept close knew Crys Donal by sight, he felt relatively secure.

He used his height and newly assumed status to shoulder his way through the crowd towards the cathedral. As a Legionnaire it was acceptable for him to be seen crossing the unmarked line that separated onlookers from the participants, particularly when an officer hailed him.

‘Soldier, are you on duty?’

‘No, sir,’ Crys answered crisply. ‘Just part of the cheering crowd.’

‘Well, you’re back on as of now. Get down to the cathedral’s entrance and move that mob back. The happy couple won’t be able to get out of the church if we don’t create space for the carriage to come through.’

‘Understood, sir. Right away.’

‘Good lad,’ the officer said and moved on.

Crys was able to jog down the street in front of yet another sparkling new carriage designed for this special day. Black with crimson flourishes, it bore the King’s personal device and its gold dragons glinted in the sunlight whilst bunting in emerald and violet flickered in the spring breeze.

Other soldiers had been sent in as well so Crys simply joined them in pushing back the happy mob.

‘If you tread on my foot again, I’ll rip that beard off your chin, sonny,’ one big fellow said.

‘Hello, Aremys,’ Crys murmured and won the shocked gasp he had expected. ‘It’s Crys, or perhaps I should say carving knife? I’m not sure any more.’

Aremys grinned in spite of his bleak mood. ‘What are you blathering about, Donal?’ he said quietly. ‘Good to see you.’

Crys looked around to see that no one was watching them. Not only could no one hear, but no one cared. The mood was festive and fun-filled. All the people wanted was their new Queen and they chanted her name ceaselessly.

‘The King won’t care for that much,’ Aremys commented.

‘He’ll have to get used to it. It’s her they’ve turned out in their thousands to see.’

‘Crys, I heard about your family. Shar, I’m so sorry, lad. I wish —’

‘I know,’ Crys said softly. ‘Everyone does.’

Aremys nodded. ‘Where’s Elspyth?’ he asked to change the subject, then wished he had not when he saw how the youngster’s face darkened.

‘Come with me,’ Crys said. ‘They’ll be an age yet and we need to talk.’

He dragged Aremys out of the crowd and away from the main entry of the cathedral. They found a slightly quieter spot around the back. Crys told him everything but saved the worst until last. ‘A new infection has her in its grip. She seemed all right for a while and I assumed she would recover after the physic in Pearlis pronounced her wounds in good shape, but the trip to Argorn was so hard for her. By the time we got there, she was feverish again and high-coloured.’

‘Why did you leave her?’

‘Knave arrived — you know, that strange dog of Wyl’s?’ Aremys nodded. ‘Out of the blue, just walks into Argorn Manor.’

‘And?’

‘Elspyth rallied slightly at seeing him; she obviously understood better than I that he had come for us. Don’t ask me how he knew where we were.’

‘You don’t want to know,’ Aremys said. ‘It goes hand in hand with the Quickening and magic.’ He grimaced at the news of pretty Elspyth’s sickness. ‘Is she under good care?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. She had to stay in Argorn, of course, no chance of more travel. Another physic has seen her, but you know, Aremys, it’s a bit like she’s given up on herself, as though she doesn’t want to fight any more. It was so nasty what she went through.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘I just think she’s accepting death.’

‘Go back there then. Make her fight!’

Crys shook his head. ‘No, I’m no good for her. It’s tricky — there are two other women there. Lady Bench and her daughter, Georgyana. The daughter is… well, she’s lovely, and…’

‘And what?’ Aremys quizzed.

‘Shar, you can be as dense as you look sometimes, Farrow. I like her and she likes me. I think that makes it worse for Elspyth because she’s so in love with Lothryn, as you know, and it must hurt her to see us falling for one another.’

‘It can’t kill her, surely?’ the big man growled.

‘No, but that infection might, especially when she denies herself food, fights the medication, can’t sleep — won’t even try. She talks about leaving to find Lothryn, weeps that he’s in pain, that he’s been changed somehow.’ Crys ran his hands through his dark hair. ‘But she was lucid when Knave arrived. She seemed to know that he wanted us to go with him. I’m ashamed to say we had to tie her to the bed to stop her from trying to accompany us.’

‘She’s no good to anyone here,’ Aremys said gravely.

‘I’m not sure any of us are any good here. She wept when I left, said we’d never see each other again. It’s left me hollow, I can tell you.’

‘You’re sure the women are safe there?’

‘No one knows they’re there, and Argorn has sealed its collective mouth you could say, having heard our story. What about your story — what’s happened since we parted? Where is Wyl? More to the point, who is Wyl?’

‘Would you believe me if I told you he is currently King Cailech?’

It was Crys’s turn for disbelief. Aremys told him the whole story.

‘So he’s here right now? That’s why Knave came for us.’

‘In the dungeon. I have no idea what’s planned for him, though.’

The Duke of Felrawthy turned ashen. ‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘Hurry, we must get to the dungeon. But first we need to disguise you as a Legionnaire.’

FORTY-ONE

THE NEWLYWEDS EMERGED onto Stoneheart’s largest balcony, known as the wedding balcony because so many Morgravian Kings had stepped out there with their new Queens to present them to the people.

Valentyna’s heart was pounding yet she felt numb. It was done. The ceremony within the cathedral had dragged but she had spoken clearly when asked to take her vows, had even found a smile for the despised man beside her as she uttered the words which bound her to him for life.

Their exit fom the cathedral into the sunshine had provoked a rapturous noise she had not imagined was possible. As the royal couple walked to their new carriage, its dominant colours not lost on Valentyna, she had been showered with rose petals from blooms especially cultivated beneath glass. Their pastel colours joined the fresh whites of spring flowers. Underfoot, just before her, she had noticed a spray of lavender land; it was so out of keeping with the roses and so dear to her heart that Valentyna had turned towards the man who threw it. The Legionnaire had grinned, and she had suddenly recognised the Duke of Felrawthy despite his disguise.

‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, but much as she wanted to bend and pick up the purple heads of her favourite flower, she had not wished to draw the King’s attention to it. He was far too sharp not to wonder who had thought to throw lavender to the new Queen. She had stepped on it instead, crushing the heads and releasing their fragrance to enjoy briefly before Celimus had helped her into the carriage.

The noise had been deafening as they had made their slow way back towards the castle. Valentyna had searched for Aremys or Crys but had not seen either again. Inside the carriage the time seemed right, so she had reached inside the small cream velvet pouch she carried.

‘This, my lord, is for you,’ she had said in the sweetest voice she could muster, knowing she had to preserve this fragile bond they had formed.

Celimus had looked puzzled as he took the small, exquisitely lacquered box. She knew he was captivated by the way his mouth opened as he saw the gift inside.

‘It is a lovely ring, Valentyna,’ he had whispered and kissed her, much to the people’s joy. ‘Will you put it on me?’

She did so. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I will wear it always. I have something for you too,’ he replied. ‘It’s being readied for you now.’

‘Oh?’

‘A special surprise,’ he had promised and turned away to wave to the crowd.

And now she found herself waving from the wedding balcony to the sea of people below who had crowded into the main square before the castle.

‘They are so proud of you, my lord,’ she leaned close to say above the din. She hated her obsequiousness.

‘And they love you. I knew they would. You are very good for me,’ he replied. She knew he did not mean it as a romantic compliment. Celimus meant it literally: Valentyna made him look better; she was good for his image.

There was truly no hope for them, she thought. She envisaged herself struggling for a lifetime to be a sugary-sweet doormat just to keep the peace between them. She could not do it. Just maintaining the delicate truce, forged by her careful words on their journey into Morgravia, was destroying her soul. She hated him. And tonight she was expected to respond passionately between the sheets with him. As she gazed across the ocean of smiling faces, Valentyna felt she would rather die than have Celimus touch her intimately.

It seemed he had the same scene on his mind. ‘Tonight,’ he began, ‘when all the formalities are done with and we are finally in bed, I mean to teach you something.’

Valentyna tried but failed to sound seductive or indeed even interested. ‘That sounds rather intriguing, my lord. What can you mean?’

‘I mean to teach you that I am not someone to be trifled with.’

Valentyna felt her body chill. He meant to hurt her. ‘I don’t understand, my lord.’ She tried for levity in her voice.

‘I will teach you how the King of Morgravia expects his Queen to behave.’

‘Have I disappointed you during the marriage proceedings?’ she asked, all other sounds now fading to the background as she focused on his voice alone.

‘You lied to me, barefaced and at a particularly poignant moment. I am hurt by this.’

She could not imagine Celimus being emotionally hurt by anything, least of all words. ‘You will have to explain this to me, Celimus,’ Valentyna said, more firmly now, her mind racing as to which particular lie he might be referring to.

‘Cailech denied your story to me in person last night. Of course I had hoped it was true, hoped I was the one who had jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

Something in Valentyna died. She felt as though the tiny candle which had burned inside her, had supported her through the wedding, had been snuffed out. Her love for Wyl Thirsk and the secret they shared was that tiny flame but he had blown it out by refusing her gift of life. ‘I…’ She struggled to form a response.

‘Now,’ Celimus began brightly, waving to the people and encouraging her to do the same, ‘I forgive you this misdemeanour. You have behaved perfectly since our arrival at Pearlis. I believe that you did not invite Cailech to Werryl, nor did you know of his arrival there or his intention to stir up war using Briavel as an ally. My belief is that you lied to save further bloodshed; you hoped to preserve the peace between the three realms. And I am delighted by the wedding gift you have given me. So I forgive you. But you will learn an important lesson tonight.’

Valentyna began to say something but he hushed her with his hateful hand against her mouth, which he replaced quickly with his own lips, much to the crowd’s delight and her disgust.

‘Hush, my love, take your medicine and be pleased it’s not harsher. I appreciate that you are a virgin, though I cannot promise to be as gentle as I might have been a few days ago. So wave farewell to your people now and let me cheer you with my own special wedding gift as promised.’

‘I —’

‘Hush. I shall wait whilst you change. I want you to wear crimson, the colour of Morgravia.’

Aremys followed Crys blindly as they made their way to the Legionnaires’ barracks. Stoneheart was like a town in itself — a maze of streets and openings, corridors and courtyards. When they finally reached their destination, the barracks were virtually deserted. Everyone was either on duty at the wedding or joining in the celebrations. Crys was able to sneak into the provisions office and take the biggest-sized uniform he could find.

‘I have no idea if this will fit,’ he said, returning to the small outbuilding where he had left Aremys, ‘but it’s genuine Legionnaire so it should do the trick and get you past security. Everyone’s so preoccupied anyway — they’ll see the crimson and black and no questions will be asked. Let’s face it, it’s likely none of the guards on duty around Cailech are going to be proper Legionnaires anyway — they’re probably all mercenary impostors.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Aremys grumbled. ‘I’m sensing we have to get into the dungeon, right?’ Crys nodded grimly. ‘Don’t you think it will be heavily guarded, no strangers permitted?’

‘We’re not strangers. We’re guards.’

Aremys did not have the heart to argue. ‘Lead on,’ he said.

At the dungeon Crys discovered that the royal prisoner had been moved.

‘We’ve been sent along to make up extra numbers. King’s orders, apparently,’ Crys said to the officer there, trying his best to sound as uninterested as possible. ‘Who is the prisoner, anyway?’

The man ignored him. ‘Who sent you?’

Fortunately Crys knew the senior officers and captains of the Legion. ‘Captain Berryn.’ He was one of the more aggressive captains and Crys was sure the name would have the right effect.

The man’s tone changed in an instant. ‘All right, how many of you?’

‘There’s two of us but I don’t know how many others he is sending. We were told to report to you here,’ he lied, almost feeling sorry for the confused officer before him.

‘Why can’t they send a runner and inform us of what they want? I’ll tell you, it was different in the days when the Thirsks ran this outfit.’

Crys shrugged, pretending he was too young to know.

‘Get your companion and follow me. I’m on my way there now. And listen, sonny, this is no sideshow, all right? Today we execute a King and you will behave with due respect. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Crys said, straightening himself, glad to know the act had worked. ‘I’ll fetch Farrow, sir.’

Crys and Aremys remained silent as they walked a few steps behind the officer. The man was so preoccupied with what was ahead that he ignored them totally anyway.

They arrived at the courtyard, at almost the same time as the King and new Queen entered, but both had eyes only for the prisoner.

‘Cover up, you know the drill,’ the officer said, handing them black hoods from a small sack he carried. He left immediately to confer with one of the captains on the other side of the courtyard.

Crys explained the hood to Aremys in a low whisper. ‘An old custom dating back to the first persecution of witches and sorcerers. It was held that empowered people had to see a person to cast a spell against them. So the mask was introduced to ensure that anyone present at an execution was impervious to their magic. The tradition died out over the centuries but soldiers are still required to cover their faces at executions.’

‘Suits me,’ said Aremys. ‘At least we won’t risk being recognised by the King or Jessom.’ Nonetheless, he wished there was some way he could let Wyl know they were near.

Valentyna stood in the crimson gown which Celimus had ordered made for her and then demanded she wear. She did not notice the trio of Legionnaires arrive in the courtyard. Anger, fear and the hideous injustice of the position she found herself in quickly gave way to a desolation of emotion when her gaze followed the path to where the King’s finger pointed. Chained to a post like an animal, but still looking proud, was King Cailech: tall and golden, fury burning in his eyes and a defiant set to his jaw. Now she felt weak — overcome by a combination of terror and an overwhelming rush of love.

Wyl’s light green gaze left her and fell on Celimus. A smirk crossed Cailech’s face and he raised a fist and turned the clenched fingers towards his Morgravian counterpart. A northerner would know that this was the sign that the tribes of the Razors gave to indicate a declaration of war.

Crys looked helplessly at his companion for enlightenment.

‘He’s baiting the King,’ Aremys muttered.

‘Why? Surely there’s enough bad feeling?’ Crys whispered.

‘Wyl is trying to ensure that the King will personally kill him, although I’m not sure the Quickening obeys such laws.’

Dawning spread on the duke’s face beneath his hood. ‘He will be our King, then?’

Aremys nodded as they watched Wyl being unchained from the post. But not for long, he thought in private anguish.

Valentyna felt as though she could no longer breathe. Tears were streaming down her face.

‘I didn’t know you cared for him that much, my love,’ Celimus cooed.

‘Why must he die?’

‘Because he can’t be trusted. He will always be a danger to us.’

‘But killing him will merely enrage the Mountain People and encourage them to wage their own war against both our realms.’

‘You have no realm now, beloved.’

‘What?’

‘Briavel is now part of Morgravia.’

‘That is not my understanding, Celimus.’

He tutted in a condescending way. ‘Valentyna, please grow up. I now rule both our realms — that’s my job. Your job is to swiftly become pregnant with my sons and be a smiling, loving wife to me. You will no longer worry about realms, politics, war, strategy — I shall take care of all that. I am not the slightest bit intimidated by either Briavel or the Razor Kingdom.’

Valentyna could not stand to be beside him for another moment. With a final glance towards Cailech’s granite expression, she feigned weariness and asked to be excused.

‘Soon enough,’ Celimus said. ‘But first let me deliver my gift to you.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, fresh anxiety washing over her.

‘You must bear witness, my love. I am executing King Cailech in your honour. He will never trouble you again.’

‘I refuse —’

‘You refuse me nothing, wife! Remember, you belong to Morgravia now, and its King.’

FORTY-TWO

WYL WAS LED UP ONTO A HASTILY built wooden stage. Despite that touch of theatre, it was a lonely setting for a King’s end. The only witnesses were the two royals, a few guards, the Chancellor and, of course, the masked executioner, who had just arrived.

Wyl was not afraid. The truth was, he could not wait to die again, and feel the Quickening release him from Myrren’s gift and her curse over his life. He would not have to live long as Celimus. Just long enough to be with Valentyna again, to hold her once more.

And if it all went sadly awry, he would still live — this time as a burly man of enormous strength and stature. Wyl had taken the precaution of discovering the executioner’s name: Art Featherstone. He wondered briefly how in the guise of the executioner, he would ever contrive to get close enough to Celimus for Myrren’s gift to come into play again, but gave up the line of thought. Whoever could have thought Wyl would become Romen, or that Faryl would claim Romen’s life, or that Ylena — he faltered on hearing her name in his thoughts — would kill Faryl and become her brother’s host? And now here he was, the King of the Razors, about to become the King of Morgravia … or the burly executioner.

But he had laid the seed. Surely Celimus would find the temptation irresistible to personally separate King Cailech’s head from his body? It would be another triumph for the Crown.

A huge Legionnaire came up with a cup of water. ‘Orders,’ the man said to the executioner, who nodded, uncaring.

Wyl’s spirits lifted at the sound of the man’s voice. ‘Aremys,’ he whispered as the Grenadyne gave him the cup.

‘I beg you, don’t make me keep the promise,’ Aremys muttered beneath his breath.

‘You will keep it if you care anything for me,’ Wyl said.

Aremys stared into the green eyes and then nodded sadly. ‘As One,’ he said and left.

A single trumpet sounded and Wyl noticed for the first time that Valentyna was dressed in a crimson gown. The colour of Morgravia. The colour of blood. She was solemn-faced and looked intensely frightened. He wished he could spare her this; had hoped against hope that Celimus would come without her.

Valentyna would not look at anyone — not even at Wyl. He could not blame her. It must have felt like a shocking betrayal to hear that he had denied her fabricated story as to why the Mountain King was in Briavel. He understood, but it did not make it any easier to see her ignoring him. Was it just two days ago they had been making love at Werryl? He would cling to that. As the executioner’s sword fell he would remember what it felt like to lie naked with Valentyna and love her as she loved him.

Celimus guided his wife to a pair of throne-like seats hurriedly erected in the courtyard. He kissed her hand, winning a sickly grimace from the Queen. Her expression did not seem to matter to Celimus who was now announcing why the King of the Mountains was to die.

Wyl looked towards Jessom as the King spoke and remembered the strange blue light entwining their hands in the dungeon, binding them to each other. He wondered if Fynch was right: whether the Chancellor might somehow provide that random element that could outwit Myrren’s gift. Death was moments away — it was pointless wondering any more. Wyl turned his attention back to Celimus’s speech and heard that he was to be sacrificed as a wedding gift to Valentyna. At this he withdrew into himself to wait for his death.

Valentyna had withdrawn too. There surely was nothing to live for any more. Soon she would have to witness the man she loved die, his head savagely removed from his neck with, hopefully, one swing of a cruel sword. It was too much for her heart to bear.

And after all of that, all that was left to her was Celimus — a despicable man who had made his intentions very clear. Her notion that she might be able to dupe him into believing she was true had been naive. Celimus was too sharp to fall for that, but he would still expect her to treat him as she had promised, even if she was pretending every minute of every day.

And he would continue to hurt her — first taking Wyl from her, then Briavel, no doubt ultimately taking away every son she bore. Her life would be utterly controlled by the mad King. Bile rose to her throat as she imagined what he was going to do to her this night. Rape, she was sure, would be the very least of it.

Celimus had finished explaining his reasons for executing the treacherous Mountain King and the sudden silence dragged her out of her thoughts. She looked at Cailech whose shirt was being cut away to reveal his broad torso, sculpted with muscle. She remembered that body well, riding above her in an urgent rhythm, each thrust taking her to a higher level of pleasure. She wanted Cailech to be her lover, to be the man who would stand proudly beside her, as she had wanted Romen. And both the men she loved were really Wyl Thirsk. It was Wyl who loved her so deeply, so truly. But it seemed she could have none of them.

Chancellor Jessom, looking appropriately sombre in black robes, gravely pronounced the Crown’s sentence on the accused. ‘Have you anything to say, Cailech, King of the Mountains?’ he asked finally.

Wyl spoke clearly. ‘Legionnaires, remember who you are. Remember your oath to protect and serve Morgravians above all others. Above all others,’ he stressed, ‘even above your King —’

‘Enough!’ roared Celimus, enraged.

At the King’s signal the beefy executioner backhanded the prisoner who stumbled but did not fall despite his ankles being manacled.

Wyl knew the guards were probably not Legionnaires — Celimus would not risk them witnessing such an unlawful execution. Nevertheless, he hoped the insult had been sufficient to provoke Celimus into swinging the death sword himself.

‘Get on with it!’ the King ordered the executioner. ‘My wife and I wish to continue our wedding festivities.’

‘I challenge you, King Celimus, to mete out the punishment personally,’ Wyl roared. ‘You accuse me of treachery, so deal with me yourself — or are you too squeamish to risk my blood on your fine garments?’

His challenge was greeted with stunned silence. Finally, Celimus said, ‘I have never been scared to spill your blood, Cailech.’

‘Then prove it!’ Wyl shouted.

Valentyna could not bear it. Wyl had already severed the lifeline she had thrown to him and now he wanted to make sure that Celimus chopped his head off. What was wrong with him? Why bait Celimus? Surely he would prefer the accurate swing of an executioner over the perhaps deliberately clumsy hacking by a man he had publicly scorned? Wyl had gone mad. He was not only making it worse for her but so much worse for himself. He would die painfully and then Celimus would —

Valentyna caught her breath audibly as the realisation hit hard. And then Celimus would become Wyl!

Oh Shar! He was doing it deliberately so that Celimus would die and Wyl would take over his body and become the King, and her husband. Wyl would live on because of Myrren’s gift! Now her breath came hard and fast and her pulse began to race. Death would have been so welcome just moments ago and now she wanted to live! And she wanted Wyl to live too.

Valentyna stood. ‘Do it for me, Celimus!’ she cried, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.

The King swung around in surprise. ‘You want me to kill him?’

‘Yes,’ she demanded. ‘He has driven a wedge between us with his underhand dealings. I hate him. I hate his treachery. Kill him, Celimus. Do it with your own hand so that we are truly free of his curse on our lives. That would be my ultimate wedding gift, sire,’ she said, and curtsied low ensuring her husband saw the swell of her breasts.

Celimus grinned ferociously. He looked like a wolf closing on its prey as he peeled off his cloak, the crimson lining reminding everyone of the blood he would shortly spill.

Valentyna could hardly believe it. Her spirits were soaring with the hammering of her heart. She would have Wyl. She would have Romen. She would have Cailech. He would be Celimus, but the real Celimus would be dead. Thank you, Myrren, she whispered to a dead witch. Thank you, Shar, she cast to her god.

‘Come, stand closer, my love,’ Celimus called to her. ‘You must share in this, my wedding gift to you.’

Cailech was forced to his knees to meet his death. Valentyna, no longer afraid, glided confidently towards the husband she despised, her eyes locked on the man who would soon be her one love. She leaned forwards and kissed Celimus, making it as tender as she could without gagging. She wanted him to know how much this meant to her.

Wyl was thrown back to Fynch’s vision: how could they have guessed Cailech was the prisoner? He felt sickened by the sight and closed his eyes. He knew Valentyna had guessed what was going to happen; had seen it reflected in the blaze of her eyes and the hungry expression she suddenly wore. But he did not believe she could live alongside him once he was in the body of the Morgravian King. Celimus had damaged them both so much. Hurry, Shar damn you, he thought, opening his eyes and silently urging the King to execute him. He lowered his head to the block and bared his thick neck.

But Celimus hesitated. He too had noted the change in his wife’s demeanour. The kiss was a surprise, especially after his threat on the balcony barely an hour ago. He thought about her behaviour since: one moment despairing, the next filled with a fervour he did not know she possessed. She looked rejuvenated, excited… she looked hungry. What could possibly have had that effect? Surely not the mention of blood. Even the little he knew of her would confirm she was far from bloodthirsty — this was the woman who was marrying a man she did not love simply to prevent bloodshed. No, it was not that, yet her whole manner had changed at the suggestion that he kill Cailech himself, galvanising her into this lustful creature. Her eyes blazed with a passion he had not seen since that night in Briavel when they had danced together. And even then he had felt sure the fervour was not for him.

Celimus’s sharp mind worked across every possible scenario but came up wanting. He could find no logical explanation for this odd change of heart. Valentyna had lied to save this man’s life, had wept at the thought of him dying just moments earlier; yet now she was begging for his execution at the King’s own hand. His instincts screamed that there was duplicity here although he could not pinpoint it. And so Celimus made a decision. He would get to the truth. He would test her.

‘No!’ he roared. ‘The King of Morgravia will not tarnish his wedding day with blood on his hands.’

‘But, my lord,’ Valentyna cried, ‘this is for me. I want his head.’

‘And you shall have it, I promise.’ Celimus turned back to the executioner. ‘Do your job: behead the treacherous sovereign on behalf of Morgravia and Briavel,’ he ordered.

Celimus took Valentyna’s hand and led her back to their thrones. She felt breathless with panic. The King had thwarted them. If Myrren’s gift continued, then Wyl would become the bald-headed executioner and she might wait years before he found his way back to Stoneheart to challenge Celimus again. What a terrible irony, she thought despairingly. Only weeks ago she had scorned Fynch for believing in magic, and now here she was pinning everything on the hope that if only Celimus would kill his enemy then Wyl would live again. If that hope failed, Valentyna knew in her heart that she would not lie with Celimus tonight… or any night. She would take her own life if need be.

She shook her mind clear as the executioner lined up for his single killing blow. The least she could do for Wyl was bear witness to his brave death. She watched the big man raise his sword slowly, carefully, smoothly. It reached the apex of his swing and was just a second from falling with its severing blow when she heard herself yell, ‘Wait!’ The man teetered and then stopped, looking angrily towards King Celimus for guidance.

‘What is it, Valentyna?’ Celimus asked smoothly. Perhaps now the truth of her strange behaviour would reveal itself.

‘Let me do it, sire,’ she begged, for his hearing only. It was the only way out for her.

For the first time since knowing him, Valentyna saw hesitancy and alarm in his face. ‘You would kill this man?’

‘For you, Celimus. It is the only way I can resolve the difficulties between us.’

‘Through his death?’ he queried, wondering if she had gone mad.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He will release us. You will know I am true to you if I do this.’

Celimus shook his head, baffled. Valentyna had obviously had a trying few days, granted, but this behaviour was unhinged. Nevertheless, the shock of her suggestion titillated his sadistic streak. He rather liked the idea of her executing Cailech. Such an act would haunt her for ever, but that offered further opportunity for exploitation: she would be even more easily controlled when the demons paid regular visits to remind her of this ugly spectacle. It would also, of course, show her to be a strong person, either terrifying or inspiring the few onlookers — either way suited him. She was offering herself up to him in the most intriguing fashion.

He studied her and she stared back at him hungrily. There was no doubting that she meant this.

‘It is not a pleasant thing you request, Valentyna. You will have to live with this memory all of your life.’

‘You have no idea how important that notion is to me, sire.’

He shook his head as if washing his hands of her. ‘As you wish.’

He turned to the executioner. ‘Bind the prisoner’s mouth,’ he ordered, knowing Cailech was likely to make a loud fuss when he learned of this new and exciting turn of events. The idea of his Queen killing a man made Celimus feel like rutting. His mind slithered towards the bedchamber this evening. An heir would be made tonight, he was sure of it. He would have his first son before next spring.

Wyl looked around, confused. He had no idea what was going on between the whispering royal couple or why his mouth had suddenly been bound. He had fully expected to be the executioner by now, trudging home with his day’s pay to a wife and brood of children. But here he was, still alive, still praying for deliverance.

He watched Celimus stand once again, hoping against hope that the King had had a change of heart and would deliver the killing blow. But it was Valentyna who walked towards him. Valentyna who had chosen to kill him.

‘No!’ he shouted from beneath the bindings but it came out as a strangled cry. His eyes were wide with horror at her decision.

Valentyna glided towards him in her blood-red gown and Wyl was suddenly reminded of his dream at Tenterdyn. This was it. No dream, but a premonition. She bent towards him, tears streaming down her face. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered and he roared his anguish, not caring that it appeared he was about to die cringing like a coward.

The executioner pushed Cailech’s head down onto the block again. ‘Don’t make it harder for her,’ he growled. ‘She’ll never survive it if she misses.’

Wyl knew the man spoke the truth and he stopped struggling. He did not want to become Valentyna. He did not want her to sacrifice herself for him. He could hear her shallow, terrified breathing behind him. The courtyard was so silent he was sure he could hear her heartbeat too. It was too much for his own bleeding heart. Wyl closed his eyes and begged for a miracle that might thwart Myrren and her cursed gift.

Fynch! he called in his mind.

Valentyna lifted the sword. She took a moment to pray for her own soul then screamed her despair as she poured all her sorrow, her pain, her anguish into the downward sweep that severed King Cailech’s head from his body.

She sank slowly to her knees in his blood, her heart aching, tears streaming, and waited for the change to come over her body. She had no idea what to expect or how the magic worked. All she knew was that she would accept him gladly. This would be the ultimate sacrifice, the final demonstration of her love.

Behind her, Celimus’s dark olive eyes sparked with the fire of lust for this woman and the joy of knowing his final enemy was slain. He would be Emperor now and perhaps Valentyna had shown herself worthy of the title of Empress.

Nearby, Chancellor Jessom’s body sagged and he hung his head as he struggled slightly to breathe. He would need to gather his composure quickly.

The King of the Razors’s body was slumped forward over the block. The executioner bent to pick up the head which had rolled to his feet. For the umpteenth time he wondered whether the brain remained alive just long enough to know its head had been removed from its body. At the King’s nod, Art Featherstone placed the head of the Mountain sovereign in a leather sack. He would take care of the body once the royal party had departed.

Valentyna felt nothing. Not even a single tear. There was only numbness. Was she now Wyl? Had her soul left her body? It was too confusing amongst the pain of the day. Her hands were slick with his blood, that was all she could focus on through her wet eyes.

‘Come, Valentyna,’ said the voice she hated more than any in the world and then she felt the King of Morgravia’s touch. She turned away from the headless body to look upon Celimus and knew in that instant that something had gone terribly wrong. It had all been a lie. The Quickening was not real. Cailech was dead and the story about Wyl Thirsk had been some sort of cruel ruse. She was alive and her husband awaited her.

‘Jessom,’ the King said.

The Chancellor looked up and cleared his throat. ‘Sire?’

‘Help Queen Valentyna to her chambers. I will see you both there shortly.’

‘Yes, your majesty,’ the Chancellor said and offered his arm to the Queen. Her pale skin was spattered with the blood of a King. ‘You, guard,’ he called to Aremys and beckoned. Aremys moved silently towards the Chancellor; he could not risk being recognised. ‘You look a burly enough fellow. Help the executioner to remove the body immediately and lock it away. Bring the key to me. No one is to be permitted entry. Is that clear?’ Aremys nodded.

Then Jessom looked directly at Crys. ‘And you, take an inventory of all present, including guards and the herald. I want the names brought to me immediately in the Queen’s chambers. Is that understood?’

Crys looked puzzled beneath his hood, but nodded, avoiding speech for the same reason as Aremys had.

Jessom felt as stunned as the Queen at how events had turned out. Still gathering his own wits, he hurried her from the scene of death and, using back corridors which only he seemed to know about, he led the silent, shivering bride to her suite of rooms.

FORTY-THREE

CHANCELLOR JESSOM WAS SURPRISINGLY tender with her but Valentyna was too lost in her own darkness to notice. He wet a linen and wiped her face and hands clean of the blood, and tried gently to get her to talk. There were important things she must understand before the King arrived. ‘What can I do to help you, my Queen?’ he whispered, wondering how to revive her from this stricken state before he began to explain his new situation.

Valentyna was in utter turmoil. What had gone wrong? She was still herself… and Wyl — he was gone. Cailech was dead. She had killed him but Wyl had not possessed her as she had believed he would. She groaned involuntarily. It was a sound of such anguish that she saw fear pass across the hook-nosed Chancellor’s face. Why was he showing her such concern when she hated him too? Everyone had lied to her. Fynch had almost duped her into believing in magic, along with Elspyth, but it was Cailech who had won her full trust. He had made her truly believe the strange tale of Wyl Thirsk… but why?

‘Your majesty?’ Jessom whispered, trying to bring her back to the present.

‘Kill me,’ she whispered. ‘Before I have to spend a night with him.’

‘I cannot do that, your highness.’

‘Then I shall kill myself,’ she said, colour flushing her ghastly, almost yellow complexion.

She saw him flinch. ‘Please don’t, your majesty. I would never forgive myself. Listen to me: I made a promise to King Cailech yesterday that I would offer you my protection. Rest assured, my word is true when given. I am now your servant, your highness.’ He broke with protocol by taking her hand and placing it on his heart. She tried to pull it back, repulsed, but he held it firmly in place. ‘You must trust me,’ he begged her. There was so much to tell her. ‘King Cailech —’

She cut across his words. ‘Why do you offer your allegiance to me? You are the King’s man.’

‘Just trust me, please,’ he repeated. He took her dull silence as agreement. ‘The King is on his way here, your majesty. I have important information to share with you, but let me organise some refreshment so it arrives before Celimus does. I will be only moments.’

Valentyna did not move, knowing he would not leave her alone long enough to end her life. He had said he would be only moments. It briefly occurred to her that the Chancellor was treating her far more kindly than she would have expected. Perhaps the Mountain King had indeed managed to persuade him to watch over her. Jessom could not protect her, however, from Celimus’s attention tonight. She was surely alone now. She had stupidly clung to a notion of magic being able to save her this final despair, but it was not to be. She had behaved madly and had killed a man in her delirium — and not just any man. She felt bile rise again, thought she might be sick, but beat the sensation back with the hollow comfort that at least Cailech had been killed by someone who loved him. It was clear now that the whole tale of Myrren’s gift was some sort of elaborate, cruel hoax. It mattered not — by tonight she planned to be dead herself.

Jessom returned. He was breathing hard, as if he had been running. ‘Ah, here we are now, your highness. Please drink this.’

‘What is it?’

‘The King’s favourite wine. It has a rich and full flavour. It suits only the heaviest of foods because it tends to overpower other tastes, but then the King does not take a midday meal and thus favours the heaviness.’

Valentyna wondered why the Chancellor was giving her such an in-depth description of the wine. Perhaps he thought she needed educating on Celimus’s preferences.

The door suddenly opened and there stood the King of Morgravia himself. His cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. ‘You were magnificent, Valentyna,’ he said and laughed. ‘Do you still have his blood on you, you savage Briavellian?’

‘I washed it away, your highness,’ Jessom said softly. He was ignored by both King and Queen.

Valentyna stood and curtsied. ‘I don’t know what came over me, sire.’

‘I do,’ Celimus said, taking the proffered goblet of wine from Jessom without even looking at his Chancellor. ‘It was a wonderful demonstration of patriotism. I am proud of you.’

Valentyna remained silent, noting that Jessom had a cunning ability to slide away into the shadows almost unseen. She wondered why Celimus had not dismissed the Chancellor, but then Celimus was too filled with his own bloodlust to take much notice of others around him.

‘To us,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘To us,’ Valentyna echoed. She thought of her father’s small dagger which she had packed and brought with her to Morgravia. It had been for the sake of sentimentality that she had wrapped it so carefully in muslin and laid it amongst her things. Shortly it would serve a different purpose, bringing welcome death when it opened the arteries at her wrists. Thinking about her father, her plan suddenly felt right. She would somehow get through this afternoon and then she would find time to slip away by herself and finish it once and for all.

Celimus drained his glass. It was swiftly taken away and refilled by Jessom, then returned as surreptitiously.

‘Are you feeling up to the feast, my love?’ the King asked.

‘I will change, I think,’ Valentyna replied drily, looking at her stained gown.

The King sniggered at the jest. ‘Of course, go ahead. The nobles can wait. I’ll hang onto the gown for posterity, though; Cailech’s dried blood will make an amusing keepsake.’

‘More wine, sire?’ Jessom said, stepping forward.

Valentyna watched Celimus drain his second glass of wine and knew that by tonight he would be intoxicated and even more determined to keep his promise. Jessom filled the glass for a third time and Valentyna grimaced, wishing the Chancellor would stop plying the King with so much liquor.

‘I won’t be long,’ she said, backing into her dressing chamber as she saw the King stagger slightly.

‘Are you all right, sire?’ Jessom asked.

‘Shar, but I feel odd,’ Celimus said.

‘Well, I imagine that’s the poison I put in your glass, sire,’ Jessom offered matter-of-factly.

Valentyna’s mouth fell open. ‘Poison?’ she echoed. Her gaze moved from the King’s suddenly haggard expression to the victorious face of his Chancellor.

‘Yes, your majesties,’ Jessom replied. ‘Valentyna, you don’t love the King, I most certainly don’t love the King, the nobles despise him and Morgravia will hardly miss him — I decided we were all better off without him.’

Celimus tried to move towards his Chancellor, but failed.

‘Ah yes, I think the paralysis must be setting in now, and because you drank two…’ Jessom gave a soft chortle as he checked the glass decanter in his hand ‘…almost three glasses and a hefty dose of the poison, it will work fast. So let’s talk swiftly. But first I shall wait a moment to be sure you are in fact dying, sire. Do you mind?’

Celimus made to speak, but nothing of sense came from his lips. He spilled the tiny amount left in his glass down his front, the glass itself rolling off his lap and hitting the edge of the chair before falling to the floor and shattering.

‘No matter, sire, we can clean that up along with your corpse. This is a wonderfully lethal potion Jessom discovered just recently. It kills cleanly, without a giveaway smell and no telltale signs left behind on the body. I’m afraid it’s not a very pleasant death for the victim — no doubt quite similar to the one Eryd Bench would have experienced,’ Jessom went on. ‘A hideously agonising end, which is less than you deserve, sire, if I might say so.’

Valentyna was slowly shaking her head in disbelief: Celimus tried to scream but all he managed was to bare his teeth.

‘Not long now, sire, I promise. Your highness,’ Jessom turned to a stunned Valentyna, ‘if you have anything to say to him, say it now. We have about ten minutes at most before his heart stops.’

She had never been more unnerved. ‘You have really poisoned him?’

The Chancellor nodded. ‘I had to run back to Jessom’s rooms to get the vial, which is why I was so out of breath, your majesty.’

She frowned. ‘Why do you speak of Jessom as though he is elsewhere?’

‘Oops. How forgetful of me,’ the Chancellor replied, clearly enjoying himself. He gave a sly grin which Valentyna did not understand. ‘Look at me, Celimus,’ Jessom demanded, his voice no longer playful as he moved to stand directly in front of the King. ‘Watch carefully.’

Chancellor Jessom closed his eyes; Valentyna could swear she heard him softly call the name Fynch. A blue shimmering light appeared around his body, burning him, dissolving him it seemed. Then her hand moved to her mouth to stifle the scream of disbelief, for beneath the shimmering another man was emerging. As Jessom disappeared into the blue furnace, it was Cailech who lifted his proud head, Cailech’s eyes that opened to look into hers, Cailech’s beloved face that looked at her with such love.

Valentyna felt herself begin to tremble and she wept, unable to comprehend what was happening. Could this be true?

Thank you, Fynch, Wyl whispered across the miles. And deep in the heart of the Thicket a boy smiled.

‘It is I, Valentyna,’ Wyl said gently.

She shook her head, hardly daring to trust him. ‘I killed you.’

‘You killed Jessom.’

‘How?’ Her voice was a groan through her tears.

‘Fynch made it possible for me to swap places with Jessom temporarily, and for the Chancellor to inhabit Cailech’s body — not that he had much say. Fynch called it the Bridge of Souls.’

‘Magic?’ she whispered.

‘That’s right, my love, a clever glamour and a transference between bodies. Fynch came to me in the dungeon and asked me to trust him. I was not of a mind to grasp what he was offering; I only believed it when I realised Cailech was screaming and yet it was not me making that sound. I was suddenly standing behind everyone, watching the scene through Jessom’s eyes. Fynch gave his last reserves for us, Valentyna. He worked out that if Myrren and her father could weave such a curse, he could reweave it to truly become a gift.’

‘A gift of life?’

Wyl nodded. ‘In the truest sense. I don’t plan on changing again. I hope you like me well enough as Cailech.’

Valentyna put her head in her hands, overwhelmed by emotion. Wyl took her in his arms and kissed her bent head. Then looked across to Celimus; the King’s eyes were disbelieving and glassy, and he dribbled through lips pulled back in a rictus of anger.

‘I think we have just enough time left for me to tell you a story, Celimus,’ Wyl said coldly. He settled Valentyna in a chair and held her hand, but stared directly at the dying King as he spoke briefly and succinctly, starting in the dungeon of Stoneheart where a young woman called Myrren was being tortured and a boy called Wyl Thirsk offered her pity and was thus given a gift.

Valentyna felt awed at hearing the story in its entirety. Somehow it was fitting that its full telling should take place before the man who had been the source of it all. Myrren was truly avenged now.

‘And Jessom?’ Valentyna asked when Wyl was finished. She needed to understand how the Chancellor’s fate had become so closely linked with her future happiness.

‘Jessom was a parasite, Valentyna. He might not have made the cruel decisions himself but he saw that they were carried out. The blood of too many people was on his hands. It was fitting he should suffer for his sins. I suspect he was ready to swap allegiances but instead the Bridge of Souls saw to it that he swapped bodies. Fynch turned the Quickening back on itself.’

‘He mocked Myrren’s gift, you mean?’

Cailech’s face broke into a smile, the first in a long time. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what he did. He made a mockery of it.’

‘So you knelt there and let me kill you,’ she said, aghast.

‘It wasn’t easy. You must know I was happy to die, and I had hoped to die by Celimus’s hand,’ he said, glancing at the King. ‘Fynch warned me once of the power of random acts to affect the Quickening, but I could never have foreseen that you might make such a sacrifice. Fynch could see these things and he took appropriate precautions.’

‘He knew I would kill you?’

Cailech’s head shook sadly. ‘None of us did. Not even you, I imagine. Fynch just seems to see the whole picture. I think he accepted that an unpremeditated action might change the pattern of fate, and he put his Bridge of Souls in place so that I might be saved come what may.’

‘That child is too clever by half.’

Wyl fixed her with his green gaze, knowing he could not hide the truth from her. ‘I believe Fynch is dead, Valentyna.’

Her throat swelled with new grief. ‘No!’

‘He used what little was left of his spirit to help us. It is a long story, my love; one I shall share with you later. First I must finish my task here.’

Celimus groaned. His fingers had shaped themselves into claws and Wyl had no doubt that the King would have given anything for a few more seconds of fluid movement. ‘It’s over, Celimus,’ he said, feeling very little satisfaction at seeing the once-proud body arch in its death paralysis. ‘Let Shar’s Gatherers take you now, and may our god alone have the generosity to show you mercy.’

Celimus found one last spurt of energy to gurgle his fury and suddenly Wyl felt a new sensation. It was a sharp pain, like a blade of ice, cutting through Cailech’s body and forcing a cry from him.

‘What is it?’ Valentyna said, grabbing his arm. Wyl barely felt her touch or heard her, his vision dimmed and he could no longer see the chamber around him. But he knew where he was. He was with Celimus.

You! Celimus whispered.

And Wyl understood: this was Myrren’s parting gift. She was showing Celimus the truth. It was her final vengeance.

I’m glad you can see me at last, Celimus. It was no longer Cailech before the King, but a short, red-headed man. Wyl Thirsk, General of the Morgravian Legion.

The Legion and the nobles will not permit it, Celimus screamed into the mind of his nemesis.

You forget, they do not see me; they see only a crowned monarch whom you yourself have forged a truce with. Very few know I was captured and incarcerated, and even fewer know of my death.

Celimus hung on his last hope. You will not take my throne. Morgravia will never accept a Mountain King.

I don’t have to, it’s already gone. You gave it to Valentyna the moment you married her, Celimus. She is the ruler of both realms now. But I will become sovereign of Morgravia too, when I marry her. I have to, you see, to fulfil Myrren’s gift and rid myself fully of the Quickening. It demands that I be sovereign.

The King of Morgravia screamed his despair into his rival’s mind as he sighted Shar’s Gatherers approaching.

FORTY-FOUR

THERE WAS A KNOCK AT the door. ‘Chancellor Jessom?’ a voice called.

‘It’s Aremys,’ Wyl said, closing the eyes of the dead King. He had hoped to have a few minutes alone with the Queen, but the Grenadyne had obviously done his duty quickly. He strode to the door and pulled it open. Instantly the colour in the two familiar faces before him vanished. They were seeing the ghost of a man they had watched die just moments before.

‘What in Shar’s name —’ Aremys began.

‘Hush, come in quickly,’ Wyl said. He felt sorry for their shock but there was no time to spare for niceties. ‘Shut the door behind you. Hello, Crys. Oh, I think I should say “carving knife”.’ He grinned.

The newcomers entered the chamber tentatively and, at the same moment, spotted a familiar figure slumped in a chair.

‘Celimus is dead?’ Crys whispered, his gaze moving to Valentyna and then returning with fresh fear to Cailech.

Wyl nodded.

‘Wait!’ Aremys demanded. ‘What’s going on? Cailech is dead! I watched it happen. I waited for the Quickening but saw no evidence of it. I feared you had died for good.’

‘As you see, I’m very much alive,’ Wyl replied, taking a grim pleasure in his friend’s shock. ‘It was Fynch. He worked out a way to channel his own magic to save me without disturbing Myrren’s gift.’

‘How?’ the two men asked at once, awe in their voices. Then Crys nudged Aremys and both bowed to their Queen. ‘Your majesty,’ they said, embarrassed at their lack of etiquette.

Valentyna smiled and shook her head. ‘I am too unsettled to even notice any lapses in protocol.’

‘Tell us,’ Aremys said, turning back to Wyl. ‘What exactly did Fynch contrive?’

‘He swapped my spirit with Jessom’s.’

‘So Jessom was executed?’ Aremys said, his wonder obvious.

‘Fynch called it a Bridge of Souls,’ Wyl answered. ‘He came to me in the dungeon, although it was not truly him. Just a sending,’ he said wistfully. ‘He begged me to trust him and mentioned the Bridge of Souls, but he did not explain it and I didn’t ask him to elaborate. My mood was grim and, much as I treasured seeing him once more, I didn’t think anything could change the course I was on.’

‘I thought you’d become the Queen,’ Crys finally said, his relief evident. ‘No disrespect, your majesty,’ he added to Valentyna.

And then suddenly Aremys had King Cailech in a bear-like hug. Wyl reached out a long arm to encompass Crys into the embrace. Valentyna had to look away, the rush of emotion she felt at witnessing their relief echoing her own. She wished she could join them, but sensed this was a special moment between the three men. There would be time ahead for her and Wyl to share their feelings.

Finally the men pulled apart and the newcomers had to see for themselves the cooling corpse of King Celimus.

‘What happened?’ Aremys asked, delight obvious in his voice.

‘Jessom poisoned him — I mean, I did. And the King was as good as dead, I was released from the glamour and could reveal the truth to him.’

Aremys scratched his head, unsure of what to say or do. He followed his gut instinct and knelt before the two royals. ‘Your majesties, my sword is yours to command. Although do not ask me to use it on you now, Wyl.’

The King laid a hand on his bowed head. ‘I won’t, Aremys, my great friend. Only we four know of what has truly occurred today. No one else need ever find out.’

‘So you will remain as Cailech, is that it?’ Aremys asked carefully as he stood. He realised now why Jessom — or rather, Wyl — had given such curious orders to himself and Crys. ‘But Myrren’s gift demands that you become sovereign of Morgravia, surely?’

Valentyna spoke now. ‘We shall marry as soon as it is feasible, but it must be with the nobles’ permission. Most would have accepted that my marriage to Celimus was strategic, so why not a second union in the name of peace?’

Crys Donal nodded. ‘That’s true. And there are rumblings amongst the true Legionnaires about a civil uprising backed by key nobles. It doesn’t seem to be idle gossip any longer. But how will you explain the King’s death?’

Wyl began to pace the room. Shocked and overwrought as she was, Valentyna could not help but smile to see Cailech’s large hand tug at his earlobe in a gesture unique to Wyl Thirsk.

‘Jessom poisoned the King and then fled,’ Wyl said. ‘The only other person in the chamber was Valentyna, but she had retired to her dressing room to change into her gown for the wedding banquet. She saw the Chancellor pour the wine for the King before she left the room — and we still have the wine in the decanter to prove that it was poisoned. When Valentyna returned, ready to attend her wedding feast, she found the King in his death throes and raised the alarm. You and I, Aremys, had come to pay our respects to the newly married couple, and so were on hand to hear the Queen’s cries. We hunted down the Chancellor and despatched him quickly and without honour, as befitting a traitor. That will also explain his corpse’s headless state, should news of it get out.’

Wyl paused and looked at his friend. ‘Is this all right with you?’

‘My pleasure to be responsible for his death,’ the big man replied. ‘I’ll ensure the body is disposed of carefully too.’

‘What about the executioner?’ Valentyna asked. ‘He will know that it was Cailech I executed, not Jessom. And there were a few other guards in the courtyard too.’

‘Apparently they were all mercenaries, your majesty,’ Crys offered, ‘not true Legionnaires, and I have a list here of their names, as Jessom — I mean, Wyl — ordered. We can easily track them down and either pay them to keep their silence, or use other means. Same for the executioner.’

‘No, the executioner need not die. He is a good man,’ said Wyl, remembering how Featherstone had asked him not to make Valentyna’s task any harder. ‘When you find him, bring him to me. I shall explain.’ He offered no further explanation and no one pushed him for one.

‘What reason do we hazard for Jessom’s betrayal of the King?’ Crys asked.

Wyl tugged at his ear again. ‘I can say I had a discussion with Jessom the night before the wedding and shared with him my understanding that Celimus intended to lay the blame for so many deaths firmly at the Chancellor’s feet. The King would have needed to explain the deaths to the nobles somehow, and that would be an ideal solution. And so they can assume that Jessom killed Celimus out of revenge. Let’s be honest, few of the nobles are going to grieve at the news of the King’s death.’

‘They’ll probably have to grit their teeth to prevent themselves from cheering, if truth be known,’ Aremys commented.

‘Then we have the perfect opportunity at the wedding feast to explain our position,’ Wyl continued. ‘We should be as honest as we can. Celimus is dead — we cannot escape this.’

‘I shall throw Felrawthy’s support behind Valentyna as the new sovereign of Morgravia,’ Crys Donal offered. ‘Hopefully others will follow the Donal lead.’

‘That’s generous of you, Crys,’ Valentyna said, ‘but I worry about Morgravia accepting me. Surely there is another family they would argue is more suitable?’

‘They might,’ Crys said, ‘but that family is my own; we are distantly related to the Crown. I would not accept, however. Believe me, it’s the last thing I wish for. I belong in the north, and you, Valentyna, already have one crown on your head. In marrying Celimus you accepted the second.’ He shrugged as if to say she no longer had much choice in the matter.

‘He’s right,’ Wyl said. ‘And I think they will accept you if the right voices are behind you. We must speak with Lord Hartley too — he is a powerful voice and will probably be the most pleased amongst the lords to hear of Celimus’s death, as he only just escaped being killed himself. We can thank Jessom for that mercy.’

‘You can’t be seen here, Crys,’ Wyl went on. ‘The nobles have been told that Cailech slaughtered your family so it’s unthinkable you would even be in the same room as him. In fact you should go and change into your formal wear, get your hair colour back to normal and join the nobles to hear what is said at the wedding feast.’

Crys nodded. ‘So I know nothing of this, right?’

‘Correct,’ Wyl said. ‘But we shall be revealing the fact of Celimus’s death at the banquet so you can have your say then.’

Valentyna said aloud what they were all thinking. ‘I know this is all a lie but Celimus and Jessom deserve no better.’

Aremys had one last question. ‘What about the Quickening?’

Wyl smiled and turned to Valentyna. ‘I believe the magic will be satisfied if I become sovereign of Morgravia through marriage, instead of through Celimus,’ he said. ‘That is, if Queen Valentyna will have me?’

Crys and Aremys had gone off to fulfil their various roles in getting Morgravia to accept the death of their King and the reign of their new Queen. Wyl and Valentyna were finally alone.

Wyl took Valentyna’s hand, ready to pour out all that was in his heart, when there came a knock at the door. He smiled sadly and nodded at her to answer it. ‘We have a lifetime ahead now, my love,’ he said, and kissed her fingers.

The Queen took a moment to compose herself, then called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Renton, your majesty.’

My page, Valentyna mouthed to Wyl. She went to the door and opened it a crack, to hide the interior of the chamber from curious eyes. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘The nobles are gathered in the banquet hall, your highness. They await their King and Queen.’

FORTY-FIVE

A TALL MAN CLUTCHING a child walked into a sunlit clearing, emerging from the tangled mass of the curiosity known as the Thicket. He was followed by a magnificent black horse.

Gueryn looked at the boy in his arms, pale and lifeless, and wanted to cry. To him, the death of young Fynch was the embodiment of all his sorrows. The passing of this courageous child echoed the bravery of so many who had died since that terrible day when Wyl Thirsk’s eyes had first changed colour. Gueryn had no idea what they were doing in this strange place that reeked of magic, but he had been drawn here, with Fynch and Galapek, as if he no longer controlled the direction he moved in. He had braved the sinister darkness of the yews to emerge into this clearing. What must he do next?

His wonderings were answered, somewhat disturbingly, by an oversized owl who pierced him with a grave yellow gaze and said into his mind, Put him on the ground, please. The Thicket wishes to feel him.

Gueryn obeyed. He had seen so much that was strange, not even a huge talking bird could shock him now.

We of the Thicket are pleased to see you restored, Gueryn le Gant.

Gueryn bowed to the bird. ‘It was Knave, I believe, who saved my life.’

He is here, you can thank him yourself, Rasmus said and turned his head to where a massive black dog bounded out from the shadow of the yews.

‘Knave!’ Gueryn called, kneeling to greet the dog. ‘I owe you my life,’ he whispered to his saviour, hugging him close.

The dog barked and then, as he looked at the child on the ground, began to whine sadly, sniffing every inch of the boy’s body.

‘Can you help Lothryn?’ Gueryn asked, the plea evident in his voice.

A great evil has been wrought upon this beast, Rasmus replied. I cannot undo it.

Gueryn laid his hand on Galapek’s strong neck. Had this journey been for nothing then? As he mourned the tragic fate of the Mountain man, the sun-drenched patch where they stood was suddenly darkened by a great shadow. Gueryn looked up and was astounded to see something huge descending upon them. He could not guess what it was.

The King comes, Rasmus said reverently.

Now Gueryn could make out the shape looming above them. ‘A dragon?’ he whispered, overcome by awe.

The massive creature landed, shaking the ground. Its scales shimmered with dark, seemingly ever-changing colours.

Gueryn was on his knees in a second, in veneration. He lifted his head a fraction and dared to stare, goggle-eyed, at the fantastic creature before him.

Welcome, Gueryn le Gant, it said. We owe you our thanks for returning Faith Fynch to us.

‘Can you help him, sire?’ Gueryn pleaded, unsure of how to address the magical creature the bird had called King.

Not in the way you would like, the dragon’s deep voice answered gently. But yes, although Fynch’s life amongst your kind is over, he will live on in a new form.

The dragon turned its attention to the trembling horse. Come to me, poor Galapek.

The stallion came to stand before the King of the Creatures and effected a gracious bow of sorts. The scene brought tears to Gueryn’s eyes. He instinctively stepped back from the horse and the dragon as he sensed — that was the only word for it — the thrum of a powerful magic gathering. The clearing exploded into a dazzling golden light which burned for several moments. Although he tried to peer through it, its intensity prevented Gueryn from seeing anything. It blazed like a huge fire; he could feel its warmth and hear its crackle as it flamed around them, then suddenly disappeared. The rays of sunlight remaining seemed dull by comparison.

Standing where Galapek had been was a huge man. His body was shaking and his head was thrown back, mouth open in silent prayer.

‘Lothryn!’ Gueryn called, tears flowing freely now, running down his face into his straggly beard. He ran towards the Mountain man and grabbed him just as he toppled, taking them both heavily to the ground.

Let him recover for a few moments, the dragon advised. He is weak now and will remain so for some time.

Gueryn nodded. ‘When I was bringing Fynch here, I thought I heard the boy call Wyl’s name. It was the only word he uttered. Did I imagine it?’

Fynch did not die at Rashlyn’s hands, as you suspected. He died because he chose to relinquish his spirit and his power. If he had kept both, things might have turned out differently.

‘What do you mean, your majesty?’ Gueryn asked, hoping he used the right title.

Fynch was a sacrifice, the Dragon King said and Gueryn heard genuine sorrow in the creature’s tone. We demanded so much and he accepted all that we asked of him, giving his life freely. His one request was that he could use his power to aid your Wyl Thirsk. He asked for nothing for himself. Rashlyn did not kill the boy. Fynch was far stronger than even we had anticipated.

‘But I thought —’

You heard true; Fynch did call Thirsk’s name. He needed to send himself a long way to reach Wyl, and he was so weakened by the fight with Rashlyn that he had to make a decision. He could not maintain life in his body and also send himself to Wyl. It was a risk he was prepared to take.

‘He chose Wyl?’ Gueryn could not contain his emotion. Perhaps all was not over for his precious boy.

Fynch made the ultimate sacrifice for his friend. He gave his life.

Gueryn bowed his head. He grieved for the child yet he so badly wanted to know that Wyl lived. ‘And Wyl Thirsk?’ he asked, frightened to hear the reply.

Wyl Thirsk lives, le Gant, as the Mountain King. And Celimus is dead.

It was all such a shock, but — apart from Wyl being alive — this was the best news he had received. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Gueryn admitted. He could tell that the dragon, along with the strange creatures he now noticed gathering around the fringe of the clearing, were hurting at the loss of Fynch. Even the Thicket itself seemed to be pulsating with a sense of sorrow.

We shall provide horses to take you and Lothryn from here, was all the dragon replied.

Lothryn spoke as a man for the first time in as long as he could remember. It hurt, just as it hurt to breathe, even to think. ‘Elspyth?’ was all he could manage. The dragon turned to regard him with huge black eyes which seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it. She clings to life, Mountain man. Go to Argorn in Morgravia, and hurry.

Both men paid homage once again to the King of the Creatures. But there was still one thing left to ask.

Gueryn cleared his throat and looked at the tiny bundle on the ground beside him. ‘The boy? Should I take him back to his family or…’

We are Fynch’s family now, the dragon replied gently. He is one with me and my flesh.

‘I don’t understand, sire,’ Gueryn said as he helped Lothryn to his feet.

Fynch was no ordinary gong boy. He was sired by Magnus, King of Morgravia.

Gueryn paled. ‘Did Magnus know?’ he asked, astonished he could sound so composed.

No.

‘What are you telling us, your majesty?’

That Fynch is the true Dragon King. As you know, the Kings of Morgravia have always been bonded exclusively to the dragon. No one else but they are permitted to claim union with me.

Gueryn shook his head with wonder. ‘This is a revelation, your majesty. You mean Fynch was a Prince of Morgravia?’

Now Celimus is dead, he becomes a King.

‘There must be something you can do, great one,’ Gueryn said, looking around wildly. ‘This place is enchanted. Surely Fynch can be saved?’

There is something I can do, Gueryn, the dragon said patiently. Watch. The two men looked on incredulously as the creature of legend tenderly lifted the tiny boy in its huge claws. A blaze of golden light surrounded Fynch the instant the dragon touched him, and the gold in turn was fringed by a riot of dark iridescent colours that echoed the creature’s ever-changing hues.

We are one — dragon and king unified. The dragon’s voice boomed deep in their minds as he wrapped his vast wings about the tiny body, cocooning it. Then he threw back his head and roared. It was a sound of triumph and his scales all became gold, dazzling and sparkling in the drench of sunlight. He opened his wings to their full span and both men inhaled sharply. Fynch’s body was gone.

And then a new voice spoke to them. Thank you, Gueryn, Lothryn. Courageous Knave, I shall never forget you. It was Fynch.

Knave leapt up and let loose with a howl that even the men could tell was one of victory. They clung to one another, tears and laughter mingling as they shared in the creatures’ triumph that Fynch lived on. He was the Dragon King.

Farewell, Fynch called. This will be our secret. I trust you will honour it.

The dragon beat its powerful wings and the resulting air movement drove the two men backwards. They held onto one another as the great beast lifted effortlessly into the sky, disappearing towards the east, into the Wild.

Rasmus broke the awed silence. It is time for you to leave us, he said, looking to where two horses emerged from the yews. They are yours now.

Gueryn nodded, still tongue-tied from all the emotions surging through him: sorrow and joy, elation and awe. It had all happened so fast.

Elspyth is in Argorn as you have been told, Lothryn, Rasmus continued matter-of-factly. Wyl is in Stoneheart, Gueryn. We shall not meet again, although Knave has agreed to accompany you. Brace yourselves, the Thicket is sending you…

They arrived moments later beneath the cover of a small stand of trees. The air was sweet-smelling and Gueryn instantly recognised their surroundings as the region of Argorn. He knew precisely where they were too: in a small copse barely an eighth of a mile from the Thirsk family estate.

He looked at his companion. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’m not sure. Weak enough to lie down here and never get up again, yet so energised by the thought that Elspyth is close that I could run all the way to her.’

‘Then do that, my friend. And when you reach her, hold her tight and never let go. Bring her to Stoneheart as soon as she is well. She may be in a position to bear witness to some events, and I’m sure you will have things to work out for your people in the Razors.’

Lothryn smiled. It felt strange to be happy, to know pleasure again. ‘Thank you, Gueryn. May our realms never be enemies again.’

‘Between you and Wyl, I’m sure you’ll see to it.’

‘I shall raise Aydrech as a proud ally.’

‘Hurry to the capital,’ Gueryn reminded him. ‘I’ll let Wyl know you are coming.’

The two men embraced and then parted to follow separate paths. The Mountain man rode towards the grand manor where he knew an ailing woman waited for him. The Morgravian, with a huge black dog coursing beside him, galloped off towards Pearlis.

EPILOGUE

CAILECH’S LONG ARMS reached around Valentyna and hugged her close. They were standing on the small balcony of Magnus’s old war tower. It was the only place Wyl could think of where they might be truly alone for a short while.

‘Do you have to go north so soon?’ she asked.

There was amusement in his voice. ‘You already have the nobles twirled around your little finger, Valentyna. Truly, you’ll handle yourself brilliantly and I’ll be back before you know it. The meeting with the nobles went much better than we could have dreamed.’

She shook her head with wonder. ‘Thanks to Lord Hartley coming out of hiding and revealing just how treacherous Celimus was, even to his own nobility.’

‘We shall be married by summer’s end, how’s that?’

Valentyna nodded glumly, knowing it would simply not be appropriate any sooner.

Wyl continued, ‘I know you understand that I want to be with Crys when he returns to Felrawthy. We shall grieve together at Tenterdyn and our prayers will cleanse it.’

The Queen sounded uncharacteristically sulky when she replied. ‘Crys is so smitten with Georgyana Bench, I’m sure he’ll hardly notice your presence.’ She saw his expression turn serious and was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just so scared of losing you again.’

‘I know,’ he said gently and kissed her head. He loved being taller than her. This was the end of the curse on his life: he would remain Cailech now until he took his very last breath. Considering some of the guises he had lived in, he was happy to settle for this one, especially as he knew Valentyna found the King of the Razors irresistible. ‘You won’t lose me again, I promise you.’

‘How long will you be gone? It was Aremys who told me you’d be going to the Razors. Were you too scared to share that news with me yourself?’

Wyl laughed. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I may be Wyl to you, but I have to make an effort to be Cailech to everyone else. I must return to the Razors and do the right thing by his people.’

‘You’re going to appoint Lothryn to rule in your stead, I gather?’

He nodded. ‘It’s fitting. The people will understand that now I am planning to marry the southern Queen, I will spend a lot of my time here. But an absent King is not good for their needs so Lothryn will administer the realm — and far better than I can, I’m sure.’

‘There’s a child, though, is that right?’

‘Yes. Cailech fathered the boy, but on Lothryn’s wife. Loth has always thought of Aydrech as his own and now he can rightfully raise him as his son.’

‘Will he be King?’

‘Yes, bastard children are recognised as heirs in the Razors.’

Valentyna nodded. ‘It must feel good to put everything back into balance again,’ she admitted. ‘I’m so happy for Elspyth too. She’s glowing. Did you ever think things could work out so right after everything felt so hideously wrong?’

Wyl turned her to him and kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers so she could enjoy the tenderness and passion behind his affection. ‘I never thought I would win you. That time at Briavel was enough, if that was all I could have. Shar has blessed me.’

Valentyna pulled him closer still and whispered into his ear, his golden hair tickling her face. ‘Shar has blessed you with more than you think.’

He pulled away and looked at her quizzically.

‘Shar, but you can be thick for a King, Wyl Thirsk!’

‘What am I missing?’ he begged, laughing at her insult.

‘Marry me fast, my lord, for I am pregnant. It seems we shall have the first royal heir to both thrones by the close of next winter.’

She watched the light green eyes of the northern King — soon to be a southern King too — fill with tears. She carried on talking, knowing he was lost for words. ‘If he’s a boy we shall call him Wyl, and I’d better start remembering to call you Cailech all the time — do you mind?’

Finally Wyl found his voice. ‘And if we have a princess?’

‘Ylena, of course. What else but a name that signifies such courage and represents so much love in both our lives?’

‘Valentyna…’ Whatever else Wyl was going to say was choked by a soft sob of joy. He hugged her tight and showered her hair and her face with his kisses. ‘If I died right here and now I couldn’t be happ—’

‘Don’t! We’re both going to live until we’re so old we will need servants to help us on and off the privy because of our creaky bones.’

They laughed amongst their shared tears. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We shall grow old and creaky together.’

‘Make Aremys bring you home to me quickly. I can only believe you are safe whilst I can see you, hold you,’ she said fervently. Wyl understood. He would have to be very careful with Cailech’s body until they were married and he was finally King of Morgravia.

Valentyna sighed, looking out across the landscape. ‘It’s beautiful here. I miss my woodlands but this is certainly a wonderful view. I feel like I can see all the way to Briavel.’

‘That was the point. This war tower was built so it offered a view in all directions, but especially towards Briavel.’

‘Well, we shall give this tower a new purpose. I shall dream something up by your return, King Cailech.’

He grinned, and as he did so a shadow fell across them. ‘What’s that?’ he said, shading his eyes against the sharp sunlight as he looked up.

‘I can’t imagine,’ Valentyna said, squinting into the sky. ‘An eagle?’

‘Not in these parts, and it’s too big anyway.’

Knave, who had been slumped drowsily close by, leapt to his feet and began to bark.

‘What is it, Knave?’ Wyl asked. He was rewarded with an answer from a voice he had never thought to hear again. Hello, Wyl.

Fynch! he sent back. Oh, Shar — is it really you?

Tell Valentyna. She can’t hear us — she’s not linked through the Thicket. And fret not, I’ve made myself invisible to all but you three.

‘What is it?’ Valentyna asked, baffled.

‘My love, you won’t believe it.’ Wyl did not think he could grin any wider or feel any happier than he did at this moment. ‘It’s Fynch! He’s alive.’

‘Where?’ Valentyna asked, amazed.

‘Up there,’ he said, pointing. What are you? he sent.

A dragon! He heard the boy laugh in his head and the sound was one of pure joy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT’S ALWAYS A SPECIAL FEELING to bring a huge story to an end. A lot of people have travelled this long and often traumatic journey with Wyl Thirsk and thank you to all the readers who’ve been so faithful to his cause. Here’s hoping this final book brings satisfaction — I have truly enjoyed hearing your thoughts and ideas, your despair and hopes for the characters. Enjoy closure!

Each time I set out to thank people for their support I realise there are new names who must be added to the list. On this occasion let me offer my sincere gratitude to Gary Havelberg, Sonya Caddy, Pip Klimentou and newcomer, Judy Downs, for their draft reading efforts, research and enthusiasm for the tale. Thanks to the gang at the Heartwood Bulletin Board and to the members of the ever-growing ‘FAB’ fantasy club, from whom I learn so much about what readers want. Trent, you’re a legend for all the help with computers and website gobbledygook.

Robin Hobb… quietly in the background, always full of encouragement, ever inspirational through her own work — thank you for being so supportive and for choosing this story to accompany you on your signings around the world this year.

This series is about to go international — at the time of this book going to print it’s scheduled for the US and UK in early 2005, which is exciting. And for that success I owe much to the booksellers of Australia for their enthusiasm for The Quickening series and to my agent, Chris Lotts in New York. Thank you all.

HarperCollins I hope you know how much I love being one of your authors — thank you to Nicola O’Shea, my editor; to Stephanie Smith, Robyn Fritchley, Linda Funnell, Sean Cotcher with his wonder team around the country, and Samantha Rich for their nurturing and generous attitude in all our dealings.

Family and friends, thank you — you are never taken for granted. And finally love and gratitude to my husband Ian and sons Will and Jack who make it so easy for me to have fun in worlds beyond our own but always lure me back.

Fx

PRAISE FOR FIONA MCINTOSH TRINITY

BETRAYAL

‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’

Adelaide Advertiser

‘leaves the reader anxiously waiting to know more… Strong and interesting characters and a story which keeps the reader guessing, Betrayal is an enjoyable and fast-paced read, full of magic and destruction – who could ask for more?’

Northern Argus

REVENGE

‘as good as Sara Douglass’ Good Reading ‘an exciting and inventive battle between the gods of good and evil’

Adelaide Advertiser

DESTINY

‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best… Destiny ends the Trinity series… with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’

Altair

THE QUICKENING

MYRREN’S GIFT

‘a wonderful new perspective for fantasy readers … excellent’

Australian Bookseller & Publisher

‘Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days…’

Sydney Morning Herald

BLOOD AND MEMORY

‘Because I read a lot of fantasy books and books in general, I am seldom taken by surprise by a plot turn. When I read Myrren’s Gift, I thought I could predict where this tale was going. Blood and Memory proved me wrong. Fiona McIntosh’s books move quickly and unpredictably; if you are tired of plodding trilogies in which little seems to happen, these books are definitely for you.’

Robin Hobb, author of The Farseer Trilogy

About the Author

FIONA MCINTOSH was born and raised in Sussex in the UK, but spent her early childhood commuting with her family between England and Ghana in West Africa where her father worked. She left a PR career in London to travel and found herself in Australia where she fell in love with the country, its people and one person in particular. She has since roamed the world working for her own travel publishing company, which she runs with her husband. Fiona lives with her young family in Adelaide.

You can find out more information about
Fiona or chat to her on her bulletin board via
her website: www.fionamcintosh.com
Email: fiona@fionamcintosh.com

For information about Fiona McIntosh and her
books, plus all the latest science fiction news, visit
‘Voyager Online’: www.voyageronline.com.au — the
website for lovers of science fiction and fantasy.

OTHER BOOKS BY FIONA MCINTOSH

TRINITY

Betrayal

Revenge

Destiny

THE QUICKENING

Myrren’s Gift

Blood and Memory

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

Myrren’s Gift first published in 2003

Blood and Memory first published in 2004

Bridge of Souls first published in 2004

This combined edition first published in Australia in 2014

By HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Fiona McIntosh 2014

The right of Fiona McIntosh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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