Blood and Memory (11 page)

“I know you are, child. You are a marvel and it’s not difficult to see that you have been grown from strong stock.”

“Did you know my father?” she asked, surprised.

Jakub nodded toward his fellow brother to give them a moment. “Of him, of course. I regret I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting your fine father, or brother, in person. They were good men, as I hear it.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Where is the head?”

He hugged her. “It’s safe. In the grotto.”

Ylena flinched at the realization that she had been sharing these weeks with Alyd. “Where?” she asked.

“There’s a false back to the cupboard where we keep the candles. I hid it there. It should be well preserved as Romen requested.”

She was going to say more, but the words were choked off by the sounds of men yelling. Frowning, Brother Jakub told her to remain where she was as he hurried outside the chamber 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’s going on?”

“Riders. King’s men!” It was Pil bursting into the room, a look of terror on his face. “They’re hurting the Brothers.”

Her eyes widened with disbelief and rising panic gripped at the throat whose soreness she had forgotten in an instant. “What—”

“Do as I say,” Jakub ordered, his voice hard now. “Hide, both of you, and as soon as you can climb out of the window here, make for the grotto. Your passage will be hidden. You know what to do, child,” he said somberly to Ylena before glancing toward Pil and saying to him: “Now is when you prove your worth, lad. Keep her safe. Get her away from here as soon as you can.”

“Jakub!” she began, voice trembling. “It’s me they’ve come For, isn’t it?”

“But they’ll never find you, my girl. Not so 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, and then he took the dismayed Farley’s hand and together the two old men walked out into the bright day.

Ylena was too stunned to move until she heard the gruff sound of strangers’ voices.

“Come on!” Pil hissed, dragging her around the counter.

They ducked behind Farley’s weighing bench and climbed beneath his shelves. Ylena held her breath as she heard boots clatter 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’s 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 all left the chamber again. Mercifully the men had done only an initial cursory search of rooms.

“They’ll be back,” Pil whispered.

“I want to see what they’re doing,” she mouthed back.

He shook his head vehemently. “I promised Jakub.”

Ylena knew he was right, just as she knew that these intruders had come for her and if they found her she might not live to enjoy her revenge. “I know you did, but if this is about me I need to know what’s happening.”

Pil bowed his head, beaten. “Perhaps we can see from the small tower,” he suggested.

The small tower was a disused area of the monastery that had once been a special place of prayer for Brothers choosing to live for a while in Solitary. Part of the floor had collapsed a few years back and Jakub had declared it too dangerous and the tower had been closed. The lack of Brothers looking to spend time in Solitary meant that its repair had still not been attempted.

“We can get there easily enough,” he added cautiously, “and the grotto can be accessed through the cheese pantry if we have to.”

Pil climbed out from under the counter and motioned that the way was clear. They opened the small window—fortunately both were slight of frame—and wriggled out.

“I didn’t know you could get in from there,” she whispered, looking about her as they tiptoed across the small clearing toward the tower and closer to where they could now hear voices.

“Secret entrance,” Pil admitted, his face a mask of worry.

“Quick! Someone’s coming.”

The pair hurtled through the small tower’s doorway with barely a moment to spare. Leaning back against the stone wall, they breathed hard and silently, fearing 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 anyway. No one there.”

“Right. Put a bar against the door so no one gets in…or out. Then all our boys know this one’s clear.”

“At once.”

Footsteps trailed off. Ylena looked toward the pale-faced Pil and appreciated for the first time how very young he was, at most fifteen. She would have to be strong now, just for him.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “We’ll find a way out, Pil. Trust me,” she said with such confidence that she surprised herself. Wondering where all this new courage was coming from, she remembered Jakub’s words about the human spirit and hope. Not hope, she told herself, there was no hope with Alyd and Wyl dead. Just hate and revenge…and determination.

“Come on, lead the way,” she encouraged.

Pil gave a thin, nervous smile and, holding on to her hand, began to ascend the narrow, winding staircase. Slits in the wall gave 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 to some of the 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 glazing 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 knew the soldiers too well; they would never perform this sort of atrocity.

“But you know they’re King’s men?”

“They have his banner,” the young man said.

“Then Celimus must have amassed a small army of paid mercenaries…no Legionnaire would participate in something as heinous as this,” she assured. “Wait here, I’ll look.”

Pil did not argue. He pointed out where she must tread and she crossed the small area of floor with ease. Only now did she allow her gaze to take in what was happening below.

At her first strangled sound, Pil slumped to the floor. He did not need to see it to know the world he knew and loved was being smashed. Ylena’s throat closed in terror and the wind blowing through the broken shutters of the tower confirmed that fires had been lit. The monastery was burning.

Men she recognized were lying in contorted positions in the gardens, their hoes and spades carelessly resting around them. They had died where they had been working; no warning, just a sword through the belly. Others, more bloodied, had tried to escape and been hacked down. Some had arrows protruding from their backs.

She covered her mouth with her hands when she recognized the slumped figure of Brother Farley. He was still alive, barely, but one of his hands was gone 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 were still being interrogated and in the middle of them 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 offense. She could see him pleading with the strangers, begging for mercy for his men of Shar.

It was when he was soon after singled out and nailed to a makeshift cross that Ylena knew if she did nothing else but kill Celimus, she would have achieved something worthwhile with her life. She choked back the scream that almost flew from her throat and watched the perpetrators throw something from a flask at Jakub. A lit torch was flung toward 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 he had seen how her lips moved and that the anguish in her expression 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 so they were persecuting its community to get the truth of where she was being held safe.

They would not find her. If only to avenge the deaths of these beautiful, helpless men, she would get away. She would frustrate Celimus’s plans in every way she could before she worked out how to bring about his downfall.

She moved to where her young friend crouched. She pushed back her fears 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. Her voice was steady and deep with anger. “Come, Pil. We must go.”

“Where?” he sobbed.

“To the grotto first. I have something to fetch from it and we will also be safe there. We can make our plans.”

“Is everyone dead?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know.” It was a poor answer but was at the very least vaguely truthful. She knew it would not help their cause if she told him all that 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 can’t 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 look through all of these places again.”

“It’s too dangerous across the roof.”

“You know, Pil,” she said as gently as she could, “you said to me when I first came here and was too frightened to be left alone that Brother Jakub had taught you how to fix your eye on the things that scare you and walk toward 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 fears of what had happened to me in Stoneheart.” She knew he had only scant information, but the gravity of her words was enough to suggest it had been a terrifying experience for her.

“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 the grotto so we can make our escape.”

His expression told her that he was now convinced she had lost her mind. She grinned wolfishly in the manner she had often seen Alyd and Wyl do as boys when they were up to mischief. “Trust me.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, in some awe now of the woman standing before him.

“Felrawthy, to raise an army.”

Aremys was true to his word. In the morning a tub was brought up and filled with steaming water and fragrant oils. 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 realized what that must mean. He was especially glad to note that the bruises had benefited from the salve. Even with her face injured, she was striking to look at. “Lock it behind me,” he suggested, and left.

Wyl did so and for the second time in as many days slid with extraordinary relief into the comforting warmth of a tub. He gingerly touched spots that were hurt and then, avoiding them as best he could, scrubbed himself clean with the flannel and soap paste provided. It was the strangest of sensations. A woman felt completely different from how he had imagined. He did not have the courage to explore further and Faryl felt raw anyway. Another time, he decided, embarrassed.

Wyl knew he would never forget how vulnerable he had felt. He was glad Rostyr was dead. Justice was done, thanks to Aremys and indeed to Jessom. What remained of Faryl certainly approved. He wondered what sort of penance had been meted by Celimus in the meantime. Knowing the man as he did, he had no doubt that the King would be seeking information on the thefts in far less subtle ways than his chancellor. He did not have to wait too long to learn the answer.

Wyl had taken care with his hair this morning, brushing it until it shone before tying it back as best he could in Faryl’s way. He had been alarmed to see 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 later to find Faryl much refreshed and wrapped in one of his huge shirts that she must have dug into his saddlebags for. He swallowed at the sight of her. She really was a striking woman. He had never been one to fall for the breathily speaking, pretty sort who looked as though they might break if you squeezed them in a hug. Nor did he find the more obviously flirtatious kind desirable—those women were confident enough of their bodies to use 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. Elly had been far more tomboy than girl, which was probably why she had been his favorite. She could run faster, shoot arrows better, and skin a rabbit quicker than he ever could. She had called him Bear too and like Faryl had not been beautiful, not even conventionally pretty. She had had a laugh, though, that 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.”

The man nodded an approval but remained still just inside the doorway. He said nothing. An awkward silence stretched before them, neither knowing how best to handle their situation from here.

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 all 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.

Wyl struggled for something to say as his mind raced to consider his next move. “Do I owe you any money for the inn where I’d booked?”

“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,” he 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 small 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 as close to the truth as possible. “And you?” Wyl added, hating the forced politeness of their conversation.

“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, then undid them, put them behind his back, and then hung them back at his sides.

It was time to move. “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 now with what looked like sadness. “I’ve fetched your horse as well.”

Wyl grinned briefly. Aremys noted how that particular small expression made such a difference to Faryl’s bearing. She had a lovely smile that touched her eyes and changed a normally serious, often sad visage into something with lightness, even the suggestion of laughter lurking.

“I’m not helpless, but thank you,” Wyl said.

Aremys shook his head to suggest it was no bother. “Well, I figured you might ride out as yourself and would not want to confront the stable master as Faryl demanding Thorn Bentwood’s horse.” He was lying, decided to come clean. “But I also thought we could leave together. There’s only one road and I’m guessing you’re headed toward 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 more 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 sounded suddenly brittle.

“I could hardly miss them, Faryl. I told you I gathered up your stuff.”

“It seems I have 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.” He 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, 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, Wyl knew, but it was only as far as the outskirts of Pearlis and then he could branch off. “Let me just climb into some clothes. I hope you didn’t mind me throwing one of your shirts on.”

“Not at all. I don’t mind you rifling through my stuff one bit,” Aremys replied, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Their departure from the inn was uneventful and Wyl had to admit he felt infinitely more comfortable physically—if not emotionally—traveling as Faryl without all 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 onto her mare with practiced ease. He could tell she was as comfortable in the saddle as she was drawing the weapon he had watched her strap on. She had let him hold the knives earlier. Such beautiful craftsmanship he had not seen before.

“Is your throw as exquisite as your blades?” he had asked facetiously back in the room.

His answer had been a knife whooshing past his cheek, only narrowly missing his ear but 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 satisfaction he felt at unleashing Romen’s skill.

Aremys needed no further convincing that this woman could, for the most part, look after herself.

They had reached a particularly pretty patch of Morgravia’s southern rural region and Wyl felt himself relaxing for the first time in many days. They had been traveling in a 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 knives with such deadly accuracy?”

Wyl had expected the query far sooner than this; was ready for it. “When you grow up with only a host of brothers, you learn such skills.”

“I have six brothers. None of us learned how to throw a knife.”

“Six,” Wyl said, impressed, keen to direct the conversation elsewhere. “I grew up with 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. I’m from a small island off the far north.”

Wyl felt as though every nerve was on high alert. “Oh? Which one?” He hoped his voice sounded casual and that Aremys would not say the word he feared.

“Grenadyn.”

Wyl flinched at the name, and because Aremys had turned his dark gaze toward him, he attempted to cover this reaction by flicking at the few strands of hair that had escaped their bindings. “Do you know it?” Aremys inquired.

“Er…I've heard of it, of course.”

“But never been there?”

“No,” he said, grateful to answer truthfully. “Why?” He was cautious.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just…well, there was someone raised in Grenadyn who is as handy as you are with a knife. Actually I understate his skill. He could throw a knife with such deadly accuracy that until I saw your talent I never thought I’d ever see anyone as good as him.”

Wyl’s throat felt constricted. “Oh yes? What’s his name?”

“Romen Koreldy. A noble. Very wealthy family.”

This time Wyl could not hide the alarm. “Did he know you?” It slipped out.
What a stupid question
, he thought, cringing. “I mean, do you see him?” he corrected quickly as his mind raced to dig among whatever was left of Romen to give him 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 kids. I was about five. He was so good with a knife he could split a thread from twenty-five paces when he was little more than a youth.”

Something nagged at his attention, but Wyl ignored it. He was fascinated, for Romen’s mind had not released any of this to him. 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 gone. There was some talk of a scandal among the Koreldys, but I never found out what that was. I have not seen or heard of him since.”