Blood and Memory (15 page)

“I won’t desert you,” his friend said, winking. “Take a towel and a robe. We undress over there.” She pointed. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

There was nothing for it. He had to follow her instructions. He chose an elegantly shuttered cubicle for modesty, but most of the women just stripped down 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; felt the familiar urge to gag and then steadied, trying to allay the fear of discovery. He took several long, shuddering breaths to compose himself.

He thought it through, berating himself in a furious whisper.
You‘re Leyen. 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. Wyl opened the door and stepped out, his gaze looking at 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 or tauter thighs among us. Now come, let me show you around.”

“I don’t know your name, I’m sorry,” Wyl lied, still not risking a glance toward the naked woman who walked beside him arm in arm, her doughy flesh touching his own.

“Oh, how remiss of me.” She chuckled. “I’m Lady Bench. But, please, as we have now strolled naked together, you must call me Helyn.” She smiled warmly and Wyl blushed furiously.

“Thank you, Helyn,” he said, knowing he must do his best to start acting like a woman and less like an impostor.

Wyl looked up and forward at last and was rewarded with a sight most men in the Legion would give a limb for. Perhaps 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 and 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 and her mood was infectious.

Wyl liked her. The bath was hotter than he expected as he stepped into the gently fizzing water, through which he could see a magnificent mosaic similar to the design he recalled from the men’s pavilion. This building was more palatial, though. More glass, more light, paler marble, artworks adorning walls and smoothing tables made comfortable with cushions surrounding the main bathing pool. Everything just a little more luxurious, a little softer than the men enjoyed. The King, of course, had his own private villa in which to bathe and it was appreciably more decadent than this. Wyl was, in fact, one of a few people who had visited that villa but not on behalf of this king.

The chatter here was subdued—probably because of its content needing to be kept “just between us” and he 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 favorite spot.”

The noblewoman gestured for Wyl to join her on a special seat built into the walls that allowed them to submerge themselves comfortably in the bath’s warmth while still being in a position to talk with ease. Steam was rising off the surface of the water. Wyl commented on it, merely for conversation, as they settled themselves. He tried to keep his eyes occupied and his gaze not quite as lecherous as it seemed determined to be.

“They keep the temperature of the water in the ladies’ pavilion warmer than the men’s, I’m told. Apparently we women prefer it that way to steam our skin, keep our complexion healthy.” She turned to level an inquiring gaze upon Wyl. “So, Leyen, who are you?”

“A guest,” Wyl replied. “I’m handling some correspondence for the King between realms,” he lied.

“No messenger I know of is accommodated as a guest of Celimus,” Helyn observed.

“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 the smooth way he responded…and lied.

“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. It achieved the opposite effect, fueling her need to discover more.

This time the noblewoman’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like a simple courier.”

“I am not and never will be simple, madam,” Wyl replied, and laughed coquettishly. He recalled how Faryl had used this same mannerism 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, confused. “Have you family?”

“No,” he said carefully.

“You are fortunate, then. Little wonder you have not heard that it 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…for what end? You burn a village to teach its inhabitants a lesson.”

An attendant arrived and squatted by them with a tray of multicolored 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 there were merely strategically placed pots of soap paste. Nothing so dainty as these leaves. In truth, part of his confusion was that his mind was still in shock at the news. “I know only the dusty road, Lady Helyn, and inns with tin tubs they drag up the stairs to wash myself in. Forgive me my ignorance. But tell me, what of the monastery?”

Lady Helyn sighed as she began soaping herself. Wyl looked away, embarrassed, locking instead onto 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’m 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 recognized the body of someone called Brother Jakub.” She shrugged as if to say the name meant nothing to her. “The senior monks were nailed on crosses and burned. Any visitors at the monastery were burned too…dreadful business.”

Lady Bench continued talking, but Wyl had stopped listening. The horror of this information was too much for him to bear. Ylena dead? Her lovely face swam before him and he realized he could no longer remember her smile. His memory was of her virtually mute; her laughter gone from the moment she witnessed her husband’s death, her life committed to sorrow. Perhaps she had welcomed death, he thought. His entire family was dead, including himself, in a way. The killers had not been bandits. He agreed with Lady Bench. Bandits did not bother with torching villages. Only a sadist would do such a thing. A sadist with power, that is. Celimus, who else! But how could the King possibly have known where he had taken his sister? He had covered Romen’s tracks too well. He felt his whole being fighting back the urge to make his way to the King’s rooms and, come what may, kill him.

And then another horrific thought occurred to him. Had Elspyth perished too?

“When did this occur?” he demanded.

“Pardon me?” Lady Bench said, turning back toward Wyl, having engaged someone passing by in a polite salutation. “Oh…I would guess at about three days ago.” She waded off with her friend with a wink toward Wyl, as though she had latched onto some juicy gossip. “Won’t be long,” she mouthed.

Wyl was relieved she had given him a few moments alone. His mind felt dazed. This news was more shocking than the thought of having to sup with Celimus tonight. How could it have happened? Who knew? Who could have told the King where to go looking for Ylena?…They had covered their tracks so well.

If she had traveled quickly, Wyl calculated, then Elspyth would certainly have been there when the attackers came and there was no hope for either of them. He could only pray to Shar that she had reached Ylena and gotten her away to safety. And then, irrationally, he hoped that Elspyth had ignored his needs, 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. Poor Ylena. Beautiful and fragile. He had failed her.

Lady Bench floated back. “My dear, you look very pale.”

“I’m sorry. The news of Rittylworth has upset me.”

“And I feel bad that I was the messenger of painful tidings. Come, wash yourself, and then you are to return with me.”

“To where?”

“To my house.”

Wyl wanted to be alone with his sorrowful thoughts, but he also did not really want to be within Stoneheart.

“It’s just a spit from the palace,” she urged. “We can 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’m having supper with the King tonight,” he said distractedly.

“Shar save us, girl! You are important.”

“Not really,” Wyl said, wondering why he had blurted out that information. “I have nothing to wear.”

“Well, I have plenty!” Helyn said, suddenly galvanized. “I’ll hear no argument. You’re 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 again and her only daughter staying with friends.

He had to admit it was good for him to be diverted in this way. His inclination was to jump on a horse and start riding for Rittylworth, but his soldier’s mind told him there was little he could do. Whatever had happened would not change and his arrival would not make the carnage any less tragic. He had an appointment with the King he had to keep and he had begun to convince himself that Elspyth had gotten to the monastery in time and that both women were together and on the run to Felrawthy.

Jakub would not have allowed harm to come to Ylena. At the first hint of trouble, he would have hidden her in that secret grotto and hopefully gotten her to safety.

Lady Bench was right. He did feel better for the solitude and she had been as good as her word, leaving him alone for a while. Wyl could tell Helyn was glad of the company and the opportunity to fuss around her new friend. He was not completely taken in by the attention, realizing that Lady Helyn was no doubt a pivotal and indeed powerful member of the nobility who sensed the chance to be in on secretive dealings of the King. She herself had mentioned to Wyl how Pearlis thrived on gossip and hearsay and that she was no different from other women, not that she had expressed as much—but a bored, wealthy woman was always going to be prey to intrigues. 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. Instead, when she finally joined him, they talked about every subject under the sun, bar the King’s marriage.

At least until it came time to help Wyl find some suitable attire for the evening.

“Leyen, we must find you an appropriate gown for your rendezvous with Celimus.”

They were sipping mint tea in her exquisite gardens. Nearby her aviary of chittering canaries was a mass of color and movement. The pond around which they sat was filled with fat, flame-colored fish who occasionally broke the surface of the water around the delicate cups of water lilies. The garden was a sun trap, hanging on to every last smile from above, and so they were warm out here with the help of soft rugs that Wyl did not need but politely accepted. It was a serene place and certainly helped Wyl to take control of his churning emotions.

“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 offense. No woman alive liked to hear about another being taller, slimmer, prettier…no matter how old she might be.

“…And infinitely trimmer too,” she said, laughing. She placed her glass on the small table beside her. “I was thinking about a gown 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 one gone, my dear. Only the other day I took a delivery from Amos Rilk, master tailor of Briavel—my daughter’s first formal ballgown and 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…or rather undress her.

“Have you met her majesty?” Helyn inquired innocently.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She is very…” He wanted to say,
Easy to love, wonderful to kiss
, but he said,

“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 her riding breeches than in her gowns.”

“You’ve mingled with her at formal functions, then…as well as less formal?”