Blood and Memory (3 page)

“I’m glad to have you back, Commander Liryk,” she said formally, turning from her window. She crossed the room, and after he had straightened from his bow, she fell back into her less regal manner, taking both his hands in her own. “Now, ease my worry,” she said. “Tell me it all went smoothly.”

Liryk glanced toward the departing Krell, who was passing behind her majesty, carrying 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 that 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 toward one of the comfortable armchairs. “Please.”

“Thank you.” He sat, taking every last moment he could before he had to share his tidings with the lovely young Queen. So much grief around her. He wished Krell had remained but knew once again the man had done the right thing and given them privacy.

Valentyna joined him in the opposite chair.

“You look very pale, your highness.” He blurted out his thoughts.

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 realize.”

He was shocked. He sensed the friendship had run deep but had no idea it had progressed so far and so quickly. Her carefully chosen words could not mask the true admission. Liryk leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, risking her further confusion while he gathered up his anguished thoughts.

“My apologies, sir. I should not burden you with my heart,” Valentyna said to fill the awkward pause, sorry that she had said as much 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. Liryk sighed heavily, and when he said “your majesty,” as though his shoulders carried the very weight of the realm, her intuition suggested 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 hand covering hers, trying to shut out the voice, concentrating on the gingery hair on the back of his, 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 blushed whenever her eyes glanced toward his, and his smile, so hard to win but bright and joyful when it came. He should never have died. He had fought courageously for a realm not his own, to save the life of his enemy. She had liked him the instant they had met, had felt a connection to him somehow that was hard to shake. Curiously the young man entered her mind at the oddest of times to this day and there were moments—none that she would admit openly to—when Fynch’s suggestion, that Wyl Thirsk was still among 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, trusted him. That much was obvious. She recalled how Romen had admitted 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 she had felt. There was something about Wyl Thirsk—something special. Despite his lack of stature, which she had gently poked fun at, he certainly possessed a presence…and there had been a chemistry between them. Valentyna recalled how he had not felt ashamed to weep in front of them or accept her comfort. She had admired that about him.

Liryk’s voice spoke on.

The Queen heard, as though from a distance, Liryk talking about a place called the Forbidden Fruit. It sounded like no establishment she would ever visit. Apparently Romen had gone with a woman. She knew what this meant but she tried to ignore it. She wanted to believe that the bathing and smoothing was an innocent activity to help ease the tension of that strange and joyless day. But it was more than a smoothing. She could read as much in the way Liryk said it.

Hildyth was her name. Hateful name. She suddenly despised the woman…a stranger she had never met or ever would meet. A whore.

Romen’s whore.

She imagined the stranger laughing with him; unself-conscious at being naked with this private and yet playful man. The whore would feel his fingers over her body, his tongue, his lips…and Valentyna tried to convince herself, as these visions raged, that Romen was using the woman because he could not have his queen. His queen had banished him. Expelled him. Marked him as no friend of hers, or of Briavel’s. He had to drown his sorrows somewhere and he had drowned them at the Forbidden Fruit, sheathing himself within a woman called Hildyth. Is this what Liryk seemed so hesitant to tell her…that Romen had spent the night with a paid woman?

It seemed not. There was more to the tale. As Liryk continued, her throat caught, and then began to close, as though it meant to stop her breathing. Liryk was speaking of being stabbed…something about a fingerless hand.

She looked up suddenly. He stopped speaking, disturbed by her sudden attention.

“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 the pleasures of Romen’s body when they were meant for a queen.

It broke every protocol but Liryk did not care for that right now. The little girl of Briavel, loved by all, needed comfort. He put his arm around his young sovereign and pulled her toward his broad chest in the manner a dear uncle might. She allowed him to because she was scared. She had heard the words but did not believe him. 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 woman’s description of a man running down the hall. She was understandably distraught, so the details are vague, to say the least.” He stopped, not sure of what else to say or even whether she had paid attention.

As he pulled away, her gaze was locked on his face, but her expression suggested her mind was far away.

“Dead?” she said, as though she were 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 softly clicked open and Krell tiptoed through, something steaming from the mugs he carried. The man said nothing, walking silently across the rugs to lay down the tray nearby. Liryk caught a waft of dramona. It was a wise choice. The medicine was strong. It would help with the shock.

Valentyna became aware of Krell. His presence helped her to compose herself as she released her grip on Liryk and felt for the chair behind her. She found herself wringing her hands and regained control of them, locked them together. The Queen took a long, deep breath. She remained silent for a moment or two longer and then lifted her chin, returning a steady dark blue gaze at the man whose news had just stuck a blade into her own heart. There was some pleasing symmetry to that notion, she thought bitterly, for if her ears had heard correctly among her frantic thoughts, 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 that unfolded last night.”

The Queen’s words fell like ice crystals now. They matched the hard and wintry expression that had frozen on her lovely face.

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.

“…only later we discovered his ring finger had been removed,” he concluded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “A trophy perhaps, although I do believe, your highness, that this was an assassination. People who kill for money, especially if their victims are of high status, must provide proof of the death before they are paid in full. It is my belief that Koreldy was murdered on someone’s order.”

“Whose orders?”

One name hung silently between them. Neither dared speak it, for if they did they would both believe it, and the repercussions, should they act upon that notion, 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 mugs. They were taken silently.

“Drink it all, your majesty,” he whispered before taking his leave.

She smelled the dramona, knew its intention, and put it aside. They would not sedate her. “Liryk. Did Koreldy say anything to you before he died.”

The man was sipping from his mug of strong, dark tea. He 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 leveled at him.”

Valentyna’s newly calmed expression faltered, as the words hurt. She knew Liryk had not meant to drive a further wedge of pain into her. She expected him to be truthful but could not know that he was honest only to a certain point. Liryk had told Koreldy he would not do anything to dissuade Valentyna against the marriage to Celimus even though Koreldy had begged him. As promised, he held his tongue now. For Briavel’s sake, the marriage must go ahead.

It was taking every ounce of Valentyna’s courage to remain composed and not crumble. That would come later. Right now she had to learn everything she could about Romen’s death.

“The whore—”

“Hildyth?”

“Yes, her. Where is she now?”

“After she had told us everything she could, she asked if she could leave. She was very upset, as you can imagine.”

“Had it occurred to you, Commander, that the whore was involved…could have given the killer entry? Could have killed Koreldy even?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She watched the color 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, the embarrassment, a flush of red rising at the neck. “I have met her before. She did not strike me as either violent or anything more than a young woman trying to make the best of her situation.”

“I see,” said Valentyna, understanding perfectly. Romen had not been the first of her acquaintances to lie with this woman. Clearly Liryk had intimate knowledge of the whore Hildyth. “I want soldiers sent immediately to bring this woman back to the castle for questioning. Can I leave that up to 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, rest and we shall speak again when you are refreshed. I apologize for having kept you so long”—and then miraculously her voice lightened—“and for losing myself there for a few moments. It was a shock.”

She watched Liryk’s expression soften at her words. Perhaps her cool detachment had unsettled him, although was this not the very quality one could admire in a queen? One not prone to shrieking hysterics but someone who could control her own emotions and deal calmly with a 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 realized he’d been struck,” he assured her, not quite believing it himself as he stood to bow before his sovereign.

She nodded that he might depart and he did so gladly, flooded with relief that his ugly task was done.

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 had 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 status to disapprove. They were friends, though. Friends did not cast each other aside. She needed Romen…why could she not see this?

It was true that even he 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 Fynch who had noticed the curious attachment that Knave,
Wyl’s dog, had shown for Koreldy when they had tracked him back to Pearlis. Fynch had been shocked to see the foreigner with Ylena and to hear that he had brought Wyl’s corpse back to Stoneheart for the formal respect it was due. It was he alone who had worked it out or at least accepted that something very strange had occurred. Fynch believed in magic and so did not suffer from the same wariness of it as did most Morgravians or dismiss it like the Briavellians.

His suspicion that Wyl Thirsk was somehow still among them had been confirmed, first by Knave’s uncharacteristic affection for a stranger and then by the fact that Koreldy had claimed Ylena, taking her away to safety. Furthermore, he had cleared the Thirsk family name simply by arriving in Pearlis with Wyl’s body. Fynch had been relieved when Koreldy had admitted to being Wyl and explained about the frightening phenomenon that was the Quickening, which had given him life and taken the real Romen Koreldy’s.

But Wyl had forbidden Fynch from sharing this knowledge. He alone knew the truth of Koreldy, which is why the Queen’s decision had been so painful for him. He loved Valentyna and wished he could tell her who Romen Koreldy was, but he knew it would be in vain. How could anyone who could not conceive that sorcery existed believe such a tale?

He had hoped to see Romen before they took him away from Werryl—that way he could hear Wyl’s plans, however thin they might be. It had not been permitted. Knave had wanted to follow his trace, but Fynch had exerted his own authority for once and told his companion to wait. They needed to plan their next move. The boy sensed that the dog could find its master anywhere. They could catch up with Wyl later. Instead he needed time to tidy his mind to consider all options first. So the woods had become their hiding place.

Fynch had expected to be here for a few days, but he was wrong. Outside events began to have their own crushing impact.

No amount of shushing or cajoling had prevented Knave from the sudden howling he had taken to that night. Fynch presumed it was to ward off any wolves or poachers, but it was a strange sound, one of despair. Perhaps he was missing Wyl? The dog was closed to him, so he could not work out what was troubling him. Knave did not want to be touched or spoken to and so Fynch had tossed and turned, trying to shut out the terrible keening. Before first light Knave had roused Fynch again. The boy sleepily obeyed and followed. Clearly the dog had an objective. It was still dark, so he knew they would not be seen by Valentyna. They slipped into the castle grounds, waving to guards and getting a familiar raised hand back. Knave was making for the main courtyard. Fynch had no idea why, but it became all too clear after the arrival of Commander Liryk.

They had watched him enter the bailey. He looked grave and weary. They saw him hand over the reins to the stable boy and heard him give some order to his men, although Fynch had not been able to make out the words.

As Liryk had left the courtyard and entered the castle, Fynch noticed that Knave was no longer at his side but was whining by the cart that had rolled in after Liryk. He watched with what felt like a claw around his throat, squeezing tighter and harder, as the men had struggled to lift something out of the cart. Instinctively, before he could even tell its shape, he knew they were pulling at the corpse of Romen Koreldy and his heart broke.

Relieved that they gave him permission to be present, a distraught Fynch followed them into the cool chapel. The men obviously recognized him as one of Koreldy’s friends. He stood, rigid in his despair, by the side of the body, feeling disturbed by its pallor. Romen had been browned from the sun; he should not be this ghostly.

A guard, sensitive to the friendship that had existed between the dead man and the child, gently explained that a great deal of blood had drained at the time of death, which would account for its shockingly pale appearance. The boy 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 had stepped away.

The soldiers, all known to him, murmured their sympathies. One even apologized for not keeping Romen safe. Fynch wanted to cry out that Koreldy could take care of himself and so he had obviously been duped, then murdered—not that he knew the circumstances yet. Instead he accepted their commiserations silently and was relieved when they gradually departed.

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 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 Fynch knew he would hate to be seen so disheveled. He leaned down and 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 joined Fynch. Knave was patient. It was as though he understood that it was Fynch’s turn now—the boy needed to grieve.

That was how Valentyna found Fynch.

She 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 toward her throat. It was real. Death was here. It was Krell’s guiding hand, a gentle, well-timed touch, steering her down the short aisle, that rescued her. She fought the grief back down and was able once again to look at the poignant scene before her. Fynch looked so small, so vulnerable. She desperately wanted to hold him; cling to the living—not allow him to hate her so.

Instead, as she silently drew up beside him, she risked taking his hand. She knew it was leaving herself open to his 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 felt herself rewarded with a vague, 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 both Fynch and Knave stood like statues while she stepped around Romen, seeing nothing for the moment other than how handsome he was in such stillness. Even through her concentration, however, she was aware that one set of eyes moved with her and regarded her intently.

Knave watched.
What is he thinking
? she wondered, glad of the distraction for her mind while she absorbed this final vision of her love.

“May I?” she asked, tentatively pointing toward 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 again inwardly as a picture of Romen’s body spewing forth his lifeblood swam into her mind. Undoing the 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 and Romen’s heart had been punctured, all of its love drained out on 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, an awkward silence stretching.

“Your highness,” Krell uttered after clearing his throat lightly. “Don’t torture yourself any further.”

“But I must. I sent this man to his death.”

“No, highness!” Liryk spoke up. “You gave him his life…and a chance to make a new one. Without you, King Celimus would surely have had him killed.”

“Perhaps he did,” Fynch muttered.

Valentyna tore her gaze from Romen and laid it on Fynch. “Tell us what you think.”

She and Liryk held their breath. If the youngster was thinking it, then surely their unspoken yet shared conclusions could not be that far off the mark.

“Celimus wanted Romen dead. Now he is,” Fynch said tonelessly.

“We cannot prove such a thing, lad,” Liryk replied, 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 scholar to see that this was an expertly achieved death. Celimus could not be seen to have bloodied hands…” They were impressed at 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 the King’s design. We already know Celimus thinks nothing of hiring mercenaries to kill sovereigns.” 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 speaking suddenly, his look accusing, defying them to contradict him.

“I don’t think that, lad,” Liryk lied, impressed with Fynch’s grasp of the situation. “I just can’t prove the King of Morgravia is behind it.”

“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 is between the five of us.”

Fynch found an inward smile. It amused him that the Queen counted Knave among them, but he could not blame her. He too believed Knave heard and understood everything. The dog sidled up toward him again and he laid his hand on Knave’s head, glad of the comfort.

Without warning, a familiar dizzy sensation claimed him as Valentyna opened her mouth to speak again.

“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 it kindly. “This is my order, although I prefer it be a request. I am doing this so we keep Romen’s death among as few people as possible.”

He nodded an unhappy expression on his face.