Blood and Memory (36 page)

At that moment he felt a terrible pressure on his chest. It felt as if all his breath were being sucked away; he could hear Aremys crashing into the Thicket behind and he momentarily heard his friend whistling all too brightly before the sound was suddenly cut off. And then he could breathe again. Wyl swung around, presuming the reason for his friend’s quiet was that Aremys had been shocked by 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 the message from King Celimus, the couched threat in his letter burning in her mind.

It had taken much soul-searching to reach her decision, but now it was finally made. She knew it was the only way forward under the circumstances. The nobles were not going to support her without Ylena Thirsk, and even if she could produce her, she could not imagine what the young noblewoman could say or do to change their minds.

Valentyna had seen it 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.

Above even her.

She was a pawn; the valuable key that might unlock the barrier that stood between Morgravia and Briavel living side by side as friendly neighbors and as allies. Valentyna understood clearly that whatever lip service the nobles had paid her this afternoon, the fact of the matter was that they did not care what Celimus was or what his intentions were. They did not want further proof of his treachery. If she were married to him, no more of their proud sons need die. Even if—Shar forbid—Celimus somehow contrived to make himself Lord High King of both realms, he would no longer wage war on Briavel, which meant their children were safe and Briavel was safe. And after decades of warring, peace is what the Briavellians demanded of their new monarch. Despite all the adoration, she was expendable. The realization was a deep pain in her heart. It made her momentarily breathless. Valentyna was a figurehead queen…her own people might well accept Celimus as their sovereign once the marriage had taken place.

All the talk of finding Ylena and considering new strategies to stall the marriage any further all of a sudden seemed futile. 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’ll add the royal seal, your highness, once you’ve signed it.”

He handed her the quill. She reached for it but did not take it.

“I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I, Krell?”

He searched her anguished face, which so recalled the beautiful woman who had birthed her, and he thought of how proud Valor would be of his daughter right now. She was putting her realm before her own inclination and ensuring its prosperity in the future. “Your majesty,” he said gravely. “Briavel will flourish because of the important decision you’ve made today.”

Her smile was thin and wavered beneath the force of her will, pushing away tears or sentiment. “I don’t want to marry him, Krell, but I know I must.”

“If you’ll permit me, highness…?”

Valentyna nodded. She trusted Krell implicitly and needed his assurances. He had been close to her father and she knew how much he cared for her.

The Chancellor’s rheumy gaze fixed upon her. “If you’re 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’s a royal fantasy, highness, which both our dear King Valor and the great King Magnus dared imagine only in their wildest daydreams. Imagine your own blood reigning over two realms in years to come.”

She nodded again, genuinely teary this time. “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, highness. Very few royal marriages are made by Shar, your majesty—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. Which princess did not?

She could not help herself. It needed to be said. “And I must forget that he 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 any of those deaths.”

“But we know it, Krell!”

“Yes, your majesty,” he admitted truthfully. “But as diplomats, we must pursue the 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 honorable qualities of Magnus—he will fight us until the last man of Briavel falls and then he will dissolve the realm as we know it…wipe out its name, make it solely an annex of Morgravia.”

Valentyna did not say that she felt in her heart that he would annex Briavel anyway. “And still you would urge this marriage, knowing I’m sacrificing myself to a man I could never love.”

“Love is not the issue here, my queen,” Krell said firmly. “This is politics now 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 high effect. This is not Celimus, King of Morgravia, and Briavel as 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 can’t 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 affirmative? How long could she wait for Ylena and what difference could 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, accepting Celimus’s proposal of marriage on the last full moon of the spring equinox.

“There,” she said, unable to disguise the disgust in her voice. “Get it away with the messenger.”

“Yes, your highness,” Krell said, rising and feeling a sense of loss at his part in forcing this young woman to act against her instincts. But the alliance was necessary for the well-being of Briavel. He and Valor had discussed on many occasions how insecure Briavel might 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 into the Thicket. Somehow he knew it would be pointless to search. If the Thicket was as enchanted as he had been led to believe, it had made the decision to separate them.

He shivered. Magic.

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. He should have known better, for although he found himself winded and flat on his back, Knave towering above him, the dog merely licked him enthusiastically.

“Where’s Aremys?” Wyl asked, pushing him away.

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. Thin though his premise was, 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. None did. The silence was oppressive; there was only Knave’s presence and his own pounding pulse to reassure him that life existed in this strangest of places. It felt to Wyl like they had been moving for a long time and he could hear the rushing of water nearby.

Images echoing his fears began to rush at him. Aremys lost in the Thicket calling to him. Valentyna being raped by Celimus. Elspyth screaming for Lothryn while the man she loved begged Wyl for help. Romen, Faryl, and Ylena walked toward him, their expressions showing the same confusion they had felt when death had claimed each of them. And then that vision disappeared, to be replaced with blood and gore surrounding Tenterdyn. He could almost smell the carnage, and just when he thought he might have to scream for the dog to stop, that he must go back, they burst through the other side of the Thicket, emerging into gray daylight and a soft drizzle of rain.

He dragged a lungful of the damp air, not caring that his cheeks were wet from his own tears. 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 through the windows; like a magnet, the dwelling drew him to its warmth.

Aleda was dying. She knew it and somehow it was all right, provided she could cling to life long enough to learn the whereabouts of her eldest son. That knowledge would allow her to pass over with the grim happiness that the Donal name was not completely stamped out. Each heavy step of her faithful mule hurt her and all her waning energies were focused on simply remaining on its back. If she fell off now, she would have to lie on the ground and 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 leapt from his small cart, calling to his 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 was no help nearby; they were in the middle of nowhere. He himself had crossed the border at around midday yesterday—although 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 get another step closer to Crys, she would take it. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

They set off, Aleda feeling stronger just for the presence of another person. They had traveled less than a mile before rounding 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 a traveling physic.

“You’re lucky he’s in our village today,” the woman said.

“Is there an inn?” he asked.

A man nodded. “Yes, the Lucky Bowman. Shall we go there?”

“Please. She says she has money.”

Three burly men carried Aleda into the inn, which was run by a kindly-looking woman.

“Shar’s Mercy,” she cried as they bundled Aleda and her few belongings past her.

“The physic’s coming,” one said as he nodded to the others to head upstairs.

“Room four,” she called to their backs, before turning back to the tinker, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

“They’ve just arrived, Nan, in terrible shape,” the woman who had rushed in with them said, clearly excited by all this activity. “I’ve sent Rory after that traveling physic who was here today.”

“I don’t even know her name. I…I just stumbled across her on my way here,” the tinker admitted.

Nan nodded toward 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 a part of the day’s intrigue and she bustled past and called to the physic, a middle-aged man with gray at his temples and a soft-spoken voice, to follow her. He stopped to chat briefly with the tinker, who then took his leave, glad to be gone from all the attention and activity.

Later, alone with his patient, the physic learned the full horror of what the severely injured woman had gone through and, even more distressingly, who she was.

He gave Aleda a draft of something crimson in color. “Rest now, Lady Donal,” he said, taking her hand. “We’ll get word to Werryl for you.”

At those reassuring words, Aleda sighed and closed her eyes.

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’ve stanched the bleeding for now and she will sleep for several hours. When she wakes, I want you to brew up these leaves.” He handed her a pouch. “They will give her strength.”

“Food?”

He shook his head. “Furthest thing from her mind. Keep the water up to her, though. She’ll die of her injuries before she dies of starvation.”

“How long can she hang on?” Nan asked, not at all happy about having 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 this woman alert when she’s awake. She’ll need her wits about her. I’ll leave immediately.”

“How long will you need?”

“I hope we’ll have help back here by tomorrow if I ride through the night.”

He returned to the room and was surprised to see that Lady Donal was not sleeping…was, in fact, agitated.

“I told you to rest.” he said sternly.

Her eyes were glazing from the effects of the sleeping draft, 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 leather bag that had been attached to the mule.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“The proof she needs that she’s contemplating marrying a madman.”