Blood and Memory (47 page)

“You have never seen Wyl fight! He might walk as Ylena now, but he is still Wyl Thirsk.”

“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. 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.”

Whether Fynch was filled with uncertainty and misgivings or felt frightened and alone, Elysius would never know. A dread silence sat around them as the former gong boy considered all that he had just learned. Suddenly the memory of being a hardworking child, coming home to his parents’ tiny cottage with its meager belongings, seemed like the best time of his life.

But even he could appreciate that there was nothing random about his relationship with Knave, which connected him to Myrren through Wyl, and thus to Elysius and his mad brother. His part in saving the life of Valentyna was not coincidence. His own life was being shaped, orchestrated. He had been chosen. He looked at the strange, mysterious dog who sat beside him and only now acknowledged the curious tingling sensation between them that had only occurred after they had moved through the Thicket.

He made his decision.

Fynch finally spoke. “I wish I could stay here in this serene place without taking on this terrifying role, but then I think about Wyl’s suffering. He too is on a strange path he didn’t asked to journey upon. It seems to me we’re both being asked to do things neither of us wants to, and yet we must. 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.”

Elysius felt a rush of love and admiration for the selfless, bright, brave boy. He hardly trusted his voice to speak without trembling and he fought back the water that sprang to his eyes. “Fynch, one more thing.” Large, trusting eyes turned to look at him. “You cannot, under any circumstances, allow Rashlyn to seize your powers. 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 try following Wyl. He must follow 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. The dog 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 talk of death and destruction.

“I brought no peace. He came seeking answers and I gave him the wrong ones,” Elysius said, filled with regret.

“It occurs to me that the reading of the Stones is open to interpretation—would that be fair?”

“Of course. They never provide a clear answer.”

“So perhaps Wyl’s fear of having to become Celimus is also open to interpretation,” Fynch prompted.

Elysius did not answer immediately. He had learned even in the short time he had spent with Fynch that he 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 that we might not be considering. The Stones have put a notion into your mind and you’re 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 would not have to answer to Myrren’s Gift any longer.”

Reaching for Fynch, Elysius hugged him hard. “You are the most extraordinary person I’ve 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 my power and proud that I’ve known 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 a savior of the world. He hugged the little man back with affection and sorrow that both of them would suffer for his magic.

“How much time do we have?” Fynch asked after a long silence.

Elysius regretted it but knew he had no choice. “Time is short. I must channel all my magic into you.”

“And then you’ll die?”

“Yes.”

“When shall we begin?”

“Now, son,” Elysius replied softly.

The corpse of the former Duchess of Felrawthy had been laid out in the small chapel at Werryl where those who had known her—only four of them Briavellian—could pay their last respects. Father Paryn was muttering a final gentle prayer to commit her body to a peaceful rest. He was aided by Pil, who lit small candles at given moments in the prayer. One for her head, one for each limb, one for her soul. They would burn until they snuffed themselves out and presumably Shar’s Gatherers had collected her.

Physic Geryld, Commander Liryk, and Chancellor Krell sat behind the Queen, who had, on her right, 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 and to warn the Queen.

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 best friends own one.”

Elspyth was touched by the sentiment, which 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’ll 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, and once she was outside the chapel, her counselors 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 the nine of us who know. The death of Aleda Donal as well as the presence of the Duke and Elspyth are to remain a secret to the best of our ability.” She saw Krell balk 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 has met Crys and Elspyth, but we can say they have departed. The gossip in Brackstead will die away soon enough and we must protect this secret to the best of our abilities.”

Krell had gone pale now. She frowned at him, but he said nothing and so she continued. “The Morgravians will remain as our honored guests as long as they choose. No one is to discuss their presence outside 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 set up a system of couriers, which made the mail journey between Briavel and Morgravia much faster. Special huts for overnighting had been established in recent weeks. These huts always had a rested man and fresh mount ready to go, as well as a supply of dried foods and watered ale. 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 now King and Chancellor were standing together in Celimus’s study, both seething.

“Read it again!” Celimus ordered.

If it had been anyone else, Jessom would have suggested that reading it once more would not change the contents, but he sensibly held 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 stroked a hand through his dark, lustrous hair. “I think it’s more simple than that. Krell and that Commander of theirs seemed determined that the marriage be a reality. They said as much during our visit. Their people want the peace as much as our own do, but those two, Krell, in particular, appreciate 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 on the first read. He knew he had to get the King to calm down, then Celimus’s thoughts flowed smoothly and in a more cunning fashion. Jessom had learned this the hard way. When the King was angry, people got hurt.

“And that sniveling bastard son who should have died,” Celimus spat, “but who somehow escaped our clutches 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 correct, she possessed an intelligent head on her shoulders. And that is no doubt why his counterpart in Briavel had reacted so swiftly and done the unthinkable in sending a private communication into Morgravia. It seemed obvious that the Queen would be appalled by what Crys Donal and this female companion of his—Elspyth of Yentro—would surely be telling her.

Jessom walked to a nearby cabinet to pour his king a goblet of wine. “We don’t 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 has no intention of marrying me. You must agree?”

Jessom nodded gravely—the King was right. “I do, highness.”

“Then if she won’t unify 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 the couched words of intimidation. Valentyna is far from dull. She knows precisely what’s at stake here. I freely admit marriage would be easier and certainly a more economical method of bringing Briavel under our rule, but if she won’t see the sense of unification this spring, 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 while 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 fiber at hearing Krell’s admission. “You did what?” she said, tone icy, turning on her faithful servant, hoping somehow she had misunderstood him.

Krell had never before felt so unsure of himself. “Someone had to, 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 what, Chancellor Krell? Betray me? Don’t you think I’m dealing 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. You father—”

“Don’t you dare, Krell!” she snapped. “Don’t you dare cite my fine father. Yes, he craved peace. He did not want his daughter fighting endless, pointless wars with Morgravia just to keep a tradition alive. But he would have trusted me. You never would have gone behind his back in this manner.” She could see Krell moving to explain, but she held her hand up. “What possessed you, Chancellor? What was going through your head when you sent that letter?”

He swallowed hard. He had never seen her like this. Suddenly the young Queen appeared possessed herself. Such wrath; her dark blue eyes blazed bright with 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 with me does not permit you to send secret missives to our enemies.”

“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, although I didn’t think I’d 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 don’t 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’s precisely what he will be ordering right now…as we speak?”

“But, your highness, I had to do something. What was I supposed to think you were doing—”

“I was stalling, you reckless, interfering old man. I am trying to find the solution,” she said. Tears welled, but she fought them back. “I wanted this whole business kept quiet so I could have time to think, to carry on diplomatic relations, and to keep the King of Morgravia at arm’s length until I knew how to go forward. I don’t know yet what the answer is. If you hadn’t interfered, Celimus would be none the wiser. He would still think I had intentions to marry him and I would have time to plan…and perhaps I still would have had to marry him, sir, but I would have been able to do it 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 wept.

Valentyna despised herself for reducing this good man to such a state, but her anger was burning white-hot with fear. “Get out of my sight. Leave the palace.”

“Highness, please, let me help.”

“Help?” She gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t need your sort of help, Krell,” Valentyna said cruelly. “What I need is people who are faithful and true to Briavel and its ruler above all else. You have betrayed both and I will never forgive you. Now go.”

Valentyna waited until her heartbroken chancellor had left her alone before she buried her face in her hands and cried like a child. Through her tears all she could think about was her beloved Romen Koreldy and how badly she needed his strength and his arms around her now. He would have known what to do. She had nobody. Not even her friend Fynch and his strange dog, Knave, were near to offer their usual solace. And then her father’s face swam before her and reminded her once again of whom she was. She could never depend on anyone but herself.