Blood and Memory (5 page)

“Your majesty,” the man said breathlessly as he went down on one knee. “Sir,” he added, addressing his commander. “May I speak freely?”

“You may. Please report.”

“The woman is no longer at Crowyll. She left her lodgings either during the night of the attack or possibly the next day. None of the people who live nearby remember seeing her that morning.”

Liryk’s face twitched in annoyance. “You checked her place of employment.”

The man was sucking in air. He had obviously ridden at high speed. “Yes, sir. Everywhere that we knew she frequented as well. There is no trace.”

“The plot thickens, Liryk,” was all Valentyna said as she strode away, convinced now that the whore was in on the deed. “Fynch, a word.”

Fynch hurried behind her. She stopped near her favorite herb garden.

“And so you leave me now?”

“Yes, your majesty. I must.”

“Then I shall miss you until I see you again.”

“Likewise, highness.”

She pulled a pouch from one of her pockets. “I don’t understand this journey of yours, Fynch, but I see I have no choice.”

He shook his head sadly, unsure of what to say.

“I know,” she said more quietly. “I must trust you.”

When he looked up she was making an effort to smile. He knew it did not come easily to her after what they had just done. No doubt she was in some personal pain and his leaving only magnified her loneliness.

He hastened to offer some reassurance. “As soon as I have found out what I need to know, I shall return, your majesty.”

“I wish I understood what it is you need to know.”

Sensibly he remained silent.

“Here, Fynch. Please take this,” she said, holding out the pouch. He took it; it rested heavily in his hand, suggesting gold and silver within. “No, don’t fight me on this. You will have need of it.”

He nodded.

“This is a dangerous person you go headlong to meet. I wish I could stop you,” she said, pulling her hand away.

“You cannot. But you must be strong, my queen,” Fynch replied. “Koreldy would expect it of you.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Everyone expects it of me, my friend. Shar speed you safely, Fynch.”

Valentyna allowed him to kiss her hand, then walked away, too fearful to hug him farewell. It made him recall how she had turned from Romen in the same manner. Now they had both hurt her. He left quietly to find Liryk, Knave padding silently behind.

Fynch refused a horse. He and Knave cut a lonely pair heading out of the castle, across its bridge, and down the long road that branched off toward Crowyll. Liryk, surprised at the boy’s queries, had given him all the information he had of the murder, down to an accurate description of the woman.

“Where do you go, son?” Liryk had asked, his curiosity piqued by the boy’s questions and distant manner.

“To find Hildyth,” Fynch had replied.

Celimus munched on an almond cake baked fresh that morning. It mattered not to him that his pastry cook had to leave his bed many hours prior to dawn to craft the specialty. It not only meant a great deal of tedious preparation in skinning and crushing the nuts, but it also required energetic kneading and shaping of the dough into the complex designs, as well as priming the oven to the right temperature. The fiddly cakes were normally reserved for celebrations, but Celimus had a particular liking for them and so on a whim, just before midnight, had ordered that some be served with his breakfast. No one dared put forward an objection. That the fellow responsible, a man no longer young in his years, had had barely more than three bells’ sleep that night would not have roamed among Celimus’s selfish thoughts. He was king. Whatever he wanted—no matter the toll on someone else—he would have. When the old baker sighed at the page’s news, it was as if he sighed on behalf of all Morgravians at how little the son resembled the father, their revered and well-loved King Magnus.

Celimus glanced momentarily at the second cake he held, relishing its chewy texture and delicate flavor, before looking back at the strange gift that had arrived that morning by courier. The King picked it up again; he had not been able to take his eyes from it since its arrival and unwrapping. Celimus twirled its strange shape and odd feel between his own fingers. It gave him immense satisfaction to hold it at last. He wished he could preserve it somehow and thus hang on to the grim pleasure of glancing at it from time to time, knowing that once again he had triumphed.

He considered Koreldy. He had rather liked the mercenary’s sardonic manner and appreciated his carrying out Wyl Thirsk’s murder, but ordering Koreldy’s execution had become necessary once Celimus had realized he could not rely on the man’s loyalty.

His strange behavior in the cathedral on the day of Thirsk’s funeral was odd, to say the least, and once Koreldy had fled Stoneheart, Celimus understood he could not take the risk of trusting the man to keep their dark secret. There was too much at stake—not just the annexing of Briavel but also his own crown. If the Legion even suspected that he had had anything to do with Thirsk’s death, then his sovereignty was vulnerable in the extreme. The Legion was too powerful…even without Thirsk it could take over the realm.

No, he thought, flicking crumbs absently from his mouth, ridding himself of Koreldy was regrettable but wise, especially as the man hailed from Grenadyn…who knew what links he might have with the Mountain King. Secrets from Morgravia falling into the hands of Cailech in the Razors would be tempting fate indeed.

“Best without him,” he murmured, putting Koreldy’s severed ring finger back into the box.

Celimus was looking forward to showing his new prize to Jessom, glad that he had circumvented the man’s normally thorough inspection of all deliveries into the palace. It was purely by chance he had been talking with his personal horse handler when the messenger had arrived. They had been returning from the stables, the horse handler skipping slightly to keep up with the King’s long stride. Their intense discussion about a new stallion, a warhorse Celimus was looking forward to having delivered, had been interrupted by the man’s arrival at full gallop.

“Find out what’s so urgent,” the King had ordered a passing page.

The startled boy, unused to giving even eye contact to his majesty let alone service, had looked terrified, unsure whether to bow or run the errand. He had attempted both clumsily. When he returned, he stammered to his king that it was a package…a delivery for his majesty.

His curiosity piqued, Celimus had strolled toward his guards. “You have a delivery for me?”

“Yes, your highness,” the most senior of the men had replied, nodding his head repeatedly in small bows to ensure that all the right cringing that seemed to please the King was observed.

“Well, give it to me. I can’t stand around here all day.”

“Er, sire. Chancellor Jessom has ordered that all—”

Celimus’s anger had always been swift to stoke. He was bored too. A deadly combination for his humor. Impatient as he was for his new horse and impatient for something different to occur in the tedious days of routine that had followed his return from Briavel, his ire had sparked. The package was a small diversion but a diversion nonetheless.

“I don’t give a flying fig what the Chancellor has ordered. Give it to me now or, Shar help me, you’ll be cleaning the latrines for the rest of your career… after I’ve had your feet cut off.”

The man had visibly swallowed, unprepared for such an assault. He would be in serious trouble with Jessom, but it paled by comparison to his king’s wrath. He had motioned the gatekeeper to pass over the seemingly inconsequential parcel, then had bowed low and handed it to Celimus, face burning from the embarrassment of being shamed in front of the other soldiers.

He had tried to salvage some small pride. “Apologies, my king. I am following orders.”

“Indeed,” Celimus had replied drily, his anger quieted. “It looks like something of no matter anyway. I’ve been expecting some new jesses for my hawk. It’s most likely those,” he had lied, wondering if the contents could possibly be what he dreamed of holding in his hands.

“Yes, sire,” the man had said. He had bowed once again for good measure and sighed with relief as he watched the King stride away to pick up the conversation with his horse handler as though no interruption had occurred.

Celimus smiled now to himself in memory as he chewed another mouthful of his favorite cake. There was no warmth in the expression, though, only malice.

“Farewell, Koreldy,” he whispered, wondering again whether the finger had been cut off before his enemy died. If so, Romen would have known it to be an assassination—and on whose orders. He certainly hoped so.

There was a knock at his chamber door. It would be Jessom. He covered Romen’s finger with the linen and put down the lid of the box.

“Come,” Celimus called.

Jessom arrived, his hands full of parchments. “Good morning, sire. I need you to sign some papers, if you please.” He noticed the King was suppressing mirth and in fact had already heard about the parcel’s delivery, but he had not yet connected the two.

“I’m rid of him, Jessom.”

“Rid of whom, sire?” the man asked absently, setting down the pile of papers and shuffling them into a neat pile before the King.

“Why, Koreldy, of course. Care to take a look?” Celimus pushed the small box toward him.

Jessom felt a thrill of elation. She had done it! He contrived a brief expression of confusion for the King’s benefit.

“Whatever is this, my king?” he said, staring at the proffered parcel but not yet picking it up.

“Open it.”

He did as asked, lifting back the linen and pausing theatrically, knowing that not making an immediate exclamation would drive Celimus to distraction.

“Well?” the King said irritably. “Your man triumphed.”

Jessom carefully re-covered the lid on the bloodied ringer. “As I see.”

“Are you not sharing my glee?” Celimus was indignant now.

“Of course, your highness. I am extremely gladdened we achieved your desire. It is always my aim to please, sire.”

Celimus ignored the maddening obsequiousness. “Your man?”

“Hmm?” Jessom deliberately busied himself with the papers. He did not want to answer any questions about the woman he knew as Leyen and he knew she would certainly not appreciate him divulging any information about her. “These are quite urgent, my lord.”

Celimus pushed them away. Some fluttered to the floor. “Jessom, are you being deliberately vague?”

“No, sire. That is not my intent.”

“Then tell me his name.”

“My king, we have discussed this previously. I do not wish to involve you in any matters that may incriminate you. By just knowing the name of the killer, you haplessly become part of the intrigue.”

“But I am the intrigue, Jessom.” The olive gaze narrowed.

Jessom knew he must never play Celimus for a fool. The King was pretentious and often petulant; he had many qualities that might cause a less perceptive person to consider him a dolt. That would be a mistake, however, for Jessom knew Celimus possessed the sharpest of minds, the crudest of tongues, and absolutely no remorse for the suffering he caused. The King missed very little. He would have to tread carefully now.

“Bring him here to Stoneheart,” the King added, reaching for his third cake.

Jessom’s throat constricted. This was everything he did not want. “I’m not sure I can do that, sire.”

“Why not?” Celimus asked, casually brushing almond crumbs from his shirt. He slumped farther in his chair, lifting one leg to rest on a nearby stool. “Tell me why this is impossible.”

Jessom knew not to trust the relaxed stance. “This assassin is not easily contactable, I must admit.”

“Then find him. I wish to meet him.”

“May I ask why, my king?”

“Because, Jessom, someone who has done my bidding where others have failed rises in my esteem. This man is useful to me. I wish to know him, speak with him, perhaps even discuss further…tasks.” He chose his words with care. “Have you paid in full?”

“The last installment on proof of death, sire,” Jessom answered unhappily.

“And now you have it. Your man will have to collect that payment, and when he does, you will bring him before me. Do you understand?”

“I shall try, sire.”

“No, Jessom. You will not try. You will do.” The voice was no longer casual. There was clear menace despite the softly spoken tone.

The Chancellor nodded his acceptance. Keen to change the subject, he said lightly, “So you are free of the Thirsk influence, my lord king? That must make you happy.”

“Not yet free.”

“Oh?” Jessom said, bending to pick up the spilled papers.

“There’s still the matter of the sister. Once she is dealt with, I will have rid myself entirely of all connections to the Thirsk family. So this is what I’m proposing. I want you to find out everything you can about the disappearance of the lovely Ylena. Where did Koreldy take her? He pulled the wool over my eyes on that occasion. I really believed he was going to use her and cast her aside. It suited my needs, I suppose, and I allowed myself to be duped. I shall find her, though.”

Jessom was not surprised at the King’s quick change in temper. Suddenly he was charged with energy, all previous threats pushed aside. Jessom fought the temptation to shake his head at the unpredictable nature of the monarch. It made him a very dangerous individual. “How much do we know of Koreldy’s movements?” Jessom said.

“Nothing, in truth. He slipped out of Stoneheart on the evening of Thirsk’s funeral feast. No one saw them leave, although I’m told one of my guards spoke to him earlier in the day in a little-used courtyard.”

“It had a gate, I presume?”

The King nodded. “The same gate where apparently Thirsk’s dog caused a commotion that night.”

“Ah, that was the diversion, then. Not that I understand how one gets a dog to cooperate,” the Chancellor said, picking up the King’s line of thought, pleased to see Celimus nod. “Where did the closest road lead, your highness?”