Blood and Memory (8 page)

He learned that her mind was tidy and her ways thorough. He was impressed.

If you must be a woman, be glad it’s this one
, he reminded himself almost every hour.

Faryl was not just good at her chosen work; he discovered she was the very best. Her kills shocked him. Highly placed or influential people from many different cities and even realms across oceans, like Tallinor and Cipres, had drawn their last breath as a result of her actions. She had felt nothing for them. Faryl was cold. More than that. She was bitter. Why? This he could not tease out from where it was buried deep and locked away through layers of years and, he gathered, self-torment. He sensed it was connected with her family, but no more would come through. Wyl left it. It might surface as had so many vague recollections of Romen’s.

He was riding toward Morgravia, destination Baelup. It was a start. He knew that Myrren’s mother had left that town almost immediately after her husband and daughter’s traumatic deaths. Back then Lymbert had reluctantly given Wyl details of where they had found Myrren and he had immediately traveled to Baelup to collect Knave as he had promised the girl he would do. He had met the mother only briefly—they had not even swapped names. He had tried to explain that he was from Pearlis, a member of the Legion, but she had hardly paid attention.

“What do you want?” she had asked, no further formalities exchanged. She had been almost out of her wits, packing frantically. He had told her in simple terms that he had promised Myrren he would pick up her pup, and the mother had been glad to hand over Knave without further questions.

There had been no additional conversation other than her bidding him good day and him thanking her, although he was not sure what the thanks were for. Where she had gone he could not guess, but it was the only lead he had to go on. With Faryl’s good sense for these sorts of intrigues, he had donned a disguise. It definitely felt more comfortable to be traveling as a man. The fact that he had found some sense of calm after the despair of evenings previous was a comfort right now. Until this moment, it had been all he could ask of himself to refrain from grabbing his blade and opening his wrists.

That bleak thought had been well and truly scrutinized the night before. He had come close too. It had seemed the right answer when every demon came to haunt him as he slept rough beneath the hidden moon. Last night he had felt there was no point in trying to live on. He hated being a woman, despised the very sight of the body that had not so long ago tempted him, stirred him to thoughts of lust.

But thoughts of Valentyna had swirled in his mind and he had not been able to do it. Plus there was Ylena, Gueryn, Lothryn, as well as his noble duty to ensure he did not take his own life. He must fight on and deal with where this all began…with Celimus.

And so Wyl found himself on a lonely, dusty road, a man living in a woman’s body, disguised as a man, dressed plainly and carrying weapons. No one who glimpsed those would make the mistake of thinking that he was a vulnerable lone traveler. He displayed his sword deliberately so that any thief who might consider tackling him would think twice. His blades were once again close to his chest, lying uncomfortably against the breasts he had bound tightly. He had not been tempted to look at his body in the mirror kept in Faryl’s belongings. It would be too much for his mind to bear right now. He preferred the discomfort of the bindings to the swell and disarming weight of the breasts when they moved freely.

He had been tempted to hack off Faryl’s hair too but had resisted, reasoning that he might well be grateful for the female disguise Faryl offered. So he had pushed her hair under a wig—one made by a master craftsman, he could tell—and pulled a cap down on his head. A false beard—again of such quality he knew it had been purchased at high cost from craftsmen who probably had asked no questions and accepted only gold—was his greatest comfort, together with the artful hair glued to the back of his hands. In this guise, if he did not dwell on it, he could convince himself he was a man again.

Wyl estimated he was now a day from the Morgravian border and a few days’ ride then to Baelup. The trail he was hoping to pick up was almost a decade cold, and although he had no choice but to try, he quietly doubted that he could follow the scent of Myrren’s mother. This made him think of Knave. He hoped his dog had sensed his death. He seemed to know when Wyl was in trouble. If he had, then perhaps Knave had already led Fynch to Crowyll and tracked down the bracelet. It should resonate in Fynch’s sharp brain and set the lad thinking. Wyl felt confident his young friend would work it out and come looking for him. He would like to have both of them close when and if he finally confronted the Manwitch.

He refused to allow himself to think further about Valentyna. Did she know by now? Of course she would. Would she be grieving? He hoped so, but then again perhaps she would see it as a fitting end to a flawed relationship. He could not forget the grief that Valentyna thought she had masked but was evident to him. It spoke of perfidy, and her public accusation of his treachery was almost more than he could bear. But bear it he did, for he loved her more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, including himself. He would gladly die for her. Wished that he could do that now—leave this wretched existence of his.

The soldier in him reminded him that death was a cowardly option. And where there was life, there was hope. He might walk in Faryl’s body, but he could still use his soldier’s brain to wreak havoc on Celimus. He must find the Manwitch; that was his first priority.

Wyl spurred his horse into a trot, making a promise to himself that he would waste was no further time in sorrowful musings. He was Faryl for now and might as well get used to it.

Entering Grimble Town, Wyl knew he could not stand the tight bindings around his chest much longer. The temptation to spend the night at one of the two inns got the better of him. He quickly found a stabling for his horse where the master of the stables hardly looked twice at him, and Wyl reminded himself to stop being quite so self-conscious.

“Which inn do you recommend, Master Paul?” Wyl asked in a deep voice that Faryl could adopt with ease, adding some extra coin to the amount required. It was an old habit, one Gueryn had drummed into him from an early age.

“Pay well for whoever looks after your horse. His care might save your life one day,” he recalled his mentor saying.

Wyl believed such a creed should extend to all areas of his life. A few extra coins, especially silver, in someone’s palm often made that person unwittingly yours through the subtle bond of generosity. Thinking of Gueryn brought a wave of sadness that he blinked back fiercely as the stable master replied.

“Well, the Four Feathers be as good an inn as you’ll find in these parts. The ale is watered only lightly and Kidger’s wife does an honest stew.”

“Thank you,” Wyl said. “I’ll see you on the morrow.”

“That you will, sir,” Master Paul said, already bending toward buckets of water to wash the horse down. Wyl smiled. Gueryn had been right. His horse would be fresh for tomorrow’s long ride, having been rubbed down properly and well fed.

He strolled into the town proper as late afternoon settled with the stillness that often comes as the sun lowers. At this time of year, once the sun dipped far enough, the temperature plummeted and the evening became crisp. Wyl could feel it chilling as he cast a glance about Grimble Town’s main square. It was a neat, sleepy sort of place known mostly for its fields of orchards, which yielded Morgravia’s tastiest almonds and prized cherries. Come early summer the town swelled as transient workers flooded in to help with the harvest. It was also handily positioned not far from one of the main routes into Pearlis, so it enjoyed valuable seasonal trade from merchants.

Right now it was quiet, which suited Wyl. He made his way toward the Four Feathers and was relieved that Kidger hardly took notice of the bearded stranger asking for a room. He had given his name as Thorn Bentwood. It seemed Faryl had a skill in pitching her voice to a tone low enough to be acceptably manly, so it drew no attention. He understood from her memory that this had taken years of practice and silently thanked her for her commitment. Wyl paid for two nights as a precaution as well as for several meals. He suddenly realized how hungry he was and this revelation was in no little part brought on by the hearty smells wafting from the kitchen.

“That smells good. What’s on tonight?” he asked.

“The missus has got some lamb stew simmering or there’s chickens on the spit.”

Both sounded delicious. “I’ll have stew.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kidger replied. “The girls will be serving from dusk.”

Wyl nodded and gratefully made his way to his room, sinking onto the bed with such pleasure it might have been down-filled and covered with fine linen rather than the worn sheets and horsehair mattress. Nevertheless the bed and room were clean, with a pleasant draft of air from the open window. He had meant to undress straightaway. Instead he dozed off immediately, the bindings forgotten as sleep claimed him.

A loud clatter of pans beneath his window woke him abruptly less than an hour later and the pain across his chest reminded him the bindings were still in place. He ordered a bath to be brought up and filled.

“The bathhouse in town is very reasonable, sir,” said the sullen girl who took his request.

Wyl realized she did not fancy hauling up a tub or the water. He grinned through the beard, hoping it looked friendly. “I know but I don’t feel like leaving my room. Here”—and he handed her two crowns, an exorbitant sum in her small world.

“Oh, sir! I—”

“Please. And bring my water quickly.”

She grinned, tucking the money beneath her blouse. “At once, sir.”

Impressive, Wyl thought. If he ever allowed himself to be seen as Faryl, he must remember that trick and practice it! True to the girl’s word, hot water was soon steaming in the tub and she sent up soap as well as scented oil. He thanked the two lads who had dragged up the pails and the tub. Obviously the girl had coin enough now to pay for lackeys.

When the door closed and he was finally alone, Wyl stripped down. He struggled to untie the lengths of torn sheeting that held his breasts flat, and when they eventually loosened he sighed with relief at the wondrous sensation of being free again. He refused to look down at himself. Instead, he poured in a few drops of the musky oil to soften the water and then, after checking the latch was firmly on the door once again, he climbed into the tub, immersing his body as deeply as he could, looking away from the smoothly muscled yet clearly feminine legs that bent at well-shaped knees. He had thought to have a flask of wine sent up as well and he sampled it now, glad he had paid that little bit extra to Kidger, for the first swallow told him that it was of an acceptable quality.

He closed his eyes, blanked his mind, and focused on nothing but the soothing sensation of the water warming his tired, unfamiliar body. As the steam rose, he pulled the beard and eyebrows away from his face, the glue dissolving as Faryl’s memory told him it would. Wyl placed them on a nearby chair next to the wig; these were valuable possessions now. Untying his hair, he let it fall loose, marveling at its heaviness as it dropped, its ends curling into the water. Wyl ran his hands through it to push it off his face. Gone was his coarse red hair. Gone was Romen’s smoothly combed plait. In its place he found lustrous locks of a curious, darkly golden hue; he touched it, unable to resist, and was rewarded by the feel of its soft texture. He remembered the feel of Faryl’s hair against his body when she had bent over him.

His eyes remained fixedly on the blank wall, below which stood a small dresser. He knew on the other side of the chamber was a table with a mirror that he had ignored and intended to continue ignoring. He still had no desire to see himself as a woman. Feeling his hair was, he was sure, as close as he would get to knowing this strange new body. Again he closed his eyes; his thoughts roamed to Myrren’s mother. She had betrayed her husband. Had Myrren’s father known he was raising another man’s child? And had it mattered to him? Wyl remembered how it had hurt Lothryn to relinquish his newborn son to Cailech, even knowing that the boy had been sired by the King.

Remembering Lothryn’s pain inevitably led him to think of the warrior’s fate.
What became of you, my brave friend
? he thought. He had given Elspyth a promise, one he knew he could not break. He had given his oath that he would go back one day to find out Lothryn’s fate. At the back of his mind was the thought that he must find Gueryn’s body too and bring it home to Argorn.

Argorn! His eyes watered as he remembered his proud father. No, he could not kill himself. The Thirsks were a proud line and he was its last son. He must fight on and deal with the man with whom this all began…with Celimus.

He wondered where Elspyth was and how she would get on with Ylena and his spirits plummeted further as he thought of these two women traveling alone; frightened, despairing at the loss of loved ones, their happy lives shattered because of him. He could not even protect them; instead he needed them to be courageous and fend for
themselves until he could get to them. He sent a silent plea to Shar to unite and watch over them.

The act of prayer put him in a somber mood. He finished his soak swiftly, deliberately ignoring the chance to soap himself. He could not bring himself, just now, to touch the body he resided in. Wyl stood to reach the towel. The tub rocked on its uneven base, and in that moment of alarm, Wyl caught sight of his naked body in the mirror.

The shock was complete.

He fought back the surge as his gorge rose and opened his eyes. Reflected was the image of a striking woman. As he remembered, she was not intensely pretty like Ylena or classically beautiful like Valentyna. Faryl possessed something else that was hard to describe. It blossomed from confidence; he noticed the arrogant twitch of a smile at the neat, clearly defined lips. The eyes were feline and sensual in an oval face that was tanned lightly from the sun. Her hair, he mused, was probably her vanity. If not, she would have cut it short, for it was an encumbrance for her trade. The body itself was a marvel to his eyes. Curvy but strong. She ran to keep herself fit apparently; digging into her rapidly fading thoughts, he discovered that Faryl favored hills for her exercise because they tested her stamina but also gave her cover. He nodded. She would make the very best kind of soldier with her rigorous fitness routines and high level of fighting skills. She favored the blade but was handy with a sword and skilled with a bow.

He felt foolish but he smiled back at himself in the mirror, rewarded by Faryl’s normally intense or otherwise withering look relaxing into a softness he had not glimpsed previously. He stared at the smile on the face that looked back at him. It touched the feline eyes, sparking a mellowness that changed Faryl’s look. It was girlish and mischievous. Wyl wished he could have glimpsed that smile when she was alive. Any man could fall head over heels in love with it. She had not smiled often, though. He tried to find the source of her grim outlook on life, but it was still hidden from him. He must be patient. It would yield itself to him.

Many minutes had passed. He was almost dry. And as he stood there, feeling like a Peeping Tom stealing a look at a naked woman, he found the disturbing memory. Faryl could shoot an arrow with more accuracy than any of her five brothers, but none of them ever knew it.

He shook himself clear of her memories and noticed that her legs were long too, lean and muscled. It pleased Wyl to remain tall; he had gotten used to towering above people as Romen. Flat and trim though it was, his belly felt empty and it reminded him now with a loud grind. Toweling himself unnecessarily, he felt the somber mood dissipate slightly and he was grateful for this, for it clouded his thinking. He was glad his curiosity had won through. Looking at Faryl, learning about her, had put something away and turned the key on it. He was her now. He had no choice but to use her body to all of its best advantages to find Myrren’s true father and learn the secret of this gift of hers.

Reluctantly he lifted the strips of linen that would help to make him look like a man again. Wyl sighed, knowing it was only for an hour or two, and then wasted no further time binding his breasts flat again and climbing into fresh clothes. He swished his previous ones in the still-warm bath, rubbing at them with soap and realizing that this simple act brought all three of his personalities together: Faryl’s diligence, Romen’s need to be neat and tidy, and Wyl’s training to take advantage of every opportunity. He squeezed the clothes out and hung them to dry. Dark had fallen. He should hurry. Checking his room for any giveaway signs of Faryl, he was convinced all had been well hidden. He reglued the beard to his face and donned the wig, very carefully pinning his hair this time because he did not have the luxury of the hat to hold things in place. He would need to be careful tonight, even though he was not planning to do anything more than eat his meal quickly and return to his room. Tucking away the glue, he satisfied himself in the mirror that he was now Thorn Bentwood again. Faryl’s instincts suggested that a merchant in this town at this time of year was odd, but Wyl decided he was only passing through so quickly that it was most likely no one would notice or care.