Blood and Memory (10 page)

It fell into place. “You’re a mercenary?”

Aremys nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

“Let’s just say I’ve known a few.” There was a wryness in his tone, which his companion heard but did not pursue. “In whose service?” Wyl added.

“The realm’s.”

“Celimus?” It came out choked.

“I suppose. His monkey, Jessom, hired me. I gather royal revenue has been going missing with alarming regularity. Jessom suspects it’s someone from within the Legion.”

“A Legionnaire working against Celimus,” Wyl murmured. “How fitting.”

Aremys shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m not Morgravian, but anyone who can steal back taxes has my vote. Except your king has no sense of humor,” he said drily. “Jessom paid me a fortune to track down the culprits. It turned out to be three of them and I managed to infiltrate their group. It took me many weeks to find them and then most of this winter to win their trust. Their leader was a man named Rostyr. Cluey fellow too. He used bandits to do the deed, but he was the brains behind the jobs.”

“I see,” Wyl said, trying to straighten himself on his pillows again. “A lot of money stolen?”

“Enough to fire the King’s wrath.”

“Did they hurt anyone?”

“Yes. On a couple of occasions. It wasn’t intentional but it happened.”

“Soldiers?”

“Yes. You seem very interested in them.”

“Can you blame me?” Wyl bristled. “It hurts, Aremys. I’m not sure many men realize quite how much!”

“Apologies. That was blunt of me.”

Wyl accepted it graciously, although the part of him that was Faryl was angry. “And so why was tonight the night you killed them?”

“They were planning something daring. It would have meant more deaths for innocents and someone of note included. I could not allow that to happen—it was the right time to deal with them as I was instructed.”

“Poison?” Faryl’s senses told Wyl this would be the best mode.

Aremys nodded. “Good guess. That was my plan, until you entered the dining room and ruined things. I had to use a more messy method.”

“I’m sorry to have spoiled things. What have you done with them?”

“Tomorrow they’ll be carted back to Pearlis as proof. I’ve already sent a messenger to inform Jessom of my findings.”

“Not to mention requesting final payment.”

Wyl’s barb had no effect on the man, who simply shrugged burly shoulders and made a deprecating sound. “And so now it’s your turn.” Aremys set down his mug. “I’m all ears.”

“For what?”

“To hear the intriguing tale of Thorn Bentwood, a woman in disguise with an unhealthy interest in the seedier sort and a sometime merchant passing through a town whose season for merchants is long gone.”

Wyl mentally kicked himself. Faryl’s instincts had niggled at him along these lines and he had ignored them. Aremys had him nailed good and proper.

He tried for the obvious. “It’s not easy being a woman traveling alone,” he replied. “The disguise helps.”

“I accept that. But why do you travel alone?”

“Do I need a reason?”

Aremys fixed a dark gaze on the bruised woman before him. Secrets. That was all right. He had them too. “No, I suppose not. But will you tell me anyway?”

That was unexpected. Wyl felt flustered.

Aremys could see it. “Perhaps tomorrow. Right now I suspect sleep is what you need.” He could sense the woman’s relief. “Will you allow me to tend the injuries to your face?”

Wyl nodded. “Are they bad?”

“I shan’t be giving you a mirror tonight.”

“Oh, that alarming,” Wyl said, disappointment strong in his voice.

Aremys was rifling through an old leather sack. He pulled out a small, flat glass box. “It would be if I didn’t have my miracle salve with me.” He moved to the bed. “I’ll have a bathtub brought up tomorrow,” he said absently, digging a finger into the cloudy ointment. He daubed it onto Wyl’s face. It soon began to tingle as he gently rubbed it into the injured spots. “The bruises will surface and disappear quickly,” he reassured. “Now rest.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not far. I’ll be here on the floor beside you. I’ll leave a fresh candle burning.”

Wyl was touched. He could more than take care of himself under normal circumstances, but it felt rather comforting to have someone looking out for him. It reminded him of being a youngster again, when Gueryn had made all his decisions for him. He missed being looked after. He missed Gueryn. On that sad thought he closed his eyes and turned on his side. Sleep would come fast tonight.

He listened to the sounds of Aremys trying to make himself comfortable on the hard floorboards. Wyl was grateful to him for not pursuing the story of Thorn Bentwood further tonight.

“My name is Faryl,” Wyl said quietly into the darkness, surprising himself by giving the truth…and by finally acknowledging it to himself.

The days at Rttylworth had passed slowly, following their own particular rhythm as the men of Shar kept to their routine of worship and work. For some of them their duties were in the library, poring over texts and carefully scribing passages; others spent hours in the beautiful studio where they patiently copied some of the ancient illuminations. Many toiled in the vegetable gardens or orchards, tending to the flocks of sheep and goats that kept them fed. Others looked after the few cows that sustained the gentle community with their fresh milk for drinking and that also produced the butter, rich cream, and famed cheese of the region.

Rittylworth Bruise won its name for the dark wax that the monastery’s cheesemakers dipped their proud product into for maturing and preserving. The shiny, violet rounds of hard cheese were stored in a special pantry beneath the chapel, but even this great room was not as deep into the ground as the secret grotto, which few outside of the monastic order knew about.

It was Ylena’s favorite place of all. Jakub, all too aware of this visitor’s grief, had suggested within the first day of meeting that she make it her own for a while. As much as she enjoyed her bedroom, with its view over the orchards, it was to the grotto that she escaped for her solitude and there, within the fizzing waters of the warm spring, she had begun her gradual healing.

In the beginning it was all physical recovery for Ylena, while the delicious monotony of daily life around the monastery was a great nourishment to her mental strength. It had not been easy and many times the grief threatened to carry her away with it, but on those occasions Ylena would remind herself of her surname and dig deeper toward the strength she knew she possessed. She could think of Alyd and his execution now without being overwhelmed by tears, and her shock at losing all of those she loved had dulled to bitter acceptance. It had left her numb, but she was learning how to put that aside too.

Wyl had once quietly spoken of how he had taught himself to deal with the death of their mother and more lately their father. She used that teaching now and had taken all of those painful emotions of hers inward, burying them in a safe, dark place where they could no longer disable her. It was Celimus, of course, who had contrived all of this death and suffering and on whose hateful name she should build her own hate.

The real catalyst that prompted her determination to be fully in charge of herself again was learning that Romen had not taken Alyd’s remains away with him. At first she had been filled with wrath and it was that anger that had, in truth, brought her back to full sensibility. Jakub had counseled that Romen no doubt had good reasons for his decision and had asked that Alyd’s head be preserved as proof of the abomination at Stoneheart. This had placated Ylena, who accepted that whatever those reasons were, Romen had her interests at heart.

Since that discovery, she had allowed the days to blend until her body and mind healed. One of her great friends through this process was Pil, who, Shar bless him, seemed just a little in love with her. He took his role as her caretaker very earnestly and she had to keep reminding him that she was not an invalid and preferred to do things for herself He would smile shyly and apologize but then go right back to fussing around her. In truth, he was a very big reason for her recovery. His almost childlike desire to make her smile and see her well again was infectious.

Pil was one of a big family who hailed from the northwest. His father was a fisherman, as were his brothers, while his sisters and mother prepared and sold the catch. Everyone in their village was involved in the sea and its bounty, but Pil was the only member of his family who felt no calling for it. In fact, he would be the first to admit that he suffered the ocean sickness and hated anything to do with boats and fish. Saying such things was sacrilege in his village, so he suffered in silence, but despite trying so hard did a terrible job of mending nets. His father finally gave up on him and on one particular evening of high frustration asked a traveling monk whether he would take his youngest, good-for-nothing son with him and teach him the ways of Shar. “Perhaps he’ll be some use to us then and can pray for our safety and prosperity,” Pil had haltingly repeated to Ylena one day. The monk had agreed, and after traveling with the man for several months, Pil had discovered that he was good at his letters, but was also interested in doing Shar’s work. The kindly guardian had contacted his old friend Jakub at Rittylworth, and by year’s end, young Pil had found himself a new home and a new family, who welcomed him with love and patience. He had fit in easily and being the youngest had been spoiled with care and affection from the Brothers. Ylena could see that the love they had given him had manifested itself in Pil’s ebullience and his desire to do his god’s work with enthusiasm. She thanked her lucky stars that Pil had been so dreadful at fishing and had told him this not long ago, amusedly watching him blush and stammer.

And then there was Brother Jakub: calm, elderly, patient Jakub, with his searching eyes that seemed to see into the depths of her heart.

It was obvious he knew something of what had happened to her, and by whose hand, but he had never asked anything directly of her dark experiences. Perhaps Romen had given him information, but she suspected not. Her time with Romen told her that Koreldy was an intensely private man with secrets of his own, and one used to keeping them, be they his or someone else’s. There were moments on their journey from Pearlis when Romen reminded her of Wyl. Just now and then there were phrases he used or a way he might hold his head or comfort her when she could almost believe Wyl was still near her. Romen had explained that he had given his word to her brother, before he died, to save her from the dungeon. But she suspected he had not shared any of their dark background with anyone else. There was no need for the kind Brother Jakub and his fellow holy men to suffer her torments. That they offered sanctuary was more than enough.

Today felt no different from the others that had gone before. Despite the bright day, winter’s bite was still nipping at everyone’s heels, although the buds on the fruit trees and the promise of blossom suggested that spring was not far away. Ylena pulled her soft shawl more tightly around her. The mornings were still bitterly cold this far north and even the steaming creamed oats and oozing chunk of honeycomb she had swallowed gratefully earlier had not warmed her sufficiently. She shivered, relishing the thought of her daily soak in the soothing waters in the grotto.

Crossing the main courtyard, she smiled at two Brothers who dipped their heads toward her but did not break the morning silence, held until third bell, due any moment. She wondered where Pil was. He was normally skipping around her by this time, making her laugh with his tall stories.

Truly, it felt as though she had lived here among the Brothers for an age when in fact it was barely weeks.

Her boots clicked on the flagstones of the great arched cloisters. She turned her head, knowing Brother Tomas would be in the tiny courtyard to her left, where he lovingly tended the citrus bushes. The peel of the Akin fruit had healing properties, he had explained to her, and it was curiously at its most powerful in the morning. And so each day he was here at the same time, touching the fruit, testing it for readiness. She waved and he nodded back to her, holding up one of the bluish-green spheres, grinning.

It was a good one obviously. Tomas had mentioned that he was fortunate if he could coax one fruit per week from the trees in season. They were one of nature’s more stubborn follies and one needed extraordinary patience to tend and harvest them. It was easy to be patient at the monastery, she thought, considering the sleepy, tranquil nature of the hamlet surrounding it.

Skipping down the few stairs from the cloisters and into a larger courtyard, Ylena realized she felt the brightest she had in a long time. “Happy” was not the word she would choose, but she felt she was almost ready to consider a life beyond Rittylworth and getting herself to Alyd’s people. The powerful Duke of Felrawthy would know what to do and after learning the fate of his son would surely help her to bring down Celimus…she was sure of it. If she could raise her own men from Argorn on the strength of the Thirsk name, then perhaps that would be all it would take. Ylena was convinced the Legion would not take up arms against them when it learned the truth behind the deaths of its general and its popular captain.

Third bell sounded and Ylena smiled; the silence for the day was over. Soon the Brothers would pour out of prayer and commence their day’s work. It occurred to her that she had meant to call in on Brother Farley and get a gargle for a gritty throat she had developed the previous night. Torn between wanting to step into the warm waters of the spring and not wanting to risk falling ill now that she felt so much better, Ylena hurriedly veered toward the old physic’s rooms and ran straight into Brother Jakub.

“Ah, my girl. You are a sight to gladden the heart of an old man.”

She hugged him. “Good morning, Brother Jakub. You’re not at morning prayers; are you ailing?”

His face crinkled into the warmth of his gentle smile. “No, child. There are some sick children in the village and I want to speak with Brother Farley before he gets too engrossed in his day’s toil. I’d like him to look in on them this morning.” She nodded with understanding. “And you?”

She touched her neck. “Sore throat.”

“Well, my dear mother used to say if you gad about with wet hair on cold days you’re bound to catch a chill,” he said, wagging a finger in what was clearly a fair imitation of an old woman. She laughed at his impression and he squeezed her hand, delighting in her joy. “How good it is to hear you laugh.”

Ylena gave a rueful expression. “There are moments when I can hardly believe how fine it is to be alive. I catch myself smiling and I feel almost guilty.”

“You mustn’t,” Jakub counseled. “This is the human spirit restoring itself, child. It is how we heal. Let your spirits soar when they’re of a mind to, Ylena… trust them, for it means they have found hope again. Hope is a powerful weapon.”

She nodded, feeling tears welling at this man’s goodness and generosity.

He sensed her emotion and, not wishing to upset her bright mood, changed the subject. “Is Pil attending you well, Ylena?”

“Too well, Brother Jakub!” she replied with mock despair.

“Ah, he’s a good boy and takes his role of protector very seriously.”

“I know. He’s been most kind…all of you have. But I must think of leaving.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” he said softly. “Take your time. Be well.”

She took her chance. “I shouldn’t hold you up, Brother Jakub,” and he shook his head slightly to show it was of no consequence, “but I wonder if I can ask you whether you’ve heard from Romen?”

“I’ve received no word,” he replied, guiding her into the warmth of the physic’s chamber. The other man was busy measuring out powders and breaking chunks of dried herbs into smaller pieces. He muttered to himself, hardly noticing them.

“Then may I impose on you further by asking about that important item he left with you for safekeeping.” Jakub’s expression grew grave. “It’s all right,” she said. “I can talk about it now. I’m much stronger.”