Blood and Memory (21 page)

“Now we talk,” the man said, and beckoned Pil to a corner of the room where a tray of ales was set down.

“My lord,” Ylena interjected. “I can account for myself, sir.”

“Then tell me,” the nobleman said brusquely. “You may speak freely.”

She glanced at Pil and found a brief smile of sympathy for him. Both knew they would have to relive their trauma for this man. He nodded encouragingly, noticing the spark was back in her eyes and her expression had returned to its determined set. The food had already worked wonders. Ylena’s voice was steady and firm as she began. “We’re from Rittylworth Monastery. It’s where we’re fleeing from.”

The old noble frowned. “Why?”

Ylena sighed. “The news has not yet traveled this far north, then?” The man glared beneath silver-peppered eyebrows, keen for her to get on with it. “It was burned. Most of the monks murdered where they stood, the senior ones singled out for special torture.”

The two listeners, shocked, banged their mugs down on the table, heedlessly sloshing ale over their fists.

“What?” The noble’s voice was hard, disbelieving.

“I speak the truth, sir. I watched it. We were hidden, but we saw the men, flying the King’s colors, come and vandalize the village and then one by one cut down the monks. They crucified and burned the senior Brothers.” Scenes flashed into her mind of that terrible morning and she felt sickened. “They arrived directly as morning silence ended and we’ve been on the run since.”

“Well timed to ensure they got all of you,” the nobleman’s companion commented correctly.

Ylena looked at him for the first time and not only noticed the resemblance to his lord but also his easy smile and drape of bright, golden hair. He was so similar to her Alyd it was heartbreaking. He also wore a close beard. Were these father and son? she thought, not realizing she had spoken aloud.

“Yes, this is my son, Crys. My apologies, manners have deserted me. I am Jeryb, Duke of Felrawthy.”

Now Ylena was startled, looking from Alyd’s father to his equally handsome brother.

It was Pil who put it into words. “Good grief, my lord, it is to you that we flee!” he spluttered, looking toward Ylena. “She has said no one’s name but yours. This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk.”

More shock for the two men who sat across from him.

“Fergys Thirsk’s daughter! My son’s intended bride?” the older man roared.

“Yes, my lord,” Ylena said, recovering herself. “I bring the gravest of news.”

“I’m sorry we meet under these circumstances,” Crys said, extending his hand. The smile froze on his face while puzzlement crinkled his brow. “Where is Alyd?”

The duke reached for her arm. “My son. Alyd. Why is he not with you?”

Ylena felt her world sway from the euphoria of finding the Duke to despair at knowing what she must share with him now. “No, my lord, he is not with me,” she admitted carefully, the hairs tightening at the back of her head. “Forgive me, sir.” She glanced toward the baffled expression on Crys’s kind face. “It is why I am here. To tell you that Alyd is dead.”

The silence that met this statement was vast and Ylena held her breath awaiting their reaction. Her pity for these men of Felrawthy was palpable. As much as she mourned Alyd, she had already accepted his death, knew the only way forward now was to seek vengeance. Nothing would bring him back, but satisfaction could be gained by bringing down the murderer. They had yet even to grasp the significance of her words, let alone hear the worst of it.

Jeryb stared at her, eyes much stormier now, brow furrowed and angry. “Dead, you say?” he finally asked.

She nodded. “Fm so sorry.” She shook her head. “There is so much to tell, sir, I hardly know where to start. But you are all that stands between me and certain death too.”

“I can’t speak of this here” the Duke said, closing his eyes in tightly held grief. “I will hear it all, but not here. If we ride hard, we can make Tenterdyn by nightfall.”

Crys reached over and squeezed her hand for reassurance. It was precisely the sort of mannerism that Alyd had possessed, never afraid to touch or show emotion. She hardly dared look at Crys for fear of breaking down. “That’s the family home,” he whispered. “You’ll be safe with us. Can you ride, Pil?”

Pil nodded as Crys Donal took control; his father looked incapable of saying another word. Crys rested a hand on his father’s shoulder as he sorted out arrangements.

“Good. Then go outside and tell Parks to find you a mount on my orders. I shall bring the Lady Ylena. Are you happy to ride with me, my lady?”

“Yes…yes of course,” Ylena replied, although she dreaded being so close to the man who so resembled her dead husband.

Wyl knew he had pushed the mare hard and had finally slowed her from a gallop to a canter, cooling her down to a trot that she would hold for a little while yet. He reached over and stroked her head in silent thanks and she tossed her mane as though in response.

The small stream he had expected to find made itself known by a soft gurgling and he angled the chestnut mare off the road, ducking beneath the overhanging trees before emerging into a pretty glade. The horse was happy to stop now and drank greedily. Wyl nimbly alighted. He wished he could have continued on, for he was fretting for Ylena, but he knew he was well ahead of any party sent by the King. He was counting on Celimus not discovering the disappearance of Leyen until later this morning and even then the King might not sense anything untoward and thus not react at all. Perhaps Jessom and Celimus would assume she had set off about her duties. They would think it odd. of course, but might not dwell on her lack of a formal farewell. No, they were not the issue here.

The problem was Aremys, he realized, but again Wyl comforted himself that he had the whole of the night’s ride and most of the morning’s lead on the mercenary. By the time Aremys discovered Faryl’s disappearance, Wyl could be halfway to his destination.

With this thought, he forced himself to allow the mare some rest time. He unsaddled her and gave her a bag of feed and a quick rubdown before settling himself back against a tree to think. He had not counted on falling into a doze quite so readily, and had he been awake, he would have heard the approach of the horse much earlier than he did. Leaping to his feet, he released the double blades of Romen Koreldy and moved into a fighting stance as the sound of a man and beast crashing through the undergrowth approached.

Wyl had no idea who it was, but he was determined the intruder would die. He crouched lower, ready to strike.

Aremys burst through the trees with a roar. Wyl realized who it was and in a fraction of the second he had left in the inevitable arc of his throw, he cast the knife slightly off center. The mercenary took that moment of hesitation to leap from his horse, landing heavily on his prey. Their bodies crunched and rolled and then Aremys grunted. He expelled all air from his lungs and lay still for a moment, on top of his victim, crushing much of the air from Wyl, who felt battered from the impact.

“Didn’t count on the knives, Faryl.” Aremys sighed and rolled off to show a dark patch of blood already enlarging on his shirt.

“You stupid fool!” Wyl shrieked in Faryl’s voice.

“I asked for it.” Aremys grinned and then his face contorted and he closed his eyes. “Ah, but it hurts.”

“Be still!” Wyl ordered, using the knife that had not sunk into the man’s flesh to cut away the shirt. “I’m glad it’s your arm and not your foolhardy chest.”

“And I thought you were accurate.”

“I am, it’s why you’re not dead,” Wyl growled.

“Then why did you hesitate?”

“Shut up and tell me what you’re doing here,” Wyl said angrily, knowing all too well. He hacked at his own shirt and dipped it into the water so he could clean the wound.

“Following you.” Aremys sounded reproachful. He allowed the ministrations and, despite the pain, enjoyed Faryl’s hands on his body. “Why did you leave without me?”

“I don’t work with others. You know that.”

“Not even on your king’s instructions?”

“Especially then. He wants the job done cleanly and I don’t need anyone else making errors.”

“Except you’re not going to do it, are you?” Aremys stated, staying her busy hands with his good arm. “Tell me the truth.”

“About what?” Wyl cried, hating his screechy woman’s voice and the uncomfortable closeness of the mercenary.

“About why you have no intention of killing Ylena Thirsk.”

Wyl sat back and tossed the bloodied rag aside. “It’s quite deep and going to need sewing up. You’re fortunate nothing serious is severed. Do you want me to bind it for now?”

“Please.”

Wyl began again, tying first a tourniquet to stem the bleeding and then dressing the wound with a fresh piece of linen. “It will hold only for a short while. You need to see a physic quickly.”

“Forget my damn arm, woman! I want you to talk to me.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. You see, we’ve been given a task—a paid one—by the King of Morgravia and I see no reason why I shouldn’t carry it out.”

“Then you’re already a dead man,” Wyl replied matter-of-factly in a much softer voice.

Aremys was left in no doubt that Faryl meant what she said. “Are you planning on using the other knife on me, then?”

“If I have to,” Wyl said, moving a little farther away from his companion.

“So her life does mean something to you. Why are you protecting this noblewoman when Celimus assures us she is an enemy of the realm?”

Wyl laughed. It was a bitter sound and made Aremys wince. But it also seemed to open the floodgates and Wyl began talking angrily.

“She is barely eighteen years of age—she lost her mother at birth, her father when she was but an infant, and her brother—” His voice broke. Wyl cleared his throat. “Her brother, Wyl Thirsk, was murdered at the King’s command because Celimus had long been jealous of him over the fact that King Magnus preferred Wyl to his own son.”

He continued, his voice lower and harder, with the rage driving it. “Ylena Thirsk was widowed within hours of her wedding. She witnessed the beheading of her innocent husband, whose only crime was loving her and cheating Celimus of a bedmate. She was made to kneel upon her beloved’s still-warm and gushing blood, tripping over his headless body as her own neck was laid on the block.”

Aremys looked understandably shocked. “How can you know this?”

“Because I was forced to watch it!” The words rushed out now, angry, bewildered, not permitting Aremys the immediate question that sprang to his lips. “Her life was saved only because I agreed to the blackmail. I had to—it was either that or forfeit her life before my very eyes.”

“What was the blackmail?” Aremys muttered, entirely confused, not sure whether Faryl was speaking of herself or someone else.

“To contrive a king’s death. At the time it was meant to be a meeting between Valor and Wyl Thirsk—that name of Thirsk meant something to Valor; he respected my father even though they were lifetime enemies. It’s the only reason he agreed to allow a Morgravian into his palace.”

Aremys shook his head, not comprehending the twist in the conversation—why was Faryl speaking as if she were Wyl Thirsk? She was staring ahead now, talking in a single, flat tone and he was loath to stop her now that she was finally talking.

“Celimus used Wyl Thirsk to get the audience with the King to discuss his daughter’s hand in marriage and lure the Briavellian Crown into a sense of security. Meanwhile he had ordered not only the death of King Valor but the slaying of myself, both of which were achieved in the King’s study as I negotiated for his daughter’s betrothal to Celimus.”

Now Wyl fell quiet, his head moving in a sad shake as he recalled the events once again. Aremys held his breath, remained silent. He desperately wanted to hear the end of this chilling tale.

“You mentioned a man named Koreldy?” Wyl suddenly said, looking up.

Aremys nodded.

“I lied. I do know him… did know him. He was a member of that party to Briavel and saved Thirsk’s life, you could say. Together they certainly saved Princess Valentyna, now Queen of Briavel.”

Again Aremys was lost. He knew Thirsk was dead, so how could his life have been saved? Sensibly he maintained his silence, allowing Faryl to speak on.

“Koreldy took Thirsk’s body back to Pearlis to make sure the name was cleared of any traitorous act that Celimus might suggest to cover up the ambush.

“Because of Koreldy’s actions, Celimus was forced to give General Thirsk a full ceremonial burial and his name remains unsullied. Romen Koreldy had also made a promise to the dying Thirsk that he would rescue and protect his sister, Ylena, from Celimus.”

Aremys nodded as the broader picture became more clear, grateful that Faryl was telling the tale now without her own involvement. It was so odd that she had referred to Thirsk in the first person.

“When Koreldy tracked her down she was imprisoned in the dungeons of the castle. This is a noblewoman, Aremys, who grew up in the corridors of Stoneheart, was ward of the King.” Wyl sighed. “He loved her as a daughter. She was treated like a princess. What Celimus perpetrated on that young woman during her incarceration is unspeakable. He surely damaged her mind. My sister is no longer the same sunny child I knew.”

There it is again
, Aremys thought.
What does she mean
?

“Koreldy did rescue her, under the guise of wanting her for himself Celimus trusted him, believing it was Koreldy who had slain Thirsk. I suspect Celimus enjoyed the irony of knowing Thirsk’s killer would also rape his sister. It has the cruel twist his mind would love,” Wyl said bitterly.

“So you are now trying to protect her? Why?” Aremys ventured.

“Because she is innocent. Because I hate Celimus. Because she is the last of our line and I have sworn my own life to protect her.”

Aremys again ignored the first-person reference. He was completely confused, but still he tried to make some sense of the tale, if just for Faryl’s sake. “Where is Koreldy—is he with her?”

“He’s dead,” Wyl said, finally moving to stand.

“How?”

“I killed him,” Wyl replied, moving toward his horse and beginning to resaddle her.

Aremys struggled to sit up. “Help me, damn it!” he yelled.

“No. You’re on your own now. Go get yourself fixed up. I’ve told you all I’m going to. I’m asking you to leave me in peace. I suggest you head home to Grenadyn, as was your original plan.” He watched Aremys twitch with regret. “Don’t go near Ylena Thirsk or I promise I will finish what I began.”

“Then you’ll have to kill me, for until I have the truth, Faryl, I have no reason not to pursue my prey. I am not involved in the Thirsk woman’s sorrows, no matter how sad her tale is.”

“Well, you’ve been warned. I will not hesitate next time.” The green eyes glittered with menace.

“Then answer me this. Why did you say Fergys Thirsk was your father?” He watched Faryl become very still. Her back was to him, but she was no longer interested in her horse. Her long arms dropped to her side. “And you said you were blackmailed by the King, you witnessed the death of Ylena’s husband—yet it was clear when he met us that Celimus had never clapped eyes on you before! Which one of us is going mad here?”

Now Faryl turned and he felt the full weight of her glare.

Aremys was not to be deterred. “You make it sound like she is your sister—but how can that be, Faryl? How can that be?” he shouted, equally angry and bewildered now, determined to have an answer.

The movement was so fluid and so fast he could not have avoided her lunge even if he had had full use of his arm and half a day’s warning. He had neither and within a blink the assassin had a knife at his throat and had spitefully twisted his injured arm back behind himself. She pushed him up against a tree. The pain was agonizing—Aremys knew his wound was bleeding fast again. He was amazed at her strength; he struggled but it was useless in his state and he felt the blade slice into the skin at his throat…more blood, he assumed, and he fell still in her grip.