Blood and Memory (28 page)

“Be strong, sir,” Wyl said, feeling the old man’s need for revenge. “You’ll hear from me.”

He crossed the elegant courtyard to where Elspyth stood by her horse. The Duke had provided all his guests with good horses for their various journeys.

“Are you all right?” Wyl asked her as he drew close.

She nodded. “Angry.”

“Trust me. I’ll get word to you.”

“You know how I want to head back to Yentro.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know how you want to go straight into the Razors.”

She pursed her lips. “You don’t own me, Wyl. I’ll do as I please if it comes to it. I’m feeling sick over what’s happened to you, but you’re going your way—where you know you must. What about me?”

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Elspyth, you’re right. But I can’t lose you too. Don’t you see, this is about keeping you safe, not ignoring your needs.”

“And Briavel is all you can offer?”

“For now, yes. It’s important. Important for your safety and important for our cause. You want Celimus to pay too. Do this. Go to Valentyna and live under her protection. I will come and then I’ll work out what we’re going to do about Lothryn.”

Elspyth glared, knowing what he said made sense, hating him momentarily for being right and for caring enough about her. Too few people had cared for her as much as he did. “And I can tell her nothing.”

“Nothing! And you need to keep my secret this time. She won’t understand anyway. Just be her friend, if she’ll permit it. You know what to say. You’ll be safe there until I come for you.”

“You will come?” She took his arm to reinforce her query.

Wyl nodded, feeling Ylena’s plait bounce at his back. “I promise you. It seems I can’t die no matter how hard I try,” he said half jokingly, but there was too much grief in his tone for Elspyth to smile. “Not yet anyway,” he added, and squeezed her shoulder.

He looked now to Pil. “I don’t think in all the whirl and drama of last night that I got the chance to thank you for all you’ve done for my family.”

Pil regarded him shyly. “I wish I’d done so much more, kept her safe.”

Wyl took the young novice monk’s hand. “You did plenty. I was the one who failed her, not you.”

“I still don’t understand,” Pil admitted. “You were Koreldy when you came to Rittylworth?”

“I’m afraid so. Forgive me for the duplicity.”

Pil shook his head. “I thought he was different. I was much younger, of course, when he first came to us, so I put it down to my being more grown-up, seeing him through more adult eyes.”

“I would appreciate it, Pil, if you would keep this to yourself.”

“I think I’d be locked up as a half-wit if I told this tale,” the novice admitted. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Wyl changed the subject. “You are clear on the story we are all sticking to?”

Pil looked unhappy but nodded. “The woman, Faryl, visited but left soon after.”

“Good.” Wyl could see the youngster was not comfortable with the falsehood. “We lie for good reason, Pil. And you will now seek the monk in Brynt?”

“Take his mule back, yes. The monk’s name is Brother Tewk. If you ever have need of my help, it’s yours, although I don’t know how we’ll find each other,” Pil said, shrugging a shoulder, embarrassed.

“Who knows, our paths may yet cross again. Be safe, Pil. Shar’s light upon you always.”

Elspyth hugged the young man and watched him pay his respects to the family before climbing on the patient mule.

“So we must part again, Wyl,” Elspyth said, determined not to show her fear or grief.

“Once again I ask another journey, another favor,” he said, putting his arms around her. “Thank you for believing in me.”

She pulled out of his embrace to regard him in his new, far prettier body. “I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t. We’re using a code, by the way.” She frowned. Wyl told her the Duke’s idea.

“Oh, so we know it’s really you and won’t kill you if you approach us in the guise of our enemy.”

“Precisely. The code is ‘carving knife.’ I think the Duke has a sense of humor in spite of himself.”

Elspyth gave him a thin smile. “Take care, Wyl. I’ll look after your queen for you,” she said, and liked that her comment made him look sharply back toward her. His queen. Even in Ylena’s body his care and love for Valentyna was written all over his face.

Aremys had sidled up. “We’d best be going,” he said, rescuing Wyl from Elspyth’s prolonged farewell.

“Where are you going?” Elspyth asked.

“Where most don’t go, apparently,” Aremys admitted, giving her a look that suggested he had no idea. He reached around her tiny frame and dared a hug. “Be safe, blabbermouth.”

They had decided that Wyl would travel as the Lady Rachyl Farrow from Grenadyn and hope to Shar that King Celimus did no thorough investigation should her name ever make itself known to him.

“That’s your family name, right?” Wyl asked as Aremys sipped a decent ale, and he had to make do with a very watery version. They had stopped at an inn in Brynt befitting a noble lady.

Aremys nodded. “At least I can give you all the background information you need.”

“You’re sure Celimus would not know.”

“Our families go back, but he was too young, as was I. You could simply be a baby sister.”

“After your own true one, you mean.”

The big man sipped. “Or another one. Stop worrying. The Crown has had nothing to do with Grenadyn most of its life. It’s just that our fathers fought together, got to know one another. To Celimus, Grenadyn’s a backwater where he gets his good horses from—that’s about all he’ll know of it.”

“So, do I look all right, then?” Wyl asked, straightening the bodice of the gown he’d changed into at the inn.

“Every bit the noble lady,” Aremys admitted, looking at Wyl’s new clothes.

“I can’t wait to get out of these skirts and into my riding trousers tomorrow.”

“Well, suffer now for all our sakes.”

“What happened to Faryl’s body, by the way?”

“The boys buried it somewhere remote.”

“Good, so if the King’s men come looking…”

“They’ll find no trace and suspect she’s on her way to Briavel or whatever. Who cares.”

Wyl stared into his mug. “Pil might yet undo us.”

“You think so?”

“He’s a man of Shar. The lie about Ylena and Faryl does not sit easily.”

“I wonder how easily he’d sit in the King’s dungeon.”

Wyl grimaced. “No point worrying, I suppose. It’s out of our control now. I wonder why the Manwitch wouldn’t tell me where we have to go.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t.” Aremys shrugged.

Wyl frowned. “I don’t see why not, although now that I try to remember, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with much information at all. I’ve been thinking it has to be the Wild.”

“It’s certainly where no one goes.”

“Do you know much about it?”

Aremys sighed. “Not really. They say it’s haunted, alive in some way. You know how superstitious Morgravians and Briavellians have been in the past.”

“Ah, the old stories. And you believe them?”

“‘Enchanted’ is probably the better word.”

“They say many have tried to learn more, but no one returns from it.”

“I’ve heard that. I believe it could be true, don’t you?”

Wyl shook his head sadly. “Until I became Koreldy, I would have scoffed at the notion. But I have to believe in magic now. I always thought the Wild was just a fable for an uninhabitable wilderness.”

Aremys drained his cup and stretched. “If it were harmless, it would already be a part of Briavel. Whatever it is, it’s managed to keep all the hungry land ravagers at bay.”

“There’s something else,” Wyl said, draining his own cup more delicately than he preferred to.

“Tell me.”

“Knave.”

“The dog you spoke of, so?”

“Well, I suspect he’ll find me, guide us.”

“Stranger and stranger,” Aremys admitted, wiping his mouth dry of the ale. “Do we just wait, then?”

“No, we keep moving. He’ll find us.”

“Can you trust Elspyth?”

“Yes,” Wyl said emphatically.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant will her love for this Lothryn get in the way?”

Wyl shook his head, sipped his watered ale, and tried not to pull a face again. “The worst of this is having to rely on others, Aremys. I’m relying on Elspyth to get word to the Queen, and I’m relying on the Duke, in all his pain and anger, to stay firm and hold the north…act loyal to the King when all he wants to do is gallop with his army toward Pearlis. I’m relying on Valentyna to keep her nerve and not capitulate to Celimus while hoping Cailech does nothing rash.” He made a sound of agony.

“Then don’t,” the mercenary said, his gaze firm over the rim of his cup. “Rely on no one, Wyl. That’s my creed. You can’t orchestrate the lives of others. Do what you must do and deal with the problems as they unfold. I don’t trust that Elspyth will be able to wait if you take too long; I don’t trust that your queen will be able to stave off Celimus for very much longer or that Cailech won’t take matters into his own hands. Who couldn’t forgive Felrawthy for doing something vengeful? All you can do right now is concentrate on one priority—you can’t be everywhere at once. You want answers to this curse of yours—then let’s go find those answers.”

“Why are you doing this for me, Aremys?”

The big man drained his cup. “Because frankly I have nothing better to do.”

King Cailech took the baby with a rush of such affection that he felt his breath catch. He hushed its soft whimpering, admiring that the boy was long limbed and healthy. He had seen the child kick his legs furiously when happy or distressed and had laughed joyously at his son’s lusty cry.

He would be a strong king one day, his father thought with pride.

Cailech stroked the child’s downy golden hair and smiled indulgently at the dimple in his cheek that marked him so clearly the son of a King, for Cailech’s own dimple had been cherished as precious when he himself was an infant. His mother had told him it was a sign from their god. Haldor had blessed him. He would lead a special life.

“Aydrech,” he cooed. Cailech had never felt such intense love for anyone. This sense of ownership, this bonding with a helpless infant created from his own seed, was so powerful it threatened to overcome him. “My son,” he whispered, and kissed the baby softly, his heart smitten. He knew in that instant of tenderness that he would never, indeed could never, love anyone as much as Aydrech. His heir.

Voices pulled him from his adoration. He looked into the child’s still-dark eyes, which he anticipated might lighten to green to match his own. “Come and meet my new stallion, child,” he added, reluctantly handing the baby back to its wet nurse as the wild-looking Rashlyn approached.

“Ready?” the King asked.

The barshi simply nodded.

“Bring the boy,” Cailech ordered to the woman, and she fell in step.

They approached a dusty area surrounded by wooden palings, known as the breaking ring. Cailech climbed up the trio of stairs to a raised platform. His son was carried behind and promptly suckled contentedly at the woman’s concealed breast.

The King’s attention was diverted now; his eyes hungrily sought his prized new beast, whose brilliantly shiny black coat twitched in the harsh sunlight of the Razors winter. The wild stallion snorted, nostrils flaring in warning, and stamped its feet angrily.

“He’s magnificent,” Cailech breathed, inspired at the sight. “Truly magnificent.” It was far more than he had dared imagine.

A special horse breaker, one of the best—if not the best—in the mountains, bowed and approached. “Sire, would you like me to begin?”

“No. He’s all mine,” Cailech said, leaping down lightly from the platform and glancing toward Rashlyn, who barely smiled.

“As you wish,” the horse handler replied. “A word of warning, my lord,” he risked. “This is a very aggressive beast. He will take some special handling.”

Cailech nodded and took the proffered gloves and the rope. “We won’t be using the hobbling and beating method, Maegryn.”

The man immediately looked worried. “Please, my lord king. It’s all this one will understand.” When he saw the immovable set of his leader’s jaw, he nodded. “At least allow me to take the first session.”

Cailech put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He towered over him. “Be easy. This one will not hurt me. And I do not wish to win him through pain. We will break him the old way—we will do it by trust. He and I must trust each other. He must know what it is to fear me, but without pain. That is the greatest conquering of all, don’t you think?”

It made no sense to the man. “Sire, you—”

“Hush, Maegryn. I know best,” Cailech assured as he entered the breaking ring.

There were several onlookers and word was already spreading that the King was personally breaking in a new stallion, a fiery one. Cailech slapped the rope against his thigh and the horse looked at him with a wild and angry look in its dark eyes. It had been kept inside and isolated for days, and now that it was outside in the fresh mountain air, it was brimming with unspent energy and fury. The King could see the whites of the beast’s eyes—a sure sign that the creature was just short of demented at being penned in.

It snorted. Cailech knew this was a threat, knew he must answer it.

“Ha!” he yelled, and slapped the rope again, making a loud noise against his soft leather riding trews.

The horse began to paw the ground. Another sign. Dangerous this time.

Maegryn tipped his head toward some helpers, who prepared to leap into the ring and distract the angry animal should it charge their king.

They watched Cailech raise his chin high and stand to his full height. He had inherited the talents of his father, who had been a skilled breaker of horses, and those skilled enough to understand would know that Cailech was, in this simple move, throwing down the gauntlet to the horse, inviting it to test its nerve and resilience against him. This was a fight of stamina and mental strength—male against male; the different species hardly mattered. The horse knew exactly what was being offered and knew only one of them could win leadership.

The King took a short, aggressive step toward the stallion, holding the rope aloft. It held its ground, but it flinched momentarily, which to Maegryn’s experienced eye was an indication that it was unsure about this challenge. It would proceed with caution, he realized with relief Cailech slapped the rope, outward this time, toward the horse’s rump. Incensed, it snorted fiercely and reared up. Again Cailech shouted, distracting it with his voice and diverting its attention with the rope, which licked at its back. The animal screamed, not from pain but anger and no little confusion. It moved toward the King. The handlers tensed. One even raised a bow, its arrow tipped with the sap of the falava bush. A skilled shot to the rump would sedate the horse, although it was not instant. They would need to get the King out of the ring immediately if the scene turned ugly.

Once more Cailech stood his ground and repeated the process.

This time the horse reared, and although Cailech stepped back, he also yelled loudly, whacking the animal hard on the rump with the rope. It hurt. Was meant to.

Stung, the beast backed off. Man and horse regarded each other. It was as if no one else were present. Cailech could hear nothing but the angry breathing of the beast. He slapped his thigh with the rope once more. The horse reluctantly moved around the ring.

Those watching let out their collectively held breath. It was a start.

The breaking continued relentlessly over the next few days. Four suns later the stallion stood sweating and trembling. The wildness was still in its eyes, but it respected the man who stood tall before it. He too was perspiring, but his cold green gaze never left the horse’s majestic face.

Now, sire
! Maegryn thought, filled with admiration. As if the King could hear his private thoughts, Cailech suddenly rounded his shoulders, in the language of horses conveying safety and companionship. The stallion whinnied softly. Until now Cailech had forced domination and the horse had always faced away from its adversary, preferring little or no eye contact. Now it turned directly toward him and eyed him. Still rather magnificent, it defiantly glared at Cailech, but its body language told Maegryn that the King had been accepted.

The rounded silhouette Cailech had adopted put the horse at ease; invited it to rub its shoulders with a creature who was no longer its challenger or even its equal but its leader. Another long day of this routine continued before finally the stallion, nicknamed Proud by the mountain dwellers who stopped by over the week to watch the exciting drama unfold, lowered its defiant head in deference to its breaker, walked over to Cailech, and nuzzled at his shoulder.

As soon as this happened, Cailech straightened and gave orders. “Tie him to the snubbing post and fetch a saddle,” he said, not prepared to lose the moment.

“Perhaps we should wait, my lord,” Maegryn ventured.

“Now!” Cailech replied. He left no room for argument.

Rashlyn approached his friend as the men moved in cautiously to halter the horse. He handed Cailech a skin of water. “Well?”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“Now we make him fully trusting,” Cailech said, taking another long swig and handing back the skin. “I’ll be riding him by this afternoon,” he said fiercely.

Rashlyn nodded, the sly grin evident once again beneath the flurry of hair.

“Ready, my lord,” Maegryn called.

Cailech stepped toward the disturbed black horse. It was blowing and trembling, angry and confused again, this time at being restrained to the fence.

“Put on the saddle,” Cailech said.

This was easier said than achieved, but the men working the horse were swift and experienced. Cailech carefully approached the stallion, continuously murmuring soothing words. And then at the right moment, in one smooth movement, Cailech landed nimbly on the horse’s back, at the same moment Maegryn untied the animal. Alarmed, it instantly began to buck and jump, squealing and angry, as determined to unseat its guest as Cailech was to remain in place.

The athleticism and strength required to keep his balance for any length of time was unimaginable for the inexperienced breakers watching. Cailech hung on grimly, determined he would best the horse’s most fearsome bucking. The stallion finally calmed, too spent for even for one more effort. The King could feel its entire body shaking with despair as well as fatigue.

It had done its utmost. It had failed.

As Cailech slid from the saddle, the horse turned its head. He was ready for it, ready for the bite—one last-ditch effort to inflict pain on the victor. The King backhanded the horse in the face with all the strength he himself had left and the horse squealed in obvious shock and agony.

“Unsaddle him!” Cailech commanded, rubbing his hand. He had not wanted to do that to this horse, but it was necessary, and only he and Rashlyn knew how much emotion was driving that blow.

Maegryn was shocked at his sovereign’s aggressiveness, but he was also relieved. King and horse had been trying to outdo each other for too many days, both aiming to conquer the other. The horse had lost the battle—which was as it should be but still the horse handler was keen for the beast to have some rest from its exertions. In truth, he believed this strange horse would prefer death to subservience.

“I will ride him this afternoon. Have him readied.”

“Sire?” Maegryn asked, shocked for the second time in as many minutes.

“His name is Galapek, by the way. I will ride him without a saddle.”

Maegryn dared not contradict. “As you command,” was all he permitted himself to say.

Cailech strode away, Rashlyn at his side.

“Have you roused the wet nurse?” the King asked.

“Yes, she will be ready when you want her.”

“I will be taking my son out alone this afternoon.”

“On him?” Rashlyn asked, surprised.

“Have Aydrech brought to me at the edge of the lake directly after the midday meal. I want him to know this horse.”

“Is that wise, my lord?”

“He’ll be fine. He won’t hurt Aydrech,” Cailech replied, his stride lengthening, forcing the barshi to all but skip alongside.

“I don’t recognize the name you’ve given the beast.”

“It’s in the old language of our forefathers.”

The sorcerer was not of the mountains. “Oh? What does it mean?”

“Traitor,” the King snarled, and left the practitioner of magic in his wake.