Blood and Memory (35 page)

The room predictably erupted as the shock of the Duke’s demise was absorbed.

“We’re not just talking about a very high-ranking noble, gentleman, but two of his heirs and his wife—innocents. If it wasn’t for the foresight of Elspyth here, there might well be no heir to Felrawthy standing among us.”

“There were three other heirs, if I’m not mistaken,” someone said.

Crys cast a glance at the Queen and answered on his own behalf. “Indeed, sir, there were four of us. My youngest brother was murdered at the King’s pleasure in Stoneheart many weeks earlier. Reliable witnesses have attested to this fact.”

Excited talk broke out and anything further that Crys had planned to say was drowned out. Elspyth noted that Crys had benefited from his rest and refreshment. He looked composed and very focused. Perhaps the gravity of this meeting had reminded him of the title he now bore. She chanced a small smile toward him and was thrilled when he cast a shy wink her way and lifted his strong chin. She loved him for it; knew how deeply within himself he must have dug to find such strength and composure in front of these critically important strangers.

The duchy of Felrawthy is in safe hands, Jeryb
, she thought.

“Your majesty,” a deep and distinguished voice said from the center of the room.

“Lord Vaughan.” Valentyna nodded.

“With the greatest of respect to our noble guest, I must ask what the internal politics of Morgravia have to do with Briavel? Until you are married to King Celimus and formally link our two realms, I believe it may be unwise for us to meddle with Morgravia’s domestic matters. Those whom the King’s men execute on their soil, providing it is only Morgravian blood spilled, is surely his business alone.”

“I appreciate your position, Lord Vaughan,” the Queen said. “The problem is that Morgravia has brought this problem to us…in more ways than one. I have only outlined one side of this tale, sirs. As I mentioned, a man of Shar, albeit a novice, witnessed the shocking slaughter at both Rittylworth Monastery and at Felrawthy. He now seeks peace from these nightmares with our own Father Paryn and I do not, for one minute, doubt this young man’s word about what he saw. Peaceful men of god were cut down as they tended the monastery gardens; the senior monks were crucified and burned.

“Pil escaped and with him took a woman called Ylena Thirsk, who would be in a position to attest not only to the bloodbath at Rittylworth but to the execution of Alyd Donal of Felrawthy, her husband of just one day. I’m sure the significance of her family name is not lost on any of you.”

Angry mutterings broke out, which she hushed.

“Ylena Thirsk was brought to Rittylworth for sanctuary and safekeeping by none other than Romen Koreldy. I already knew this because he told me about it during his stay with us. The men who attacked Rittylworth were under the King of Morgravia’s express authority to raze the village and its monastery, killing the holy men.”

“How do we trust this information, highness?” Vaughan asked, sounding fractionally exasperated.

Valentyna ignored the tone and looked toward Elspyth, who had half hoped she would be spared such scrutiny.

She took a deep breath and begged her voice to hold firm. “My lords, I happened upon Rittylworth soon after the devastation. I saw the chaos of what the raiders had left behind, the cruelty and ruin of their work. I spoke with the dying head monk as he hung, still smoking, from the cross.” Elspyth deliberately described the scene as viciously as she could and was pleased to see many of the nobles look away in pain at her words. “He could barely speak through his scorched throat, but he confirmed to me that his executioners were the King’s men; that they were searching for Ylena Thirsk and would kill her if they found her.”

“It seems the King could not risk an all-out revolt by the Legion, which remains loyal to the Thirsk name. Instead he sent assassins out on Ylena Thirsk’s trail, gentlemen,” the Queen continued. “Once again it seems she has escaped—this time with a man known as Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn. But the family who offered her safety did not escape the King’s attention and was punished in the most dire manner.” She paused and glanced at Crys, who took up the tale.

“My youngest brother, Alyd, was beheaded as punishment for marrying Ylena Thirsk. The other members of my family were murdered because they offered her a haven. King Celimus is mad,” Crys said, eyes burning passionately.

Angry retorts from the stunned audience prompted Krell to give a warning glance toward his queen.

“Gentlemen, please.” She held up her hand. “Let us take some wine together and calm ourselves.”

The mood had not changed, despite the wine, but at least the gathered nobles were quiet.

Valentyna motioned to Krell, who handed her a parchment. “This arrived today from Morgravia,” she said. “It is a firm offer of marriage from King Celimus. He has set a date of the last day of the spring equinox.” She could feel the nobles’ joy at the reality of the wedding like a separate pulse in the room. It nauseated her. “He continues by warning me of a very real threat from King Cailech in the Mountain Kingdom.”

“Briavel and Morgravia are stronger united, your majesty. Celimus is right,” a man from the northern province said.

She nodded without commitment to his sentiment. “Celimus goes on to explain that he has proof of this threat. He claims the Donal family of Felrawthy was slaughtered mercilessly by Cailech’s men.”

Crys stepped forward angrily. “That’s a lie!” Elspyth reached toward him, but he shook her arm away. “Cailech is too wise to risk his people now. It’s easier to let Morgravia and Briavel tear each other apart…can’t you see?” he roared, looking around the room. “The Mountain King has never set foot in Felrawthy. Our men would have known about even the slightest incursion and we would have been well warned of any raiding party. The northern defenses of my father’s were second to none. Believe me when I say this is Celimus contriving excuses, poisoning Briavel’s collective mind, protecting himself so the marriage will go ahead.”

The Queen nodded. Crys had summed it up perfectly. Valentyna looked around the room, trying to gauge the mood.

“My lords, Wyl Thirsk warned me of Celimus’s more sinister intentions when he brought the marriage proposal to my father. He counseled that Celimus might not be so interested in peace as he is in acquiring the rich and fertile lands of Briavel. It’s my contention that he wishes to rule us, gentlemen; paying lip service to our own proud sovereignty. He is empire building, sirs. Why else would King Valor have met such an ugly death? Celimus wanted us vulnerable and desperate for peace.”

She hoped this subtle mention of her father might win the support she wanted, but instead eyes were averted from her own. There was uncertainty in the air.

“At least we might achieve peace, your majesty,” one of the oldest, most senior men declared plaintively, and Valentyna’s heart sank. She knew then—in that frigidly stark instant—that she would not escape marriage to the King of Morgravia. These nobles would accept rule from the usurper provided that no more of their brave, bright sons had to march toward hopeless war. She felt the tears of realization prick at her eyes and she blinked them away. How could she blame them? Her father had refused to risk her life—had given his own to save hers. Why would these fathers feel any differently for their own beloved children? Her marriage to Celimus would bring the peace they craved, give their children prosperity. She felt her gut twist at the thought.

“Peace at what price, my lords?” she asked the room, eyeing each of them with a hard blue gaze. “Is this what you have fought for all your lives…and your fathers and your grandfathers before you? Is this what my father raised me to believe? To marry peace and squander our pride and Briavel’s name?”

She felt her heart hammering at her passionate words. It won the right attention. The men she thought she might have lost shifted uncomfortably at her accusation.

But it was the powerful and elderly Lord Vaughan who spoke for them all. “We need more proof, your highness,” he said firmly into the silence.

“What proof, my lords, would satisfy?” she asked, her tone as sharp as a blade.

Lord Vaughan shrugged. “So far, your majesty, with respect we have heard hearsay and unreliable accounts. I acknowledge what Elspyth of Yentro has told us of what she saw at Rittylworth, but we need more. Bring us Ylena Thirsk…she, more than any, might convince us that Celimus’s intentions are as dark as you suggest.”

Valentyna watched heads nodding, knew her fate was sealed. Ylena Thirsk could not save her. No one could. She would be wed to the King of Morgravia in the same helpless manner that a baby lamb was led to its slaughter.

Wyl and Aremys arrived at the Thicket from the village of Timpkenny on the north-eastern rim of
Briavel. the village had struck them as an odd, almost nervous sort of place that suffered from being the closest clump of humanity to the place where the Darkstream presumably joined the River Eyle.

Much quiet superstition surrounded the Darkstream. It was not a fear of the magic so much as a privately held belief among these northerners that the unknown beyond was enchanted and was not a place for nonsentient people to roam.

Although they inquired at several Timpkenny establishments, no one could give the pair the Darkstream’s ultimate source or indeed destination, but everyone they spoke to nodded apprehensively and confirmed that to everyone’s knowledge the Darkstream was the only way to cross over into the Wild once you had negotiated the Thicket. Aremys asked one man why he lived so close to a place that carried so much superstition and the man had shrugged, answering that the land of this region was uncannily fertile and the weather, though cold, was reliable. The rains always came and the summer never failed.

“Our animals and crops thrive,” he had said, shrugging again. “My family eats.”

Wyl and Aremys knew they should count themselves lucky for having experienced an uneventful journey north. They had traveled relatively swiftly and without incident from Brynt across the border, always heading toward the mighty Razors and then cutting east once the famed mountains began to rise up menacingly before them. Briavellian guards had picked them up soon after and did little more than smirk when they admitted they were hoping to find a quiet pass to enter the Razors and avoid Cailech’s fortress. That was the cover story they had agreed to use if stopped by anyone.

The head of the guard was the only one of the Briavellian soldiers not smirking when Wyl and Aremys had stood at his checkpoint, brought to him by his men.

“There are several entries into the Razors from this part of Briavel, but you say you’re headed for Grenadyn. Surely it would have been easier for you to access the mountains from western Morgravia?”

“Too much trouble brewing on the border over there, sir,” Aremys had admitted. “It might be dangerous to take Lady Farrow via those routes.”

The officer had nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve made your journey three times as long, though.”

“Sir,” Wyl had interrupted, noting how the man had instantly regarded him with softer eyes. He had wondered if he himself had done this when addressing a good-looking woman. In truth, he found it insulting that a woman should be considered with such instant sympathy—or was it desire? He had tried not to let his irritation show in his tone. “It’s imperative that I return to my home in Grenadyn.” The lie came surprisingly easily. “However, I wish to draw as little attention to myself as possible and I’m prepared to lose the additional week or so that it will take us by using this more circuitous route.”

“And whose attention are you trying to avoid?”

“Why Cailech’s, of course,” Wyl had replied, adding a hint of irritation now. “I’ve learned on our travels that the Mountain King is moving toward the notion of summary executions for strangers.”

“Morgravians only, as I understand it, my lady.” He eyed her and stifled a smug expression. “You could have sailed more easily to Grenadyn, surely?”

“But we were nowhere near the coast, sir. I’m sure you don’t need to know my life story, either, Captain, er…?”

“Dirk, my lady.”

“Captain Dirk,” Wyl had said, “and I appreciate your concern for our long journey, but I have employed Aremys, who knows the mountain routes well. We shall be fine,” he had added, avoiding blatant
condescension but hoping to bring an end to the man’s inquisitiveness.

“Well, Lady Farrow, it’s none of my business where or how you choose to go but—”

“That’s right, Captain,” Wyl had interjected, but as gently as he remembered Ylena might admonish someone. “I understand that you are responsible for the security of the realm in this part of Briavel, and as you can surely tell, we are no threat to it. We are simply travelers passing through. I gather there’s no law against that. I appreciate your concern for my safety. Aremys will see to it.”

The man had shown amusement for the first time. “I was only going to say that I thought you were not dressed sufficiently warmly for the Razors, my lady. It will be rough sleeping in the mountains. Are you really up to such challenge?”

“No need to worry,” Aremys had chimed in. “It’s my intention that we’ll make a stop at Banktown and buy what we need.”

Wyl knew there was little more the Captain could do unless he wanted to detain them. Besides, it was now obvious that Aremys did know the region—perhaps the Captain had not expected him to know the local towns and villages and had been testing them. As it had turned out, he had finally nodded, wished them well, and allowed them to move on.

Aremys had seen to it that they left the patrol in a northerly direction as though headed deeper into the foothills and ultimately up into the Razors. He knew the terrain well enough and soon had them back on track heading east in the relative obscurity of the lightly wooded hillsides. They had arrived at Timpkenny—their real destination—just before dark, took a couple of rooms in a very ordinary inn, and in the morning sold the horses. Wyl knew the price they had managed to negotiate was just short of theft, but they had had no choice. It was on foot from here on, as the famed Thicket would not permit horses to be led through. After purchasing a few minor provisions, they had set off.

Aremys and Wyl stared now at the Thicket without knowing it had not been so long ago that a small boy and a large dog had sat and regarded the same scene in virtually the same position.

“It suits its name,” Wyl admitted. “Have you been here before?”

“No. I’ve skirted around this region but never actually seen it.”

“How do we get in?”

“Push in, I suppose, although the old stories say it lets you in once you’ve made up your mind to cross it.”

“Lets you in, but not out?”

Aremys grinned at the beautiful woman who crouched next to him with the scowling expression. Strange as it was, he had thought of her as Wyl since Brynt—not that he had ever known Wyl Thirsk. He had witnessed the magic of Myrren’s Gift with his own eyes and suddenly anything and everything seemed possible. He had never considered whether he believed in magical powers or not. It was simply not an issue that had come up through his childhood in Grenadyn. That far north, the old stories prevailed and were accepted as folklore. It was only when he found himself in the south of Morgravia that he noticed how wary of magic the people seemed to be.

Now, having watched Faryl change into Ylena, stories about the Thicket and the Wild seemed plausible. He suddenly realized how vulnerable Wyl was as Ylena. Who knew what lay on the other side of the Thicket or what was to come?

As if reading his thoughts, Wyl nudged him. “Don’t stare at me like that. I know what you’re thinking, and big as you are, you’re no match for me, Aremys. I may look fragile in Ylena’s body. I assure you I’m not.”

“Did Myrren make you a mind reader as well?” Aremys asked, turning back to regard the incredibly dense line of trees and bushes that confronted them.

“No. You’re as easily read as an open book. Didn’t your mother teach you to mask your emotions?”

“I thought I had,” Aremys said, feigning hurt. They grinned at each other, although with more anxiety than mirth. “To answer your question, no, apparently the Thicket only lets you travel from this side to whatever lies on the other side. That’s my understanding, anyway. I believe legend has it that you can’t turn around halfway through and change your mind. Once committed and once permitted entry, you have to continue.”

“Extraordinary,” Wyl breathed. “And we’re not supposed to believe in magic,” he added, somewhat sarcastically.

Aremys did laugh out loud now. “I think you and I know better. Come on, if we’re going to do this, we should start now. There’s rain clouds set to burst.”

“I’ll go first,” Wyl offered.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aremys sighed. “I thought it was just me.”

Wyl grinned. “Shall we hold hands, then?” he suggested with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh no. Ladies first,” Aremys offered, in an overly polite tone.

Their banter was just another way of avoiding making the move. Wyl forced himself to approach, and as he stepped toward the Thicket, he noticed something to his right dangling from one of the low branches. His gaze slid past it momentarily as he scanned for the best entry point before recognition hauled his attention back. “Look at that!” he said, striding to the clump of bushes and untying the item, elation burning through him. “This is Romen’s bracelet.”

Aremys shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I do!” Wyl said fiercely, tying the oversize thong around his now-dainty wrist. “Only one of two people could have brought this here and I suspect it wasn’t Queen Valentyna.”

“Who then?”

“Fynch!”

“The gong boy you’ve spoken of? But he’s a child.”

“Never dismiss him as just a gong boy… or just a child. He’s a gifted youngster and with enough courage for both of us. If we look hard enough, I reckon we’ll find paw prints close by. Fynch and Knave have already come this way and left this as a sign.”

“Brave lad,” Aremys murmured. “Well, if a boy can do this, so can we.”

Wyl nodded and bent over to push his way into the Thicket. Before he entered fully he called over his shoulder to his companion. “Can you whistle?”

“I guess that’s a fairly important question and needs answering right now?” Aremys said, all but bent double to follow directly after Wyl.

“It’s just that Ylena can’t. One thing I couldn’t teach her.”

“Well, I really appreciate that critical and indeed relevant information,” his friend grunted behind him.

“Aremys, whistle, damn you! I can’t, so you’ll have to do it for both of us!” Wyl snapped.

“Happy to indulge you, my lady. Just not sure why?” came the response.

“Because we don’t know what happens in here. I don’t want us to be separated.”

“Oh,” Aremys said, understanding now. “All right. Any requests?…I do a fine ‘Under the Gooseberry Bush.’”

“Just get on with it, you fool!” Wyl said, daring a laugh through his fear. The Thicket’s presence was ominous and he could not shake the feeling that danger lay ahead.

“Can I just mention, as we’re on the topic of Ylena’s strengths and weaknesses, that she’s got the best arse I’ve had the pleasure of being close to.” Aremys’s muffled voice came from very close behind.

“Whistle!” Wyl shrieked in her voice. He knew what Aremys was doing. He was forcing the lightheartedness to combat their fear, but it was not working; they were both frightened enough to feel their own hearts pumping hard in their chests. It felt as if the Thicket were drawing him in…but to what? He marveled at how Fynch had found the courage to enter the Thicket.

Wyl entered the gloom of the Thicket and was immediately struck by its eerie silence, which was sufficiently heavy to give him a sense of suffocation. He could not stand, either, for the branches were low and tangled. He breathed hard and loosened the button near Ylena’s throat. He knew it was afternoon outside, yet it was so dark beneath the yews that Wyl could swear night was coming on. Nothing moved but he and Aremys.