Blood and Memory (43 page)

Later, over breakfast, they spoke of the horrid tale Physic Geryld had related.

Crys shook his head. “The hide, the timing…it all fits. That area would also be the logical place to do the ugly work of burying my family in the pit and later burning bodies.” He did not want to say that not so far away was buried the corpse of Faryl of Coombe—a spot especially chosen for its remoteness. It seemed Celimus’s mercenaries had selected well.

Valentyna put her face in her hands. From behind them she sighed. “You’re quite sure it was the King.”

“I wasn’t there, highness, so I cannot be absolutely sure. However, all the shocking events that led up to this—from Alyd’s death to Wyl Thirsk’s death, the slaughter at Rittylworth, the pursuit of Ylena, even the sending away of Gueryn le Gant, and now the destruction of my family, seem to be rolling together into one nasty campaign from a new king determined to stamp out any threat to his power. He must be demented if he feared my father—there was no more loyal subject to the Crown than Felrawthy, other than perhaps Argorn. And yet Celimus has done his utmost to destroy both the great loyalists. He thinks he’s achieved his desire, but I live to fight on and this time it won’t be for him. It will be against him.”

And herself, Valentyna thought miserably, should she marry Celimus? “So your mother brought the—pardon me for mentioning it again—the remains of your brother to me. Who gave them to your family?”

“Alyd’s head was left with the monks by a man called Romen Koreldy.” He saw the Queen react to the name. “Do you know him?”

Valentyna nodded. “I do. He’s dead, though, no use to any of us.” She tried to make her words sound offhand, but they came out forlornly. “I’m pleased he rescued Ylena Thirsk.”

Crys dared not explain Ylena’s fate.

“Where is she now, do you think?”

The lie came easily, as Wyl had instructed. “As we said, she was taken away at the same time as we left by a man called Aremys Farrow, who promised to get her to safety. He’s a Grenadyne…knew Koreldy apparently.” He saw the Queen’s brow furrow in thought and knew her next question. “Apparently Koreldy asked Farrow to look in on Ylena at Rittylworth.” Crys shrugged, hoping he was being convincing. “I suppose when he saw what had happened, he came looking for her. Presumably Koreldy had mentioned that she’d married one of the Donals.”

“So where do you think he would he have taken her?” Valentyna persisted.

“Aremys cautioned that it would be too dangerous for any of us to know where they were headed. Celimus might target yet more death and destruction.”

The Queen nodded. “It seems so.” She was thinking of the note Elspyth had brought, but her thoughts were disrupted by a new voice joining the conversation.

Liryk cleared his throat nearby. “I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions, your highness.”

“No?” the Queen said. “How can you look me square in the eye, Commander, and tell me otherwise regarding the man I’m supposed to marry?” She instantly regretted her barb, knowing it was wrong of her to belittle this good Briavellian in front of strangers, Morgravians especially. “I’m sorry, Commander Liryk,” she hurriedly followed up. “You’re right, of course. I must think about what I’ve heard.” The damage was done, though. The old soldier looked mortified and did not acknowledge her contriteness. Valentyna could do nothing to repair his injured ego at present. Instead she stood. “Well, there is nothing more we can do here. We travel for Werryl immediately. Liryk, please make arrangements for the Lady Aleda to be transported into the palace chapel, where Crys will have the opportunity to pray to Shar for his mother’s soul.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Crys murmured.

“I wish I could do more,” Valentyna responded, standing to make arrangements for departure.

Aremys waited outside the great doors that led into Cailech’s private rooms. he had finally remembered his identity, but not much else, although tantalizing glimmers of further information teased at his mind. He believed it would be only a matter of time before his memory was fully restored; until then, he decided he would feign full amnesia.

For now he was Cullyn and he would need his wits about him. Myrt had cautioned him not to play the innocent victim with the King. Aremys, despite his damaged memory, retained sufficient knowledge to remind him that Cailech was known as the Fox of Grenadyn…and for good reason. He would heed his new friend’s warning.

Myrt emerged. “The King will see you now. Remember what I said.”

Aremys nodded and followed the mountain man into the vast, light-filled chamber, warmed by an open fire at one end. He was entranced by the view.

“This is Cullyn, my lord, although that is not his real name,” Myrt said, nodding toward a yellow-haired man who sat at the end of a table, eating.

Aremys turned back from the breathtaking scene beyond the tall windows and bowed low. Royalty made him feel anxious, but this King looked anything but regal. No pretentiousness at all about the man. He wore no outward signs of his status as he stood to greet Aremys, wiping his hands on his breeches,

“Welcome, Cullyn…or whatever your name is,” he said.

“King Cailech, I’m honored,” Aremys replied, straightening from his bow.

He had height and width on the King, but then Aremys had these on most men. This one, however, was not in any way cowed by his size. If anything, he was amazed.

“Haldor’s arse, but you’re huge, man,” Cailech admitted good-naturedly. “A Grenadyne, I hear?”

“Yes, my lord. We think so.” Aremys grinned. “Apparently my accent gives me away. Plus, I held my sword in a Grenadyne fashion. It seems I understand Northernish and…well, I just know I’m not from Morgravia or Briavel.”

“So what were you doing in the Razors just north of the Briavellian border?” Cailech inquired, going straight to the point.

Aremys shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I cannot tell you, my lord. Not yet anyway. I’m hoping my memories will not stay blurred for long.”

Cailech held his gaze, granite-faced. It was a test, Aremys knew, and much as he felt inclined to look away from that searching scrutiny, he forced himself to hold the penetrating stare.

“And you fight like a soldier. You’re good, I hear.”

Aremys was not sure how to answer. “It’s instinctive, my lord. I don’t remember any training, although I suspect there must have been some in my past. Yes, sire. I am good.”

“A mercenary, perhaps?”

He nodded this time. “That’s probably true,” he agreed. “I’ve been thinking as much myself.”

“Join me,” the King said.

Aremys was taken aback. One moment Cailech was interrogating him, the next inviting him to eat with him. He sat. “Thank you,” he replied, confused. “But I’m not hungry.”

The King gestured that it was of no matter. He resumed his meal and nodded to someone who immediately poured Aremys some wine. “Try this, it’s my favorite,” Cailech encouraged.

He did and it was delicious. Aremys told the King as much. “I’m fairly certain I haven’t tasted white wine of such a crisp, fresh flavor in years. The south favors the red grape.”

The King nodded. “It was also Romen Koreldy’s favorite,” Cailech said conversationally.

“Oh? Koreldy…” Aremys frowned. “Who is he, my lord?”

“I thought you knew him,” Cailech replied, not looking up from his baked water fowl. “Myrt tells me you mentioned his name.”

“Did I?” Aremys asked, looking around, and even Cailech believed his confusion was genuine. “When?”

Cailech looked toward Myrt, who stood back near the window.

“Wait!” Aremys interrupted. “I do remember now. I said ‘Koreldy’ when I was preparing to spar with Firl.”

Myrt nodded at Cailech.

“So you do know him?” the King continued, pleased that this newcomer was being honest.

“I must, but I can’t dredge up from where or how I know him. It was…” He searched for the answer. “That’s right, it had something to do with a sword that reminded me of him. Is he a Grenadyne?”

“He is,” came the reply.

Aremys shrugged. “That’s how I know his name, then. I have no other recollection.”

“He carries a sword of a bluish hue, my king,” Myrt said softly.

Cailech said nothing in response, but Aremys nodded. “I’m not remembering anything at all about him, sire. Is this man important?”

“To me, yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“We have unfinished business to settle,” Cailech said, unfathomable eyes glinting over the rim of his goblet. “To your full health returning, Cullyn,” he said, raising that goblet now.

“I’ll drink to that, your majesty,” Aremys replied. “What is your plan for me?”

Cailech resumed his eating. “Well, as you have no memory to draw upon, I presume you’re in no hurry to be anywhere right now, so why not remain with us? Myrt tells me you can help with teaching my men some sword skills.”

Aremys could see no harm in it. He rather liked the mountain dwellers. He could not help but rather like the direct man who ruled them. “I’ll be glad to. Do I remain on as your prisoner?”

Cailech smiled now. “I think ‘guest’ is a nicer word,” he suggested.

Aremys understood. It was true. He had no idea where he should be or why, so he might as well accept the hospitable imprisonment of the Mountain King and make the best of it until his memory returned fully.

“Oh, and Cullyn. With regard to the Morgravian King. Do you have any thoughts on him…any memories coming to mind?”

It could not hurt to be honest with this question, Aremys decided. He knew within himself that he hated the man called Celimus but could not remember why…not yet anyway. “I hate him, sire…I think. When Myrt mentioned his name, my hackles rose. It must mean something, though I’ve yet to learn what.”

The King nodded thoughtfully. “That makes two of us. I hate him enough to do battle with him. But I fear a war right now would only waste my men.”

Aremys looked startled. “I’m sure my limited recall serves me faithfully when I suggest that to take on the Morgravian Legion would be suicide for your men. The Legion are well-drilled soldiers. I know your people are hard and don’t lack for courage. But I would avoid out-and-out war with Morgravia.”

“Unless, of course, we could bring them into the Razors. If we fought on our own territory, we would win.”

“Undoubtedly,” Aremys agreed, and believed it. “But Celimus would not be lured, sire. He’s too smart.”

“You have met the man, I presume.”

Aremys scratched his head and frowned. “You must be right—I suppose I must have met him to feel so assured of his ability.” There were thoughts niggling at the fringe of his mind; they were just out of reach, which was frustrating but Aremys reminded himself to hold faith. His memory would return.

“Do you have another suggestion?” the King asked, more in conversation than with genuine expectation that the injured man could offer sage advice.

“Yes! Parley. As long as you’re talking, no mountain dweller is losing his life.”

Cailech fixed Aremys with a hard gaze again. There was humor in it this time, though, because the stranger had taken him by surprise. “Go on.”

“Why fight? For what reason? Do you truly want Morgravia?”

“I might,” Cailech said, not prepared to share his thoughts.

“No, sire. Why would you want Morgravia? Your people belong here among the mountains. But what if trade was free and your people could come and go across the border without fearing an arrow. That would be worth striving for—not dying for, though.”

Myrt smiled to himself in the background. Cullyn was turning Cailech’s own creed back on the King. He had preached negotiations all his early life and, in so doing, had united the tribes of the mountains.

Aremys pressed on. “And by the same token, sire, Celimus might think he wants the Razors, but in truth, why would he want the Mountain Kingdom? What is he going to do with it? No Morgravian would survive easily up here, save a few hardy northerners perhaps. And he certainly isn’t going to move his palace up here, my lord. It’s pointless. From talking with Myrt—and I mean no offense, sire—I believe this situation is just two obstinate Kings, neither prepared to give ground. Why not get together and work out a solution? Spill no blood. Who knows what good might come of it.” It was a long speech for Aremys, but as much as he knew he hated Celimus, he did not for a moment believe the mountain dwellers were a match for the Legion. A new thought struck him. “And should you escalate these skirmishes I’ve been told of, my lord king, if I were Celimus I would unite with Briavel to crush you. Between the Morgravian Legion and the Briavellian Guard, I don’t care how brave your people are, sire, they will die and in numbers. You are a nuisance, for want of a better word, and Morgravia might well put its differences with Briavel behind it temporarily if it meant getting rid of the nuisance from the north.” He had no idea where his assurance had come from and could only assume that his knowledge was returning at a rapid rate now.

He expected a harsh reaction from Cailech. But the King nodded. “You speak sense, Cullyn. I just want to teach the upstart King a lesson, let him know we are not the simpleton barbarians he believes us to be. In truth, I could not leave my beloved mountains.”

“But that’s precisely what you would have to do, sire, should you conquer him. And anyway, there are many ways to skin a rat, sire.”

At this old northern adage, the King laughed, green eyes twinkling with his mirth. “You mean there are other ways to teach the southerner a lesson.”

Aremys nodded. “Precisely. It doesn’t have to be by proving you are mightier. Intelligence is the key here, sire. Prove you are the King with the vision for peace.”

“Do you think Morgravia and Briavel will unite?” Cailech asked suddenly.

Aremys could not guess at this. “It was a theory, your majesty, but one with merit.” He shrugged. “If I were the Morgravian King and faced war with you, that’s what I would seek to do. I think I’m right in saying that the Briavellians are less warlike people, but they have their own suspicions about the mountain dwellers. Faced with fighting you, yes, I think they might strike up a tentative bargain as neighbors to work to defeat you.”

“And that’s precisely what he is doing, Cullyn. Your instincts are sharp, but your faded memory has not told you that Celimus is petitioning Queen Valentyna of Briavel.”

At the King’s words, old memories resurfaced and slotted into place. A man called Wyl suddenly came to his mind. He could not see him, but he was thinking orange-haired…a general. Morgravian, no less. Try though he might, he could not put a face to the memory. He kept seeing a woman’s eyes…feline and sensual. The naming of the Queen had prompted this memory of the Morgravian—were the two connected? He shook his head to rid it of the disjointed thoughts; he would have to consider them later.

“All the more reason to parley, King Cailech. Seek friendship, seek trade, seek peace. You will be the winner; it’s your people who will benefit more than the Morgravians, in truth.”