Blood and Memory (44 page)

“I like your style,” Cailech said, after draining his goblet. “What do you suggest?”

Aremys thought about it and the King did not seem to mind the pause. “Don’t be too proud,” he finally said. “Lead the talks—show his people and your own that it was you who had the vision rather than he. Celimus is not trustworthy, so you must tread carefully. And should the talks fail, then no one can accuse the Mountain King of acting in anything but a chivalrous manner. They will know you held out the hand of peace.”

Cailech stood, impressed and a little startled. He needed to think this audacious idea through; perhaps have the Stones read. “I like you, Cullyn of Grenadyn. We shall talk more. Join me later for a ride. You must see Galapek, my new stallion.”

Rashlyn moved the Reading Stones about before him. He was alone and he was baffled. They spoke to him of change. Big change, but he could make no sense of it. He cast again, specifically looking for any indication that might spell his greatest fear—the death of King Cailech. He had saved his life once previously, when Koreldy had threatened it all those years ago, and he now regularly searched the Stones for answers with regard to Cailech’s longevity.

Alas, change, once more, was all the Stones would yield. What did it mean? Without Cailech he had no power. He must not allow the King to be threatened in any way and yet here was Cailech murmuring about escalating his dislike for the Morgravian King to out-and-out war with Celimus.

Rashlyn moved restlessly to the window of the stone chamber he liked to work from, well removed from the hustle and bustle of daily life in the Cave. In his increasingly rare lucid moments, such as now, Rashlyn himself knew he was losing his mind, but it was a slow and tormenting process and he hoped this inability to get more out of the Stones was not part of that disintegration. He pulled angrily at the wild beard he hid behind and admitted to himself that his periods of lucidity had shortened significantly while the time spent in the prison of his dark thoughts had increased until he wondered if each sane period would be the last. Only he knew that spells that were once so easy for him to concoct and use were now challenging him. Oh, he was still brilliantly skilled, but the talent was beginning to elude him. Stranger still, he was beginning to recall, in vivid detail, memories of his childhood playing with his brother.

Elysius! Curse him! Rashlyn felt sure he was dead and felt no remorse for causing his brother’s death.

Emil had met Rashlyn first and flirted recklessly with the plain young man. And she had done so just because she could, picking her target perfectly, for it was obvious Rashlyn was starved for female attention. As much as Rashlyn desperately wanted to touch, to kiss, to lie with a woman, none would have him willingly, so Emil was a revelation for him. Even the whores of Pearlis thought twice about taking his money.

There was something about his wild eyes and disturbing manner that frightened them. And they were right to be scared. Rashlyn’s insecurity had caused the death of two prostitutes on separate occasions when he had been unable to see their brief, paid couplings through to their normal close. Neither woman had laughed or made him feel in any way inadequate—if he’d known the truth of how frequently this happened in their work, he might not have overreacted. Instead, embarrassed to the point of anguish, he had lashed out with his powers and murdered both cruelly and painfully.

This was not his first taste in killing, of course, and since tasting its feel of power, he wanted more, needed more. He loved the sense of power that death brought. He wished he had killed his brother sooner so Elysius would never have met Emil, for as soon as she had clapped eyes on his handsome brother, the humiliation for Rashlyn had been complete. Her passing interest in him was done.
So be it
, he had decided,
I will find my pleasures in other, darker ways
. And he had.

He had hated his brother for his looks and his easy manner with others, but mostly he had hated him for his ability to work magic with animals, for as helpless as they seemed to Rashlyn when he had them pinned out or trapped, he had no control over them…no relationship with the natural world at all.

He hoped Elysius had fought death hard before the sea consumed him, and if by chance he had cheated the waters, he hoped his brother had died a pitiful death as a freak in some corner of the realm.

He had not felt his brother’s magic since that dark day of death, but then Rashlyn could not be confident that his waning power could still detect something as subtle as Elysius at work. He had always pretended that he found it easy to trace his brother’s magic, but in truth it was the opposite. Elysius’s magic was artful and delicate while at the same time so potent it took his breath away. He had feared that as Elysius matured, he would learn the key to cloaking his magics. Perhaps he had…perhaps he was alive and practicing his art right now?

Since his brother’s presumed demise and his own defection into the Mountain Kingdom, Rashlyn had devoted his energies to unlocking the secret to achieving power over the animals and birds, the mountains and the trees. One could rule the world with that sort of power at your call. His own sort of skills simply made him a sorcerer; he knew this, which is why he had attached himself to the far-thinking, highly intelligent King of Mountains. Using him as his cover and indeed his tool, Rashlyn could imagine himself manipulating power…and not just in the Razors.

But right now Cailech was being rash. He was howling for Morgravian blood too soon. Rashlyn knew the King had this notion that Rashlyn’s magics and prophetic ability would serve to keep him utterly secure. It was on this confidence that the King was riding, believing that even in war, his barshi’s magics would ensure as few casualties as possible among the Mountain Dwellers.

Rashlyn needed more time to shore up his defenses, work new spells. Recently he had come to the startling realization that death was easy to inflict, but crafting a spell to prolong an agonizing life was the challenge. Changing Lothryn from man to horse was the culmination of years of practice in his wing of the mountain fortress where no one could hear rabbits and squirrels scream. And now that he had at last harnessed these new powers, his magics were failing him. He remembered how he had only just managed to hold on to that glamour of Elspyth.

A few moments more and the vision would have crumbled. The breathtaking spell on Lothryn—which so impressed his king—had been achieved brutally. There was nothing subtle or beautiful about what he had done, even though the result seemed so miraculous. It was an abomination. Elysius would never do something so tainted with wrongness…but he was not Elysius.

He considered Lothryn, wondering at the pain he was probably in. If Elysius had conquered the spell to shapechange, Rashlyn knew in his heart he would have achieved it effortlessly and without the smashing and distortion of limbs and breaking of the mind, and without the torturous pain, both mental and physical, he had put the courageous man through.

Rashlyn did not mind Lothryn suffering the pain, in truth. His despair was all selfish—he wanted his magic to be subtle…more like the magic of Elysius. Instead it was messy and clumsy.

Would Lothryn die? Rashlyn had no idea if the man’s spirit would survive the trauma and keep the beast alive, or whether it would wither and kill Cailech’s beautiful new stallion. The anxiety of not knowing the answer infuriated the barshi, but Rashlyn comforted himself with the belief that this time of discomfort would be brief. The madness would descend any moment now and his mind would once again swirl itself back into its dark and twisting pathways that held no questions about his work, no remorse, no sympathy, no love for anything but power and corruption.

Next to the shapechanging of Lothryn, being able to tap into Cailech’s mind was his most recent diabolic act. He had learned how to roam the King’s thoughts and influence his decisions to suit his own base ends. But he could not wield this magic unless the King stood near him and was receptive to that manipulation. There were times when Cailech was utterly closed to him. And without direct and undivided attention, he had no hope of influencing the King through magic. That was his weakness.

The door opened and Cailech, as if acting on some silent signal, entered. He pulled Rashlyn from his musings and the sorcerer felt the familiar drag downward from rationality into his other, deranged self. No one but the King ever came to his rooms.

“My king,” Rashlyn said, not turning yet. “I was just admiring the day out there.”

He used the moments to compose himself.

“How serene for you,” Cailech said, clearly agitated. “We must speak. I want you to do a reading for me.”

“I just have, my lord king.”

“And?”

“The Stones predict change.”

“Oh? What sort of change?” Cailech asked, his body language suddenly intent and eager.

Rashlyn turned now and noticed the flush on his king’s cheeks. Something had created high excitement. “This they don’t tell me. I have cast the Stones several times, your highness. Each time a prediction of change is prophesied.”

Cailech surprised his barshi by clapping his hands and laughing. It was a cheerful response to something that would normally disturb his king. Rashlyn frowned, unsettled by this reaction.

“Perfect!” the King muttered. “Do you have any wine here?”

“Er…why yes, of course. Let me pour you some,” Rashlyn offered, intrigued. He poured for both of them and waited for the toast he sensed was coming.

“To change,” Cailech obliged, holding out his cup before swallowing it contents.

Rashlyn copied his king and put his cup down. “So you are happy with my prediction, your highness?”

“Yes. It confirms what I must do.”

“And what must you do, my lord?”

“Go to Morgravia!” the King said. “For a parley with King Celimus.”

“This is a jest, surely? The Stones suggest no such thing,” Rashlyn spluttered, all politeness deserting him.

Cailech hardly noticed. He put a gleeful finger in the air. “Ah, wait, hear me out,” and he told him of the capture and subsequent meeting with the man known as Cullyn.

“And you trust this man…this stranger!”

“Oddly, yes,” Cailech replied, unpredictable as always in his responses.

“Wait,” Rashlyn cautioned. “Say no more until I read the Stones about him.”

Cailech nodded and settled back with a second cup of wine while his barshi set about casting the smoothed rocks with their odd assortment of engravings. He remained silent as Rashlyn threw the eleven Stones across the floor and squatted to read them. He stood up again after a long time.

“Well?”

Rashlyn shook his head slowly. “The Stones are confused. They tell me that he speaks the truth, but—”

“Ha!” Cailech interrupted, delighted.

“But…he holds back on things. I can’t tell what these are.”

“He has lost his memory, man…that would explain it. And anyway, we all have secrets…even you, Rashlyn.”

Not you, though, sire. No secrets. I can read your mind as if it were an open page
, the man of magic thought sourly, knowing this was not wholly true. “I would recommend caution, my lord.”

“The Stones themselves predict change. Change of scenery, change of heart, change of ideals, change of plan. Not war with Celimus, Rashlyn…but equals, trade, prosperity together. I’m ashamed I wasn’t the one to think of it first. It is inspired—I can’t wait to tell Lothryn about it. Do you think he hears me…understands me?”

Rashlyn sighed inwardly. The King’s mind was made up. He would go right into the lion’s den. So be it. “I think there’s enough of his spirit still left that the horse remains Lothryn despite his appearance, though I cannot promise it will remain so.”

“Excellent,” Cailech replied, ignoring the promise, “for he would approve of this plan.”

“My lord king, may I ask how you intend orchestrating such a delicate parley?”

“Not me. Cullyn, or whoever he really is. He will make it happen.”

Rashlyn nodded and changed the subject to something he could control. “About the prisoner, my lord—the Morgravian soldier.”

“I’m not planning to give him back as a peace offering, if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

“No, sire. I have an idea for him. A rather entertaining one which I think you’ll approve of,” the barshi said, reaching out with his probing spell and entering Cailech’s mind.

Later that afternoon Aremys met with the King on horseback, Myrt, Firl, and a couple of other mountain men, including Maegryn, in attendance.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Cailech said to his guest.

Aremys had to admit, intact memory or not, he did not believe he had ever set eyes on a finer horse. “Fit only for a king, my lord,” he admitted, and could see this comment pleased Cailech. “May I?” he asked, so impressed he wanted to touch the sleek, black coat of the stallion.

“Of course,” the King replied, and Aremys hopped down from his own chestnut mount.

He walked around the black horse, which tossed its head. Aremys whistled. “I have never seen a prouder stallion,” he said, stepping gently toward the animal in order not to startle it.

“Here, Cullyn, give him this,” Maegryn suggested, tossing an apple toward Aremys, who deftly caught it. “He’s picky, he doesn’t like the green ones, they make him sicken,” and the men laughed.

Aremys held the apple in his flat palm and raised it toward the horse’s mouth. He was captivated by the animal and enjoyed watching it take the fruit greedily. As its velvety lips brushed against his hand, Aremys felt a tremor of shock pass through him. In his mind a dam had burst and a river of information—his memories—flooded in. He staggered backward, holding his head.

It was Cailech who reached him first, leaping down agilely from Galapek. Again Aremys was struck by the man’s lack of pretension. He could just imagine Celimus caring enough even to look his way!

“Cullyn, man! Are you ill? What’s happening?” the King asked, reaching for Aremys while holding the reins of his horse.

Aremys was not ready to reveal too much. His cautious nature forced him to take stock of his situation first and consider his position fully. “I…I’m sorry, my head suddenly hurts.” In this he was not lying; it throbbed.