Blood and Memory (46 page)

As for Fynch, he was on his own path of destiny. Wyl would just have to hope nothing untoward leapt into Fynch’s way, although with Knave at his side, Wyl doubted anything—even magic—could deter him from his journey…whatever that was.

He lowered himself into the boat and undid the small rope. Immediately the craft set off against the current. It moved through the dark waters effortlessly toward the great mouth of the mountain that had swallowed him once already.

He sent a prayer to Shar that he would hold his nerve this time, make it through to the other side without succumbing to the Darkstream’s invitation to drown.

Fynch sat quietly with Elysius outside his small mud cottage, watching the birds darting in and out of the trees and swooping across the picturesque meadows. He made a chain of daisies and looped it around Knave’s neck; the dog did not seem to mind—he was more intent on snuffling around for a smooth, round stone he could use in the absence of his red woolen ball. In the comfortable quiet, while Knave thought about a game and Fynch plaited flowers, Elysius considered, with a heavy heart, how to approach the frightening topic that needed to be discussed.

“How long will you stay here, Fynch?” he asked, finally breaking into the silence.

“As long as it takes,” the boy replied, stringing a second daisy chain over Knave.

“For what?”

“For you to tell me what it is that is burning at your lips and making you so anxious.”

Elysius was stunned. He was right about the child. “How do you know?”

Fynch shrugged. “I sense it. Near to you, it’s easier for my senses to tap into your mood. And Knave’s magic is strong because you are so close. I think he helps me to understand all sorts of things. And then there’s the Thicket. Even through the rock face it seems to whisper to me.”

Elysius nodded, amazed. “You sense right, child.”

Fynch scattered the flowers he held. “Then tell me. Don’t be scared.”

“Have your senses told you what it is that sits between us?”

The boy shook his head. “It’s important, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s also a secret.”

“You didn’t tell Wyl?” This obviously surprised Fynch because he frowned and then sighed as if accepting something unpleasant.

“No. Trust me when I say it would endanger him if I had.”

Fynch accepted this without further question. “Should I be scared?” he asked, eyeing his companion now.

Elysius did not know how to answer. Fynch was such a sharp child, it would not be right to give him anything but a direct answer. “Well, I am scared about sharing it with you.”

Fynch nodded gravely. “Tell me, then.”

Elysius wasted no further time in hesitation. “I am dying. It will happen soon.”

The boy did not react other than to stare at the ground. Elysius saw him lace his fingers together as if to steady himself while Knave stopped his search and lay down silently next to Fynch.

“Have you read it in the Stones?”

“Yes,” he said. “But they assure me, in their strange roundabout way, that the magic need not die.” He leaned forward. “Must not die, in fact,” he added emphatically.

Fynch sighed heavily and lifted his gaze to look directly into the whitened eyes of his dying friend. “And you can pass it on to me.”

Elysius felt an enormous outpouring of gratitude and pity toward Fynch. The brave little boy had worked it out for himself. He could hear the regret in the child’s voice; wished he could avoid giving this terrible burden to a youngster who had already given more than enough to Myrren’s cause. This was not for Myrren, though. This was another sort of gift, a terrible, heavy gift of responsibility to entrust to a child. But he was the right one and Elysius had known it from the moment Knave had encountered the tiny gong boy at his work all that time ago.

“Fynch. Will you accept it?”

“I fear it,” Fynch replied without committing himself.

Elysius was surprised that the boy had not balked. “It depends only on how you wield it.”

“I don’t understand how I can use magic,” Fynch said, shifting to touch Knave, stroking the large head and fondling the dog’s velvety ears.

“Yes you do, child. You have always known in your heart. You told me your mother was fey. She passed her talents and her own susceptibility for sentient ability on to you. In truth, I do believe you chose me.”

Fynch took no notice of the gentle accusation. “And I must use it to protect Wyl. See to it that he rules Morgravia. Is this right?”

Elysius hesitated and Fynch heard it, his gaze flicking up from Knave’s eyes to stare at his freakish friend. “You will help Wyl—of this I’m sure—but Myrren’s Gift has its own momentum. It will take him to his destiny, come what may. You…well, you have a much more complex task, son, and I wish I could spare you it.”

“What is it that I must do?” Fynch asked, dread in his voice.

“There are two parts to your task. One is dictated by the magic itself. The other is a plea I personally make of you as custodian of this magic,” Elysius explained, feeling similar dread.

Again Fynch did not hesitate. “What is the first part?”

It was not a time for further apology or placations. Elysius knew this weight of responsibility must fall on the narrow shoulders of this small child. “When I first came to the Wild, guided by the birds and animals, they called me the Gate Wielder. It took me a long time to understand it and then I spent years trying to ignore it before I accepted what it meant. The rest of my life I have devoted to avoiding it. I never believed I was strong enough.”

“Gate Wielder,” Fynch said, testing the words on his tongue. “And what does it mean?”

He told Fynch about the Gate as he had detailed it to Wyl the previous evening.

“Has there always been a Gate Wielder, then?”

It was an astute question and Elysius acknowledged this with a smile. “No. In past times there have been, I suspect. But I was the first in a very long time. The Thicket takes care of itself and can ordinarily keep people out through its own means. Those who may are allowed to pass through for whatever reason then have Samm, and before him his predecessors, to contend with.”

“Samm is persuasive,” Fynch agreed. “So why now? Why did the Thicket need you?”

“My guess is that until fairly recent times it hasn’t needed someone of magic for all that time.”

Fynch looked at him confused. “Your guess?”

Elysius shrugged. “Fynch, the Thicket has never spoken to me in the manner I’m gathering it speaks to you. My communication with it has been through the birds and animals. From the few things you’ve said, it sounds to me as though the Thicket itself talks to you. My feeling is that you are no ordinary Gate Wielder, if there is such a thing.” He laughed briefly, sadly. “I believe that you are someone very special, not just a Gate Wielder.”

“What do you mean?” Fynch asked, scared afresh.

“I don’t know what I mean. I’m speculating. Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a Gate that almost never gets used.”

That notion hung heavily between them for several long moments.

“If the Thicket has its own powers, why does it need you?”

“Well, again I can only surmise. My hunch is that it needs to channel its magic through someone to achieve change outside of itself.”

“You mean change in the world beyond its own borders.”

“Exactly.” Elysius reached for a flask of juice he had squeezed that morning. He gestured to Fynch, who nodded. As he poured them a cup each, he tried to make this difficult notion more clear for the child whose burden suddenly felt so much heavier than his own. “I think it needs the wilder magic which my mother spoke of and it seeks someone whose talent revolves around Nature. It found that combination in me and I presume any previous Gate Wielders offered similar qualities. I am passing my nature magic to you, so that would answer one part of this strange equation, but the other is how and why the Thicket speaks to you. I can’t imagine how it will use you.”

Fynch had never felt more frightened in his life. He took the cup from his friend and drained it. “So Aremys went through this Gate?”

Elysius nodded, surprised by the sudden switch in topic. “I pushed him. It was the first time I have ever used that unknown magic.”

Fynch’s eyes widened. “Why did you push him?”

“He was a complication. You and Wyl were the only ones I wanted to come through and perhaps the Thicket sensed this. It has the ability to make up its own mind, but it is firmly linked to the Wielder. Normally it can repel people with the greatest of ease, but Aremys was strong—his friendship with Wyl very real—and I realize now that he was somehow protected by Wyl and the magic that Wyl himself possesses. The Thicket summoned me to open the Gate.”

“Where did you send him?”

“I was careful not to push too far. I hope he’s in Briavel or Morgravia.”

Fynch addressed another question niggling in his mind. “So I must stay here after…after you leave?”

Elysius finished his drink and sighed. “Yes. For a while anyway. This is why I’ve asked you not to follow Wyl, although I’m sure he asked you to come to Werryl.” Fynch nodded. “Stay here until you’ve learned more about the Thicket and its intentions.”

“How?”

The little man looked at Fynch sorrowfully. “I’m hoping it will tell you.”

Fynch bit his lip in thought. “And the second part?”

Elysius sighed. “Wait, there is more connected with the magic of nature. I’m sorry that it must exact this from you, but each time you unleash your magic, for whatever reason, you will sicken.”

“Is this what has happened to you, then?” Fynch asked, and once again Elysius was struck by the boy’s ability to see through to the core of a topic.

He nodded. “It will take my life shortly. In fact, son, I suspect that passing the burden to you will herald my end.” He saw the misty look in the child’s eyes. “No, don’t be sad for me. I wish I could spare you the same burden.”

“Will I die too?”

“Perhaps,” Elysius answered honestly. “This is why I must counsel you to use your magic sparingly,” he added.

Fynch nodded, looking suddenly older for this terrifying knowledge. “And the favor for you?” he asked.

Again Elysius resisted the urge to try to soften the blow, offer up empty words of comfort. He pressed on. “I want you to track down and destroy my brother, Rashlyn.”

The boy visibly shook. “Elysius! I could never kill anyone.”

“I know what I ask of you is difficult.”

Fynch shook his head rapidly, as if trying to shut out the placating words. “No. No!” he said, forcing Elysius into silence. “I will not kill another living being for yours or anyone’s personal revenge.”

“Not even Celimus, after all that he’s done?”

At this, Fynch’s mouth hung open. He wanted to respond but could not. Then he held his head, miserable. “I don’t believe I’m capable of it…not even Celimus.”

“Fynch,” the mellow voice said softly. “I don’t ask this of you out of personal need. I ask it for the sake and safety of those and that which you love… Wyl, Valentyna, your family—Morgravia, Briavel. I’m daring to think that this is why the Thicket is becoming involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now that I have discovered where he is, I realize that Rashlyn has the ability to plunge all the three realms into war. If, as Wyl says, Rashlyn can manipulate King Cailech, then there’s only bloodshed ahead.”

“Why should the Thicket care if we all kill each other?”

“I don’t know. You need to seek those answers for yourself. I think it does care, though.”

“Why me? Why not Wyl, who is a soldier and knows how to wield a sword and kill a man?”

Elysius shook his head. “Dear Fynch, I wish I could spare you this. Wyl is a wandering soul trapped in helpless flesh and bone.”