Myrren's Gift (41 page)

“You would make a good spy with that talent for description.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

She sucked on the pipe and then blew a long thin stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. He almost smiled at the audacity of this woman. Her affectation as an old codger was perfect.

“The payment.” she said.

“Yes?”

“It is not enough. Triple it.”

“Shar’s Wrath! Are you mad?”

“No. He can afford it and I suspect there is no limit on the price.” Jessom regarded the old man with the young woman’s eyes looking out under bushy gray eyebrows. She was the best. Her price was worth it. “I’ll arrange it.”

“Don’t try to make contact with me again.” she warned. “I’ll be disappearing for a while.”

“How will we know of your success?”

“You will know when it is done.” she said, lifting herself slowly as an old man might, breaking wind loudly as she did so. Only one person who was eating very nearby took offense but she ignored his curses. She did not look back as she limped from the tavern.

As they rode in single file—Elspyth now in front of Lothryn on the horse—they passed through the narrowest of openings in the rocks. Suddenly a flood of emotion assaulted Wyl. He could not attach it to a memory of any particular event but once again he felt twisted inside. It was fear. But it mingled with despair and guilt. This time the sensation did not dissipate but instead intensified with each step his horse took closer to the Mountain fortress.

The mostly silent Myrt made the sound of an animal and this echoed cleverly up the close walls, where presumably lookouts passed on who had arrived.

The four exited the pass and came face-to-face with the unforgiving sheer rock frontage of Cailech’s fortress. It was known as the Cave to its dwellers but was in fact a breathtaking stone building, fashioned from the surrounding rock, that appeared to cling to the cliff edge they found themselves on.

Elspyth, no longer silent in worry, was in awe of where she found herself The two Mountain Men were used to its effect and were simply pleased to be back with their people. Wyl, however, inexplicably leaned over from his horse and in a state of utter bewilderment retched as the weight of Romen’s secret overwhelmed him. Still the truth evaded him.

A swirl of vague notions came to him: unpleasant notions of ugly deaths. Then they breezed away as fast as they had arrived, leaving him grasping helplessly after nothing. He delved hard in his despair but came up wanting—Romen’s memories yielded no answers this time. It was terrifying. How would he be able to keep up this pretense with so little knowledge of the man’s past and in the company of others who presumably knew it well? He retched again. If he could not carry off this pretense then Ylena and Valentyna were as good as dead and all that he treasured would be destroyed by the madman masquerading as the King of Morgravia.

“Romen!” Elspyth called, shocked by his actions.

“Leave him.” Lothryn said quietly. “This place, particularly the vineyards at Racklaryon, holds dark memories.”

She twisted to look at her captor. He was a man of few words and yet she sensed the kindness he worked hard to conceal with his gruff manner. It was there in his eyes now and he looked first at Romen, then at her, and finally away.

“Will you tell me?” she asked out of earshot of Romen and was surprised when the Mountain Man responded.

“There were needless deaths here in the Razors. He holds himself responsible.”

“And is he?”

“Yes,” Lothryn replied and she knew she would get nothing more from him on the subject.

“So this is his first time back—is that why he sickens?”

“I imagine so.”

There was no point in pursuing Romen’s past but now that she had Lothryn talking, Elspyth was not prepared to give up too easily. “Do you have family?”

“I do.”

“A wife?” she wondered.

“I am married. Our child should have come by now. He is late.”

“He?”

“She…I don’t mind.”

“You sound worried—are you?”

“No.”

And again the tone was final. She was impressed she had coaxed this much from him. Legend had it that the Mountain People ate children. As huge and imposing as Lothryn was. she guessed he would probably be the most tender of fathers.

He waved at the guard who began to raise the massive portcullis to permit entry.

“One way out only?” she said.

“Only one way in. no way out.” Lothryn replied.

The huge iron gate squealed as its chains rolled to lift it up. The horses moved through and entered a bailey. The size of the fortress was awesome. Men came toward them; some to take horses, others to escort the prisoners.

“I will leave you now.” Lothryn said to them once Wyl. pale and embarrassed, had caught up. Myrt had already disappeared. “These men will take you to chambers where you can freshen yourselves.” Wyl nodded, said nothing.

“I hope your wife and child are both safe.” Elspyth called after their captor but he did not look back. Wyl looked at her with a query but she shook her head. “I trust you’ve got a plan to get us out of this?” she said.

The guards were not so interested in his response and pushed them forward, deeper into Cailech’s clutch.

Chapter 25

They were shown to separate guarded chambers. The rooms were warmed by hollowed clay pots, standing half as high as a man, in which small fires burned, their smoke exhausted via cunningly concealed flues. Painted frescoes adorned the whitewashed interior walls; even the ceilings were painted with vines and intricate border designs. Animal skins were laid on the floors and carved beds were decorated by woven spreads, simple and beautiful in their bright coloring. In such a forbidding place, beauty abounded and this was a surprise.

Wyl dozed briefly and woke to make full use of the fresh water and fatty soap that had been left for him.

With Romen’s hair washed and neatly tied back, he scratched his new beard, wishing he could shave as well. There was not much he could do about his clothes, he decided, and so fetched a chair to the window, which afforded him a breathtaking view of the pretty meadows beyond the lake. Intuition—only Romen could give him this—told him that those meadows led to a cove with a sandy beach. Why was this significant to him? He settled back in the chair, cleared his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do in readiness for a sword fight, and allowed any random thoughts or information to flow in. He cast a prayer that Shar might guide the truth to him of Romen’s dark past.

He sat for a while without any thought. Still and unfocused he stared out toward something he knew was significant. It was beyond the meadows but before the sea. It evaded him, although he sensed it was tantalizingly close to revealing itself Wyl heard a noise from below; it disturbed his clutching search into Romen’s history. He leaned out of the window to see a team of men rolling wine barrels. He sat back down hard on his seat, his pulse suddenly quickened.
Wine
! What was it that Lothryn had said earlier? It was subtle but it was loaded with meaning and it was connected with wine. A place called Racklaryon—he had suggested that was why Romen’s physical reaction to seeing the fortress again had been so strong. Wyl remembered now how some trace of Romen had unwillingly stirred at the naming of that place. Why was that?

Racklaryon. The name was painfully familiar but he could not say why. He leapt from his chair and summoned the guard from outside his chamber.

“Where is Racklaryon?” he inquired.

The guard nodded. “The plains are after the meadows,” he replied abruptly.

“Before the sea,” Wyl added.

“The vineyards eventually lead down to the sea, yes.”

Wyl felt his heart leap. Vineyards. He was close. “Am I permitted to go there?”

“I will check,” the man replied and left Wyl standing in his doorway. The guard then muttered quietly to another man who was passing by. “We wait,” he called back to Wyl.

Wyl returned to his room to wait and soon enough the guard knocked on his door.

“You are permitted,” he said. “Then you will meet with the King.” Wyl nodded. He needed someone to show him the way and presumed he would not be allowed to roam free. “Will you accompany me?”

“Yes. I will arrange horses.”

Leading the horses away from the fortress, Wyl gave up trying to be chatty with his companion. The man’s stern countenance and monosyllabic answers to polite questions were sufficient to warn him off.

So now they cantered in silence, two more men bringing up the rear.

“I have no intention of riding away anywhere,” Wyl reassured him.

“Orders,” his captor said.

The ride was pleasant enough and lifted Wyl’s spirits for a while, which was perhaps why the shock was even more intense when he caught his first glimpse through some trees of the picturesque vineyards of Racklaryon.

He galloped toward it, skirting the trees, his escort following just as fast. Finally seeing the rows of resplendent vines rolling down the plains to a sandy cove was too much even for Romen’s buried memories. The force of the sight’s terrible impact smashed through whatever thin veil had kept Romen’s recall of this time so remote from Wyl and the full tragic event exploded into his consciousness as though he were watching the horrific scene unfold once again.

Wyl jumped from his horse, all but falling to the rich earth of Racklaryon, and there, on his knees, his arms uplifted to the heavens, he screamed his despair as the truth of his host’s mysterious background unleashed itself on its guest.

It felt like an age before he could compose himself and he was grateful that his escort had finally dragged him from the vineyards, forced him back on his horse, and returned him to his chamber where he remained, numb, until they came for him. The men spoke only the words necessary to ask him to come with them and he appreciated that they used his own language to communicate. Their own was a guttural, bastardized version of an ancient language from lands to the northeast of where the Mountain Dwellers’

ancestors originally came. He suspected Romen knew this language but he no longer wanted to delve into Romen’s past. What he had learned today he wished he could give back.

This new escort, like the first one, wore nothing warmer than shirts and sleeveless leather jerkins over woolen baggy pants tucked into sturdy boots, while he was glad of the several layers he had donned back in Yentro. He tidied himself quickly once again until he was neat and presentable for the King.

There were no stairs in this part of the fortress but gently swooping circular ramps, smoothed from the stone, ran between the floors. Wyl noted sconces burned at frequent intervals on the walls. He presumed they must remain lit constantly as only very little daylight would seep through into this vast place of cavernous halls. He soon lost his bearings. The men escorted Wyl through a wide, dark passage that ended at a great oak door. Guards were posted down this corridor and two burly men stepped aside as Wyl’s entourage arrived. One banged on the oak door and it was opened from the inside.

Cailech was obviously a cautious leader.

Inside, the large room lost all the austerity of what had gone before. Massive windows allowed maximum light and overlooked a picturesque scene of the lake, which was home to thousands of water birds.

Snowcapped mountains in the background stepped jaggedly down toward the valley and its pastures, over which the fortress hung.

Huge pines lined the slopes. Late winter flowers were bursting into bloom everywhere. Wyl found himself entranced by the spectacular panorama and was tempted to squint against the blaze of light and color as he emerged from the dark of the corridor.

The chamber he stood in was enormous.

A familiar voice greeted him now from one of its many nooks. “Romen Koreldy.
Tsk, tsk.
I told you what I’d do to you if you ever set foot on my path again.” Wyl turned to his right where Cailech, King of the Mountain Dwellers, stood relaxed by a huge open fire, its stone mantelpiece intricately carved with beasts and birds. A bare hint of a grin played around the man’s mouth. The King’s light-colored hair was long and loose, carelessly held back from his oblong face by a leather thong tied around his head. He wore no beard but Wyl imagined he could grow one with ease. He did not bother with a shirt but wore only his leather jerkin over his skin, which was burnished from sun and wind. His arms were thickly muscled, ending in large, blunt hands.

The King held one out now, palm down, in the Mountain way.

Wyl stepped forward and intuitively placed his own, palm up, against the calloused hand, which dwarfed his. As he did so, he bent over that large hand to show his respect for this self-proclaimed royal.

“To tell the truth, my lord Cailech, I did not deliberately set foot on your path. You had me stolen from Morgravia.”

Hard, unreadable pale-green eyes held Wyl as he straightened. For a moment he worried that the man might see him for the impostor he was.

“Why were you so far north, Romen?” The voice was pleasant enough but the question was pointed.

Cailech knew no other way.

Romen had warned Wyl not to trifle with this man. He gambled. “That’s a rather long story.”

“Share it with me. I’m in no hurry and you are certainly going nowhere.” Cailech glanced toward his men who then withdrew, although Wyl noted they remained in the chamber itself.

They sat. Wine was immediately served.

“Hungry?” his host asked.

Wyl shook his head, recalling how violently he had emptied himself earlier. “But I will gladly take wine with you, my lord.” He slipped into a topic he was familiar with and which came naturally to him. He had seen the wine barrels, noticed the vine designs in his chamber and on various items—Wyl felt he could risk this conversation as a polite opener. “Has the harvest been generous?”

“Bountiful last year and this year shaping up to be just as good. This is some of our finest from the plains of Racklaryon.”

Wyl flinched at the naming of this place. He looked over the rim of his goblet at the strong features that regarded him. His father had cautioned so many times about the threat from the north and how Morgravia should never underestimate its wily King. Wyl could appreciate that now, staring into the face set in an expression that seemed carved from the same granite as the Mountains he called home.