Blood and Memory (12 page)

It was time to move away from Koreldy. “And you’ve never been back?” Wyl asked.

“To Minlyton?”

Wyl nodded.

“No, but now you mention it, perhaps once I collect my monies I may do just that.” Aremys straightened in the saddle, stretching. “Time to break our fast, do you think?”

The mention of food ended that conversation and Wyl was relieved he had not been required to explain his skills with the knife any further. He had learned his lesson; would not show off again. They shared the hearty meal that they had asked the kitchen staff at the inn to pack. The servings of the chicken, cheese, and fruits together with dark bread were generous and both admitted afterward they could easily lie back on the soft verge and take a nap. Instead they encouraged each other to saddle up again and continued their journey in an easy silence for the next hour or so.

As they drew closer to Pearlis, Wyl had his question answered about punishment regarding the stolen taxes. Celimus had indeed been busy strong-arming the Legion for answers.

“Shar’s Wrath!” he exclaimed as they came across the first tortured soul.

The body was well preserved by the cool weather as it rotted slowly on the fearsome spike on which it was impaled. The mouth was drawn back in a pose of absolute agony, the limbs strangely twisted.

“This man died slowly,” Aremys commented. “You can see they broke his bones first, and expertly too.”

“I’ve never seen such cruelty in Morgravia before,” Wyl murmured, shaking with anger. “This is over the stolen taxes, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, Faryl. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

They counted a further nine corpses, all soldiers, hanging halfway down poles, who had been precisely impaled for maximum pain, while ensuring death occurred as slowly as possible. Some had deteriorated more than others, suggesting Celimus’s vicious inquisition had been raging for several days.

“And these are only the bodies on this stretch of road. Shar knows how many more are rotting on the others that lead into Pearlis,” Aremys commented.

The smell of putrid flesh threatened to spill their breakfast for them.

Wyl was horrified imagining these men—his men—being tortured like this over the likes of Rostyr. “I hate him,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“The King,” he said, trancelike, staring at the pair of bodies contorted in their death spasms.

His companion was staring at him with a guarded expression.

Wyl knew there was no point in trying to take the words back. “And if you repeat that to anyone, I won’t miss with the knives next time.” He sighed. “I’m going now, Aremys. Here’s where we part company. My road leading into the western counties is about four miles from here. Again, I thank you for your company.” He almost made the farewell sign of the Legion, stopping himself just in time. Instead he reached over and clasped the man’s shoulder. It was not a particularly feminine gesture, but he had already decided that a woman who carried weapons was never going to be considered courtly.

“Faryl, please don’t leave yet.”

“I must. It’s time I was on my way.”

“What’s so important?”

“Nothing. I just want to continue on my own now. I’ve seen enough to know I have no reason to travel through the city.”

“Sounds to me like you have something to hide from.”

Wyl bristled.
If only you knew
, he thought. “Only my hatred for this sort of thing,” he said, pleased to hear how calm his voice was. “Just leave it, Aremys.”

“All right, I understand,” his friend said, then he grinned. “Look, come with me as far as Smallhampton. It’s just a few miles away and you can pick up a small track to the western counties easily enough. It doesn’t take you much out of your way, in fact.”

“Why?”

“It’s where I have a hide. I want to pick up some money.”

“But you’re going into Pearlis, surely, to be paid for your recent kill?”

“No. I’ve changed my mind—that money can be paid later. Since we began talking about Grenadyn, I’ve decided to go home…see my family before I die or they do.”

Wyl was baffled. He swiped at yet more of the dark gold hairs that had loosened on the ride and were flapping around his face. It was such an annoying sensation and yet he recalled how wantonly attractive that same look had made Valentyna. “Well, that’s good. But what has this to do with me?”

Aremys looked uncomfortable again. “Nothing, in truth. I just want to continue riding with you a little longer. We can—” He stopped, embarrassed by his own awkwardness. “I like you, Faryl. I just…” He struggled again. “That is, I enjoy your company.”

Wyl did not know whether to be flattered or cornered. It was true, going to Smallhampton would not take him much out of his way at all and there would be a chance there for an ale and some food before heading out west, perhaps even being able to ride through the night. On the other hand, Aremys was sounding needy, which did not sit right with Wyl. Aremys had struck him as independent and very used to a lonely existence. In fact, Wyl was convinced that the mercenary preferred to be remote from people. This did not add up. There were secrets here, and just as Wyl began to feel some previously nagging thoughts coming together, he noticed that Aremys would not meet his eyes and that, together with the slight flush to his cheeks, gave Wyl far more information than he wanted.

Shar save us
! he thought.
He’s enamored of me. Not good, Wyl. Not good at all
, he berated silently.

“Please,” Aremys added softly, with perfect timing.

He wanted to kick his horse into a gallop and flee; this was a terrible situation. But the man had saved his life and he would probably hate himself later if he did not deal with this now, gently.

“Aremys—”

“No, wait. I’ve embarrassed you,” the big man said. “I understand if you’d prefer to ride away on your own, but if you’d keep me company just awhile longer, I’d enjoy the conversation. No obligation, Faryl.”

Wyl conceded. He felt sure Aremys was not going to try anything—not after the previous day’s traumatic events. “All right. Smallhampton it is and then I’m going west… alone.”

Aremys loosed a broad smile, pleased with his win. “We can share an ale at its inn before you go.”

Wyl looked again at the pair of putrefying bodies nearby. “Let’s just get away from here,” he said, and they rode.

They moved off the road onto a small track and then flanked some deserted fields before entering a copse.

“Ever known of hides?” Aremys asked.

“No,” Wyl replied, lying. Faryl had dozens all over the realm.

“Actually, hired assassins tend to use them more than us mercenaries, but I like to be cautious. You should follow suit. It could save your life sometime.”

“I don’t live as dangerously as you. But yes, I may take that advice.”

There was an old disused hut on the edge of the copse.

“In there, is it?” Wyl asked.

“No. Too obvious—any vagabond using it for shelter could discover my cache. I use the hut as a marker. Let me show you.” Aremys climbed down from his horse and pulled a small length of rope from his saddlebag.

Wyl got off his horse too. “What’s the rope for?”

“Wait and see.”

They approached the hut as far as its front door and then Aremys turned his back to it. “Now walk with me thirty strides.”

They did.

“And ten strides to our left.”

Wyl followed him toward the hollow of an old tree but hung back as Aremys glanced into it.

“Bollocks!” Aremys exclaimed.

“Gone?” Wyl said, leaning over to look in with his friend.

They were shoulder to shoulder now. Aremys turned and looked at the woman he liked very much—had even allowed himself some daydreams of bedding. He would have loved to have enjoyed her. He hated doing this.

“I’m so sorry, Faryl,” he whispered into her hair. Then louder. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you? What?”

In a blink Aremys had strongly spun Wyl around and clamped his hands behind his back. Even more quickly he knocked his legs away, so Wyl slammed to the ground, old wounds protesting angrily, new bruises flaring. Aremys used the rope to bind Faryl’s hands. It would have been easier if he had been required to kill her; she struggled furiously, courageously, nearly unbalancing him at one point. She was strong, far more than he had anticipated. But he was stronger and he finally managed to sit on her legs and still her.

“Aremys!” Wyl shrieked in that voice he despised. “What…what are you doing?”

“Apologies, Leyen,” said a new voice, prompting Wyl to raise his head sharply toward the hut. “I knew you wouldn’t come to me on the strength of my bidding. I had to hire in special help.”

“Jessom!” Wyl spat, remembering the Chancellor who had accompanied Celimus into Briavel.

Aremys lifted Faryl to her feet, even moving to dust her clothes off.

Wyl kicked at him, his eyes burning with hatred toward the betrayer. “Shar rot your very soul. Aremys!”

Jessom made a sound of disapproval. “Dear me, Leyen. Language.” He tutted. “So raw for a lady.”

Wyl stopped struggling and simply glared between the two men. There were soldiers too. No point in trying to run or even fight. He was trapped.

“What do you want?” he snarled.

“Well, my dear, you did such a good job on your last…er, task, that you have impressed someone who wishes to meet with you.”

“I’m not interested,” Wyl said, every nerve on edge now. This was dangerous.

“I expected as much. You are certainly a private person. Is this a disguise you are wearing, bruises included?”

Wyl remained silent. Jessom looked toward Aremys.

“This is the real one, as far as I can tell,” the mercenary mumbled.

“Not that I’m complaining, for she is far more attractive than I have ever seen. How can you be sure, though?” Jessom inquired, in no hurry.

“Does seeing her naked count?” Aremys growled, bristling now.

He did not care much for Jessom either, but the money was too good to ignore. The Chancellor had paid five times the price of a kill just for Aremys to track down and capture the woman. It had been too easy that she had stumbled into his path and he had been able to deal not only with the conspirators but the assassin as well. As soon as he saw the weapons, he knew he had been right—this was his prey. Those, together with the disguises he discovered in her belongings and all the other giveaway signs, including how well she rode, her lean, strong body, her private ways…it all added up that this was the woman Jessom was searching for. But as soon as she threw the knife, he had no longer had any doubts.

He hated himself for handing her over to Jessom. It was obvious Faryl had no desire to meet with the King. More secrets, he decided.
Take the money and leave. Don’t get involved
, he told himself, not wanting to meet her gaze.

Jessom was laughing softly. “Ah, that’s very convincing. I’m glad you were able to enjoy a dalliance with this intriguing creature…and get paid for it. Surely you didn’t give her the bruises as well…tsk…tsk.”

Wyl wished he could reach his blades. With their aid he could leave several dead men behind in the copse. He said nothing, just leveled a murderous stare at Aremys that he knew Faryl did very well.

Jessom became businesslike. “I know her as Leyen. She is a master of disguise. Has she told you any differently?”

Aremys considered. If Faryl’s eyes were weapons, he would be dead thrice over. A dangerous enemy to make, as she would surely be permitted to live. Perhaps the money had not been worth it. She would probably pursue him now, come what may. And he had stupidly admitted where he came from. Strange…he knew she had been honest with him to a point, possibly shared things she would not with most, and that had made him truthful with her…to a point. It had been a mistake, though.

“Well?” Jessom prompted, irritated.

Aremys noted that she was staring intently at him. Her eyes were communicating something more than just the plain hate of earlier.

“Sorry, I was just thinking back over our conversations. No. I have known her only as Leyen,” he admitted, and saw relief flit across Faryl’s face. Then she looked away.

“Good, then perhaps we have her real name now. Not that we can be absolutely sure, but it will do. Come, my dear, you are to be escorted back to Pearlis.”

“For whom?” Wyl said.

“For his royal highness, King Celimus, whom you have impressed with your talents.”

Elspyth had stayed true to her promise to Wyl. Resisting the urge to head home after their farewell, she made her way very slowly south; accepting rides with a family, a merchant convoy, and a traveling band of musicians. All were very kind and would accept no money for their transport or hospitality. None were in a hurry and in truth neither was Elspyth, happy to meander at their pace, stopping off at towns to perform or make their deliveries. The musicians helped her find some laughter again, even encouraging her to sing with them around their campfires. They were taking a circuitous route toward Pearlis, hoping to earn good profits in the spring months but more than happy to have her in the group for part of their journey. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed her time with them, quietly regretting their parting. Between all her new friends they got her as far as the outskirts of Rittylworth. The troupe gave her a fond farewell and the usual expressions of hope for meeting again.

She was happy to walk the rest of the way, wondering how Wyl’s sister would react to her and what she was going to say to this young, grieving woman. Wyl had extracted a promise that would effectively see Elspyth telling lies from here on in to anyone who knew him. So be it, she had decided. She and Wyl—as Romen Koreldy—had been through too much together already to forsake each other. Furthermore, Wyl had given her his own oath and so she would keep true to him, anticipating the same courtesy when the time came for him to return to the Razors.

Elspyth had no idea why Wyl needed to guard his identity so keenly. She did, however, understand his reluctance to share his tale, for people’s suspicion of magic was too entrenched. This enchantment on Wyl was hardly a fairground trick—the enormity of it was too much for most to cope with. The fact that both she and Lothryn had accepted the sorcery was fortunate for Wyl but was purely because of their backgrounds.

She remembered how he had haltingly told them of the curse on his life. Myrren’s Gift, he had called it, and had laughed bitterly. As much as it had sounded implausible, everything he had said had corroborated that this magic had been wielded on him. It explained her aunt’s strange behavior toward him and the curious comment she had made after the Pearlis tourney that “we haven’t seen the last of that one yet.”

And she could see that Lothryn believed him too. Elspyth recalled how matter-of-fact the mountain man had been, not at all perturbed by the suggestion of magic. She felt the same way. Another reason to love him. Her thoughts turned to how hard and quickly she had fallen for the big man who had wrenched her from her home and, against her will, taken her into the Razors, only to risk his life for her a few days later. Her heart had fully melted for him upon seeing him weeping for his dead wife and holding his newborn son, and since that moment, their relationship had changed. Suddenly there had been a burning connection between them—but they had never so much as shared a kiss. She remembered how he had turned to fight their pursuers single-handed on that lonely escarpment, begging for her to run. Lothryn had pressed Wyl into running too. It hurt deeply to imagine what had befallen him after their escape. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would have been taken alive in order to stand before a wrathful Cailech and take whatever punishment was meted out to him. Would it have been death by some harrowing method that only the Mountain King could dream up?

Elspyth did not want to think about it. She wanted to believe that Lothryn lived and distracted herself by turning her mind to Wyl, trapped in Koreldy’s body. He was trying to save the sovereign of the realm that had killed his father and been his homeland’s enemy for centuries while sending her off to track down his grieving sister.
What a tragic family
, she thought…
so much despair in their lives
. But she had agreed to do this for him and in return he had agreed to return to the Razors as soon as he could to find out what had happened to Lothryn.

She had put her trust in Wyl Thirsk. It would be interesting to talk to him, in happier times hopefully, about what it felt like to become someone else. Wyl was lucky, she thought, that it was the darkly handsome Romen Koreldy he had become. She imagined how it might have been if he had been killed by someone who was crippled or retarded…perhaps someone of very lowly birth. Worse—she giggled to herself—a woman!

She found herself approaching the high ground from which she could look down into the valley and see the monastery with its village clustered nearby. Relief that she had made it this far safely coursed through her and her approach was made with a far lighter heart and in happier spirits than when she began her journey.

Still smiling from the notion that Wyl could have become a woman instead of handsome Romen, she began to rehearse what he had instructed her to say to Brother Jakub. But as Elspyth crested the hill, full of hope, she stopped in her tracks and the smile died, taking with it her good mood.

The tiny enclave of Rittylworth was in ruin, one tiny dwelling still smoking from the firebrands. The monastery to one side looked cold and silent. It was still whole, blackened in parts, but even from this distance she could sense it was deserted. What had happened here? She did not want to approach just yet, needed to gather her racing thoughts. Wyl had impressed caution upon her, but even he had assumed she would be safe here in this picturesque hamlet.

She scrutinized the area now, gathering as much information as her eyes would give her. Noticing something odd in the far distance, she squinted and then let out a sound of despair when she realized what it was. People crucified. She could not tell whether they were still alive or merely corpses.

Elspyth did not pause for further thought but picked up her skirts and began to run.

Her fears were confirmed. As she drew closer, gasping for her breath, she could see that the village itself had been torched. It was desolate. There was no sign of other bodies, much to her relief, so she suspected this attack had occurred to teach the villagers some sort of lesson…retribution for something. Presumably they had fled and would return to rebuild the village and their lives when they felt it was safe.

Panting now as breathing became easier, she discovered that the monks had not been so fortunate. The greater lesson had clearly been taught within the grounds of the monastery, where the smell of burned flesh was evident and cloying. The light breeze carried the stench from the host of charred corpses hanging from a hastily erected series of crosses.

She had not realized she was weeping until a gust of wind told her that her cheeks were wet with tears. It was obvious that the lesser monks had been set aflame, then left to burn and die in horrific pain wherever they writhed. She found herself stepping over the blackened remains of men…some boys too, from which she quickly averted her horrified gaze. It seemed that most had either been working in the gardens or had emerged into the gardens when the raid came, for that was where the greatest number of bodies lay. Elspyth had no doubt there were more inside the monastery itself, but she was not prepared to look within.

The full horror of being nailed through the wrists and then burned on the cross had been saved for selected monks—the most senior perhaps. She counted six. They all appeared dead, though she had no way of knowing how recently this outrage had occurred, particularly as decay was not so evident just yet. This made her skin prickle, for it meant the attackers were not that long gone.

Needing to do something to show her despair, while not being able to face going into the holy chapel of the monastery, she sank to her knees and began praying at the feet of one of the crucified. As she murmured her pleas to Shar, the body above her croaked something. Elspyth fell backward with fright, looking up toward the tortured, hairless head with the flesh hanging off it.

She stood, petrified yet craning her neck as close to the man’s moving lips as she could.

“Find Ylena,” he breathed. “She lives. Pil took her.”

“Are you Jakub?” she asked, frantic.

An almost imperceptible, clearly painful nod told her he was indeed Brother Jakub.

“Let me help you,” she said, desperately looking around for a tool that might loosen the nails.

“Too late,” he croaked. She returned to look into his bleeding eyes and smoked flesh. “Tell Romen”—he coughed, his breath now rattling in his throat—“that this was the work of the King.”

“Why?” She could see his death looming.

“Thirsk…he—” was all the monk could get out before he took one last agonizing breath and died.

Elspyth wept for his suffering and those of his brothers, all peaceful men of the cloth. She felt a rage surfacing at this new king, understood now why Wyl’s identity should be protected. She eased the lids down gently over the staring eyes of Brother Jakub. There was nothing more she could do here, other than bear witness to the atrocity. It would stay with her forever. She touched a shaky hand to the blackened cheek of the brave monk who had stayed alive long enough to give her the information she needed before she set off, not knowing where she was headed, to find a woman being hunted by a merciless king.

She had trudged in something of a stupor for more than a day, only realizing as she heard the haunting call of an owl that dusk was darkening to night. She was exhausted. Since leaving the smoldering village of Rittylworth, she had met no travelers along the narrow roads of Morgravia’s midnorth. Her mind too numb to think, she had put one foot in front of the other to gain as much distance between herself and death as she could. It had been many solitary hours.

Elspyth shivered now in the chill night air as darkness finally registered in her blurred thoughts. She burrowed into a small hollow behind a bush for safety and then collapsed, not so much from fatigue as from the emotional trauma of her morning.

She was convinced the smell of burned flesh still clung to her and she could not forget the fire-torn voice of Brother Jakub courageously using his last breath of life to warn her. Elspyth wept quietly into the silence remembering the horrific scene, but she knew her tears for the monk must be brief, for it would not do to fall apart now.

Rittylworth had been torched because of the Thirsk name. Men of holiness, of peace, of love had lost their lives in ugly fashion because of the Thirsk name. Even Lothryn had suffered because of…no, she must not follow that line of thought. She must put him aside in her mind or she would never survive this.

Elspyth sniffed. She dug in her cloak pocket and found some nuts and dried fruit that her traveling friends had provided. There was some hard biscuit too, but she decided to keep that for the morning when hunger seemed at its sharpest. She chewed without interest in what she ate, considering her path now. She must make some decisions, good ones and quickly.

Jakub had said Ylena had escaped. The girl would be on foot presumably and not that long away from Rittylworth herself. Elspyth wondered about Pil, whom the older man had mentioned. She presumed he was a monk as well. Either way Ylena would be confused, frightened, disoriented. The thought brought a sad smile to her face.
Much like myself
, she admitted, realizing that in addition she was penniless, having used all her money to buy Wyl a horse at Deakyn. They had assumed she would meet up with Ylena and have access to funds again, but now she had no means of getting any coin. She shook her head clear of the doubts, swallowed the last of the fruit and nuts, and settled back against a tree to sleep.