Blood and Memory (14 page)

It felt strange and dangerous to be entering Stoneheart again. The last time he had come through its magnificent gates he had arrived as Romen, bringing the body of Wyl Thirsk back to clear his own name as well as rescue his sister. He thought of Ylena now, hoping she was safe at Felrawthy with Elspyth.

His thoughts were distracted by Aremys sidling his horse up alongside his own.

“I hope it was worth it,” Wyl said bitterly. “Enjoy your money quickly, Aremys, because I shall hunt you down and kill you.”

He turned toward the man who had betrayed him and noticed, for the first time, the sorrow.

“I regret it,” Aremys admitted.

“Too late,” Wyl replied. “You can’t begin to imagine what you’ve done.”

“I—”

But Wyl did not wait to hear what the mercenary had to say. He clicked his horse on and entered the bailey alongside Jessom.

“Be easy, Leyen,” the Chancellor said. “He does not want you dead.”

“What does he want?”

The Chancellor grimaced. “You achieved for him something important…something no one else could.”

“Payment is enough thanks for me,” Wyl snarled, handing his reins to the boys who had run toward the group.

“Not for him, apparently,” Jessom said, climbing down from his horse. “Oh, and by the way, he thinks you’re a man.”

Jessom requested that Aremys join him and Faryl in the audience with the King. It was clear the summons made Aremys feel uncomfortable, but he said nothing, simply nodded. They followed Jessom, who had learned that Celimus would be seeing them in the Orangery, an area the King had since claimed as his own. It was another stab in Wyl’s heart that this part of Stoneheart, designed specifically for Ylena by her guardian, King Magnus, was now enjoyed by Celimus. He held his breath as the first waft of the orange perfume drifted by them, bringing a flood of memories of happier times spent with Alyd and Ylena.

“Let’s hope the King is in good spirits today,” Jessom murmured as they stepped down into the familiar sheltered courtyard, ringed by citrus trees laden with ripening fruit. “My liege,” he said, bowing low.

Wyl let out his breath with hate as he saw Celimus turning toward them. The King had been staring out from the balustrades into the panoramic beauty of the meadows beyond. Wyl wished he had a knife. A swift throw and the cruel man before him would be taking his last gasp. Hanging, drawing, and quartering suddenly felt worth the pleasure of seeing Celimus dead.

Wyl bowed low, relieved that the man could not see the look on Faryl’s face.

“Ah, Jessom. Welcome back and to your guests.”

Even the smooth, resonant voice, so reminiscent of old King Magnus, Wyl realized, made his flesh crawl.

They straightened. Celimus stepped forward, tall and graceful, flicking an appreciative glance at the woman, but his attention was securely on Aremys. He reached out his hand for Aremys to bend over and touch to his lips, which the mercenary dutifully did.

“And you must be the one I have been looking forward to meeting. I wanted to thank you for your services in person. I trust we have rewarded you well?”

Aremys looked into the olive eyes of the stunningly handsome King he had heard so much about yet never seen for himself. Confusion passed across his face. “My lord, King. I…yes, the reward is ample.” He looked at Jessom.

“Your highness,” Jessom said softly, “this man is Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn. He has rid us of the Legionnaires responsible for stealing the royal monies.”

Celimus looked sharply at Jessom. “Forgive me, Chancellor, I was under the distinct impression that you were bringing before me the person who has relieved me of a certain mercenary who threatened the Crown.”

The King was displeased. His voice was suddenly hard and icy. He did not appreciate being embarrassed. The Chancellor moved smoothly on.

“I have, your majesty. May I introduce Leyen.”

The olive gaze slid from Aremys to look into the face that Wyl hid behind. He held that familiar gaze steadily now despite feeling that he was being slithered over by a deadly snake. Celimus said nothing for a moment and that small silence was sizzling in its intensity.

“A woman?” he finally said.

Wyl bowed once again. He could hardly curtsy in the clothes he was wearing. He was not so sure he even knew how…perhaps Faryl might. These thoughts flitted through his mind as the full weight of the monarch’s scrutiny rested upon him.

Close enough to kill with a single stab
, Wyl thought, hoping his face was as expressionless as he was trying to make it.

“I am without words.” Celimus admitted. “Once again you surprise me, Jessom.”

“Your highness…1 am your servant in all things,” Jessom oozed.

Then came what Wyl dreaded. He blinked as he watched the hand of the King rise. He could not, would not ever, kiss that hand. He did not swear allegiance to this king. He would sooner die than do so. Celimus raised his hand casually, while his glance was one of almost infatuation with the woman who stood before him so proudly. Wyl bent over the hand, reaching to take it, and then exploded into a coughing fit. Celimus snatched back his hand as the woman he had been admiring suddenly erupted. He looked at Jessom, who appeared equally alarmed.

It was Aremys who rescued Wyl. “Your highness. Forgive us. We have been riding hard for a couple of days,” he lied, “without adequate food or water. Leyen has suffered a vicious attack at the hands of those same men whose corpses I sent you, your majesty. That’s how we came to meet. She is in need of rest and attention.”

It was a long speech for Aremys. Perhaps a bit too long to be convincing, Wyl thought. Despite his misgivings about the man, he was grateful for his intervention.

“I see,” Celimus said, not really seeing at all as Wyl continued to struggle with his contrived cough. “I have noted the injuries to your face, Leyen, and we will get you the attention you require. Jessom, see to it.”

The Chancellor bobbed his head in agreement.

The King continued, irritation evident. “Let us meet later, then, when both of you have had sufficient time to recuperate.”

He glanced toward his man with annoyance.

“Thank you, your highness,” Jessom said, embarrassed.

“Have them join me for a private supper, tonight. I have things I wish to speak of to these people.” He spoke as though neither of them was there. Grateful to be ignored, neither Wyl nor Aremys said anything further. They bowed and followed the Chancellor out of the courtyard.

“Not an auspicious beginning,” Jessom spat as they moved out of earshot.

“My apologies,” Wyl lied. “I really don’t feel well.”

“Be bright by tonight, Leyen,” Jessom warned. “It will not go well for you to displease the King a second time.” He glared. “He is unpredictable,” he added, just in case either of them was not taking his advice seriously enough. “Follow me.”

Aremys was housed in a separate wing of Stoneheart close to the Legion’s quarters, which suited Wyl. He had no desire to have any further dealings with the man that were not absolutely necessary, such as the evening repast with the King. His own accommodations were sparse but comfortable and to his good fortune he saw Jorn racing by in one of the corridors, a worried look on his face. Wyl hailed him.

“Yes, madam,” Jorn inquired, clearly in a hurry but just as keen not to offend one of the King’s guests.

Wyl wished he could tell this lad the truth. “What is your name?”

“Jorn, madam. How may I serve?”

“You seem to be a little rushed just now.”

“I am happy to help in any way I can,” Jorn replied. He had grown up quickly, it seemed, at Stoneheart, for that sparkle in his eye and his eager manner were gone, replaced by polite language, a cautious approach, and a demeanor that suggested anything but happiness.

“Well…1 was going to ask your advice actually, but may I request that you come by later when you are not quite so harried?”

Jorn looked surprised. “Have you no lady assigned to assist you?”

“It seems not, but then I require the advice which only a young man such as yourself could provide.”

Now Jorn just looked worried. “In that case, madam, I shall return as soon as my immediate duties to his highness are complete.”

“You work for the King?”

“I do. I am one of his personal messengers.”

“Thank you, Jorn. I look forward to seeing you when you can spare a minute.”

The lad bowed and hurried away. Wyl returned to his room to ponder this information. Jorn had personal access to the King’s dealings. He could prove himself the ally he had so badly wanted to be when Wyl—as Romen—had fled Stoneheart with Ylena. How and what to tell him, though? It needed further thought. For now his immediate problem was what to wear tonight—every woman’s dilemma. Wyl scowled, hating that it was as much a concern to him as it would be for any young woman having supper with a king.

He had nothing appropriate, obviously. He would have to speak with Jessom. In the meantime a bath was now very necessary and he had no choice but to make his way, grimacing, to the women’s bathing pavilion.

Wyl had no idea of the drill. He was entering a mysterious world that had never previously been even remotely available to him. It was hushed and tranquil as he arrived within the special gardens that housed the pavilion. Outside the men’s building, it was normally raucous, young men jostling and jockeying one another. Here women entered and exited in quiet conversation. They seemed to move in pairs, he noted, whereas the men tended to wander in as a boisterous herd. As General, he and his officers had a special area where they could go for more peaceful bathing. Nonetheless, they tended to form what was essentially just a smaller gang of the soldiers and they were as noisy and energetic. He hoped with all of his heart that Faryl’s femininity would help guide him through this ordeal. She had surely visited bathhouses in the past, although there was no advice surfacing at present. He decided it was wise to opt for something as close to the truth as possible, and while he was thinking about all of this he had not realized that he was lurking rather than actually entering the pavilion.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked.

It was a middle-aged woman, one he recognized from his days at court.

“Er…my first time at Stoneheart. I’m a little daunted. It’s very beautiful.” And it was. The pavilion was delicate in design, aided by the use of beautiful glasswork of brilliant colors.

“Don’t be, my dear,” the woman said. “Come with me. I’ll show you the ropes.” She linked her arm in Wyl’s. “What’s your name?”

“Leyen.”

“Pretty. Not from Pearlis or around here, then?”

“No.” Wyl’s mind raced. He had not thought about what background to give. He wanted no link to Faryl whatsoever. “Er, I’m from a small village to the midnorth.”

“Oh yes? Which one?” She was not going to be put off easily, he realized.

There was nothing for it but to lie. “Rittylworth.” It was the first name that came into his head.

“Shar’s Mercy. That poor place,” the woman said, her voice suddenly grave.

“Pardon?”

But his companion was suddenly distracted by a group of other women arriving.
They sound like a gaggle of geese
, Wyl thought, amazed by the laughter and sudden burst of separate conversations that ensued.