Blood and Memory (17 page)

Celimus finally descended the stairs. Instead of proffering his own, he took his guest’s hand and leaned over to kiss it, shocking Wyl. He had to let it happen. The feel of those cruel lips, which had once ordered the death of Alyd, against his own flesh made it crawl. Wyl controlled his inclination to shrink away from Celimus’s touch.

The dark gaze swept upward to meet his own. “I designed it myself,” he said, continuing where he had left off. “In honor of my bride to be, whom I’m assured loves herb gardens and simplicity in all design. Good evening, Leyen.” His eyes sparkled.

“Highness,” Wyl said, bowing his head, hating the King’s confidence that Valentyna was already his.

The others followed suit, bowing low once again.

“What are we drinking, Jessom?” Celimus asked, all ease and charm.

“It’s the Cherenne, sire, your favorite.”

“Ah, indeed. Come, let’s sit,” the King said, and at his nod a host of servants descended to lay platters of savories.

Small talk accompanied the food until a delicate fish course was served, after which Celimus banished the servants. None of his guests needed to be told that what the King had to say from here on was private.

“So, Leyen…1 understand you’re Morgravian?”

Wyl nodded carefully at the King, the sweet sauce that had set off the fish so magnificently suddenly souring in his mouth.

“From where exactly?”

Wyl needed to keep the truth from Celimus, but he remembered what he had told his new friend, Lady Helyn, and thought it would be best to stick to his story. “Rittylworth, your majesty.” He decided not to be defensive. “Although I have heard since arriving here of its demise.”

At this, the King stopped swallowing from a goblet of wine. “I’m sorry to hear that you were raised there. It was a necessary lesson.”

Wyl appreciated Celimus’s candor. He had expected lies. “What lesson is that, your highness?” he asked innocently, taking a small mouthful of the fish and not eyeing the King.

“That traitors and those who harbor them will be hounded down and dealt with.”

Wyl simply nodded, his expression blank while his blood boiled. He knew Aremys watched him carefully too, particularly as the mercenary knew Faryl was from Coombe and not Rittylworth. Wyl had told him as much during their ride.

“Do you know of this village, Aremys?” Celimus said.

“Yes, highness. I have passed through it on occasion; but mostly around it.”

“A sleepy enough place,” Jessom commented, not wishing to be entirely left out of the conversation.

“And one stupid enough to protect those who would betray their sovereign,” Celimus said.

“May I ask whom among my people you sought, sire?” Wyl asked as gently as he could, this time sipping from his wine so the King would not see the twist of hate on his mouth.

“Ylena Thirsk.”

“A woman?” Aremys blurted out, and Jessom glared.

Celimus did not react. “Yes,” he said mildly, “as Leyen here testifies, women can be so much more subtle than men in their intrigues.”

Wyl smiled for the King, hating him. “How was this Ylena a problem for you, your highness?”

The King sighed. “The whole Thirsk family was traitorous, to be truthful. My father, may his soul rest in Shar’s safekeeping, protected them for too long. This is all rather tedious but probably worth your knowing,” he said airily, reaching for his goblet before leaning back in his chair. “Old Fergys Thirsk was my father’s best friend…apparently,” he said, loading the final word with irony. He grinned, white teeth perfect. “He was a villain of the highest order and would have stabbed my father in the back at the first chance, although I guess he found it easier to poison my father instead—metaphorically speaking, of course.” Celimus chuckled softly.

Jessom gave his usual cold grimace in response, while Aremys remained motionless and watchful, unsure of his place around this table. Wyl could only hold together his own composure by clasping his hands so tight his knuckles were white. He was glad of night’s darkness and he used all that was Koreldy and Faryl within to fix a tight, calm smile at his mouth.

The King continued. “I was thrilled beyond my wildest dreams when I heard old Thirsk had been cut down. He could not have died quickly enough for me.” Celimus sipped the Cherenne. “I know what you’re all thinking: How could a child hate so much? But I hated that man for taking all of my father’s love, his friendship…not to mention land and wealth, while all the time working against the realm.”

“Forgive me, sire,” Wyl said, simply unable to remain still any longer. “I thought I had heard that General Fergys Thirsk had taken the sword slash meant for King Magnus. It was told in the taverns of the north, where I was traveling at the time, that he sacrificed his life willingly for his sovereign.”

The King shrugged, a rueful smile just touching his perfectly shaped lips. “Who knows what truly happened on that battlefield, Leyen. My father might have protected Thirsk’s name to the very last. For all we know, it was a conspiracy and someone from our own side killed the General for his devious ways. I would reward that man if I knew him.”

Wyl let out a choked sound that he quickly checked by grabbing his glass. Celimus’s contrived story was too ridiculous to cause him to feel any further insult. The King had nothing to substantiate his vile and slanderous claims, all but making up the story as he told it.

“You are amused, Leyen?” Celimus said, missing nothing. “How so?”

“Apologies, sire. Not amusement, one of these scrumptious dried figs has stuck in my throat.” He swallowed several mouthfuls of the wine, his glance straying to Aremys, who was watching him carefully, one eyebrow raised in question. “Please, your highness,” Wyl said, “forgive my interruption and continue.”

Celimus did just that, outlining his newfound hate at the arrival of the son of Fergys Thirsk, their tumultuous childhood, and the story of the younger Thirsk’s betrayal in Briavel. “Oh, how I wished we ran our army on the merit system. This tradition of handing down through a warrior family may be pleasant enough for the shrunken men of olden days, but these are modern times, and simply because the family had one hero in an ancient Thirsk does not necessarily mean it breeds them,” Celimus spat.

“Hear, hear, sire,” Jessom muttered, signaling to a watchful servant some distance away that the plates could now be cleared.

A magnificent spread of cheeses, glaceed fruits, and sweet fudges were laid out swiftly; once again the serving staff moving deliberately to be away from the table almost as quickly as they arrived.

When it was just the four of them again, Aremys cleared his throat. “Your majesty, I’m not sure I understand why I’ve been privy to this intriguing tale, but I’m wondering how a young woman, a nobleman’s daughter, whose head is no doubt more filled with visions of lace and satin than politics, could be of any threat to your sovereignty.”

The King nodded. “Indeed, Aremys. Well said. It is complicated and I don’t wish to bore present company any further with those complexities.”
I bet you don’t
, Wyl thought. The King kept talking. “Suffice to say, Ylena Thirsk continues a fine family tradition of treachery. It is my belief that she is on her way now to the powerful Duke of Felrawthy to stir up trouble.”

Wyl could hardly believe the joy he felt at hearing this statement. “So you didn’t find her at Rittylworth, sire?”

“No, indeed we did not. Which brings me to why we are here tonight,” he said, his tone suggesting he would brook no further interruption. “I want you, Leyen, and you, Aremys, to travel to Felrawthy. Hopefully you can intercept Ylena Thirsk on her journey.”

“And?” Wyl asked, hardly daring to breathe.

“Kill her,” Celimus replied. “It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Both Aremys and Wyl nodded, both stunned but for different reasons.

“Good,” Celimus said. “Jessom, make the usual arrangements, will you? Provide them with horses, coin, whatever they need. No one, and I mean no one, is to know of this mission.” He eyed each of them, a threat behind the look.

Again Aremys cleared his throat softly. He had noticed the shock pass across Faryl’s face, and that she had covered herself adroitly. What was going on? he wondered.

“Any questions?” Celimus asked.

Aremys sat forward. “Your highness. May I ask why the Duke would protect her against you? Surely he would curry favor with the Crown rather than risk all for an old friend’s daughter?”

“There are reasons. Please trust my judgment on this. I am hiring your services, not your understanding, mercenary.”

Aremys nodded politely yet grew more bold. “Then may I inquire as to why the simple task of murder requires two of us?”

“I suspect if she has made it as far as the Duke, then it will take some extra planning, because he is well protected with his own men. One of Fergys Thirsk’s cronies, I’m afraid, who grew fat and rich at the Crown’s expense. I’m sending you as a special support, Aremys, should things turn ugly, although I suspect Leyen is capable of pulling this off, considering her last successful task for me.” Celimus smiled slyly, the glance sliding off Aremys toward Wyl, who had composed his face into a polite mask. “I want proof of her death—more than a finger this time, Leyen,” he cautioned.

Wyl’s lips thinned and he stood. “Then we should make our arrangements to leave tomorrow, sire,” he said, no longer able to spend another minute in the King’s company. “I accept the commission, your highness. I shall away to my rooms to make my preparations.”

“So soon, Leyen. I thought we might take some more wine together,” the King replied.

“Er, forgive me, highness.” He could sense Aremys’s scrutiny and Jessom’s aghast expression at his audacity. “I need a good night’s rest and a clear head. My intention is most certainly to intercept this Ylena Thirsk before she reaches Felrawthy.” He became businesslike, keen to extract himself now from all these men. “How many days does she have on us, sire?”

“Three, as I understand it.” Celimus looked toward Jessom, who confirmed this with a brief nod. “But I know she escaped on foot. One of the villagers saw her leave. According to this source, one of the monks helped her. One so new his pate had yet to be shaved.”

Shar bless you, Pil
, Wyl thought, recalling Koreldy’s young friend at the monastery.

“Then we should waste no further time,” Aremys said, pushing back his chair. “Leyen is right. We must leave at first light to have any chance of catching them.”

Celimus shrugged. “So be it. Remember now, I want a corpse. For this I will pay you each a fortune in gold. The Chancellor will discuss terms. Perhaps that should be attended to now, Jessom, as our guests seem determined to leave Stoneheart almost as soon as they have arrived.” He held up his hand. “But I understand and applaud you for it. You will be well favored by me if you rid me of the Thirsk curse.”

Aremys had walked around to be at Wyl’s side. He bowed, putting pressure on Wyl’s arm, forcing him to follow suit. Wyl curtsied as best he could.

“Oh, and Leyen,” Celimus said, an afterthought occurring. “I have another mission for you when this is done.”

“Yes, sire?” Wyl said, his voice tightly controlled.

“Mrnm. If you have a moment?” he said. “You may go, Aremys, Jessom.”

Wyl watched Aremys leave. There was something in his expression that told Wyl to be careful. The King returned his gaze to Wyl. “When you are done with the Thirsk woman, I want you to go straight to Briavel.”

Wyl could only nod, wondering what terrible deed Celimus was going to ask of him next.

“I want you to take a document to Queen Valentyna for me which I shall have delivered to you tonight. It is my proposal of marriage… my last, in fact, and I want you to bring back her signed agreement to wed this coming spring.”

“And if she should refuse me, sire?” Wyl asked it matter-of-factly, careful to keep his voice devoid of all emotion.

The answer was delivered in an identical businesslike manner. “You will kill her and I will invade Briavel and destroy its Crown once and for all. See that you succeed with both women. You are free to go now.”

Wyl fled the beautiful courtyard, his emotions ragged, all but running past a stunned Aremys and Jessom.

Wyl had no intention of waiting for Aremys or until dawn. The three women he cared about were under threat from the same man and it was a terrible choice who to try to help first.

Ylena, it had to be.

If Aremys got to her first, then she was as good as dead. He could rely on brave Elspyth to do her best to reach Ylena, and if they had not already joined forces, then Elspyth had the werewithal to go on to Felrawthy and deliver the note. He realized she was penniless, but he also knew she was resourceful and courageous. As for Valentyna, she was the most protected, at least for now. With these thoughts cluttering his already swirling mind, he raced back to his rooms and packed his gear. Rousing a sleepy page, he asked the lad to find Jorn for him. While he impatiently waited he scribed a note to the Lady Helyn and tucked it into the pocket of the accompanying cape she had sent but he had not used. He changed out of her daughter’s gown into his comfortable traveling clothes.

Jorn arrived, still rubbing his eyes awake. “Madam Leyen,” he whispered, noticing her garb. “Where do you go at this time of night?”

“Hush, Jorn,” Wyl whispered, dragging the lad fully into the room. “You must never mention to anyone that we had this conversation.”

The boy’s eyes widened now, fully awake. “Heart crossed and hope to die,” Jorn said, making a sign over his chest.

Wyl mustered a smile for the lad. “Good. Now listen to me. Lady Ylena is in trouble. I leave now to find her, but I must do so in secret. I need your help.”

He eyed the boy and Jorn nodded mutely.

“You must fetch my horse for me.” Wyl pressed a pouch into Jorn’s palm. “Here’s coin to pay whomever you have to in order to get me safe passage out of Stoneheart.”

Jorn, to his credit, did not even glance toward the bag of money. “But what excuse can I have?”

“You are the King’s messenger. Use your status. Tell them I travel on the King’s business. Everyone knows I am a guest of Celimus, some sort of courier. Be confident, they will believe you. Just use the coin to grease their palms—they will ask few questions. Offer my sincere apologies for disturbing them at this late hour.”

“I’ll do it, of course, but this sounds dangerous, Madam Leyen.”

“No, I promise you it is not. Just irregular. If it were broad daylight no one would think twice.”

“Am I to fetch Master Aremys as well?” Jorn asked.

“No! He especially must not know that I depart.” Wyl gripped the lad’s arm, concerned he even knew about the other guest. “Promise me.”

Once again Jorn nodded, barely understanding but prepared to do what was asked of him.

Wyl pointed toward the bed. “This gown and cape. They are to be returned to Lady Helyn Bench, together with this jewelry. Please be careful with it.”

Jorn was expecting something more difficult. “I can arrange that.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you wish to send a note with it?”

Wyl thought a moment. Truth was danger to this boy. “No,” he lied. “Simply return them with my thanks for their use.” He had already tucked the note inside a hidden pocket within the cape. He had to hope the Lady Helyn would find it.

“Do it as quickly as you can for me, would you?” Wyl asked, embellishing his plea with another lie: “I believe her daughter would like it returned for her own use tomorrow evening.” It was a thin guise but Jorn was not really paying attention to such detail. He had his tasks now and was keen to move.

“I will fix all of this for you. Promise me, Madam Leyen…”

Wyl looked at him, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility he was leaving with this innocent. “Yes?”

“Remember me kindly to the Lady Ylena. Let her know I await her summons.”

Wyl felt a sharp pang of grief for Jorn. He would send for him himself as soon as he reached Felrawthy. “I will do that for you. Await her summons.”

Jorn gave a dazzling smile. “Then I must hurry about my duty, madam.” He bent low over Wyl’s hand and, surprisingly, kissed it before turning for the door. “Leave as soon as you hear the next bell. I will have everything readied by then. Your horse will be at the southern end of the stables.”

“Thank you, Jorn…for everything.”

The lad smiled once more and left.

Wyl used the time to tie his hair back tightly and pull on a jacket. He looked around the chamber, checking that all was as it should be. Aremys would surely come looking in the morning and he wanted to leave no clues. He double-checked that the note was securely rucked inside the pocket of the cape. He grimaced. He was risking much in sending it—its contents damning if intercepted—but he hoped his judgment of the noblewoman was on the mark.

The bell sounded not long after and Wyl slipped from his room and stealthily made his way down corridors and through familiar halls. He encountered no one but a maid, who took little notice of him anyway—she was in a hurry, rushing from the scullery carrying hot water and towels. Wyl presumed a baby was about to be born somewhere in the bowels of Stoneheart. He continued on until he was outside, passing by the kitchens he had so loved as a youngster and then through a small vegetable patch reserved especially for meals served to the sovereign, before passing into a courtyard that led to the stables.

As promised, Jorn met him at the southern end. He led Leyen’s horse, fully saddled.

“Any trouble?” Wyl asked, his chest tight with tension.

“None. Come, I will walk you out the gate. It will look better.”

Wyl nodded. He put his foot on Jorn’s linked hands and stepped up lightly onto the horse. Jorn tied on Leyen’s small bag.

“Thank you again for this,” Wyl uttered.

“Don’t mention it, Madam Leyen. We work for the same cause.”

Wyl wanted to shake his head. Such loyalty. He felt pride burst in his chest at the lad’s dedication. At least the Thirsk family had one friend. Jorn led the horse slowly toward the main gates.

“Have you already spoken with the guard?” Wyl whispered.

“Yes. Fret not.”

Wyl was impressed with Jorn’s cool head. They approached a guard, who stopped them.

“This is an odd departure time,” he commented, but with only idle interest.

“My apologies. As you know, being a servant of the King is never a predictable service,” Wyl said, and risked a wink.

The man shrugged, understanding the meaning of the woman’s words. “In that you are right,” he admitted. “Go safely, madam.”

“Are you sure you will be safe in the darkness? Felrawthy is many days away,” Jorn muttered, worried.

Wyl grimaced. He did so wish the boy would learn to keep his knowledge to himself. “The dark is my friend, Jorn. It alone is my safety right now.”

“I don’t understand,” the lad said, walking the horse out and away from the gates.

Wyl turned and waved thanks to the guard. He knew he could have overheard his destination, but hopefully he would not have digested the information. It was too late to worry; he just had to impress on the boy to keep quiet. “You will. Keep this our secret now; tell no one where I go. May Shar watch over you, Jorn.”

“And you.”

Wyl took the reins, ruffled the lad’s hair, and clicked his horse into a fast trot. He did not risk looking back.

Aremys paced, unable to sleep. He was quartered near the Legion and he could still hear some of the men singing quietly or talking in muted tones. But it was not the men who kept him awake. It was Leyen…or Faryl, more to the point. Something was amiss. The speed at which she left the King’s courtyard earlier this evening had come as a surprise. She had looked rattled too. The secrets he knew she kept seemed all the more potent tonight. He could see her discomfort in the way she carried herself, her stiffness around the King, and especially the way she reacted to talk of the Thirsk family.

It was obvious—to him at least—that Faryl was not happy at her task. He wondered why Celimus had held her back. Faryl had only been with the King minutes past his own departure, so talk was all that could have occurred and not much of that even. It was clear something that had passed between the King and Faryl had disturbed her.

It was none of his business, he knew. And yet he had already lied for her. Why? He liked her, that was true. But there was more. He was not sure yet what it was, but he had learned over the years to trust his instincts. They were screaming at him that Faryl was in some sort of trouble. Perhaps she could use his help?

Could he go to her? Would she answer his knock at this late hour? Probably not…probably never. Her coldness toward him was intense. His betrayal had shocked her.

“I would take it all back if I could, Faryl,” he whispered to himself. “I’m sorry.”

His mother had always told him never go to sleep on an argument with a loved one. Well, although he could hardly consider himself loved by Faryl, there had been something of a friendship between them originally. Perhaps there could be again. Maybe if he explained himself, told her how he regretted his hastiness in turning her over to Jessom, they could start again. They had a long journey ahead together and that would be difficult if they were not even talking to each other…

Realization suddenly hit him like a stone.

“You’ve gone, haven’t you?”

Aremys ran from his chamber, pulling on his boots as he hopped down the hallway. He had to ask directions through the castle several times, startling maids and the odd page boy going about their late-night business. And the only reason he knew he had arrived at her guest chamber was that he saw a young man emerging from a room carrying the gown Faryl had worn earlier that evening and a dark cape. He descended on the boy, breathless and angry.

“Where do you go with that gown, boy?” he demanded.

The lad jumped, as if scalded, then composed himself quickly. “Sir?”

“Answer me!”

“I’m running an errand for Madam Leyen. Please excuse me.”

“What is your name?”

The youngster told him, chin held high, adding, “I am the King’s messenger.”

It did not impress as intended. “Go about your business then, Jorn.”

The lad looked as though he was about to ask Aremys what he was doing here, but hesitated and then decided to hold his tongue. He scurried away, grabbing at the folds of the garment so they would not trail on the flagstones.

Aremys turned to the door, feeling in the pit of his stomach that his hunch was right. Still, he knocked. When no reply came, he turned the huge metal ring that would open the door, hoping against hope it would be latched and not permit him entry. The door opened easily. Aremys closed his eyes briefly with worry.

“Leyen?”

Nothing.

“Faryl!” he said, louder now.

No reply. He stepped inside and closed the door. The chamber and adjoining room were empty. No sign of her even having been here. The gown being sent back to its owner was the only clue that she had been in this room; that and the vague perfume of gardenias he remembered wafting seductively from Faryl earlier that evening.

He felt devastated. She had gone. Fled from the Stoneheart—from the King no doubt. Or was it from him? He was too dangerous for her and he had betrayed her once. She was not giving him another chance. She had a secret and she was taking it with her. Who was she protecting? It was pointless to try to tease out answers from himself. Faryl was an enigma.