Blood and Memory (25 page)

“How good of you to come all this way,” Ylena said, and curtsied to Elspyth.

“My lady.” Elspyth followed suit, not quite so elegantly. “I’m so glad you’re safe. Wyl sent me to ensure that you reached Felrawthy.”

Ylena’s brow creased with a frown. “When did he do that?”

And so Elspyth took a deep breath. Ylena’s simple question had cut through all the hesitant politeness and niceties. The time had arrived. She must tell them. Wyl had asked her to keep his secret from Ylena, but considering all the young woman had been through, Elspyth had decided his sister needed to hear the truth.

She gathered everyone’s attention with her grave look. “Please. I have a long story to tell you all—and not an easy one. It will shock and perhaps even frighten, but I must share it so you understand my reason for being among you and why Ylena must have your protection.”

She watched them steal alarmed glances at one another and then the Duke nodded. Servants topped up glasses and were then asked to leave.

Pil cleared his throat. “Should I remain for this?” he asked, uncertain of his place.

“Not if you are horrified by the notion of magic,” Elspyth said cryptically, and began retelling her long story from the moment a young soldier, a general, in fact, had stepped into a seer’s tent one night with his friend Alyd of Felrawthy.

The Duke rose imperiously. “You expect us to believe that Wyl Thirsk was killed by magic?” he blustered.

“Forgive me, sir,” Elspyth said calmly. “Perhaps I haven’t explained it well. Wyl Thirsk was struck down by a man called Romen Koreldy, who—”

“Yes, yes! Whom Thirsk apparently became—I hear quite well,” the Duke retorted, angry and disturbed by the stranger’s news.

Elspyth opened her mouth to reply and closed it again. A brittle retort would not aid understanding here.

“Father, please!” Crys said from the fireplace.

“Jeryb.” It was Aleda’s placating tone. “I can’t imagine this young woman has trekked from the far north of Deakyn to Felrawthy in order to make some jest at your expense.”

The Duke muttered something beneath his breath.

Pil’s complexion had paled. “This is mystifying,” he murmured.

“Yes, it is,” Elspyth replied softly, eyeing each in turn. “It is, however, the truth.”

Her gaze came to rest on Ylena, who, so far, had made no comment.

Now she did. “My brother is alive?” Everyone could hear the muted shock in her tone.

Elspyth could feel her heart pounding, suddenly hoping it had been a good idea to contradict Wyl’s instructions. She nodded slowly, watching Ylena carefully.

“And you say your aunt saw this…this affliction in him?”

Elspyth nodded. “She is a seer. She called it the Quickening.”

Ylena looked thoughtful. “Do you know I can remember the night you speak of. It was after the tournament…the day following my marriage to Alyd.”

Her listeners tensed at the mention of his name, but Ylena’s voice was steady and Aleda was proud to see the young woman so in control of her emotions. She alone knew how much her son had loved Ylena, having read his gushing letters many times. And Alyd had impressed upon his parents her devotion to him. They had had plans to set up their estate near to Tenterdyn. That would not happen now, Aleda thought, sorrow knifing through her once again.

Nevertheless she was impressed with Ylena and could only imagine how much suffering the young woman had already endured. She was remarkably composed, considering she was now learning more painful news of her brother. Aleda returned her thoughts to Ylena’s voice.

“They went into Sideshow Alley. Young men, letting off steam…celebrating. Alyd was drunk.” At this she laughed bitterly. “Poor fool. I believe he was more intoxicated with life than ale. Wyl brought him back to my chambers, and after settling my brand-new husband, we talked, late into the night. My brother told me of what had occurred in the tent that night. If I recall correctly”—she screwed her face in thought—“her name was Widow Ilyk.”

Elspyth nodded so that everyone could see their two stories matched.

Ylena continued. “Wyl was disturbed. Very unsettled by what she had said. Neither of us had forgotten the episode with Myrren,” she explained. “Although I was not present, I did hear of it. He collapsed at her death and Gueryn—that’s our guardian—the man you met in the Mountain Kingdom—he admitted to me that Wyl’s eyes had changed color. It had frightened him at the time because it smacked of things magical and sinister, but he forgot about it eventually and frankly so had I until this moment.” She stopped speaking as she looked around at everyone.

The silence was heavy.

Crys broke it, gazing somewhat helplessly toward Ylena. “And this Romen Koreldy is now…”

“Dead…and dear Wyl with him,” Elspyth answered with feeling. Her audience gasped. “A woman apparently, a hired killer. Goes by the name of Hildyth, although I suspect that’s a false one. I have her description.”

“Then detail it. We shall circulate her description.” He shrugged, feeling helpless but obviously keen to show his determination to help Thirsk’s sister. “All of Felrawthy’s loyal should be on alert. We don’t know if she might strike again or who hired her.”

“Oh, I think we can safely guess.” Aleda’s tone was acid and she glanced at Ylena, who appeared dumbstruck by Elspyth’s revelations.

Elspyth obliged. “She is described as not beautiful but an intensely striking woman. Unmistakable. Tall with golden-brown hair and feline eyes apparently.”

“Sounds hard to miss,” Crys commented to no one in particular.

“Koreldy is dead?” Ylena suddenly asked, as if she were returning from faraway thoughts. “But he saved my life.”

Elspyth turned sadly toward her and once again took her hands. “Wyl saved your life, Ylena. He was Romen.”

Ylena’s eyes watered and no one could blame her. “I can’t believe any of it,” she whispered.

“Brother Jakub said there was something different about Romen this time,” Pil said, eyes shining with awe. “I noticed it too. If you weren’t speaking of magic, Elspyth, I’d know you were talking truth.”

“I am. You all have to trust me now. Wyl, moving in Romen’s body, escaped with me from Cailech’s clutches across the Razors. It was during our journey in the mountains that he admitted all of this. It was no jest. He spoke like a man beaten.”

The Duke looked sharply at Elspyth. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about? Escaping from Cailech? The King of the Mountain Kingdom?”

“Yes, my lord. I told you none of this would be easy to hear. I understand how much of a shock it is. I will explain everything, but it means nothing now that Wyl is dead. Romen is no more.”

“Then I have an axe to grind for both King Celimus and now this Hildyth,” Ylena said angrily, and no one in the room doubted her intention.

Aleda took a breath. “I think we should eat and then we can hear more of what Elspyth has to tell us. Come, Ylena, dear. You look pale, child.”

Surprisingly, Ylena did as she was asked. As the two women left the room, Crys shook his head. “She’s Alyd’s widow, we’ll look after her now, Elspyth,” he reassured. “What about you?”

She sighed. “Oh, I think now that I’ve fulfilled my promise to Wyl to see his sister to safety, I shall travel home.”

“To Yentro?” he ask.

She nodded. No one needed to know her intentions from thereon. Too many would try to talk her out of it. “My lord?” she said, addressing the Duke.

The gaze was direct and bright when it was leveled at her. “Yes?”

“Wyl sent this.” She hesitated momentarily before handing the Duke the crushed letter she had dug from her pocket.

He took it and both she and Crys all but held their breath as he broke the seal and held the parchment to the candlelight.

“Father?”

The Duke looked contemplative. “He confirms the death of Alyd but speaks of none of this magic. He signs off as Thirsk, asks that we don’t rush into any revenge. He wants us to hold until he comes. But he’s dead now—or this Romen fellow is. You told us yourself,” the Duke answered, turning on Elspyth.

“But I heard that news from strangers. We can’t be absolutely sure it is reliable information. I would urge you to wait.”

“For what?” he asked, voice struggling against his own emotion. “My son has been murdered. An innocent. Don’t ask me to stand by and not take action.”

Elspyth held her hands up in a warding motion against his anger. It was a gesture loaded with sorrow that echoed his own grief. “I’ve passed on Wyl’s caution, my lord. It is not my place to suggest anything further.”

He grunted and Crys caught her glance with a shrug of apology. But none was required. Elspyth, given the chance, would suggest Felrawthy rise up and storm Pearlis this night if it could. She had good reason to hate Celimus herself and could think of nothing better than riding alongside this powerful Duke to overthrow the hated sovereign. She did not begrudge Jeryb his anger.

Crys did, however. Rage helped nothing, particularly leveled against this plucky woman who had suffered plenty. “Perhaps you’d like to join my mother in the parlor,” Crys suggested diplomatically. He alone knew how deeply the news of Alyd’s death had cut his father.

Elspyth accepted his gracious release and left the Duke alone to brood on the letter from a dead man.

The family and their guests shared a meal during which Elspyth shared her impressions of
Cailech�s fortress and answered their questions about the daring escape. It was accompanied by much muttering and shaking of his head by the Duke. Only Ylena’s eyes shone and Elspyth guessed this was with pride for Gueryn’s steadfastness and ultimate sacrifice, but also for Wyl. She did not enlighten them on her feelings for Lothryn; that was her secret and was of no consequence to anyone in the room.

The Duchess had suggested their food be kept simple. No one’s appetite was keen anyway. Duke Jeryb would not be drawn out about his plans, not even by his patient wife. Inevitably a bleakness settled once again across the household, sucking Elspyth into its maw too, driving the last of the conversation toward the inconsequential and ultimately to quiet.

It was no wonder then that when the sound of horses’ hooves echoed into the still night, the men leapt to their feet. Jeryb quietened the alarmed women and motioned for Crys to find out from the duty guards who had just arrived at Tenterdyn. Swords were drawn in the dining chamber—just in case—and Aleda muttered at her husband that they should have taken the precaution of raising more men at arms when Ylena had first arrived.

They waited, the other brothers watching through the windows as Crys strode across the main courtyard just ahead of his father. His path was lit by torches. The Duchess had earlier considered it a shame that Tenterdyn’s gates had been locked for the first time in the family’s history but now thanked Shar’s wisdom for suggesting to her husband that he do just that.

“He’s coming back,” one of the boys said over his shoulder, and everyone held their breath.

Crys reentered the chamber, a blast of cool air whirling about him. He looked flushed and appeared startled. His attention was riveted on Elspyth. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think that the Hildyth you spoke of is at the gate literally begging to be admitted.”

Elspyth could see he was not making a jest.

Crys qualified his claim. “Golden-brown hair. Tall. Dressed like a man. Eyes unmistakably like a cat. It’s her all right.”

Elspyth shuddered and was not the only one to do so in the room. Ylena fairly blazed with a still, silent anger.

“Alone?” the Duke demanded.

“No, sir,” his son replied. “She is accompanied by a very big man…just short of a giant, he looks. He goes by the name of Aremys.”

“And their reason for coming here?” Aleda joined in.

“She says she wants to see Ylena.”

“Of course she does!” Elspyth said, heart pounding. “She’ll have orders to kill her too! Are we safe? Are there enough guards?”

“No one can enter Tenterdyn, child, who doesn’t win my permission. We are safe and well guarded,” the Duke replied with calm. “My love,” he said, looking toward his wife now, “I did take the precaution you spoke of. We have fifty men riding toward us now.”

Aleda felt no little relief. “What do we do until then?”

“I shall see her,” Ylena said calmly.

Pil’s expression was a mask of terror. “Sir, I beg you,” he whispered.

The Duke came to his rescue in a deep and very firm tone. “No, Ylena, you will do no such thing. You came here seeking my protection and I am compelled to provide it, not only because of who you are and who you married, but because of whose daughter you are as well. You will do as I say. We need cool heads now. I shall speak with these people. Come, boys,” he said, and his three sons fell into step with him.

“Be careful, husband,” the Duchess called after him, but there was no response.

The women waited, fidgeting at the window. Pil stood with them and they watched the four remaining men of Felrawthy walk toward the gates with purpose. Aleda was relieved that her husband led the boys up the small tower at the gatehouse.

“Ah, good. He’s being careful.”

“Your husband would not risk any of them.” Pil knew he was reassuring himself.

There was a protracted wait before they saw the four reemerge from the tower. The Duke must have given an order, for the two younger lads hurried to lift the heavy timbers that barred the gate.

“What’s he doing?” Elspyth cried.

“Give me a sword, damn it,” Ylena called, looking around for a weapon and grabbing a carving knife from the table. She stepped toward the door and hid behind it.

“Shar preserve us!” Pil swore as they watched the heavy gates swing back.

“Wait,” Aleda cautioned, fighting back her own fears. “Jeryb must have learned something.”

Twilight had given way to full nightfall and they watched by burning torchlight as a giant of a man strode into the courtyard. In his wake walked another. Man or woman they could not tell, but this person was smaller, leaner, with a purposeful stride. This must be the cat-eyed woman Crys had spoken of. Aleda watched, stunned, as the second figure clasped her husband’s hand.

Aleda calmed her companions with a look. They must trust Jeryb. She nodded encouragingly at Elspyth, who was clearly fretting, and then heard voices talking over one another as their latest guests entered the house. She looked toward the door at the sound of her husband’s tread.

“Aleda,” he said, shaking his head. “I have the most curious news.”

He could share nothing further as a tall, striking woman stepped into the chamber and took off her hat. Auburn hair tumbled to her shoulders.

“Elspyth!” Wyl cried, and strode toward his shocked, confused friend. “It’s me!” He laughed.

Suddenly Ylena leapt from behind the door. She had one intention on her mind and that was to kill this woman who had murdered Koreldy and apparently also her brother. All she could see in her rage was the wide mouth and feline eyes.

“Ylena, no!” Elspyth screamed.

Aremys launched himself toward Wyl as the Duke shot out his own arm to prevent the blow reaching the stranger.

All to no avail. Ylena was fast. She had been raised in a warrior family, and although she had been a pampered, demure noblewoman, she had never forgotten the lessons Wyl had taught her growing up in Argorn. She saw them all moving, avoided their reaching arms, and struck.

“Murderer!” Ylena cried, and with the full force her body could inflict, she threw herself forward and punched the knife into the neck of the smiling assassin.

Voices yelled “no!” and men leapt toward her. The assassin, she noted, had not even had time to shield herself.

“Oh, my precious, what have you done?” the woman called Faryl cried as she clutched her neck, which was hopelessly spraying blood.

Ylena heard screams around her and cries of dismay, but she felt only triumph looking into the shocked green eyes of the dying woman.

Elspyth had cradled the body as it fell and was instantly drenched in blood. Crys and Daryn had grabbed Ylena’s arms, but she had tossed the knife aside and become limp, breathing deep gasps, determined to watch the light flicker and die in the woman’s hated eyes.

Except it did not.

With horror, Elspyth, who was holding Faryl’s head on her lap, watched the assassin’s green eyes turn momentarily ill-matched and yet somehow wondrous sky gray and deep greenish brown. Beautiful individually, shocking as a pair.

And then she felt the woman’s body stiffen in its final death throes, the back bending impossibly. She guessed what was happening, could almost feel it with her intuition for magic. She wanted to scream.

Ylena did it for her. Huge, gut-twisting shrieks escaped the former wife of Alyd of Felrawthy, now nothing more than a shell. Inside Faryl’s body, the spirit of her brother fought the transference with all he had, somehow hoping he could save his beloved sister—but it was not enough. Myrren’s Gift was too powerful.

It was Wyl, bellowing his rage at taking the life of his own sister, who gave voice to the deranged shrieks of Ylena. Crys and Daryn held on to Ylena’s body strongly. Confusion reigned. Jeryb was yelling orders for calm while Aleda’s horror at the brutal death scene, completed by the grisly rivulets of Faryl’s blood on her cheeks, left her too shocked to move or speak.

Aremys had silently knelt in disbelief by his friend Faryl.

“Let her go!” Elspyth shouted above the din.

Crys looked even further confused at this order.

“Leave him! It’s not Ylena anymore!” she screamed now, tears streaming down her bloodstained face. “It’s Wyl!”

The brothers stood back, thunderstruck by her words.

This time Wyl arched his back, not from physical pain but from the greatest pain he would ever feel. He had killed his sister…taken the life of the very person he had striven so hard to protect. Swirling into her body, he glimpsed Ylena’s confusion, tasted her hollow triumph, sensed her surprise at a sudden yet somehow welcome death.

He threw back his head and the keening sound chilled each to their core before Wyl pushed away Elspyth’s outstretched hands and fled the house.

He moved blindly. Once through the gates, he ran toward the inky darkness of the moors, a demented female figure in a blood-spattered silk robe with nothing on her feet. Wyl hurled himself higher up the hills and deeper into their oblivion, consumed by hatred and grief, his own wrath mixing with Ylena’s well of despair. Tears and curses raged for what seemed endlessly until he realized his throat was raw.

His new body trembled. He was not sure whether it was from shock or the cold night. He did not care. Nothing mattered anymore. The last of the Thirsks had lost the fight. He wanted to die too. It would have to be by his own hand; he could not risk another’s life.

“I’m sorry,” a voice said gently. There was not even the faintest of moonlight this night. Heavy clouds scudded darkly across the heavens, obliterating all illumination. But Wyl knew the voice. “I just wasn’t quick enough,” Aremys added, his words laden with regret.

Apart from his involuntary trembling, Wyl could not move…did not want to, ever. “She was so bright. Like one of Shar’s own stars. She deserved none of this,” he croaked in his new, all-too-achingly-familiar voice.

“The innocent never do, Wyl. Yet they always seem to suffer.”

“What was it?”

Aremys knew what he referred to. “A carving knife.”

Wyl nodded but his companion could not see it. “A lucky thrust,” he said ruefully.

“But just as deadly as Faryl’s stiletto.”

There was a bitter laugh as Wyl accepted this notion. “What possessed her?” he asked, voicing his private thoughts aloud. He required no answer, but Aremys still replied.

“Fear of Celimus sending people to kill her.”

“I shouldn’t have come. You were right. I should have let you find her and I should have gone on to find Myrren’s mother. I should never have declared myself. How did they know of me in this form?”

“Your friend Elspyth—she heard of Koreldy’s death on her travels. Pieced events together and told the family. She blames herself for not considering that Myrren’s Gift had permanence.”

Again the deriding laugh. Wyl realized he had not sufficiently impressed secrecy on Elspyth. “It’s no one else’s fault,” he said softly. “The errors are all mine. I was reckless. I should have let you enter first, tell everyone what had occurred…prepared them.”