Blood and Memory (38 page)

He cleared his throat. “Firl, Cullyn, this is not to the death. If either of you should mortally harm the other, I shall kill the perpetrator myself—do you understand?” Aremys nodded. Firl just snarled. “Firl?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. This is sport, for our entertainment. Don’t forget it, either of you. First blood declares the victor—then we shall eat in his honor.”

Both men touched their blades before Firl adopted the two-fisted stance of the mountain race, one leg placed wide diagonally behind the other, knees bent, ready to strike. But it was Aremys who surprised all, including himself, by holding the sword upright before his face, fist upon fist on the hilt. This was a stance unique to one region alone. Everyone recognized it as the formal Grenadyne salute before combat.

Myrt, more taken aback than any, wanted to halt the proceedings immediately, but it was too late. The combatants hurled themselves at each other.

Firl gave away much in bulk, but he fought like a savage. Myrt could see straightaway, however, that his own man was no match for the stranger. Cullyn, or whoever he was, was clearly a superior swordsman, with the moves and speed that came from a soldier’s experience. Firl was young and headstrong. He might feel invincible, but his skills had been tested only among the mountain men, and courageous though he was, he knew none of the finesse of the southerners, who prided themselves on grace and speed rather than brute force.

Myrt could see Cullyn was merely blocking rather than attacking. He was allowing Firl to wear himself out and this was precisely what the youngblood was doing all too fast. His heart was generous and spirit keen, but the older soldier was virtually playing with him. Aremys looked over at Myrt and winked. It was all Myrt could do not to laugh, particularly as he watched Cullyn backing away and supposedly defending his life as the enraged Firl stomped forward, blustering and roaring his anger, slashing with the heavy sword like a battering ram.

Despite his dislike of Firl, Aremys felt sorry for the youngster. He was brave, but would almost certainly lose his life young if he were to be caught in any serious fight with a Morgravian. He could tell the young man wanted to impress his companions in his fight with the arrogant stranger and it struck Aremys that it would not do to humiliate Firl—he would make no friends among the mountain men should he do that…and he could, quite easily.

And so, although Firl was no match, Aremys allowed him to feel like a genuine combatant. He felt surprisingly good about such generosity. After all, Myrt had been fair. Considering that Morgravia was an enemy of the Mountain Kingdom, they could just have easily run him through as he lay in the snow, but they had given him warmth and transport, food and company, as well as safety. Not humiliating Firl—as much as he would have liked to—was the least he could do, if just for the leader, Myrt. And so he winked and the message was understood.

The fight continued until Aremys felt the pain of his headache beginning to weigh heavily on him. He had been able to set it aside, but hunger and the exertion of the sword contest had brought it pounding to the fore again. Seeking the right opening, he feinted all too obviously, so that even the less agile Firl could see it coming. He slashed. Aremys felt the welcome, if painful wound, open on the top of his nonfighting arm.

He yelled appropriately and the audience roared appreciative applause for the youngblood who grinned awkwardly but regarded his fighting partner with unease. Both stood before each other breathing deeply.

“Good fight, Firl,” Myrt said. “We eat in your honor tonight.”

Aremys nodded at Firl. “Well done,” he said, but the younger man just stared. Others had risen to thump him on the back, which meant Aremys could turn away from the unhappy stare. The lad was no idiot. He knew he had been allowed to win.

“Come. Let me bind that for you,” Myrt said to Aremys. “And don’t say no, it’s too awkward for you to do yourself.”

Aremys gladly followed the leader toward a tiny spring that skirted the copse.

“That was bravely done,” Myrt said, kneeling beside his guest. “A lesser man would have felt the need to impose his superior skill.”

“Nothing to be gained but an enemy.”

Myrt nodded. “A soldier with wisdom.”

Aremys looked at him. “What makes you say ‘soldier’?”

“You fight like one. You’ve had experience—even you must have felt that.”

It was so frustrating not to know. “A soldier?” he mused. “The sword felt comfortable in my hand, I’ll admit it. He’s your best, you say?”

“I said it for his benefit. Firl’s a good man, but he’s young and hotheaded.”

“He’ll die quickly, Myrt.”

“Then teach him.”

“What?”

“You’ve got nothing else to do right now. Teach him, teach the others.”

“How to kill Morgravians, you mean?”

Myrt grimaced as he cleaned the wound. It was a surface cut, nothing serious, and even the victim wasn’t complaining. “Your loyalty is not there.”

“And you know this?” Aremys muttered.

“Cullyn, I think I’m right in saying you’re from Grenadyn originally.”

Aremys shot him an angry look. The naming of that place seemed to jolt some memory from long ago. It made him think of children…a young girl in particular. He could see her. All curls and chubby smiles. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. “Serah,” he breathed, the sorrowful memory of a sister slotting into place.

“What?”

“I am from Grenadyn,” he declared, knew it was right.

“You remember?”

Aremys nodded. “I think so, yes. It would explain why I understand Northernish.”

“And why you hold your sword in the formal Grenadyne manner.”

“Hmm…now you’re just showing off.”

“I miss little. Who’s Serah?”

Aremys was not ready for this man, even though he could not help but like and trust him, to know too much. He suspected his lost memory possessed secrets, and although he could not remember them just yet, if his memory was going to come back in dribs and drabs, he would rather be in control of what he revealed. “I don’t know,” he lied effectively. “Her name just drifted across my mind.”

“You see, I said your memories would come back—give it time,” Myrt said, pleased. “There, it’s just a nick. My thanks for your indulgence with the lad.”

“He needs encouragement,” Aremys admitted.

“And training,” Myrt said. “Perhaps we all do,” he added sagely before returning the wink.

The meal, out in the open and the cold, with the man huddled around a campfire, was the best Aremys felt he had ever eaten. Although they were hardly friends, the men were convivial enough. Even Firl had relaxed and treated him with a new cordiality, remarking that he might like to learn some of Cullyn’s moves. The songs they sang he knew somehow, reinforcing the idea that he was from Grenadyne stock and not Morgravian. That was reassuring—and yet why did he feel the pull toward Morgravia, or more keenly toward Briavel, where he was now sure he must have been relatively recently? He had no explanation for why he was in the Razors, alone and without a horse.

The men explained that the horse had probably bolted; all were sure they would come across it dead soon enough, but Aremys had felt all over his head. There was no bruising, no lump, and still it hurt badly enough at times to make him feel nauseated. The pain he felt was not external, had not been caused by a fall from a horse. This was internal pain. He could not explain it. And the worrying fact was the tingling sensation in his fingertips. That was odd. He had felt it immediately on regaining his wits but had paid no attention initially. It was not painful, not even that uncomfortable, but it was definitely there and he had no idea what it was, why it was there, or even if it had been there before.

The night closed in around them as they sang more mournful ballads, and it suited his mood. Serah haunted his thoughts. She and the name Koreldy. Were they the key to who he was?

For now, though, he was Cullyn. It would have to do, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Wyl stopped walking toward the cheerful hut. He felt empty and angry, suddenly lost without Aremys, who had disappeared without a trace. And now Knave had gone. Late afternoon was reaching across the small valley in which he found himself, and Wyl shivered. He watched a man lighting candles in the cottage. There seemed to be no others around. No family, then. Just this fellow, living alone on the outskirts of a place of fear. Wyl cast a glance behind at the black of the Thicket. It did not look so menacing from this side, but he knew it held secrets. He had felt the thrum of its magic.

Where could Aremys be? He turned back. It was no good. He would have to satisfy his anxieties by at least trying to find his friend. He could not just leave him.

“No, don’t do that, my lady,” called a voice.

Wyl swung around to see a large man stepping toward him across the bridge. “Er…”

“I’m Samm. The Boatkeeper. I saw you just now hesitating and thought I should come out and provide a welcome. It must be hard for a lady traveling alone,” he said, looking about him. “You are alone, aren’t you?”

“I…” Wyl wavered between the truth and a lie. He opted for the latter. The fewer people who knew the better. “Yes, yes I am. Apologies, I’m Lady Rachyl Farrow.”

“Would you like to come in?” Samm said kindly, gesturing toward his cottage.

“Um, well, I think what I need is a boat, to tell the truth,” Wyl said.

“I understand. Come in. Let me at least fix a pot of tea and then we can discuss your requirements.”

After one last searching glance at the Thicket and another roving look for Knave, Wyl accepted that he was alone on this journey and he nodded to Samm to lead the way.

“Why did you say that I shouldn’t go back into the Thicket, Samm?”

“I felt something a few moments ago. Just thought it best to let it be. The Thicket can be contrary and I’ve got used to its strange sighs and movements. There are occasions when it feels quite alive.”

“And this was one of them?” Wyl queried, crossing the bridge behind Sarnm.

“Yes,” the man replied simply, but offered nothing more.

Inside, Sarnm went about the business of making a pot of tea. “Why are you here, my lady?” he asked gently.

Wyl opted for honesty. “I’m following someone. A boy.”

“Ah, the lad, Fynch.”

“That’s right!”

“And his strange black beast.”

“Knave. He’s my dog, actually.” Wyl felt a surge of relief that Fynch had passed through safely.

“Is the lad in trouble?”

“No, not at all.” He thought quickly. “He’s my brother.”

“So you’re from Briavel too?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Wyl answered, desperately wondering how much deeper the lying might get. Already he was no longer from Grenadyn, which had been the original plan.

“Your brother was seeking someone.”

“Mmm, yes.” He did not want to answer these questions. “Do you need any help with that?”

“No, my lady. Here we go,” Samm said, putting down a mug of tea. “Honey?”

“Please.”

“Family?” Samm was not going to be put off, Wyl could tell.

“That’s right,” he answered, sipping, desperately hoping he could escape further interrogation. “How much for the boat?”

“One crown. Is there anything I can do to dissuade you from going, my lady? Your brother is sadly not returning from the Wild. No one does.”

“I must try, though, Samm. He’s so young,” Wyl said as plaintively as possible.

“It’s a one-way journey, my lady. People leave and empty boats return. His has already found its way back to its mooring outside. To lose two fine people, well, it disturbs me. I always hope I can stop someone going.”

“Not this time.”

“That’s what Fynch said.”

“I must leave before I lose the light. Thank you for your tea.” Wyl stood and held out his small and pretty hand.

“Why not go in the morning. Sleep on it?”

“No, Samm. I really must get going.”

Samm sighed heavily and went foraging for his great black book. Following the same routine he had with Fynch, he droned out the terms and conditions of his visitor’s departure, his normally genial face heavy with regret that another young life was to be lost.

“Thank you,” Wyl said, having clearly spelled out his name for recording in the book. “Just out of interest, Samm, who was the previous person to enter the Wild before Fynch?”

“Funny, I had the same conversation with the boy, miss. It was a young lady like you. Her name was Emil Lightford, a scholar from Pearlis.”

The name meant nothing to Wyl, but he nodded and smiled.

“That was two decades and four years ago,” Samm said, counting back. “And now two of you in such short time.”

“Here’s my money,” Wyl said, holding out the coin. “Do I just take a boat?”

“Whichever you like, my lady. Let me escort you. And don’t worry about steering. It navigates itself.”

Wyl smiled nervous thanks and followed Samm down to the jetty. Just as Fynch had done, he took the nearest.

“That was your brother’s choice too,” Samm said. “All I can offer now is good luck.”

Wyl waved once and then turned to face forward. Two overhanging willows looked as though their hanging branches were tentacles, waiting to grab him and pull him into their darkness. Aremys’s absence played heavily on his mind—another person who had trusted him, gone. Hopefully not dead, but perhaps he was.

Why would the Thicket be selective? he wondered, and then forgot the thought as the darkness of a thick canopy of overhanging trees enveloped him. His eyes adjusted to the murky darkness and he risked sitting down on the small plank in the boat. There were no oars. It was cold too. Wyl hugged Ylena’s arms about him as the boat rounded a slight curve in the Darkstream and a sheer rock face came into view.

It was huge—most likely part of the Razors, with that granite. A narrow low arch was hewn out of the face, just large enough to allow a single boat through. Wyl held his breath, wished goodbye to all that he recognized as familiar, and reflexively closed his eyes as the mountain closed its lips around the little boat and swallowed him up.

Initially when he opened his eyes, he saw only depthless black. It was disorienting and he held the sides of the boat to give him a sense of up and down and his position in this dread place. If it had been cold just before he had entered, it was now freezing beneath the thousands of tons of granite and he felt his teeth beginning to chatter. Ylena did not have sufficient flesh on her body to keep herself warm in such conditions. Shivering uncontrollably now in her body, Wyl wondered whether Samm had been right. A one-way journey from which no one ever returned. A never-ending tunnel whose travelers died of the trauma of being alone in the dark for too long or froze to death?

These macabre thoughts were his only companions as the journey through darkness lengthened until any sane person would have felt the first flutterings of panic. Wyl could not tell whether he was imagining it, but the ceiling of his narrow tunnel began to lower. He felt too frightened to loosen his grip on the boat and reach up to confirm this. He felt a curious battle going on internally. Wyl knew he was not one to be afraid of the dark or enclosed spaces, but given his increasing agitation, he recalled that Ylena liked neither. Even as an adult, she had always kept a single candle burning through the night, and her worst childhood nightmare had been dreaming of being locked in a cupboard. Was some residue of Ylena’s fears surfacing? Whatever it was, it was getting worse. His pulse had quickened to the point of panic and his breathing was coming in shallow gasps all of a sudden. He did his best to quell the fear, to rationalize it, but the tunnel was surely closing in and the thick silence was working against him.

Ylena’s fear took full flight and Wyl began to scream and scream. He stupidly tried to stand and instantly lost his balance. His hysterical shrieks were cut short suddenly by a new sort of darkness. A wet and drowning sort of darkness. He gulped the Darkstream as it swallowed him, much faster, of course, and farther into its fathomless depths, down toward death, where perhaps he would come to rest next to Fynch and Emil whatever-her-name-was…he could no longer remember. All he could focus on now was letting go of this life. Finally he would die, and mercifully at no one else’s expense.

Perhaps it was for the best. His life—if he could call it that—was too dangerous. It was a weapon. Who needed swords or arrows when one could simply claim the lives and bodies of his killers? He hated himself Death felt good. Wyl sank farther still. It was freezing and silent…and easy. No life to be claimed but his.

He let go of the last ounce of breath in his lungs and his hold on life.

Wyl was being pulled. Nothing gentle about it. A savage, angry yank bit through his shoulder and reawakened him to his struggle.
Survive, damn you
, he cried to himself as something big with teeth and strength hauled at him. Wyl had no idea which was way up and his thoughts were too dizzy for him to think in any straight pattern at all. Death was indeed close. Just moments before he had anticipated seeing the friendly, welcoming faces of Shar’s Gatherers, assuring him all would be well once their outstretched arms laid hands upon him.

No faces, no welcome. Just a fight for air and a monster that dragged at him. They burst through the Darkstream’s surface.

“Here, Knave!” a voice called. It was Fynch and next to him stood a figure. “Quickly,” Fynch urged. “Drag him here.”

Wyl was pulled, unconscious, from the black, icy water.

“Let me see him,” the other person said.

“Her,” Fynch corrected, shocked. Ylena’s body lay inert and pale before them. He helped Knave from the water and gritted his teeth as the huge dog shook his shining black fur free of the Darkstream. “This is Ylena Thirsk,” Fynch said sadly.

His companion shook his head. “Let me help him.”

Moments later Ylena’s body shuddered, before spluttering with a heaving cough, bringing up the water she had swallowed, sucking in lungfuls of life-giving air. Her eyes flew open.

“Fynch?” The coughing began again.

The boy nodded. “Hello, Wyl. We thought we’d lost you.”

Ylena’s expression was confused. She was shivering uncontrollably while she was coughing. “Who…?”

“It was Knave; he dived so low for you and was gone so long I worried for his safety too.” Knave took this moment to loom into view and lick Ylena’s face while Fynch took Ylena’s slim, delicate hand. “Wyl, this is Elysius. Myrren’s father.”

Wyl opened his sister’s eyes, glad that he had finally rid himself of the dregs of the Darkstream, and regarded the strangest-looking person he had ever seen.

“Don’t talk yet,” Elysius said softly. “You’re shivering. We need to get you warm and dry very quickly.”

When Wyl woke he was lying in a small cot. He had no idea where he was, although he could see that it was a small, stone cottage. His mouth was dry and he felt weak. As he stirred, Fynch came to his side and it all suddenly came back to him; he remembered seeing the boy momentarily after being dragged from the Darkstream. He had been drowning.

Fynch noticed his confusion and answered the obvious questions in Wyl’s mind. “Knave saved you. You were given something to sleep.”