Blood and Memory (42 page)

Wyl laughed humorlessly. “And as you can see, I’ve been spared a lot of suffering.”

Elysius remained quiet. He had no words of comfort to offer.

“And it will stop when I rule Morgravia?” Wyl said into the thick silence.

“Yes. This I do know; it was Myrren’s greatest desire that Wyl Thirsk rule the realm that caused her death.”

“Because she knows I’ll stop the persecution of witches once and for all?”

“Because you’ll stop torturing any souls, including the persecution of empowered people,” Elysius said softly.

Wyl sighed. “Of course she wouldn’t have known that the same King who permitted her death would campaign to stamp out the Zerques and the persecution. She could have saved me a lot of trauma.”

Elysius nodded. “Magnus was a good king even though he allowed my daughter to die.”

“Elysius, is there anything good about your daughter’s gift to me?”

“Only one thing—an odd one, too. Myrren was determined that any child of yours would truly be yours.”

Wyl frowned, confused.

“I think she was understandably feeling very sorry for herself in that dungeon, realizing that the father she had grown up loving was not her father and her true one was some sort of freak living in the fabled Wild. Her head was probably spinning. Anyway, she threw it in as an afterthought and I respected her wishes when I crafted the magic.”

“But what does that mean?”

Elysius shrugged. “It means that when you father an heir to the throne of Morgravia, no matter whose body encloses you, the child will truly have Thirsk blood running in its veins.”

It was a cold comfort for Wyl but a comfort nonetheless in an otherwise cheerless tale.

Aleda had slept as deeply as the doctor had predicted. When she surfaced it was into a dulled confusion; she did not recognize where she was, but there was a woman staring at her.

She felt weak; knew her time was upon her.

“Welcome back,” the woman murmured, her expression one of relief.

“Where am I?”

“Safe. In a town called Brackstead.”

“Briavel?” Aleda asked anxiously.

The woman soothed her. “Yes. My name is Bel. Let me help you to sit up. You need to drink this—all of it.” She held out a mug.

“What’s this?”

“A special tea. Physic Geryld insists. I’ll tell you about him.”

Images flooded back as her mind cleared. “Did he go to Werryl!”

“Hush,” Bel said. “Physic Geryld rode to Werryl for help.”

“I have to find my son,” Aleda whimpered.

“You’re in no state to do anything.” Bel did not want to tell her that she probably would never leave this bed. “Let’s wait for news from the capital.”

Aleda already knew her fate. She was too weak to sit up. “If I can last that long. I can feel that the bleeding’s begun again.”

“You must hold on,” Bel urged. “Please. Drink.”

Aleda struggled with a few sips and then let her head fall back onto the pillow.

“You must keep drinking the tea if you want to live,” Bel urged, terrified of losing the woman and being blamed for a noble’s death.

“I have nothing to live for. My family is dead, murdered.” Aleda groaned.

Bel fell into an awkward silence and hoped it would encourage the noblewoman to sleep again. She might even have dozed herself until a noise disturbed her.

“Riders!” she said, sitting up.

There was a cacophony of voices, excited ones from below. Then footsteps, a man’s tread, heavy and eager, thundering up the stairs. The door burst open.

“Mother!” Crys cried, his voice thick with emotion, and then he was across the room in a few strides, his head buried in his mother’s arms as a smile of pure joy stretched across the older woman’s face.

“My boy.” She was so weak, she could only whisper. “You made it.”

Valentyna was not far behind Crys. Bel, in her excitement and confusion, did not recognize the Queen. She was summarily excused by Liryk, who also pushed into the room.

Crys wept into Aleda’s chest only momentarily, sensing that he would lose her very soon. He looked up into the face that had always made him feel safe and loved. “Pil found us, told us…Elspyth made me ride to Briavel rather than home.”

She could see his despair at having to make that decision, wondering whether he could have saved his family if he’d ridden in the other direction. “You chose right, thank Shar for Elspyth’s clear head. You live, Crys, and you are now Duke of Felrawthy. Make that count.” She refused to dissolve into the tears she felt were determined to fall. “They never gave us a chance, were sent by Celimus to slaughter us. You would be dead too. But you must fight back now, son. Rally an army, as Ylena advised, and make that treacherous sovereign of ours pay for what he’s done to this family and to the Thirsks.”

Crys heard the fighting words and marveled that his mother could set aside all her pain and loss in her final moments of life to talk to him about duty. He could almost hear his fine father’s voice joining hers, urging him to live up to the family name of Felrawthy, this time fighting against, rather than for, the Crown. It was a chilling thought.

“I love you,” was all he could say to his mother, and then she died with the bittersweet joy that her son lived and Celimus might yet face retribution.

At first the commotion was only about the sudden arrival of Briavellian soldiers. The folk of Brackstead were thrilled to see the purple and emerald colors so rich and bright on a murky early spring morning. Then word got around that no less than Commander Liryk was in town. Whatever was happening at the Lucky Bowman was obviously of great import to have the highest-ranking soldier in the realm descend upon it without warning.

“It’s to do with the stranger,” Bel offered knowingly to any who would give her an ear. She had been thanked soundly for her time and paid handsomely, then asked to leave. “I should know, I was asked to look after her. She’s noble for sure and with a Morgravian accent. What she’s doing traveling alone is anyone’s guess, although that youngblood who suddenly appeared was apparently her son,” she said, nodding as if she had solved the puzzle. It became obvious that Bel knew very little more when she was unable to answer further questions; nonetheless she enjoyed far closer attention than she was used to as the locals clamored for news.

When an observant onlooker suggested he was sure it had been their young queen riding into town and leaping off her horse with long-legged agility, the tempo of the conversation increased to near-boiling point. Such high excitement had not been experienced in Brackstead since King Valor himself had dropped in for an ale on his way back to Werryl from the north three years back.

Confirmation had to be sought. Bel considered it her duty, now that she had been elevated to such stellar heights, and she accosted the irritated keeper whose inn had been suddenly cleared of its downstairs patrons by soldiers and official-looking people storming room four upstairs.

“Just tell us, Nan,” Bel urged. “Or I’ll never be able to get them to leave this place,” she added, conspiratorially, as if she had immense sway over the townfolk.

Nan remained tight-lipped only for a moment longer before realizing that her friend was right. A crowd would keep gathering and would disrupt the proceedings if she did not come clean. “Yes, yes, all right. It is her.”

Bel swung around to the waiting people. “It’s true! Our queen is here!”

A roar went up and Nan understood all too clearly her mistake. The frenzy was too high, no one would leave. Her admission had only made it worse, as runners were sent off to take messages to more of the townfolk.

She sighed. “Reduced-price ale for everyone, but it’s served outside,” she said to Bel. “Anyone not drinking will have to leave,” she warned. “I might as well make myself a penny or two if you’re all going to clog my path.” More cheers as Bel passed on this news. “But, Bel, you’d better keep them still for now. They’ve asked for quiet and that’s from the top.”

The woman’s eyes widened with excitement. As she turned to relay the instructions to an eager audience, Nan stomped back inside and dropped a curtsy to Commander Liryk, who happened to be blocking her way.

“Sir, I’ve done my best, but they’re not leaving until they see her…er, sir. I’ve offered some ale and they in turn have promised quiet.”

“Thank you,” he said gruffly.

He had no doubt Valentyna would oblige the crowd and took one more look around to ensure that all entrances were guarded and all windows blocked by burly men. Once satisfied, he turned his attention to the inn’s common room, where he watched the sovereign of Briavel nod at something the Morgravian Duke had said to her. She was resting her hand on his arm, no doubt offering condolences, and he appeared composed—stoic, in fact—Liryk noticed, which was to be expected from a duke of the realm.

“Please, Crys, be at ease. The regret is mine that I did not have the chance to meet her, offer my thanks,” Liryk heard her say. “She brought proof, that’s enough,” she added, and the Commander of Briavel had to wonder what this new turn of events would mean for the realm and its hopes of uniting with Morgravia.

Crys Donal was hiding his grief admirably. His father would be proud. Hearing himself named Duke of Felrawthy was still a bitter sound to his ear and he reminded the Queen to address him by his given name rather than the formal one, even in this company.

He was glad she had obliged so readily and could hardly believe how adeptly Valentyna had turned the awkward situation of finding herself in an inn in rural Briavel, with a Morgravian duke in her company, into something easy and comfortable. Her ability to put people at ease was a true skill. She had used it well with himself, Pil, and Elspyth when they had turned up so unexpectedly with such shattering news, and she was using it again now to ensure that everyone remained calm and talking.

He watched her stretching out stiff limbs and yawning, issuing requests for food and warm drinks, making everyone relax. It was a very deliberate and calculated move and he admired her judgment and stored it away as something he must acquire. His father had tended toward a more authoritarian style of managing his people. Crys appreciated the pragmatic way Valentyna dealt with those around her. She remained very much in control—she was a sovereign, after all—but she listened to people, and even in the short time he had known her, Crys could tell that she strived to ensure that everyone’s needs were attended to. He listened as the older soldier stepped up to mention to her majesty about meeting with the townfolk; she nodded and said something back before the man moved aside, and Crys knew that she had agreed to do what would please her people without considering her own fatigue.

She turned toward Crys. “I haven’t yet told you how sorry I am,” she said, taking his hand.

“At least I saw her…had the chance to hold her as she died,” he said bravely. “Which is more than I could do for my father or brothers.”

“Don’t torture yourself,” the Queen said sagely. “I’m speaking from experience. It makes no difference and doesn’t bring them back. You must now take up where your fine father has left off.”

He smiled. “As you had to.”

He sensed the sadness in the soft smile she gave back. He felt as if he were the only person in the room with her. “Yes. And his boots felt very large indeed at first. Allow yourself to make mistakes; forgive yourself when you do. And follow your instincts, Crys. I have no doubt your parents have groomed you all your life to take on this challenge, as my father groomed me. The know-how doesn’t come easily, but we’re more ready than either of us admits, I’m sure.”

It felt to Crys as though something snapped into place in his mind. Valentyna knew precisely what to say. She made him feel strong when the detracting voices in his head were doing their best to weaken him.

“Thank you,” he said, wishing he could kiss her, and not just out of gratitude. The same voices told him to get that idea out of his head immediately.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “And no matter what happens, Briavel will always be a friend to the duchy of Felrawthy.”

And with that final comment, which lifted his spirits and filled his heart with hope, Crys watched the Queen of Briavel release his hand and call for a hearty breakfast to be served once she had had the opportunity to say hello to the people of Brackstead and apologize for the lack of warning about her visit.

Her comment regarding the need for food made people nearby grin. It was a well-known fact in Briavel that their Queen, despite her lean figure, possessed a fierce appetite. The Guards loved her for it all the more, for on many nights she would stroll onto the battlements and never failed to show interest in what was on for supper. Moreover she was happy to crouch with them and share a small bite of whatever they were eating or drink a mug of ale with them. And somehow it never felt unseemly; she had the knack of making everyone feel comfortable about her presence while never relinquishing her grace or regal bearing.