Blood and Memory (45 page)

“Take him back,” Cailech said to one of his men. “If he’s well enough, he can ride with us tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Aremys repeated, stunned from the shock, not just of his memory returning whole but of something else, something frightening affecting him. He straightened, deciding to give the worried men something genuine of himself. “My name is Aremys Farrow,” he admitted, hoping it was not an error to admit as much.

Cailech scrutinized him, then nodded. “We know of your family, then. You are from the northern isle of Grenadyn. Anything else?”

Aremys shook his head miserably. “Just that. It came to me just as this pain did,” he lied. “I’m sorry about the ride.”

“No harm done,” the King said affably. “I’m pleased your memory returns. Are you able to ride back on your own horse?”

“Yes, of course.” Aremys reached again toward the horse known as Galapek, bracing himself this time. He needed to be sure of something. He touched the animal’s neck as if in farewell to the riders. The tremor of knowledge that passed between him and the horse was genuine. It was there. Magic! How he knew this, he did not know; how he could sense it, he had no idea. But it existed. The stallion was riddled with a huge and tainted spell he could feel passing through his hand and resonating throughout his body. It made him feel like retching. He almost did. “I’ll rest, thank you, my lord,” he said as evenly as he could, not daring to say more.

“We shall see you later, Aremys Farrow,” Cailech said, something unreadable in his expression.

Alone at last in his chamber, Aremys remembered everything about himself, and it was terrifying. The Thicket had risen up against him and, using its magic, had hurled him into the Razors. He could recall, understanding, as it had occurred, that the Thicket did not want him to pass through with Wyl.

One moment he had been whistling and admiring Ylena’s rump, the next he had found himself separated from her. He could remember now how the air had become suddenly chill—freezing, in fact—and then he had felt it gathering about him. The air had begun to thicken behind and before him and it was as if invisible hands had shoved him through that thickened air to blast him into a different place.

The Thicket’s magic had knocked out his memories for a while. Hence no blow to his head, he realized. It had all happened internally. He felt his insides twist with fear for Wyl, traveling as a helpless young woman—although in truth, he knew Wyl could easily hold his own against others, but perhaps not against magic. What if the Thicket had done the same to Wyl as it had done to him? Perhaps it had not wanted either of them there and now Wyl was lying in some corner of the realm without memory, also trying to piece his especially strange life back together. Aremys’s thoughts began to travel rapidly now. He needed to get out of the Razors and back south to Wyl. He must find him, help him. If, by some stroke of luck, Wyl had found Elysius, then no matter what had occurred between them, Wyl would still head toward Briavel and Valentyna; of this he was sure. However, if Wyl had not made it to Elysius and the Thicket had treated him with similar disdain, then he might be in Morgravia and not the mountains, for Cailech’s scouts would surely have spotted him by now if he had also been thrown into the Razors.

Thoughts and plans swirled, but once the initial panic had settled, Aremys began to think more clearly. Perhaps he could be of some use to Wyl while he was here. His friend had spoken of the soldier Gueryn. In his heart, Aremys believed Wyl’s mentor was dead. There was just no reason to keep the man alive, and from what Wyl had told him, Gueryn was a thorough nuisance to the Mountain King. However, Wyl believed the man was alive…would be kept alive as bait to lure Romen Koreldy back into the Cave of the Mountain King. Aremys grimaced. He wondered how Cailech would react to learning that Koreldy was long dead and that Ylena of Argorn was yet another host to Wyl Thirsk. What would he think of her arriving to claim Gueryn, if he lived? Plus there was the other man—Cailech’s man—who had turned traitor to help Wyl and Elspyth escape the mountain fortress. Wyl had told Aremys often enough that he would return, come what may, to find out the fate of brave Lothryn.

“I must find them for Wyl,” Aremys muttered, swinging his legs over to sit up on the bed. “As long as I’m captive here, I might as well make myself useful.”

He turned his mind to the strangest of all experiences—the fact that he could suddenly detect magic. It had pulsed through the stallion Galapek, and his head still pounded from the ferocity with which that magic had spoken to him. He could only assume that the huge jolt of magic from the Thicket had somehow made him vulnerable to sentient matter around him.

It was a revelation. And he had not imagined it. He had touched the horse a second time to ensure that he was not making this notion up. Aremys shook his head. He understood none of it, but one thing was sure: He had to get into the dungeons. If Wyl’s friends were alive, that was as good a place as any to start looking for information on them.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts. Aremys looked out of the window and noticed the sun lowering. He must have been wrestling for a long time with his confused thoughts.

“Who is it?”

“Messenger. The King wishes to see you.”

Wyl was admiring Elysius’s handiwork. “You did this?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across the breathtaking landscape before him. They were standing on a rise amid a copse of tall trees whose leaves shone a fantastical lime color as the sun slanted through the translucent canopy to the gently moving stream. Beyond the copse was a rugged cliff face over which water flowed direct from the Razors, Wyl presumed. They had already walked through sweet-smelling meadows from the modest dwelling Elysius had built for himself on a hill overlooking an equally panoramic view. Wyl could hardly believe how incredibly beautiful the Wild was.

The little man took a few moments to reply. “In Parrgamyn we believe in our god, Mor. In Morgravia and Briavel it is Shar who holds the spiritual power. In the kingdom of the Razors, Haldor is the god whom the mountain dwellers pray to. My belief, Wyl, is that we’re all praying to the same god. And I think that god is Nature. Anything that can create such beauty as this,” he said, sweeping an elongated arm across the vista, “or craft such sophistication as you or I, such grace as a deer or such majesty as an eagle—this is a power worth worshipping. What you see before you is Nature’s work…1 have simply embellished some of it,” Elysius said, “because my skills adhere to all things natural. The waterfall’s theatrics are my work, but in truth, the framework had been in place for centuries. Shar had seen to it.”

“So this wild beauty was already here? Harmless and gorgeous…and feared.”

Elysius nodded. “And I seem to be the only one who enjoys it. It suited my purposes in the early years to live a hermit’s existence, but I have since found my loneliness to be a curse. I would add that it would be a pity for Briavel to discover how harmless the Wild is, for it to become an annex of that realm—just imagine its trees cut down, its streams dammed and diverted, its sheer wildness harnessed. But, on the other hand, I do miss people. Sometimes I fly with the birds so I can look through their eyes over Briavel or Morgravia and get a sense that I am back within a community.”

“Then go. Can’t you cast a glamour about yourself and leave?”

The Manwitch smiled. “I cannot work magic of that kind on myself, no. Irritating but true.”

Wyl frowned. “So if the Wild is not enchanted, why did people of old fear it?”

“There is magic here, Wyl—be very sure of that. I can’t explain it, I simply accept it. The Thicket, for example, is something rather extraordinary that, from what I can tell, has no reason for being other than to keep people away from the Wild. Perhaps if we were to delve back into history, the scholars might throw some light on why no one has explored the region…what exactly they feared so irrationally or perhaps knew to be true.”

“Old superstitions, I’d guess.”

“More than that. The Thicket is real and thinks for itself. It allowed me through all those years ago, as well as Emil and then you and Fynch, but I suspect it actually does frighten away many who might attempt to cross it. It certainly dealt with your friend.” He saw Wyl’s expression fall at this comment. “I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me. I don’t believe your friend Aremys has been hurt. I feel sure the Thicket has never injured anyone, but it does have the power of choice and it chose for him to be repelled.”

“What has it done to him?”

Elysius sighed. “You are the first person I have shared this with…you won’t be the last, though. One other must know,” he answered cryptically. “My belief is that the Thicket is more than just a barrier…it is a gate.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know. Other regions, I imagine.” Elysius shrugged. “Perhaps other worlds.”

Now Wyl was astonished. “What!”

“I don’t know enough about it. I have never made use of it, nor will I.”

“So you’re saying Aremys might be in a different world,” Wyl replied, aghast.

“No, I’m not saying that. I understand it so little that I would never suggest such a thing. I think it has the ability to be a gate to other places…to travel…is all I’m hazarding.”

Wyl paced. “And Aremys has been pushed through that gate?”

Elysius shrugged again. “I’m sorry, Wyl, regarding Aremys I can’t enlighten you. For all we know, he could be on the other side, taking an ale in Timpkenny. It is not important.”

“Not to you, perhaps,” Wyl said tersely, moving to check on Fynch, who was playing in the nearby stream with Knave.

“And that was clumsy of me again. What I mean to say is that I believe he is safe, wherever he is, and that what’s of importance right now is you and the decisions you make.”

“I came here for an answer, Elysius, and I have it now.” He scowled, spoiling Ylena’s pretty face. “There are no further decisions to make. I must leave for Briavel.”

“You know she must marry Celimus, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t have to be so,” Wyl countered. “And how could you know that so surely while you’re stuck out here?”

“I know many things, Wyl, and I’ve explained that I travel with the animals—I see and hear all sorts of things.”

Elysius’s calm countenance was frustrating. “How! How can you know with such certainty that she must marry the madman of Morgravia?”

“It is prophesied.”

“By whom?” Wyl demanded, his tone just slightly mocking.

“The Stones tell me so. They always speak the truth.”

“The Stones! The same sort of pebbles that your brother uses to advise Cailech on how to roast people alive?” Wyl was just short of yelling.

Elysius was wise enough to understand Wyl’s sense of helplessness and his fears. He did not react to Wyl’s wrath. “The Stones don’t advise. They simply give answers to questions. Their answers are not always clear, I grant you, but in this they are firm. Queen Valentyna of Briavel will marry King Celimus of Morgravia, come what may.”

“Then we had better hope he kills me first,” Wyl said bitterly, “for I won’t allow it. I’ll use everything I have within myself to prevent such a marriage taking place,” and he hated the sympathy in the Manwitch’s expression, as if he knew it to be a hopeless cause. “I’ll take my leave, Elysius. I thank you for your hospitality and your explanations.”

“I’m deeply saddened, Wyl. I wish I could offer more comfort, at least more guidance, but the way ahead for you is not clear—other than Myrren’s choice for your final destination. Your journey there is shrouded.”

Wyl nodded, too depressed to respond, and then walked away.

Elysius called to him and reluctantly Wyl halted and looked back. “We will not meet again, Wyl Thirsk. The Thicket will permit you through. Take food from the cottage and leave before dark. Remember my warning. Myrren’s Gift cannot be manipulated. If you try, it will punish you in ways you cannot imagine. She insisted you rule Morgravia. Rule you must.”

Wyl felt a tremor run through Ylena’s thin body at such prophetic words. He could not speak, simply raised a resigned hand in farewell.

“Trust Fynch, although he has his own path now,” Elysius called after him somewhat cryptically. He wanted to say more, but he feared it might persuade Wyl that the Quickening could be foiled. Elysius knew better. He watched the retreating back of the only person in the land who could save Morgravia, Briavel, and the Mountain Kingdom. He watched until Wyl was long gone and his own ugly wet cheeks had dried from the tears he had shed.

Fynch sat between Ylena’s legs, her thin arms hugging him to her chest. Knave had positioned himself so close that he was touching both of them.

“I don’t mind that you’d like to remain here awhile. It’s so beautiful, I could live here for ever,” Wyl admitted.

“But why can’t you stay longer?” the small boy asked.

“I must go to Valentyna, Fynch. I have to get a grasp on what’s been happening.” He scratched his head. “I don’t even know if time passes the same in the Wild—who knows what could have occurred since we were last in Briavel.”

“It does,” Fynch assured. “And you’re sure you don’t mind if I stay here a little longer?”

“I promise,” Wyl said, meaning it. “Is there a reason beyond the peace and solitude, though?”

Fynch nodded. “I can’t explain it, though. I feel compelled to remain.”

Wyl noticed Knave was staring at him. He wondered if Elysius was with them, seeing through the animal. The dark eyes seemed to be imploring Wyl to trust the boy.

“Come straight to Werryl once you leave here. I hope I’ll be there, but you know you have friends there, no matter what.”

Again Fynch nodded, his mind already turning to more practical matters. “How will you travel?”

“I’ll buy a horse at Timpkenny.”

“I have plenty of coin if you need.”

Wyl chuckled. It was the first time in a while that he had heard Ylena’s tinkling laughter. “And I suppose you have Knave so you don’t have to worry about transport.”

“That’s right,” Fynch said, turning in Ylena’s arms. “Be careful, Wyl…please.”

Wyl nodded. “I promise to try to remain Ylena,” and was rewarded with a smile from his friend. “Although you know this thing isn’t over yet. Elysius says it will continue—”

“Until you rule Morgravia,” Fynch interrupted. “Yes, I know. But who knows what might happen yet.”

“He says it must happen.”

“Then he’s ignoring the bit about free will. Remember, Myrren’s Gift is still bound by the will of others, if not your own.”

Wyl hugged the boy again. How odd that no adult could bring the sort of comfort that this child could. Fynch always seemed to say the right thing at the right time.

“I must go.” They stood and Wyl leaned down and kissed Fynch. He looked toward Knave. “Bring him safely to me.”

The dog growled softly in answer.

Wyl wasted no further time. He packed a small sack of bread and dried meat together with some hard biscuit and a bladder of water. It would do. He left the cottage with a single glance behind in case Elysius had come to add something heartening. Only Fynch stood there, his hand on Knave, his other arm in the air waving.

Leave soon, Fynch
, he suddenly thought, even though an hour earlier, with the boy hugged close to him, he had felt the lad was safer in the Wild than in any of the neighboring realms. He could not put his finger on the reason for this about-face, but Wyl had a sense that Fynch would be changed next time they met. As he raised his hand in farewell, he took a moment to fix the picture of the innocent, serious little boy and the large, mysterious dog in his mind because he somehow knew both would be different next time he saw them. He felt an urge to warn Fynch, but he was already too far away. It would mean climbing back up the hill and the small boat was bobbing invitingly just steps away on the Darkstream.

Against his inclination, he made the decision to press on. As much as he felt a fear for Fynch, he knew it was irrational, based on no fact, and Wyl was the first to admit that both of them were caught up in something so dark and strange that no one could predict the outcome. He wanted to believe he could stop Valentyna uniting Briavel with Morgravia through marriage, but there was something about the sorrowful look on Elysius’s face that told him the prophecy was true and he was fighting a hopeless cause. Still, he must try…die trying, and he smiled grimly to himself, for death was all that was ahead for him until he became the person he was destined to be.