Blood and Memory (7 page)

“Nowhere where you can help him,” Rashlyn answered, delighted that he could hurt with words.

“Is he alive?”

The man barked a laugh. “Hardly,” came the cold reply. “Although it was a lot of fun dealing with him.”

Despite his lack of strength, Gueryn threw himself toward the small, dark man, and for the first time in his life Gueryn felt real fear, spine-tingling fright that made the hairs on his arm and at the back of his neck stand up.

Rashlyn had held his hand up the moment he heard Gueryn move and the soldier found himself pinned in midair. All of his wits were given over to the realization that something awesome and terrible had just occurred. Rashlyn was a sorcerer and had just wielded magic on him.

“I will make it hurt next time. Never try that again, Morgravian. If you’ve never believed, then believe it now: Magic exists. You and the rather strange position you hang in are testimony to that. Remember how this feels, Le Gant, for I can immobilize you for eternity like this if I so choose.”

Rashlyn removed the spell and Gueryn crashed painfully to the ground. He groaned, final and gut-wrenching despair taking over his mind as he began to grasp the full terror of what he was up against.

Fynch was standing at the back entrance to the Forbidden Fruit.

Knave had followed his friend’s suggestion to remain hidden for the time being, but he had good vision from his quiet spot and could see the boy kicking at a stone, biding his time for someone to arrive who might speak to him.

Several women had hurried past and into the dark opening. It mattered not to Fynch. They did not strike him as being the sort of friendly target he was looking for. He trusted his instincts, knew someone would come along who would be the right one. It had been a couple of hours now. Winter was mild this year but still cool enough to chill his thinly covered bones. He must have looked cold, sitting on the fence stump, when the young woman arrived. She seemed in no rush and he had no idea if her full-length cloak covered a revealing gown. With no firm knowledge of how a brothel actually operated, his mind teased at such minor detail.

“You’ll catch your death out here,” she said, eyeing him from under her hood.

He recognized the Briavellian accent. So she was a local. “Yes, it’s right cold today,” he replied in a strong northern farmer’s dialect he had picked up from listening to some of the other lads at the kitchens of Stoneheart. He could pitch it perfectly, masking his own less distinctive southern accent.

“You’re far from home, boy. Morgravia?”

Bull’s-eye
, he thought. “That I am, madam. How sharp you are.”

She smiled. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Fynch nodded. “My sister.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“Her name is Hildyth. I’ve traveled many days to see her. Our mam’s dead. I’ve been sent to find her.”

Her expression melted, as he had anticipated it would. “You poor mite—she’s not here, love. Come on inside. Let’s warm you up a bit. I’m Rene.”

Fynch followed, making no protestation.

“Thanks to you, Rene,” he said as she pulled a chair up to the stove and sat him down.

“There, that should warm those thin bones of yours. Now, how about something to eat? You must be hungry—boys are always hungry.”

He was not. Hunger rarely entered Fynch’s mind. “I’m starving,” he said, forcing a grin, not really enjoying beguiling this kind soul.

“I knew it. I’ve got a couple of young nephews and their bellies are always grinding.” She ruffled his hair and set about gathering some items to tempt him.

Rene said hello to a few women who moved into and about the parlor. They ignored him and he them. Fynch stared into the flames through an opening in the stove, making sure he looked cold, scared even, and not open to conversation with others. As he sat lost in his thoughts, he realized he had already begun thinking of Romen’s murderer as now being Wyl. He wondered whose shoes Wyl walked in now. Fynch had no doubt the whore was involved, even though Liryk had looked shocked at the Queen’s insinuation. He intended for her to lead him to Wyl.

“There you are, sweetie,” Rene said, arriving at his side and dragging his thoughts back to the warm kitchen. “Cheese and homemade chutney is the best I can do. And here’s a knuckle of bread. I’ve left a glass of milk behind you on the table. What’s your name, by the way?”

Fynch hated milk. “I’m Fynch. Rene, you’re very kind.”

“I just feel badly you’ve come so far for nothing,” she said, her expression soft. “My little brother died a few years ago. He would have been a few years older than you, around ten summers now.”

Inwardly he sighed. He was nine summers, knew he looked younger. “You must miss him,” he said, forcing himself to munch on the food.

“So much. He was a lovely lad. Shouldn’t have drowned. It was an accident but still…”

“I’m sorry, Rene.”

Fynch noted how she forced herself to brighten. “I know. But you remind me of him a little with your coloring. Somehow I don’t think he would have trekked so many miles to find me, though. You must love your sister very much to have come so far.”

“I had to. We need Hildyth. Father is really sick too and there are five wee ones, the others all younger than me,” he said, laying on the accent thickly, suggesting he was becoming upset. He was, in truth, for lying was not Fynch’s style.

“Oh now, now. Come on. Hildyth is no longer working here—in fact I know she’s left Crowyll—but let me see if I can find out any more for you.”

He nodded, pushing more bread into his mouth so he would not have to lie any further to such a decent person.

She disappeared for a few minutes and returned whispering with someone. Another woman, slightly older, regarded him.

“You’re Hildyth’s brother?”

He nodded slowly, weighing her up, not allowing himself to fib anymore. Her eyes were narrowed.

“She never said anything about a brother.”

“Hush,” Rene said. “His mother’s just died. There’s several children. Be gentle.”

The other woman shook her head. “Hildyth’s gone. She left on the night of that fellow’s death here—the one who got stabbed.”

Fynch wrinkled his brow in confusion.

Rene rolled her eyes at her companion’s heavy tongue. “We had a mishap here not so long ago. A noble. We don’t know anything about him, but obviously someone wanted him dead. Hildyth was…looking after him at the time. I took her home.”

The other woman bent down. “Do you know what your sister does for a living, boy?”

Again he nodded. “She makes men happy,” he said seriously, and he watched Rene’s face soften once again with affection.

“That’s right, love, she did that,” Rene said. “Go on, tell him.” She grimaced at the woman beside her.

This time her friend sighed. “She came back much later that night. Must have been the early hours of the morning when all the fuss had died down. Everyone was asleep or gone back to their homes. I just happened to be still around and I saw her.”

“What did she say?” Fynch said, listening intently now.

“Nothing, really. She looked terrified and who wouldn’t be with what she’d just been through. I asked her what had happened.” The woman shrugged. “She told me briefly about the man’s death, said she was leaving.”

“Why did she come back that night, I wonder?” Rene queried.

“She said she’d left something behind in the room, but she didn’t want to see all those soldiers again, so she’d waited until the place was quiet.”

“What was it?” Fynch hoped for a clue.

Irritatingly she shrugged again. “How would I know? She just stepped inside one of the chambers and was out again almost straightaway.”

“Did she tell you where she was going?” Fynch held his breath.

“I didn’t know she was going anywhere to even ask. She was acting really strangely, I recall…I mean there was something else, apart from being scared. It was as though she was drunk, but I smelled no liquor on her.”

“What do you mean?” Rene asked. Fynch was glad she did.

“Well, I can’t really say. You know, staggering a little, unsure of her words, couldn’t hold my gaze. I figured she was just upset, but she seemed really uncomfortable around me.”

Fynch tried to phrase his question differently. “Did Hildyth say anything that might help me find her?” His accent slipped in his determination to learn as much as he could, but neither of the women seemed to notice.

“No. Perhaps she decided to go home, not that I know where that is. She said a name…a girl’s name. I didn’t catch it. Miriam or something. I don’t know anything else.”

“Does that help you, Fynch?” Rene asked, her face filled with hope.

He hated doing it but he shook his head, adopting a glum expression. “No, but I’ll just keep looking,” he said, his heart lurching inside at the mention of Myrren. “Thanks rightly for the cheese and bread,” he said to Rene, “and to you, miss.” He nodded at the other woman.

She shrugged again and left, Fynch already forgotten.

“Can I pack you a little food?”

“No, Rene. I’ll be fine.”

“Good luck, then.”

Fynch surprised himself by giving her a hug. After all his sadness, it was uplifting to have such a positive lead. “I’ll come back and see you someday.”

She smiled, knowing he would do no such thing.

Fynch found Knave and they quickly moved away from the Forbidden Fruit. Fynch’s mind was racing. “Fll explain everything in a moment,” he said to the dog, mainly to calm himself. “Let’s just get away toward the woodland.”

They loped toward the edge of the town. Later, drinking water from the same stream where Wyl had drunk, Fynch gathered his thoughts. He found it helpful to speak them aloud to his silent friend, arrange them neatly before them both so he could store his deductions tidily away.

“Wyl is alive. I’m convinced of it. The vision told me so and I have to believe it’s happened again and that he now walks as his executioner, Hildyth. If I’m right, then it was Wyl who lied about the man breaking in and stabbing Romen.” Fynch adjusted his seating to lean against the big dog. Knave licked him. “I suppose he discovered himself as this woman”—he shook his head unable to imagine how distressed Wyl must feel—“and disappeared from the scene as fast as he could. We have to find her.”

He let his mind flow freely. When he needed to think things through, he had taught himself to let go, to stop teasing at one strand of thought and let his mind loose to roam among his wealth of gathered information. Invariably he found that clues began to show themselves as threads intertwined.

Knave wandered away. Fynch assumed the dog was hungry and would hunt down a careless rabbit. He settled back against a tree and closed his eyes to ponder. Where would Wyl go? he wondered. And then memory of his recent vision slipped into his mind. He went back over the words he had heard and then considered the town and the hops. Why had that picture been given to him? He let the thread go and allowed his thoughts to become random.

Where had Myrren come from?

Fynch sifted through his memories and recollections of overheard conversations between excited city folk about the witch trial. He relaxed, turning his face to allow the watery sunlight to fall upon it through the canopy of leaves. Where? It came to him moments later. Baelup! Could that be it? Baelup was where the realm’s best ale was made. He knew this from listening to the soldiers over the years; they loved assignments that took them through the tiny town. The picture of the fields of hops came back to him. Hops were used in ale making. It was a clue.

Wyl must be going to Baelup—back to where Myrren had lived. Perhaps he was trying to track down her family.

The dog returned. He was carrying something in his mouth, but it was no creature. Knave dropped his offering into Fynch’s lap. It looked like a ragged thong until Fynch realized it was the bracelet that Romen used to wear.

“It’s a sign, Knave. He must have hidden here on the night he became Hildyth. Wyl left this deliberately, I’m sure. Perhaps he hoped you would find it, you clever dog.” He scratched Knave’s ears and hugged the animal close. “We’re going to Baelup,” Fynch whispered to his friend. “I shall need a horse to do that. Valentyna’s purse will be put to good use.”

Wyl had collected a tiny stash of coins from a hiding spot in Crowyll, the whereabouts of which Faryl’s memory released. She had similar hides sensibly stashed over both realms, he realized, so she could access money relatively swiftly. What he had was very little—he would need more…much more. He took the time to write down the locations, just in case Faryl’s essence and memories faded as quickly as Romen’s had.