Myrren's Gift (11 page)

“Some General,” he commented, eager to get a final and powerful thorn driven into Wyl’s image.

“Imagine him in battle.”

A butcher nearby agreed. “No stomach for death, that one. He should come and work in the slaughterhouse with me. We’ll toughen him up.”

Gueryn and Alyd pulled Wyl’s limp body away from the grim scene and the smoke. A shocked Gueryn ordered Alyd to find water immediately. His stunned companion wasted not a second.

“Wyl, my boy. Wyl! Come on now, lad.” The older soldier pulled back Wyl’s lids and was mortified to see the pupils dilated so large that there was no color in his eyes at all.

Gueryn looked up anxiously for Alyd. His glance landed on a painfully thin boy, scrawny and grubby.

The smell alone emanating from him was powerful enough to make the hardiest person gasp but in his outstretched hand was a bladder of water.

“It’s fresh, sir,” the boy said. “And clean. I fetched it just an hour ago from the well.” Gueryn cast aside his doubts and took the water. He threw some of it over Wyl’s face and hair before trying to pry open his mouth and get some of it into Wyl’s throat.

“He will be all right, won’t he, sir?” the boy asked, his face a mask of worry.

The soldier did not answer, his attention distracted by the muffled groan of Wyl coming back to consciousness.

“Ah, lad, you scared me.”

Wyl’s eyelids fluttered open and Gueryn, horrified by what he saw, sat down hard on the ground in a new wave of shock.

Wyl shook his head to clear the blur. “What?”

“Look at me, boy,” Gueryn said, his voice filled with dread.

Alas, the feverish gaze before him was still burning brightly from a pair of eyes that were bewitching indeed—one a penetrating gray, the other an arresting green, with flecks of warm brown.

Wyl closed his ill-matched eyes as Alyd hurried to his side, pushing away the small boy whose water had helped revive his friend.

“Help me get him out of here,” Gueryn ordered, too shaken by what he had witnessed to give further explanation.

Chapter 5

Alyd Donal could not keep the smile from his face. It had been his companion since sixteen-year-old Ylena Thirsk had accepted his proposal of marriage. He had been patient; six years of absence from his beloved family in Felrawthy had been made less painful partly because of his fiercely loyal friendship with Wyl Thirsk but mainly because there was Ylena to love. There had never been anyone else for him since the day his red-headed companion had introduced him to his exquisite sister. The strong urge Alyd felt to protect this beautiful creature had surprised him, not that he was such a champion. Ylena had her seemingly fearless brother and the ultimate protection of a powerful King; she had no need of his sword and yet even as a bashful twelve-year-old, confirming the promise of the handsome woman she would become, Ylena had sought out his company. It seemed, even at that age, there was no one else for her either. Still, her shy nod and gentle tears prompted by his proposal had sparked such surprise and intense joy for him that he could not imagine life could ever get any happier than now. Ylena would make the prettiest of all brides. Not wanting to wait a moment longer than they had to, they had set a date that allowed barely enough time to make all the necessary formal announcements, let alone preparations for a nobles’ wedding.

General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn, who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The Duke and Duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.

Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage, as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive Dukes.

Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favorites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.

Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had reveled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which allowed for his constant presence in Pearlis, the garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of color was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.

“Can you credit it!” he said with amazement. “A blue nifella, normally found only in the northern climes of the realm.”

The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.

He smiled over his cup. “You youngsters make me feel envious.”

“Sire?” Alyd queried.

“Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,” he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. “I envy you your energy and youth.” he added.

Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. All the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the Kins sat a man and one who reminded him achingly of his old friend.

Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-colored hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General—they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.

He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion.

Honest, forthright, and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but then so was most of the army these days.

Magnus knew they followed avidly in the steps of the young Thirsk.

It was just such a pity that the acrimony between Thirsk and Celimus still stood. For all Thirsk’s polite posturing and his obvious determination to keep his promise to his sovereign, Magnus saw through the veil. There was no love lost between the two. And no one could appreciate such a sentiment more keenly than the King. But, so long as Wyl Thirsk protected the heir faithfully, that would have to be enough.

Magnus understood Wyl’s feverish loyalty and would not have to question whether the younger man would put his understandable doubts about Celimus before Morgravia.

It would not be long now before they could test this theory. Magnus sensed his own time coming to an end and quietly welcomed it. He was tired. And lonely too. His wife long gone—Shar rot her; his great companion dead and his only son not much more than a stranger. Yes, it was drawing close to the time to hand Morgravia over to the new breed and give Celimus his time. Perhaps it would be the making of him.

Who could know? King and General would need to work together, though, as they always had in the past.

Morgravia and Briavel could rarely rest beyond a decade without waging war on each other. Magnus nodded to himself. Old Valor would be feeling creaky on his horse too. Perhaps they should just leave it to their children now, although Briavel had only a queen-in-waiting to govern it and a faint-hearted, fragile one at that. He had seen the Princess only once, at a royal marriage many years ago in faraway Tallinor when King Gyl had wed a civilian of no noble line, the honey-haired beauty Lauryn Gynt. All neighboring realms felt obligated to attend.

Magnus hated traveling out of Morgravia, but Fergys had counseled him gently, reminding him that Gyl’s father, old King Lorys. had been an ally to Morgravia many moons ago and a once-powerful sovereign of a vast realm. To snub his line by not attending the royal wedding would be unwise. Magnus had sensibly relented and with Fergys at his side had made the interminably long journey.

He had decided to take Celimus, which came as a surprise to the child’s minders. But Magnus, again at the urging of Fergys, wanted to spend time getting to know his son better. Without a mother to love him, the boy needed the strength and affection of his father to reassure and guide him. Fergys argued with Magnus that the visit provided an ideal opportunity to forge closer lines with his son. Embarrassingly, the boy showed an early aggression towards Briavel as Magnus had paid his respects to its monarch. The two Kings had stiffly bowed to each other but their curt salutations had been interrupted as Valor’s young daughter had suddenly become near-hysterical.

Granted, Celimus had looked decidedly guilty and the Princess’s doll was in several pieces on the flagstones of the reception hall but the racket that had ensued far outweighed the supposed deed. It was only a doll, for Shar’s sake, and the child’s terrible howling had clearly embarrassed her father. Magnus recalled how the plump, dark-haired girl had been run out of the hall by her maidservant, not to be seen again. He shook his head ruefully. She was no match for Celimus then and he knew she would be no match for the vain, often cruel man he had become. He wondered what would become of Morgravia and Briavel under their respective guidance.

But in truth, what worried him most was the threat from the north. Fergys had begged with dying words for Magnus to pay keen attention to the Mountain King. The Legion knew for a fact—had reported it on countless occasions—that Cailech’s people often slipped across the border. They were clever, rarely lingering, doing lightning-fast trips into and out of the realm for trade. He remembered his General’s warning: “It might be trade now. One day, Magnus, he’ll bring an army. He’s testing us. We must never allow him to feel comfortable.”

Magnus wondered whether Cailech and his people had made the same sorts of “trips” into Briavel. No doubt. He mused that the best response would be for the two heirs to the southern thrones to marry.

Bind the realms, blend the armies. Scare off Cailech.

He laughed to himself at the fanciful thought of Morgravia and Briavel being on friendly terms. It was then the King realized he had been in his thoughts too long and it was only politeness that kept the two young men before him alert.

“My apologies,” he said softly.

“No need, sire.” Wyl replied, relaxing into the cushions at his back. “Your garden is so tranquil, I too feel myself drifting.” He smiled.

Magnus returned it. glad in his heart to see Wyl Thirsk at such ease. There was a time when he had worried for the boy. All that business with the witch several years ago was a distant memory, now, but he still regretted the death of that girl. He had hated witnessing the sight of her battered naked body tied to the witch post.
Bah! Sorcery
, he thought to himself,
a lot of stuff and nonsense
. He was glad he had finally rid Morgravia of the office of Confessor. He had personally dismissed Lymbert the day after Myrren’s burning, and with the Confessor’s demise the only remaining channel for the Zerques’ religious zeal had closed. It had been six years since the last witch-burning and, in another few, most of the older folk—the believers—would be dead and with them their fanatical pursuits. The battle would be fully won and the Zerque Order would no longer hold any influence in Morgravia. The prospect was a relief, for Magnus no longer had the strength to fight that battle in the little time left to him. He was sorry that a young woman had to die to remind him of his promise to rid the realm of the Zerques, and that others—including his General—had also suffered.

Gueryn had still been in shock when he met with Magnus and had described the strangeness that had overcome Wyl during the witch’s execution. He had also mentioned the lad’s eyes changing color.

Magnus stole a glance at them now, relieved to see how ordinary they looked, a murky blue that Fergys had also possessed. The King had not believed Gueryn then and still maintained it was an aberration.

When Wyl had regained consciousness properly and with the King’s own physics in full attendance, the lad had appeared perfectly normal. Self-conscious but no worse for the curious event.

Those same unremarkable eyes now regarded him with a faint trace of amusement sparkling in them. “A mynk for your thoughts, sire.”

The King was pulled from his ponderings, winked at Wyl. and turned his attention to his other guest. “Ah, Alyd. How remiss of me. You see what age does to you, lad? So waste no time, marry this bright young sister of Wyl Thirsk’s and my blessing upon you both. May love and laughter follow you in your lives,” Magnus said, adding, “…and in your bedchamber.” Alyd grinned at the King’s final comment. “Are we looking forward to seeing the pretty Ylena as a Newleaf bride?” Alyd cleared his throat and a blush stole across his open, handsome face, which like Wyl’s had taken on a more angular look. His golden bright hair would probably still flop in his face if not for the short manner in which he styled it now. It suited him, together with the short beard and clipped moustache he now favored. Many a lass at Stoneheart would feel her heart break at the marriage announcement, the King realized.

“Your majesty, I can’t wait a moment longer. As soon as the royal tournament is done, we wish to make our union formal.”