Myrren's Gift (12 page)

“That soon?” Magnus replied, clearly surprised.

“I’ve tried, sire, to talk them out of it but there’s no stopping this pair, I’m afraid,” Wyl admitted.

“Ylena’s determined to wed Alyd within the month.”

“Then so be it. Fare well at the tourney.” The King stood, towering over Wyl despite his stoop. He clapped a hand on Alyd’s shoulder. “And. Alyd, watch that handsome face of yours if you’re to stand in front of an altar a few days later.”

“Thank you, your majesty; nothing will happen to me, sire. Ylena and I will grow old and fat together.” Their laughter was disturbed by the arrival of Celimus.

“Ah, father. I was sure I would find you here.”

Wyl and Alyd made stiff but courteous bows before the Prince.

“Forgive me, am I interrupting a private gathering?” he asked, the dazzling smile masking his contempt.

“No, son. Alyd here has just won my permission to wed his lovely Ylena. We were discussing the timing of the ceremony.”

“Congratulations, Alyd,” Celimus said, his smile not faltering. “I had always hoped to taste those rosy lips of Ylena Thirsk myself.”

Alyd felt Wyl’s stance stiffen yet more beside him. He always grabbed hungrily at the baits thrown him by the Prince. When would he learn to ignore him?

He replied in his usual deprecating manner. “Well, there’s such a long list of eligible beauties awaiting your attention, my Prince. I can’t imagine crossing Ylena off would matter to you much.”

“No. You’re right, it’s not such a loss really, is it?” the Prince said, enjoying watching Wyl bristle. “And you, General. What say you to this union? It must make you happy to see your sister off your hands and tumbling into the bed of a very rich Duke’s son.”

“Indeed, my Prince” was the only thing Wyl could think to say that sounded remotely polite.

“And when does this happy union take place?” Celimus persisted, pouring himself a cup of the wine.

Alyd answered, more than used to the chill that settled around this pair whenever they were near each other. “Soon after the royal tournament. Your father has given his blessing. Your invitation will arrive shortly, my Prince.” He gave the heir his very best smile.

Wyl sighed within. Even Alyd’s disarming looks were nothing compared to those of Celimus. The Prince of Morgravia had grown into a glorious-looking man, easily overshadowing the handsome youth he had been a few years previous. Taller now than his father, broad and slim-hipped, he could still the tongues of a room full of chatting people simply by his arrival, such was his impact.

“Then I shall have to dream up an appropriate wedding gift for the sister of our esteemed General here,” Celimus replied after draining his cup.

Magnus decided to bring the barbed conversation to a close. “Son. you came here to talk with me? Let me just bid farewell to my guests and we can sit together awhile.”

“No need, sire.” Celimus replied. “It involves these two fine soldiers—in fact their good opinions would be valuable.”

“Oh?” said the King, wondering what mischief might be afoot now.

“Yes, it’s about the tournament, Father. I wish to make arrangements for us to use real weapons.” The King shook his head and made to move away. “You know my feelings on this, Celimus. I will not risk the heir.”

“My lord.” For one rare moment, Celimus lost his smirk and the tone which usually accompanied it.

There was a plea in his voice now. “It is because I’m to be King of Morgravia one day that I beg this of you. We are not boys practicing in the bailey any more, father. We are trained soldiers. Thirsk here could cut down any man I know blindfolded…except me, of course.” His regular demeanor made its return.

“This is no longer a time for play swords, father. Let us fight like men because we are men. You may need us on that battlefield sooner than you think and then we’ll have to die like men at the end of an ugly blade.”

Wyl leapt onto the Prince’s words. It would be one of the rare times in his role as General that he would agree with Celimus. “Your majesty, my Prince is right. This is an exhibition but let’s give everyone a genuine insight into hand-to-hand fighting.”

Magnus was cornered. In truth he did not know why he had fought so hard against the use of real swords; a small voice told him that it was because he had been afraid that Celimus and Wyl—even as youths—might have well fought to an ugly end. But here they stood, strong and bold; men bristling with barely repressed energy and passion.

He was making a fool of Celimus to make him fight with wooden weapons.

He nodded, resigned to their plea, and the three in front of him could hardly contain their pleasure at his concession.

The annual royal tourney was a major festival for Morgravia and the folk traveled from far and wide to partake of the festivities. Around the tournament fields grew a veritable village of traveling sideshows and marketers of exotic wares. A seemingly endless queue of gypsy wagons, tinkers’ carts, and country people lined up patiently at the city gates to gain entrance into Pearlis. Troupes of tumblers, singers, musicians, and even a small circus formed part of this line too.

The population on the outskirts of the northern end of the city where they held the tournament had doubled in two days, then quadrupled in four. Excitement was building and the local inns were enjoying their traditional busy season.

Magnus, having learned from past experience, was keen to ensure the city dwellers did not take advantage of the poorer visitors enjoying a day’s holiday from their backbreaking toil on the land. He sent out edicts that special fees were to be offered on accommodation, stables, eating houses, and watering holes. Through Wyl he set up a special crew of soldiers to make random checks on the various taverns to see that their ale was not too watered and that their food remained honest. Wyl chose Alyd to supervise this crew, knowing his friendly and open manner would ease the pain for disgruntled tavern proprietors out to double their fees.

Helmets and breastplates, the only armor Morgravian soldiers wore, were polished until they sparkled.

Horses were groomed until their coats shone and weapons were oiled and sharpened so that sparks would ignite when they struck each other. The thrill of using real weapons had touched off a fire of excitement. Training in the lead-up to the day had never had a more fierce intensity.

Wyl had to constantly remind his men on the use of these weapons.

“Exhibition only. Don’t forget it. There will be ladies of the court present and a wealth of guests from all over the realm. We do not want the women passing out at the sight of flesh being opened by overzealous combatants.”

He had more advice on the other skills that would be on display.

“Yes, you heard me right.” he said above the indignant mutterings. “Wrestlers, oil up out front this year—I’m assured the women like to watch, and apparently so does Captain Donal,” he added, winning a roar of delight from his men, who clapped a furious yet helplessly amused Alyd on the back.

Wyl dismissed the men and caught up with Alyd. “I’d like to take you up on that sparring idea but I’m afraid I’m being reserved for a special piece.” he admitted grimly.

“Oh?” Alyd inquired, his mind racing as to what this might be. “Let me guess. The Prince?”

“Correct.”

“My guess then is that he plans to hurt you, and what better opportunity than in the name of entertainment at our most public festival?”

“He has to be able to get through my guard first.”

“I’ve watched him too, Wyl. He’s good.”

Wyl shrugged. “But perhaps not good enough. We’ll see in a few days.” Alyd laughed. “And then we’ll celebrate at the Alley,” he said, a wicked glint in his eye.

But Wyl did not grin. “I need to share something. Celimus is planning more than just a humiliation for me.

He aims to hurt me in more ways than physically. He wants to fight for the Virgin Kiss.”

“So?” Alyd looked perplexed. “I think I would too.”

“Mmm. But which virgin is he most likely to choose, do you think?” Understanding struck Alyd like lightning. “Ylena,” he said flatly and stopped walking.

“Correct again.”

“I won’t permit it.” Alyd said, shaking his head wildly. “I will not allow that man’s lips to touch those of my betrothed.”

Wyl looked pained. He cast a glance around to see no one could overhear them. “It’s worse. He’s reintroducing the ancient form of this rite. It’s called Virgin Blood. It’s far more sinister than the Kiss, Alyd.” Wyl had only just been informed about this dark turn of events himself and he was now on his way to the King to seek an audience. “He means to bed Ylena before you.”

“Then he’ll have to kill me first,” Alyd replied, his voice cold and hard. “No, he’ll have to kill me,” Wyl answered.

When Wyl arrived to petition the King, Orto informed him that the sovereign was ailing—it seemed Magnus was far more fragile than Wyl had been previously led to understand. He was permitted to see his King, but only briefly, a hollow-eyed physic cautioned before leaving them alone.

“Hello, dear Wyl. I knew I would see you here before long,” the old man said.

Wyl was too diverted by the sickly appearance of his sovereign to hear the underlying message in those words.

“Sire, what ails you?” he asked, taken aback.

Magnus was propped up on a mound of cushions and, although his manservant had seen to it that he was perfectly groomed, nothing could disguise his newly sunken, pale visage.

“Can you not guess?”

Wyl was unprepared for this. Suddenly all notion of aggressive petitioning fled. It was clear the old man would not make it to the royal tournament, even less likely to Ylena’s wedding.

Magnus allowed his guest’s silence for a few difficult moments and then said what needed to be shared.

“I am dying, Wyl.” The King held his hand up as his young visitor made to protest. “Please…sit with me a while. I have some things to say to you.” Magnus motioned for Wyl to take the seat next to his bed.

Wyl obeyed, his mind running the King’s words over in his head.
Dying
.

“Ask me an intelligent question…the sort your father would want to know.” Wyl did not feel like playing games but knew he must go along with his King’s request. He took a moment to consider before he spoke.

“I believe my father would want to know how long you might reckon we have.” Magnus clapped his hands once. “Good, Wyl. Excellent. That is precisely what Fergys would have asked. No shallow sympathies, no dwelling on what cannot be changed. He would set aside any personal emotion and get on with the business at hand, which is what must be set in place before I depart.” Wyl nodded. “Which in your estimation might be when, sire?”

“Ah well, my physic tells me with luck I may see the next full moon.” Wyl felt as though a knife were turning in his gut. and sensed the person holding that knife was Celimus. It was too soon for the old man to die.

“Does your son know?”

“Another good question. No. I have not seen Celimus since that time in the garden with you and Alyd—and yet I have seen plenty of you since then. Odd, wouldn’t you say?” the old man asked genially. It belied how he truly felt.

Wyl did not know how to respond. He blinked. “I cannot imagine our lives without you ruling, sire.” The King’s voice became earnest and his sunken eyes seemed to spark. “You must! You alone must have a vision for the protection of Morgravia because Celimus, though skilled enough in the tools and strategy of war, will not. His mind, sadly, is filled with debauchery just now.”

“My King, with deepest respect, I fear you may underestimate the Prince. He is ambitious.” Magnus agreed. “I sense that is not a compliment to him, although you dissemble cleverly, General.” Wyl sensibly said nothing. “If he is ambitious, then he hides it well from me. However, I think you are right, Wyl. I too believe Celimus is not as shallow in his thoughts as he would have us all think.”

“No, sire. He has a razor-sharp mind, and if I might talk freely?” Magnus nodded.

“Then I would foresee that upon your death he will rule with a fierce hand.”

“This much is true. He may be subtle but he lacks the finesse and indeed the largesse I hoped he would have acquired by now. He is. however, true to Morgravia, I believe, and in this I commend him. He will not permit it to lag behind its neighbors…and neither must you, Wyl Thirsk. Briavel may make a move toward war again in the next few years, when it feels strong again.”

“It is the Mountain Dwellers who concern me more, sire.”

“Just like your father.” The old man sighed.

“He was right, your majesty.”

“Yes, he was. You must continue to strengthen our northern forces. Cailech grows more bold.”

“The retaliative skirmishes occur more often, sire. In days gone the Mountain Dwellers would flee if they encountered any of our patrols.”

Magnus sighed. “And now they stand and fight. Bold indeed. Your father warned as much with his last breath. You must pay attention to the north, son. It may be that Cailech takes on Briavel first, but it’s Morgravia that presents the greater challenge. If he can take Morgravia, then Briavel—when Valentyna ascends the throne—will be an easy victory.”

Wyl frowned in thought, recalling the most recent reports. “I don’t like us taking the Mountain People’s lives. It only inflames a potentially lethal situation and I have given an edict that they are to be spared on all counts. Taken prisoner if necessary.”

“Thank you. Fergys,” the King said, finding an ironic grin. “Oh, but you do remind me so hauntingly of him, Wyl. That’s exactly the sort of thing he would say.” Wyl shrugged. “I don’t want us at war on two fronts. Cailech right now is controllable if we don’t incite problems. Perhaps, if we can calm the escalation, we might even be able to hold talks with him.” Magnus flicked a glance at his General. “A parley with the King of the Mountains. I wish I could be there for that,” he mused.

Wyl could hardly believe they were having this conversation. He switched topic. “How do you feel, sire?

Is there pain?”

“Of no consequence. It is manageable with the poppy-seed liquor.” Wyl suspected Magnus of withholding the truth but he allowed it to pass. “Your majesty…Ylena’s wedding. Would you care to hand on the duty of giving her away? Perhaps to your next of kin?” Magnus’s eyes became wide with mirth. “Celimus?”