Myrren's Gift (16 page)

“I choose the Lady Ylena Thirsk of Argorn,” he said, his dark eyes finally coming to rest upon the one woman who would sooner die than give up something so precious to this fiendish man.

Ignoring her slump-shouldered, bleeding brother and the outraged Alyd Donal, the Prince walked to where she stood not far from King Magnus, who had closed his tired eyes at the mention of his ward’s name. Celimus ensured his own hand was outstretched graciously toward her in what, to the audience, looked like a charmingly beseeching manner and yet to Alyd appeared purely predatory.

The Prince had no intention of wasting any time. He would take her to his bed this moment and relish the opportunity not only to loose his passion on someone so comely but to drive a blade into the heart of the two men he knew hated him more than any. Those who might defy him would learn a hard lesson today and it would serve them well for when shortly he took the throne.

Celimus bowed formally. “My lady,” he said, unable to contain the delight at his conniving brilliance.

“Prince Celimus,” Wyl said, stepping up and bending low before the royal. He turned toward Magnus.

“Your majesty, if you’ll forgive my intrusion?”

Magnus opened his eyes and nodded, hardly daring to believe that Wyl might have taken his hint as to how to foil Celimus’s plan.

Wyl straightened. “Sire, apologies. I do believe there has been a misunderstanding here.”

“Oh?” Magnus replied, hope suddenly flaring in his heart.

Wyl nodded gravely. He looked at Celimus. “My Prince, as her only living relative, I cannot permit you to choose Ylena.”

Celimus’s smile faltered, turning into a sneer. “I’m not sure your familial ties override the royal claim, Thirsk. Step aside.”

Gueryn’s eyes narrowed. He had no idea what was going on here and he could only pray that Wyl knew what he was doing.

“No, my Prince, I’m afraid I cannot do that. You are not grasping the full import of what I say. It is not I who forbids you to lie with my sister. It is the law of our land.” Celimus could no longer brook this delaying tactic. He was tired and sweaty; lust was already coursing through his veins for revenge on the Thirsk family, as well as the sweet release that lying with the young woman who stood before him could achieve.

“Law! Which law would that be. Thirsk?”

“The sanctified law of marriage, my Prince,” Wyl said, his face deliberately portraying one of troubled confusion. “I’m sorry, sire, did no one here know?”

“Know what?” spluttered Celimus, looking between his father and the increasingly smug expressions of the Thirsks.

Alyd stepped in. “Perhaps I can explain, my Prince. You see, it is I who forbids you to lie with my wife.”

“Your wife!” Celimus roared, his body shaking with the rage he now felt.

Gueryn, behind him, began to smirk as he pieced together what must have occurred.

Alyd nodded. “Yes. Ylena and I are married. Apologies to all—we thought the loose-tongued priest would have let the whole of Stoneheart know by now,” he said, grinning and taking Ylena’s hand. “We were too engaged in marital pursuits to broadcast our happy news, although we did intend to make formal announcements later today.”

Wyl thought he might laugh at Alyd’s sugary manner.

“Fetch the priest,” Celimus demanded and a page was sent hurrying to find the man. “In the meantime, Ylena, please tell me when this marriage occurred.”

Ylena curtsied to Celimus. “Our wedding took place yesterday, my lord Prince, a little earlier than planned.” She looked toward the King as she spoke, rather than Celimus.

“And I can certainly vouch that my wife is no longer a virgin, probably already with child.” Alyd said, standing a bit taller.

“You knew of this?” Celimus said flatly to Wyl. His voice was harsh and low.

“My Prince, you must forgive me. I gladly gave my sister away to her betrothed, an honor that was also sanctioned by the Crown. I had no inkling that she would be your first choice. But then, as you yourself have mentioned, every young maiden here is delectable in her own right. I know you will have no trouble choosing another.”

The priest arrived, pale and shaking. His pudgy hands kept moving across his mouth nervously.

“Answer me in a word, priest. Did you marry Ylena Thirsk of Argorn to Alyd Donal of Felrawthy?” Celimus demanded.

“Yes,” the priest answered, trembling, then added for good measure, “In Stoneheart’s chapel.” Celimus closed his eyes briefly in what looked like pain. “When?” His tone was acid.

“Yesterday morning, your highness. It was a private ceremony, attended only by the bride, her brother the General, and Captain Donal. This was done in accordance with General Thirsk’s wishes,” he said, turning to look at the King beseechingly.

“You may depart.” Celimus responded, barely able to contain his rage. “Father, you are legal guardian to Ylena. I presume you have given your signed permission to this union?” Magnus considered how best to answer his son without betraying the Thirsk family. He looked toward Orto and it was his calm and collected secretary who came to the rescue.

“Sire.” Orto said gently. “I recall the papers being signed two nights ago. It was a brief session, for you were very unwell. If my memory serves me right, you put your signature to only two parchments. This sanction was one of them.”

“Ah, there you have it. son.” Magnus said, but Celimus had already turned on his heel and pointed to one young woman from the nobility, much to the delight of the crowd. He strode away from the Thirsk party.

Wyl glanced toward Magnus, who nodded almost imperceptibly, a wry smile of relief barely touching his mouth.
Cunning indeed, young Wyl
, he thought. He turned to his manservant. “Come, Orto. I believe we have some pressing paperwork.”

“Yes, sire,” the man said, his solicitous expression unchanged. “Allow me to assist you.”
Chapter 8

A reckless mood had hit Alyd and Wyl that evening. With a number of soldiers, they broke the Legion’s drinking record, leaving an increasing number of the men retching in the street and doomed to sleep where they had fallen, too intoxicated to help themselves. Tournament night alone was the only occasion on which this sort of indiscretion by the Legionnaires would be tolerated.

“Leave them,” Alyd called over his shoulder, swerving into Wyl. “Weak sods that they are. Now, hear me, men still standing,” he bellowed, “I gave my word to General Thirsk that I would take him into the Alley and have his fortune told.”

Sounds of hearty agreement ensued and Wyl, his spirits still soaring from Ylena’s close escape, made no protest at being swept along on the merry, drunken tide of happy soldiers prolonging their tournament revelries. He had managed to put behind him Celimus’s diabolical threat to hurt those he loved, and was even feeling slightly foolish at falling for it. The group wended its way into the Alley, which was itself still a lively hive of activity.

“Right, lads. We need to find the Widow something or other,” Alyd said, grinning crookedly, eyes vague and red.

“Widow Ilyk,” Wyl corrected, far less in his cups than his friend.

“First one to find her gets a silver duke for his trouble,” Alyd yelled, brandishing the coin.

Soldiers departed in various directions, more out of fun than a need to earn more coin to drink with.

A small boy with a curious smell about him emerged from the crowd and grabbed at Wyl’s shirt.

“General, sir, I know where the widow’s tent is.”

“Then you can earn the duke,” Alyd said, unsteady on his feet. “Could you take us to it?”

“Follow me,” the boy said brightly.

“How old are you?” Wyl asked, suddenly noticing that Knave had appeared with the lad.

“Ten summers, General, sir.”

“Call me Wyl.”

“I couldn’t, sir.”

“Then what do I call you, young guide?” Wyl said, ignoring the odd aroma and taking his small hand.

The youngster eyed him. “My name is Fynch, General.”

They walked on. Alyd calling to some of the men to stop their search and to follow.

Wyl looked at the lean child, who had large, seemingly all-knowing eyes. “Do you live in Pearlis, Fynch?”

“Yes, sir. And I work at Stoneheart,” he said proudly.

“I see. And what is your duty?”

“I’m a gong boy, sir,” he said proudly. “I’ve been cleaning the sewer tunnels at the palace since I was four, but I’ve recently been promoted to take care of the royal apartments’ dropholes, so I can assure you I am earnest in my work.”

“Well now, that would explain the rather individual smell you carry around with you, Fynch,” Alyd said, not unkindly. “And you will no doubt be very busy tomorrow, as Prince Celimus’s privy will be getting a right royal workout tonight, I’ll wager.”

Fynch did not understand the jest but he joined in the men’s laughter, thrilled to be in the company of the General he had admired for several years, and pleased that this was the first person ever who had not made a comment on how tiny he seemed for his age.

“Here we are. sir.” he said presently as they came to the tent, which now looked even more mysterious with its candle lanterns of many-colored glass strung along the awning, sending flickers of red, blue, and green into the darkness of the Alley.

“Do you believe in this fortune-telling stuff?” Wyl asked him.

“I think the widow does this purely for fun,” Fynch admitted. Then he fixed Wyl with a direct gaze. “But if you ask me whether I believe in some people being able to see things…whether some people have the Sight, then yes I do.”

“Blasphemous child!” Alyd said theatrically. “Look out for Stalkers,” he added but stopped that line of jest at Wyl’s pained expression. “All right, who’s first?” Alyd called. The men all raised their hands at once and drunkenly pushed into the tent. Alyd flipped the boy the coin. “Thanks, Fynch.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he answered. “Can I assist with anything else. General?”

“No. You’ve been most helpful. I’m sure we’ll see you around the castle.”

“That you will. Would you mind if I waited for you?”

Wyl smiled. He suspected that the boy had no home to go to. And he was intrigued at how Knave stayed close to the boy. “I don’t mind at all. You can walk back with us later. I might need help with my friend.” He glanced towards where Alyd swayed at the entrance.

“I’ll wait out here then, sir.” Fynch said, seating himself crosslegged on the grass next to the General’s large black dog.

Wyl and Alyd were the last to be seen by the fortune teller, by which time the rest of the soldiers had staggered out. still drunk and seemingly none the wiser for the counsel. It did not surprise their Captain.

No one took a fortune teller seriously.

“Fairground tricks. General.” he said, a dazed grin on his face. “All a bit of fun for the lads.”

“Come in” they heard the woman call.

Wyl threw a resigned expression toward Fynch before he and Alyd pushed open the drapes and entered the dimmed space within.

“Welcome,” she said.

Wyl stared at the old woman standing before them who called herself the Widow Ilyk. It came as a shock to him that she appeared to be blind, her eyes almost white from whatever afflicted her. The rest of her face was forgettable. A collection of ordinary features that had seen much weathering by sun and wind on her travels. As a result she was tanned and her skin looked like well-worn leather. She wore no adornments and her clothes were simple, well-patched garments of dun brown. For some reason he had expected her to be gaudy of dress and dripping with charms and bracelets.

It appeared that the same thought had struck the Captain through his liquor haze. “What, no fancy costume for us, Widow?” Alyd feigned disappointment.

“I’m tired of it,” she replied, her milky gaze never leaving Wyl. “I wore it all day. Those clothes are hot and heavy.” She grinned, revealing gaps in her stained teeth. “Ah, but the people do enjoy the theatrics. I like to please. Would you prefer that I climbed back into them?”

“No,” Alyd answered, holding up his hands. He looked very unsteady. “No bother. I’ve brought my friend here—just for a laugh.” Alyd belched, rocking on his heels.

Wyl decided it was time to get him home. He looked back at the fortune teller, a little embarrassed. “Do you travel alone?” he asked, for want of anything better to say.

She hobbled toward a chair, feeling for it. “My niece helps me. She is not here this evening,” she replied, seeming to stare at nothing now. “You two men were here earlier today, weren’t you?”

“How can you know this?” Alyd slurred, teetering dangerously.

“I’m guessing.” She chuckled to herself and changed the subject. “Young man, would you be kind enough to hang the sign you see beneath this table outside my tent? I think I am done for the night.” Wyl obliged. When he returned to the dimly lit area where the widow sat, Alyd had placed himself opposite her and she was holding both of his hands in her large, wrinkled pair. Blue veins traversed their old journeys across the backs of her hands and her oversized knuckles suggested she suffered the disease of the joints.

As if reading his thoughts, she spoke. “Ah, but the pain in my fingers is bad today.” Alyd winked crookedly at Wyl. “What can you tell me, old woman?” he mumbled.

“What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about Captain Alyd Donal, the luckiest husband in all of Morgravia,” he said expansively, all but falling off his chair.

“Well, I can see that you have consumed too much of the King’s fine ale today. And in the future I envisage a mighty headache and fragile humor,” she said, a smile at the edges of her mouth.

Alyd tried to focus on her, his expression confused. “Do you know, I think you’re right. Widow.” He hiccuped, a sign of impending doom. “You are indeed a woman of insight,” he said, suddenly overcome by nausea. “Would you excuse me, I think the ale wants to be returned.” And he ran from the tent.

Wyl spun around in surprise to watch him stumble out and then awkwardly turned back to the woman.

He wished he could leave as well.

She chuckled again. “And so to the quiet friend,” she said, the white eyes resting somewhere over his shoulder.