Myrren's Gift (17 page)

Wyl shrugged. What harm could it do? He sat and offered his hands but she did not take them.

He risked a personal question. “Are you blind?”

“Almost. I see everything as a blur. Still, I have never needed the sight of eyes.” The tent felt suddenly still and tense as Wyl absorbed her meaning. He felt a disquiet take hold. Talk of magic made him uneasy.

She seemed in no hurry. “Where do you come from?”

“Argorn,” he replied. “And you?”

“Not these parts. My home is in the far north—a little-known town called Yentro. Now. what would you like to know?”

Wyl shrugged at her question. He was here now and suspected she would not permit him to leave without some sort of reading. He wanted to say he knew this was just for fun but her intent, serious expression compelled him to play along. “Why not tell me my fortune?”

“Pah! I’m no sideshow fortune teller. I put on that act for the revelers.” He took his chance. “Perhaps I should leave, then?”

“Stay. You intrigue me. There is an aura about you.”

Now Wyl laughed. He could hear loud, sickly groans coming from Alyd outside and thought it best to make his departure.

“I promise you. Widow, no one has ever found anything intriguing about me.” She did return his smile this time. “Tell me, do you believe in otherworldly things?”

“Such as?”

“Having the Sight.” she said, carefully this time.

“No. But here is the regal I owe you for permitting us to visit your tent. I think I must go see to my sickening friend.”

Wyl pressed the coin into her hands and was taken aback at the alarmed manner in which she shrank from his touch.

“What’s wrong?” he said, indignant.

She did not reply. Instead a low moan issued from her throat.

“Widow!” he called. “What ails you?”

The old woman began to sway and then she spoke a soft, mysterious chant in a language Wyl had never heard.

He recoiled from her. “I will leave now.”

She seemed to come out of her strange reverie. “Wait!” she hissed. “You must be told.”

“Told what?”

“Let me hold your hands.”

“No! I want no part of this. I don’t know why I let myself come here tonight.”

“Because you were relieved.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That you foiled him,” she answered, her milky gaze locked on his astonished face now.

Wyl sat. “Tell me.” he commanded.

She shook her head, her blank stare moving to look past him. “None of that is important. Neither is the fact that I know. Only one thing matters.”

Wyl was confused now. “You’re not making sense to me.”

“Listen to me carefully. Wyl Thirsk.” she said, her voice low and grave.

“I didn’t give you my na—”

“Hush! I am in much pain and have the strength only to say this once. Pay attention to me. I am a seer and I speak only the truth to you. Keep your money—I give my advice freely to a man touched by magic.”

Wyl balked but she grabbed his hand this time. Her grip was harsh. “You walk a perilous journey, son, and on it you are accompanied by something dark and friendless.” Wyl’s eyes narrowed. He felt a hollow open in the pit of his stomach.

“Heed me well.” she continued. “It may destroy you or you may use it wisely to your own ends. It has no loyalties no rhythm of its own. No care for anything but itself.”

“Woman…what are you talking of?”

“I talk of the Quickening.” she snapped. “It is Myrren’s gift, which she bestowed on you as she died.

You must take great care. Wyl Thirsk.”

Quickening
? Wyl repeated in his mind. “What is it?”

“Some might consider it a curse but Myrren made it her gift.” Until that moment Wyl had never considered that Myrren was anything more than a beautiful and tragic young woman. To hear this stranger infer that she was empowered was unnerving.

“Her gift to me was a dog,” he said flatly.

She nodded now. “He is part of it. Knave will protect you and the true gift she gave.” Wyl pressed her. “How can you know all of this?” He shook his head, bewildered; how she could know his name, his dog’s name, even Myrren’s name? He took a steadying breath. “How must I use it?”

“That I cannot advise. It is your gift to wield as you see fit.”

“When will I know of its existence?”

“It is already within you. It exists now.” She coughed raggedly.

“What do I do with it, woman? Tell me!” he begged, frightened now by her words.

“You will know when the time comes, although I see swirling about you a woman of note. She needs your protection.”

Wyl was baffled. “You have to tell me all that you see.”

The widow coughed again and dropped his hands. When she had recovered, she said breathlessly, “I see only this. Those you love will suffer. Keep the dog and its friend close.” The world was spinning for Wyl. He could not tell whether it was the effect of the ale making him dizzy—although he felt suddenly sober—or the strange sticks that burned their spicy fragrance in her tent.

“You lie. old woman.”

Her voice was hard now when she spoke. “I never lie in what I see. Your friends are vulnerable. There is a woman—she’s important—who needs your help.”

He wanted to ignore her, wanted to run. Instead he grabbed her arm, caring not for the way she flinched again from his touch or perhaps from the pain he might be inflicting.

“Get gone, woman. We have no need of you here.”

“Take care, Wyl Thirsk. Beware the Mountains. The other friend I spoke of is already known to you.

Keep him close.”

Wyl shoved her arm aside and strode from the tent.

Chapter 9

Fynch was four when his father first pressed him into service as one of Stoneheart’s gong boys. His wages, a pittance though they were, had helped to keep the family from starvation and. although his daily grind was about as unsavory a task as any could imagine, the young Fynch had quickly taken pride in his work. So much so that his diligence and commitment to his lowly task over the past six years had come to the attention of the King.

Before his illness forced him to his bed. Magnus had enjoyed morning walks around the palace, during which he had come across the hardworking lad. Both were creatures of habit. Fynch found himself toiling in the same place at the same time most days, and likewise the King followed a preferred route through the grounds. The regularity of their encounters meant that a nod of greeting eventually ensued, which turned into a few polite words and then into a daily discourse, brief but engaging. Magnus, in his later years, had become interested in the young. It was his eternal regret that he had not played a greater role in shaping Celimus and that he had. in effect, lost his own child. He had found Fynch. despite his low status and serious nature, to be intelligent beyond his years.

One summer morning when the uncleared refuse from the royal lavatories had become particularly ripe in the heat, the King had complained to the seneschal about the unreliable nature of the youngster in question and suggested that young Fynch was the lad for the task. Fynch was promptly moved from one of the lowlier tunnels to the main royal apartments. It was a meteoric rise in status for one so young.

From then on his wages had quadrupled, for the gong boy to the royals was expected to be discreet.

Fynch had taken his promotion very seriously—as was his way—and there had never since been cause for complaint with regard to the keeper of the royal dropholes, for either his tongue or his toil. But now that the King had taken so ill, Fynch missed their fleeting chats; Magnus did too.

Since his new appointment both of Fynch’s parents had died in a cart accident, leaving the family of four children with its eldest barely thirteen years old. Like Fynch she was a serious child and took to the task of caring for her brood with vigor. Fynch’s wages were now of infinite importance to ensure the younger ones could count on at least one daily meal and he considered himself the man of the family.

Even at ten Fynch remained a painfully slight child. He ate as little as the bird that inspired his name. His sister, who loved him well, had given up on scolding her brother with regard to his poor eating habits.

Even though she still fretted that if he fell ill the family would perish, she had the sensibility to realize that Fynch was not driven by his belly as were so many lads working around the castle. Yet, in spite of his woeful leanness and stunted growth, he continued to thrive. His size also meant he could continue in this line of work for many years yet, which further secured the family’s well-being.

At the time of his promotion to the royal dropholes, Fynch struck up another curious relationship—this time with a big black dog. It was an unremarkable autumn dawn, misty and chill. But the gong boy was about his work early to ensure the King’s and the Prince’s individual dropholes were cleared and freshened before they had risen for the day. While shoveling he had noticed an immense black dog emerge from around one of the castle walls. The dog had stared at him for a long while. He had whistled to him, knowing this beast looked too well fed and shiny to be a wild dog and glad of the small distraction from his filthy work, but the dog had remained motionless, watching him carefully through dark, intelligent eyes.

When he did finally approach, he was swift and without warning. The boy had stood his ground but felt nonetheless terrified.

This was an enormous dog and when he had arrived to stand boldly in front of Fynch, he was only just able to look down upon him. The dog had neither blinked nor flinched when he had tentatively reached out to touch him. But as he did so he had felt as though he were being blinded as a torrent of information had flooded into him. It took his breath away and suddenly he had a vision of Wyl Thirsk. The vision had dissolved as quickly as it had come and he had found himself staring into the liquid eyes of the dog.

Taking a deep, steadying breath. Fynch had sat down to regain his wits. The dog then settled by him and allowed him to absently scratch his ears and stroke his huge head while he thought about what he had experienced. When the dog suddenly barked, the huge sound frightened Fynch so much he fell backward. As if to reassure him, the dog had licked his face before bounding away. The next day he had returned for more of the same. Just as Fynch had struck up an unlikely relationship with King Magnus, he had now become friend to this doe.

Fynch often felt, in fact, that the beast could sense his thoughts, although he would never admit to such a thing. He was privately convinced that he and the dog did communicate on a deeper level than the ordinary man-to-beast relationship. It became important to him to learn its name and who owned this fine canine and so he followed it back one afternoon and found the dog playing and gamboling around the red-headed General, of all people. More than just coincidence, then, that he had experienced that strange vision. He knew very little of Wyl Thirsk but since that alarming vision and through his interest in the man’s dog—whom he noticed paid scant attention to anyone in the soldiers’ yards except the General—he began to learn more about him.

He quickly discovered the dog’s name was Knave and realized that he did attend a few other people, including the older soldier Gueryn, the General’s sister, and the always smiling, friendly Captain Alyd Donal. For almost every other individual, barring himself, the dog reserved a menacing stare or low growl.

Fynch was a born observer, unconsciously absorbing vast amounts of visual and spoken information each day. Then, without even realizing he was doing it, he would sift through it all of an evening, taking from it what he wished. Although he never used this talent beyond his own interest, the lad had gathered an enviable wealth of information on just about anyone who wandered Stoneheart. He knew their habits, their friends, their lovers. He shared his information with no one, but his memory for detail only grew more intense as he matured. Fynch realized he could extract items from years gone by, bringing them into instantly sharp focus.

Over the months since he had befriended Knave—their familiarity now stretching to sharing his midday meal with the dog—he had begun to loosen from his memories various whispered conversations and scenes involving Wyl Thirsk and had soon produced a comprehensive picture of a man he now liked immensely. Finally he had plucked up the courage to speak with him last night, on the evening of the tourney, but that was not the first time he had been that close. No, the first time he had seen Wyl, he was new to his trade as gong boy. The General had collapsed at the witch-burning.

Fynch had gone to the scene out of a childish curiosity. It was his first witch-burning and, appalled by the horror and the excitement of the adults around him, he had quickly decided it was to be his last. He was just four summers when he witnessed the terrible sight but what he saw afterward would make an even deeper impression on his mind.

Although the soldier. Gueryn, thought no one else had witnessed the phenomenon, Fynch, who happened to be carrying his tiny water bag and offered it to help the young man, noticed that when Wyl Thirsk regained consciousness his eyes were of a chilling and strange hue.

It had frightened him. But the General’s eyes had reverted to their normal color, blue and unremarkable.

He did not know what to make of all that.

Now, at dawn, as he made his way through the grounds towards the royal dropholes, he mulled over the previous evening’s events. He had been surprised when General Thirsk had burst from the tent of the Widow Ilyk and ordered them back to Stoneheart. The General had been distracted and solemn as he grabbed his sore-headed friend and with Fynch’s assistance had helped the semiconscious Captain back to the castle, Knave trotting happily ahead.

The General had tossed him some coin and thanked him for his help that evening.

“Are you all right, sir?” Fynch recalled asking, a reflex to the man’s suddenly vacant stare.

He remembered how the General, only an hour earlier so jovial, had finally focused upon him. “I am well.

A little startled from what I learned.” he had admitted and then fallen abruptly silent as though regretting he had said as much as he had.