Myrren's Gift (30 page)

Wyl nodded to cut her short. “I will leave the dog here with you. Fynch and I have things to discuss.”

“What did this boy mean by calling you an assassin?” she asked.

“A mistake. I will explain later but let me talk to him first. He has been through much, my lady.” Ylena shook her head, not understanding any of it. “Knave seems attached to you,” she said with equal confusion. “And yet he hates everyone.”

“I have a way with animals,” Wyl said, hoping that would suffice for now. “Excuse me,” he added and dragged Fynch from the room, his hand still over the lad’s mouth.

A chamber at the end of the hall was mercifully empty. Wyl took Fynch inside.

“I want you to promise me you will not scream but listen. I have news you must know. I understand you were a good friend to Wyl Thirsk. Please. I know about Valentyna and your escape. Just promise you will listen.”

Fynch nodded wide-eyed from behind Romen’s hand. When Wyl released him, Fynch scuttled away, breathing hard with fright.

“I know about you,” he accused. “I know you were hired to kill General Thirsk.” Wyl sighed. He felt it was suddenly useless to try to convince Fynch he was anyone but Romen Koreldy—for now anyway. No one, not even someone who allowed for magic, would believe him. His mind raced; he must persuade the lad to trust him.

“Fynch.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Wyl told me.”

“Is it true—is he dead?”

Wyl nodded, hating to lie to the courageous lad. He watched Fynch fight back his inclination to weep.

“They say you brought him back,” he said, contempt glittering in his damp eyes.

“I did.”

“But you killed him.”

“No.” Wyl lied, knowing it was Romen’s skilled arm that had killed his body. He decided he would never be able to explain and pressed on with crafting a new lie.

“Wyl told me what you’d overheard. It is true and he and I spoke about it. After you and the Princess had escaped, he warned me not to trust Celimus. He told me everything and then when the attack came, I realized my life was dispensable too—that Celimus had almost certainly ordered my death together with Wyl’s. In the end we fought on the same side, Fynch. We both protected King Valor—”

“Valor’s dead!” Fynch hurled back.

“I know. I watched him fall to the blade of a man called Arkol, who then turned on me. Wyl and I had already dispatched most of the mercenaries to their gods but Wyl was cut down by two men. He took one with him at the same time as I killed Arkol. I was wounded and if not for Wyl’s courageous slash from the ground where he was bleeding to death, my life would be gone too. He distracted the last man long enough for me to gather my wits and finish him off.” Fynch was crying now and Wyl hated himself deeply for the lies.

“Wyl died in my arms but not before making me promise that I would get his sister to safety. I had already given my oath that I would protect Princess Valentyna.” Fynch looked up, disbelief crossing his face. “Did you?”

Wyl nodded. “I gave my promise with blood.” He showed him the wound on his palm. “So you see.

Fynch. I am on your side. I came back for Ylena and to see that Wyl Thirsk gets the burial he deserves. I made sure the Legionnaires saw his body and knew that he had been sent on a special mission to Briavel by the King. Celimus cannot squirm out of that now. He must hail Wyl as the hero he was for Morgravia.

I have deliberately seen to it that the Thirsk name is not sullied. Do you believe me?” He just stopped short of begging.

The small lad sniffed. He considered for a long time, long enough for Wyl to feel uncomfortable in the silence. Finally Fynch spoke. “I will trust you for one reason only.”

“And that is?” Wyl asked, Romen’s eyebrow lifting in its habitual manner.

“Because Knave does. Knave knows things that I don’t understand. He knew we had to come home. I followed him even though I would have preferred to stay in Briavel. Knave made me come back.”

“Do you talk to him, then?” Wyl asked, a chill crawling up his spine as Myrren’s gift returned to his conscious.

“Not exactly, but he does communicate things I don’t fully grasp. And when we got to Stoneheart, he knew where to come. I find it passing strange that he didn’t go in search of General Thirsk’s body but deliberately slipped into corridors and tiny entrances until he found these stairs. He came straight to your chamber. And I don’t understand why he was friendly toward you when three days ago he would have gladly ripped your throat out.”

Can Knave really have done this
? Wyl wondered. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know, sir. Except that I will trust his instincts over mine, which are to run from you.”

“You saw Ylena. She is yet to recover from what she has been through, but she trusts me.”

“I trust only Knave and Valentyna now,” the boy admitted.

“Fynch, where is the Princess?”

“Where she belongs, sir. She is no longer Princess but Queen of Briavel. She is returned to Werryl to bury her father and—”

“How is she?”

“Physically fine, sir. Broken over her father’s death. She is even contemplating war against Morgravia.”

“No!” Wyl shouted, startling Fynch. “She must not, at all costs, do this.” Fynch shrugged. “I am only a gong boy, sir.”

“Much more, I fear,” Wyl said, shaking his head. “Fynch, you have to go back. You must slip away from Stoneheart and return to Briavel. Give her a message from me. You and I must prevent war—there is a way.”

“Where are you going?”

“First, I must get Ylena to safety and away from the King’s line of vision or even thoughts. He is fickle and will forget her easily but not if she is anywhere near. I will return to Briavel, I promise. You know I have given my word to Wyl Thirsk to protect Valentyna,” he reassured, holding up his palm so Fynch could see the blood oath scar again.

Fynch nodded. “I shall leave immediately.”

“Have you a horse?”

“Yes, Valentyna gave me one. I lost my mule in the troubles back there.” For the first time in what felt like ages, Wyl smiled for the pure pleasure of being able to say something positive.

“Oh, I think I found her. A gentle beast who accompanied us back to Morgravia.”

“That’s probably her!” Fynch said, clearly pleased. “I must return her to my family.”

“Come.” Wyl said. “I’ll give you money for the care of your family while you are gone. Then you must leave with haste. Get away from Morgravia and remain in Briavel until you hear from me.”

“And the message for Valentyna?”

“I will write her a letter.”

“And Knave?”

“You two must stick together. He will keep you safe. Fynch.”
Chapter 17

Wyl expected to be fine at his own funeral but he was far from it. He had seen Fynch off in the early hours. The mule had been retrieved and Fynch was on his way back to his family’s cottage four miles from Stoneheart, his pockets bulging with coin that Wyl had insisted he take to his sister. He also carried with him a handwritten letter from Romen Koreldy to Queen Valentyna.

Wyl had explained the gist of it to him and Fynch had approved. “She’ll like that. But she is scared and untrusting—you’d better not leave it too long to present yourself,” he had cautioned.

Wyl had decided in the end that by the time Fynch had met with his family and finally got on the road to Briavel, the formal part of the funeral might well be over. With this in mind, he opted to keep Knave by Ylena as protection; he had no desire for anyone to come snooping around his chambers and discover Ylena. No one would dare trespass with the black dog to negotiate with. He could then send Knave on to catch up with Fynch. who. Wyl was surprised to note, seemed confident that the dog would understand all instructions.

Jorn had been a godsend, quietly going about his business of caring for Romen and Ylena, so Wyl felt confident when he left Knave outside his chambers, guarding his sister, that he would get through the funeral formalities without a problem.

It was easier said than achieved.

A large crowd had already swelled, lining up quietly, and Wyl found it easier to join them rather than enter the cathedral via the “noble doors.”

“Why not take the faster route?” a woman said, nodding toward the magnificently carved entrance.

“Thirsk claimed he was a soldier before he was a noble. I pay him respect by using the common entrance,” Wyl replied.

She smiled back, obviously pleased. “He was a good man. Always good to my girls he was. Such a shame.”

Wyl suddenly recognized her for one of the city’s brothel owners. She looked different without her fancy gowns and face colorings. He recalled how she had once asked for protection for the women working in the brothel and how grateful she had been when he provided the girls with a permanent guard who would escort them home when needed.

“Did you know him?” a much older man directly ahead of him asked.

The question made Wyl feel suddenly vulnerable. “I did.”

“I knew his father. I was the great man’s runner for many years.”

“Oh?” Wyl said, taken aback.

“Yes. And they say the youngster was shaping up to be every bit as good as Fergys Thirsk.”

“I believe it would have pleased Wyl to know people thought this of him.”

“Sticks in my craw, that whole Briavel thing. What was he doing there anyway?”

“A mission for the sovereign, I gather.”

“Then it was a dirty mission. I presume.” the man whispered and was hushed by someone nearby.

“You’ll get your tongue cut out for less,” his friend warned. “There are rumors about our new King.”

“What is being said?” Wyl asked keenly.

The man grimaced. “I’m not saying this is truth, mind, only what I’ve heard. There’s talk of killings in the castle—secret killings and torture. Let’s not forget who his mother was,” he added and fell silent.

Wyl knew he would get no more from the folk around him, but he was pleased to hear they were getting an inkling that beneath Celimus’s handsome exterior lived a cruel and heartless soul.

As the group stepped across the threshold of the cathedral doors, the anticipated silence hushed all whispering.

Built by the stonemasons and craftsmen of centuries previous, the cathedral inspired awe in all who entered it. Wyl, who had stood beneath its soaring ceiling on many occasions, never failed to marvel at the beautiful carvings and exquisite stonework. Each of the thirty or so internal pillars was supported on a plinth carved out of the famous gray stone of Morgravia to depict one of the famed mythical beasts that were believed to choose an individual at the time of birth. It was said that the spirit within the birth-beast would protect its own. which was why Morgravians made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at the youngest possible age.

As worshipers entered the cathedral now. the procession split into smaller groups as people moved toward their particular stone beast to touch its head or limbs in quiet reverence for a few moments.

Wyl’s chosen creature was the winged lion. Fearsome, snarling, majestic. It had captivated his imagination at thirteen when he had first set foot in the cathedral and now he paid it just homage, waiting his turn to lay his hand on its cool, magisterial mane. He loved to touch its wings too. He did so now feeling not just overawed, as he did each time he was close to this beast, but absorbing the deep sorrow of the occasion that seemed to be reflected in the lion’s expressive eyes.

“I wonder which creature General Thirsk chose,” a lad whispered nearby. His mother hushed him.

Wyl could not help himself He grinned at the youngster. “It was this one.” he said softly.

The boy’s eyes widened in pleasure. “Truly?”

Wyl nodded, glancing towards the lad’s mother to reassure her that it was all right to whisper. He crouched to be at eye level with her son. “I knew General Thirsk, and you, him, and myself all share the same mythical beast.”

“That makes us brothers, then.” the youngster said proudly.

“It does.” He touched fists with the boy in the Legionnaire manner.

The woman smiled back and nodded her thanks. Wyl knew he was lingering now to avoid what he suddenly felt he did not want to confront. He had no choice, though. The flow of people was pressing forward and he could not resist that swell for much longer.

He turned and stared toward the front where a bier stood in a cleared space. Atop the bier was Wyl Thirsk’s corpse.

Wyl felt undone when he laid eyes on his own cooled and pale body. It was naked save for a binding of muslin about the groin and a wreath of the national flower about the head. Celimus had ordered that the General’s corpse be presented in this fashion—an honor reserved for nobility held in the highest esteem by the Crown. He looked at the crimson imolda—the prettiest of all wildflowers—wryly noticing how it clashed with his hair color.

Wyl had deliberately arrived early yet there were already many dozens of people shuffling past the corpse, paying their final respects to a young man cut down in his prime. He overheard someone mutter their observation that the last of the Thirsk men had perished. A lump formed in his throat as a blitz of sorrowful thoughts crashed into his mind and he began to feel the depth of sadness around him.

He stumbled slightly when he drew close to the body, which he saw was covered lightly with gingery hair.
Passing strange I never noticed that when I owned that body,
he wondered. He noted all manner of tiny details that had not occurred to him previously. Now that it was slackened in death’s peaceful repose, he saw that his face was not as ugly as he had always presumed. Plain, yes, but not ugly. He noticed that his despised freckles had all but disappeared, that his face, though pale with death, was tanned like the sunburned arms, once thick and strong. For some reason he held a vision of himself possessing a boyish face and yet now that he looked at it he could see that in the years since his arrival at Stoneheart, he had undergone a transformation.

That face was much squarer now, the jaw and brow more pronounced. He had possessed workmanlike hands, something he had never taken account of, and these were now crossed over at the chest, but even so they did not hide the livid wound where Romen’s sword had penetrated. It was a warrior’s wound, one to be proud of, and some people touched it in veneration. A collective sorrow had gathered itself about the line of mourners who made a slow but steady revolution of the body. He stepped into the line finally and followed suit, resting Romen’s large, elegant hand ever so briefly on Wyl Thirsk’s wound, remembering that exquisite agony and sense of disbelief as the sword had run him through.