Myrren's Gift (37 page)

He had thanked her and pressed some coin into her pocket to buy herself some new fabric for a dress or ribbons for her hair. He thought he might see her again but their paths had not crossed. A half-dozen other joyless, mainly urgent couplings—more from necessity than anything else—he had chosen to put out of his mind. That was the sum of his sexual experiences in recent years.

But Arlyn, he would always remember her—

“I can’t come back.” he whispered as he hugged her. being careful not to crush his body against hers too hard.

She nodded, long resigned to Romen not being in her life. “I know. Be safe.” And with one last warning for secrecy, Wyl left. Like him, his horse was glad to be out of its confines and on the dusty road again. They did not linger and he did not look back, although he suspected she might still be watching him.

“One more errand,” he promised the beast as they rounded a bend and mercifully fell out of her sight.

As he expected—though he did not know why he should be so confident—he found Knave waiting for him in the undergrowth at the spot where they had hidden the box containing the assassin’s head. They sat together for a few moments, Wyl stroking the dog and weighing his thoughts about the animal’s enchantment. It seemed futile to pretend Knave was not part of Myrren’s magical world and yet if he tried to explain it to a stranger, they would laugh at his reckonings.

Finally he spoke, glad that it no longer felt odd giving Knave instructions. “The dog always seemed to understand anyway. Now you know you must return,” he said sternly. “Go back to Fynch. Keep Valentyna safe until I come,” he added, hoping that his instincts were true. The Widow Ilyk had cautioned him to keep Fynch and Knave close, yet he had sent both away.

Knave fixed him with his intense stare. Then he gave a single bark. Wyl had no idea what it meant but when his dog licked him and then bounded off, turning once only as if in farewell, Wyl had to assume the dog knew his duty. He felt a twinge of sadness at its leaving. Something about Knave made him feel safe, invincible even. But that was every reason why the dog had to return to Valentyna. Perhaps Knave would offer the same comfort to her.

He rode back into town to where the coaches left for the south. The driver he approached agreed, for a price, to deliver the box, which Wyl had now carefully wrapped in several hessian sacks, to Pearlis.

“Where can I leave it?” the man asked.

“At the palace.”

“Who for?”

“Just leave it with the guards at the main gate. They’re already expecting it.”

“No message?”

“There’s one inside,” he lied. “It’s for a very high-ranking noble. Don’t touch it please—he will scream hell and high murder if it is tampered with.”

“Shar! What’s in here, man?” the coachman asked.

Wyl knew it might be tempting for the fellow to take a peep if he did not give him a better reason to leave it well alone. “It’s a witch’s talisman,” he explained and appreciated the look of alarm that spread across the man’s face. Good. It seemed the fear of witch curses was still rife in the north, even though the Zerque influence had faded. “If it’s looked upon by any but the true recipient, the intruder is blinded.” Thank the stars that what was left of Romen in him found it very easy to embellish all truths, he thought, amazed at how such falsehoods came to him.

The man looked ready to toss the box off his coach.

“Look here, I will give an extra gold piece for your trouble. I appreciate your help with this and I too don’t care much for the contents. I didn’t look either—I’m simply the courier to this point,” Wyl added, and the money seemed to soothe the man’s concern. “How long?”

“About four days, sir.”

“Safe travels,” Wyl called as the coach drew out.

The weather became decidedly cooler as Wyl began to ascend into the higher northern counties of the realm. He was glad of the cloak and ensured the horse moved at a slow, steady pace to prevent the uneven terrain from jarring Romen’s injured body any more than necessary. Wyl was grateful to Arlyn for packing some of the strong-tasting potion. It was even harder to take as pure medicine than the brew she had plied him with at his bedside. Nevertheless he sipped it morning and night, grateful for the relief it brought. He traveled for two and a half days through increasingly barren land as the terrain became more rocky. He recalled that the villages were scattered and there were no major towns in this part of the north. Wyl was not interested in any of them for now. His attention was firmly focused on reaching Yentro, where the Widow Ilyk hailed from; it would be a small place, he imagined, of little note.

Haifa day’s ride later he was stunned to enter what was clearly a bustling frontier town.

Wyl stopped the horse in no little amazement. This was a major trading town, he could tell, and business was brisk. First stop was the stables. Then he went in search of a decent inn. There were far too many people around for him to worry about being noticed and the population was so varied that Wyl felt sure he would appear to be just another journeyman.

He was wrong.

“It’s him, I swear it,” the man said, deferentially.

The person he had addressed was eating. He ate with care, reflecting his careful, neat thoughts as he chewed and considered the information he had just learned. His men were reliable, especially his friend and counsel, Lothryn, who spoke with him now. He scratched at the newly grown beard he used for disguise.

So, Romen Koreldy had returned.
Why
?

Green, unreadable eyes looked back at Lothryn. “Why now?” Lothryn shrugged. It made no sense for Koreldy to be back in the north. “Spying?” he offered, instinctively.

“My inclination lingers there too. Spying for Celimus perhaps. The Morgravian brat is hungry for more Mountain blood, then,” he mused. “We foiled their recent incursion attempt with that team of useless spies—Haldor help the Morgravian King if they’re the kind of dullards we’re up against! Only the leader was worth his salt as a soldier. We’ll kill them all, Lothryn. And we’ll spread the Mountain Kingdom beyond the Razors, mark my words.”

Lothryn said nothing, waiting for his superior to make the inevitable decision. It came swiftly. The strapping, golden-haired man pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. He stood to his full, intimidating height and looked toward his loyal deputy, his friend for more than thirty years. “Take Myrt and one other. Follow him for a few hours. Let’s find out what he’s up to. Then take him. I’ll see you back at the Cave.”

Lothryn nodded. “It will be done, my lord.” @Lothryn watched from the shadows as Romen Koreldy entered the Scarlet Feather and, according to the innkeeper, was fortunate to buy the last room in the house. It was expensive but Wyl was looking forward to some comfort and a chance to recuperate after days in the saddle. He desperately needed to give his ribs a chance to heal further. He was still sporting a bruised eye. which drew a comment from the nosy man behind the counter.

“A lady didn’t take too kindly to catching me kissing her best friend,” Wyl remarked easily and winked, not aware that he had been trailed since entering Yentro.

The man laughed. “She’s got a good punching arm then, sir. I’d avoid that one again.”

“I don’t believe she’d have me again,” Wyl said archly, adding, “though it would be worth another shiner.” This time they both enjoyed the jest. “I could use a smooth. Are there some chambers nearby?”

“Yes, sir. When you’ve settled in your room I’ll give directions. It’s attached to the bathhouse.” Wyl nodded. He took the stairs slowly, having already been warned there were four flights to his room.

These were mercifully short but he still collapsed on his bed, glad of his small sack of luggage. He undid his scabbard, took off his shirt, and undid the hidden belt and knives. Such relief. He leaned back and immediately began to doze. Rousing himself, he realized he had actually fallen asleep, which would not do. He needed to establish quickly whether the Widow Ilyk was in Yentro. Time was working against him. He had to get back to Briavel to meet with the Queen, then keep his promise to his sister and convey Alyd’s remains from Rittylworth to Felrawthy. He hoped to escort Ylena back to the safety of Argorn and her own people as well. And still the question of treachery niggled. Would he try and overthrow the Crown? He had to stop thinking about all that was still ahead or he would be overwhelmed. He recalled Gueryn’s advice to deal with one issue at a time. His mentor had trained him to clear his mind and concentrate on the most important demand.
Prioritize
! He could hear Gueryn’s voice now. The priority was to find the Widow. Everything else came after that.

Yawning and stretching carefully, he hid his weapons in the bed linen and. after dressing, locked the door and headed downstairs, where the innkeeper was giving instructions to a brace of serving girls and boys.

He noticed Wyl watching. “Very busy, today, sir.”

“Is there something going on?”

“It’s our annual trading fair. I thought you might be here for it. No one actually passes through Yentro without a reason.” Wyl heard the curiosity in the man’s voice.

“Ah well, perhaps you can help me. I’m actually in Yentro to pass on a message to the Widow Ilyk.

Would you know of her—she’s rather old and is a local?”

“I can’t say I do but then I’m fairly new here myself, sir. Bought the Feather only a few moons ago.” Wyl gave a casual wave of his hand as though it were of no importance. “I can make inquiries, thank you.

Now those directions?”

The innkeeper busied himself with a detailed account of how to find the bathhouse and Wyl was glad to escape the man’s watchful gaze. The directions were accurate and, looking forward to the intense pleasure that only an expert smoothing could bring. Wyl was once again oblivious to the dark-haired stranger who followed at a safe distance.

He was soon luxuriating in fragranced, steaming water. He paid for a private room, preferring not to share his bruises with the rest of the men enjoying their dip. After soaping his hair, he rang a bell and a young woman came in and poured fresh warm water over his head. The rinse was scented with gardenia, which sharply brought back a distant memory for Wyl, although the nature of it was blurred. He searched his own thoughts and understood the recall was not his.

Someone in Romen’s life had obviously used the scent.

He stored that thought away, realizing that the woman who waited on him stood patiently holding drying linens. Wyl forced himself not to be self-conscious of his nakedness. Romen would stand and probably even stretch for her, he thought, and found the courage to be still as she rubbed the fabric around his body.

“I cannot help but notice that you are hurt, sir?” she inquired, large eyes darting toward the worst bruises.

“Yes,” he said, elaborating no further. “I shall have to ask you to be extremely gentle with the smoothing around my ribs.”

She nodded seriously before gesturing toward the table, where she invited him to stretch out. He did so with difficulty. Lighting several scented candles, she burned oil above them and when heated she poured some into her palms and with great care smoothed the warmed oil over his body. Wyl felt his body relax under her touch. Working silently, she avoided his midsection and concentrated instead on his sore buttocks, legs, and shoulders. Her fingers were strong and skilled.

Wyl finally broke from his relaxed stupor and spoke to her. “I’m trying to find someone called the Widow Ilyk—would you know of her?”

“No, sir.”

The response was too quick, he thought. “That’s a pity. I have a message from the south for her. I promised a lady by the name of Thirsk that I would deliver it.” Wyl figured that if she did know the old woman then the name Thirsk would be memorable and the seer might give her consent to see him.

There was a pause as though she was considering. “I’m sorry I cannot help you, sir.” He left it alone, now sure that the Widow Ilyk was known to people in Yentro. He hoped his instincts were right about the girl, and soon found out they were. He took his time finishing up. After the smoothing he took a plunge in a tepid, salted pool attached to his private room. It roused him from the drowsy state he had fallen into. He dressed and left the building, already noticing that the young woman who had done his smoothing was following him. She waited until they had rounded a corner before stopping him.

“I do know the Widow Ilyk’s niece, sir,” she called to him.

“Go on.”

“I sent a message. Widow Ilyk will see you today.”

He hid his elation. “Thank you,” he said, giving her a silver duke, grateful for her involvement. She had clearly not held that much money before for her eyes shone. “How will I find her?” he asked.

“My friend—her niece, Elspyth, will meet you at this corner shortly. I have described you to her.” Romen’s heartbreaking smile broke like sunlight. “I hope you told her how handsome I am?” She laughed despite her serious nature. “I did. Farewell, sir.”

“Thank you.” he said, adding, “you have excellent hands.” The smoother hurried away but he caught the flush at her cheeks.

Lothryn was close enough to catch the blush of the woman. He also saw the flash of silver. No smoother was paid so highly for her services, not unless she belonged to a brothel that offered some very special additional comforts. The Mountain man watched as she fingered the coin. A lot of money for a girl like this. His eyes narrowed in concentration.

“What information have you just paid for, Koreldy?” he whispered, noticing that after the girl hurried off, his quarry was in no rush himself to leave the breezy, cold corner where he now stood. “And so we wait,” Lothryn murmured.

He turned to where his companions sat discreetly mulling over their ale. Lothryn gave a sign, which they understood to mean that they would be waiting now. His companion nodded, turned away from Lothryn.

The three men of the Mountains who now stalked Romen Koreldy blended into their surrounds. They would not normally. If dressed in their preferred garb, they would be conspicuous, but Cailech’s men had taken the precaution of equipping themselves with appropriate clothes that did not attract that sort of attention. Lothryn did not fool himself into believing the northern Morgravians did not recognize him or his compatriots for who they were but the simple disguise just made it easier for them to be accepted as traders—albeit illegal ones—from the mountains rather than barbarian warriors.