Myrren's Gift (50 page)

“He is nothing but lies. He might betray us in a blink! We are risking our lives for him.”

“Then don’t.” Wyl said harshly.

“What choice have we got. Koreldy?” She was shouting now. “Lothryn has given up everything.”

“Hush, you’ll bring the snow down upon us,” Lothryn said in a soft gibe.

She was going to say more, meant to rail at Koreldy a bit longer, but the sob escaped her throat and the floodgates had opened.

Wyl felt immediately ashamed of himself. His own anger ebbed as he heard her break down. Lothryn said nothing—he did not have to—but rebuke was in his eyes when he regarded Wyl.

“Elspyth, you wouldn’t believe me anyway,” Wyl said, turning his hands palms up and shrugging.

“Why don’t you try?” she dared, her voice tearful but now muffled by Lothryn’s embrace.

He so badly wanted to share this strange and frightening story that suddenly it sounded like the right thing to do. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he cautioned as he began the tale of Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy becoming one.

When Wyl had finished speaking, the only sound among the still mountains was the eerie call of a great eagle flying high above them. Elspyth was staring at her boots but Wyl noticed Lothryn regarded him with a hard, penetrating gaze.

“Magic! Pah!” Wyl said as though he was tired of his own hard-luck story.

“I knew you weren’t the Koreldy I remembered.” Lothryn suddenly admitted, his voice low and serious.

Wyl waited. “I just put it down to there being so many years since we had last known you but somehow deep down it was more than that. You were different.” Lothryn shrugged, letting out his breath as though he had held it for a long time. “Cailech sensed it first, you know. The face was the same, just older and more handsome than you deserve to be; the voice was the same and the mannerisms all Romen Koreldy.

But the person inside had changed. He knew it.”

“How so?” Elspyth asked, intrigued.

“The Romen I knew was witty, gregarious, and above all, self-centered. The Romen before us is…complicated,” he said, having struggled for the right word. “What I mean is. this Romen cares. The other one didn’t. This Romen isn’t looking for attention and, Elspyth, the Romen I once knew would have had you naked between the sheets as quick as one of his knives passes through the air.” She looked horrified. “That good, eh?”

“Women, even the more cynical Mountain women, could not turn him down but, more to the point, he couldn’t resist any woman. It was like he needed to conquer them. He did not love them; he did not feel much at all for them. It’s probably why Cailech liked Romen so much—they are birds of a feather.” Wyl frowned. “I like women,” he said, defensively.

“But you never made any remark to me along those lines,” Elspyth admitted, arching her eyebrows. “Am I not pretty enough?”

“That’s my point,” Lothryn said. “It wouldn’t have mattered to Romen. He would make the remark come what may. He was a flirt just for the pure amusement of toying with a woman’s feelings, winning her trust.

You did not make any approach to anyone in Yentro, or here, and it would have been so easy with Elspyth.”

“I’ll speak for myself, thank you,” she said, glaring at Lothryn. “I’m not easy but I understand what you’re saying.”

“There’s more,” Lothryn said, warming to his subject now. “Romen was brilliant with his throwing knives—no one could hold a candle to him. He was a skilled swordsman but nothing close to what I witnessed back there with Bore.”

Wyl shrugged. “That man was clumsy at best.” He liked that Lothryn returned the grin.

“And back in the Mountains, no mention of agrolo,” the big man continued. “Cailech is sharp. He picked it all up.”

“What’s agrolo?” Wyl queried and saw the answer on his companion’s face.

“There you have it,” Lothryn said.

“Is that why you came to see my aunt?”

Wyl nodded. “I don’t know why I am Romen Koreldy or what I’m doing in this body. I should have died—my soul gone to Shar—back in Briavel’s palace. I hoped your aunt would tell me more.”

“And did she?” Elspyth asked.

“No. She knew I wasn’t Koreldy, though. She knew exactly who I was when she touched me.” He rubbed his hands through his long hair, still not used to the sensation of its smooth texture. “She told me to find Myrren’s father. I had a dream or perhaps it was a nightmare while we rested in the cave. It was Myrren. She spoke to me and ordered the same thing—to find her father.”

“And where is he?” she asked.

“I have no idea, nor do I know his name. I have no lead to follow.” Wyl replied, wishing his voice did not betray so clearly how desperate he felt.

A look of concern passed between his two companions. “So what now?” Lothryn asked, trying to keep his tone encouraging.

“Escape here. Get my sister to safety. Go back to Briavel and protect Valentyna. All sounds simple enough, don’t you think?” he said.

Elspyth’s mind fled back to the old soldier. “And so Gueryn is truly your former friend and mentor?” He nodded. “He is…was a father to me.”

“I’m sorry, I should never have agreed with him…to let him go on alone,” Lothryn admitted.

“Don’t, Lothryn. This is not your fault. Without you. we’d all be feeding the tribe tonight.” He forced a smile. “So you both believe me? How incredible.”

“My aunt believes you…and I believe in her skills. How could I not accept what you say?” Elspyth said.

“We accept magic in the far north even if we don’t admit to it.” Lothryn nodded. “There are forces more powerful at work in our world than Kings and Queens and petty squabbles over lands. Haldor spoke to me by finally giving me my son. He was a gift from the gods.

Yes, I believe in the gods and their magics. This witch you speak of, Myrren, she was a channel for the gods and what they want done in the world.”

“Thank you.” Wyl said, glad he had finally told someone the truth and more grateful than either would know that his friends believed him without hesitation. “I only wish I knew what was expected of me with regard to this gift.”

“Trust your instincts.” Lothryn replied sagely.

“And what of Rashlyn—is he truly empowered?”

Lothryn nodded. “He is a sorcerer, for sure. But his influence is all bad on Cailech.”

“Where did he come from?”

“No one knows—if Cailech does, he has not shared it with me. And Rashlyn is incredibly secretive about everything,” Lothryn replied and nodded assurance when Wyl raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But he knew of Koreldy. The fact that he did not detect the witch magic in you is surprising. Cailech would certainly have shared with me any suspicion of Rashlyn’s that you were an impostor.” Wyl shrugged. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“What shall we call you?” Elspyth wondered.

“Until we’re safe. I’d suggest you call me Romen,” Wyl said, picking up his pack.

“Come!” Lothryn said, helping Elspyth with her pack. “No more talking. Save strength—we’re all going to need it for Haldor’s Pass.”

Chapter 30

Gueryn moved in and out of his dreamlike state, never lingering long enough in consciousness to react to his surrounds. Soft light eased across his senses now and then, together with hushed voices. Pain accompanied his brief waking moments and that in itself would send him fleeing back to the dark…to safety.

Gradually the periods of awareness began to lengthen until the voices belonged to murky faces, which were joined by probing hands. The light that filtered through his fluttering lids, he gleaned, came from candles. The pain itself was all-encompassing but increasingly he could bear it for longer without having to run from it.

He became aware that he was on his belly, his face turned sideways, and the muttering people worked at his back. Slowly, very slowly, like blood seeping through thick fabric, memory returned. He had been struck by an arrow—had expected as much and had fully accepted death as a result.

What am I doing alive? Where am I?

“Drink.” a distant voice said.

He was rolled onto his side, flashes of pain arcing through him. An artfully cut reed served as a clever method of allowing him to sip easily from the proffered cup.

“What?” He groaned. It was all he could force his voice to say.

His mumblings made sense, for the man answered: “Poppy.”

And then oblivion claimed him, the pain drifting in the opposite direction to where he felt he was headed.

At regular intervals this blissful state was interrupted, much to his annoyance. And the familiar fingers would unwrap dressings and push deep into his angry wound. He knew they were looking for infection, waiting for the telltale odor. Seemingly it had chosen to be absent on this occasion, which he regretted.

Death, he knew, was his friend. The poppy-seed liquor he so gratefully swallowed was all too quickly diluted until he could hardly taste its bitter presence. They were bringing him fully to his wits now so he could face his healers, bear his pain…recover.

On one of these occasions he realized he was fully awake and staring into the leathery face of a man—not especially old but then not particularly young, ageless, in fact—whose single most daunting feature was the amount of dark hair about him. On his chin, around his face. Wild it was.

“Good morning,” the man said.

Gueryn tried to speak but coughed instead, a fresh spasm of pain gleefully taking over from his cough, leaving him panting and perspiring.

“Don’t speak. I am Rashlyn, healer to King Cailech… among other things,” the man said.

Gueryn groaned.
Cailech
! He was back in the Mountain fortress.

“You must have a strong will to live, my friend. All the early signs told me you were for Haldor’s arms.”
Haldor be damned
! Gueryn thought, wishing he could say it aloud but he was too weak.

Rashlyn corrected himself. “Ah, but my apologies. You would be a man of Shar, no doubt. Well, let’s just say you would not have lived but for an extraordinary desire to hold onto life.” He smiled sadly but the words that followed did not match the smile—they sounded cruel. “A pity. I fear death might have been easier.”

“Then kill me now.” Gueryn managed to utter.

The healer was amused. “I like my own life too much to do that.” he said before becoming more serious.

“Cailech is to be informed that you have woken. Be brave, Morgravian. He respects courage.” Gueryn gratefully looked away from Cailech’s man as he was rolled onto his belly.

“This poultice must stay on for the day.” Rashlyn warned.

Gueryn said nothing. In fact he had every intention of ripping off the healing herbs as soon as he was able, hoping to encourage an infection to breed quickly in his wound.

As though he fully understood Gueryn’s mindset, Rashlyn added: “You will be bound, I’m sorry…just in case you have a mind to discourage your recovery. Cailech would not be pleased.” The man clapped and others arrived to tie Gueryn, belly down, to his pallet. They were thorough. He would not be escaping these bonds with any ease. He had no choice but to lie there and wait, fully conscious now, with plenty of time to wonder at what Cailech had in store for him.

He waited many hours in this position, the once hot, uncomfortable poultice cooling sufficiently to feel cold and clammy against his skin. He had even dozed, waking numb and alarmed to realize the sun had moved from high overhead and was now dipping behind the mountains, casting a pink glow across the sky.

As dusk fell Cailech arrived. He came alone, which for Gueryn made his presence seem even more ominous than when surrounded by his henchmen.

Cailech did not stand on any ceremony. “We meet again, soldier.”

“Sadly,” Gueryn replied, his voice thankfully stronger and clear. He was determined his courage would not fail him now. although his neck, after being twisted for so long, ached badly enough for him to crave more poppy liquor.

“Your companions are dead,” the King offered abruptly.

A thrill of fear initially passed through Gueryn but he halted it, controlled it, and pushed it back out at Cailech, who he believed was bluffing.

“I sense a ruse.”

“Why is that?” The King sounded genuinely interested…and amused, which Gueryn found more irritating.

The King’s smile all but admitted he had lied.

“Why am I kept alive with such powerful healings if the others—surely more important to you—are dead?”

“You are too hard on yourself, le Gant. You are important to me.”

“How so? Not long ago—forgive me for losing track of time—you were preparing to roast me over the coals.”

“That’s before I was aware of Romen Koreldy’s interest in you,” the King replied more slyly now.

Gueryn knew he was being toyed with. “What is it you want from me? I have nothing to offer you but the glee of my death.”

“Death is too easy now. soldier. You are far more valuable to me alive.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Why is Koreldy so important to you?”

“He has betrayed my trust.” Amusement was gone. A simmering fury replaced it. Even from his prone position. Gueryn could see the anger glittering in the Mountain King’s eyes.

“I cannot help you,” he replied flatly. If he could have turned his head away, he would have.

“Tell me of Koreldy.” Cailech asked.

“That’s the best part, my lord. I know this man you speak of with less familiarity than you. sir.”

“Nevertheless, tell me what you know.”

How he mustered the laugh, Gueryn would never know. He saw how it infuriated the King, wished he had the strength to do it again—louder, longer. “I know nothing. He is a stranger to me.”

“You lie! I saw how he recognized you. Even a fool could not be aware of his concern for you…and I am no fool, le Gant.”

“Then you have me as baffled as he does, my lord King. I had never heard the name Romen Koreldy until he spoke with me on the night of the feast. I was blinded as you recall, sire, so I could not claim him to be a stranger to me until the stitches were removed. I can assure you, I never set eyes on the man until that moment. In truth,” he paused before adding, “I thought he was someone else until my eyes saw him.” Gueryn watched the King’s confusion at this last comment melt into fascination as obviously some new thought struck him. He noticed the man’s lips purse, go white. The King was struggling to remain calm.