Chapter 10

   

Magnus died in an opium-induced stupor as he gazed absently through his beloved arched windows into the cold, bright autumn morning.

The night previous, sensing death was standing at his bedside, he had met with as many of his counselors as Orto considered important. He had also met briefly with his son; they had little to say to each other, although Magnus had certainly tried to speak about his vision for Morgravia, hoping against hope to reach his son on some level where the two might find common understanding.

His painful effort was in vain.

A wintry smile had passed across the Prince’s face, as cold as the heart that beat inside him, as he once again wished his father a speedy death. Then he leaned toward Magnus and for one blinding moment of hope the dying man thought his only son might be offering a hug of farewell. It would be enough, Magnus had thought in that shining second of anticipation. And then he had grimaced wryly as he realized how wrong he was—indeed how desperate he was for his son’s love. The King’s was a dark smile of sudden and complete acceptance. It was his final surrender to the sickening notion that he truly hated Celimus as much in return.

The young man had bent only to tug on his father’s hand, pulling viciously at the large ring that bore the seal of Morgravia. The sovereign felt the bile rise to his throat.

“You have no further need for this. Father.”

Magnus had then summoned such a withering look it had made Celimus step back. His son’s reaction had given the King a final sense of power. “And your reign will be cursed. You will die hated as I make my final prayer to Shar that your crown is somehow wrested from you. Get away from me! Let me walk toward Shar looking at the palace dogs rather than you. Leave!”

“I’m gone, you useless old fool. By nightfall the kingdom will be mine to do with as I please and I swear to you, Father, it will bear no resemblance to your weak reign. My mother was right. You are a peasant. Good riddance to you and all who swore fealty to you.”

Celimus had departed then but not before he deliberately paused to spit at his father. “That’s all you’ve ever meant to me. Die lonely and with the thought that Wyl Thirsk will fast follow.”

And Magnus, too helpless now to even call loud enough for a runner to Wyl, had watched in horror as the Prince strode gracefully from his chamber, leaving behind his saliva, which slid down his father’s face and mingled with the tears that freely came.

When Orto had arrived a short while later he found the King slipping away. His servant knew it would be only minutes now. With his knack for making intuitive decisions. Orto had sent his speediest page to fetch Wyl Thirsk and a second runner for the physic, who arrived first.

“I can give him a draught that will send him peacefully on his way.” the man had offered.

“Do it after Thirsk arrives.” Orto suggested.

The physic nodded and silently went about his business of preparing the lethal concoction.

Wyl arrived breathlessly and Orto welcomed him softly. “I think I’m right in suggesting. General, that yours might be the last face our dear King Magnus might wish to look upon before he leaves us.”

“Celimus?” Wyl asked, knowing it was an empty question.

Orto shook his head. “They have spoken. It left him disturbed. Please, General, the physic would like to give him a draught to soothe the pain and make his journey end.”

Wyl nodded, his chest tightening with sadness. He knelt by the large canopied bed and took his sovereign’s hand. He kissed it reverently.

“Sire, it is Wyl.”

Magnus struggled through his rapidly vanishing wits to reach the brightness where daylight shone and beloved Wyl Thirsk’s face smiled crookedly at him through damp eyes.

“My boy. my son,” he whispered, trying to squeeze Wyl’s hand in return but knowing he failed.

The physic handed Wyl the cup and nodded. Inside was a shallow amount of a dark, strong-smelling liquid.

Wyl held the cup to the King’s mouth. “Drink, sire.”

Magnus knew what it was. “Yes, time for me to cross over, Wyl,” he mumbled.

“Now you and my father can be together again,” Wyl whispered, holding back his tears.

The King swallowed the contents of the cup and his head fell limply back against the cushions. The physic was dismissed by Orto. The King turned, eyes suddenly blazing with clarity.

He spoke haltingly as if each word pained him but he was clear from the slur that plagued only moments earlier. “Wyl, the blood promise I made you give years ago, I take it back, all of it. You know what I speak of. You alone have the power to take Morgravia. The Legion is loyal to you.”

Wyl looked toward Orto, shocked by what the King said. Orto’s expression glimmered with triumph. Wyl hoped his loyalty was true.

“Sire, you must not speak of such treachery. Please—I—”

“No time! Get Ylena away. He means to kill you. Leave now—”

The King’s voice trailed to murmurings and then nothing. His eyes stared blankly over Wyl’s shoulder as he took one last look at the bright sun shining on Morgravia. A final shuddering breath issued from his sunken chest and then he was gone.

“I must fetch the priest,” Orto said quietly.

“Orto—”

The man turned back. “I am loyal to Magnus, not to Celimus, sir. I heard nothing but the shallow breathing of a man drifting in the poppy seed liquor to his death.”

“I am in your debt.”

“I will be leaving the palace, sir. Soon it will not be a safe place for me to be. You may care to take similar precaution. I shall find a way to send word of my whereabouts, should you ever have need of contacting me.”

A look passed between them over the corpse of Magnus.

Wyl stood and shook Orto’s hand. “I’ll send word for the cathedral bells to be rung.”

Orto nodded. “Good luck, sir—until we meet again.”

Fynch shivered, his teeth chattering against the biting chill of the lake. He had scrubbed his body raw of Celimus and still he kept ducking his head underneath the surface until it ached so much he felt his eyes might pop. And all the time Knave paced at the water’s edge, agitated and barking over the sound of the bleak drone of bells.

“I’m coming,” Fynch called through numb lips, his mind like stew after the shocking revelation he had overheard.

Would Thirsk believe him? Likely not. His story would sound too farfetched. And him just a gong boy—who would listen to him? Knave barked again, louder this time, and Fynch swam his weary way to the bank, using the dog’s strong tail to heave himself out of the water. As he did so the vision blazed in his mind again: it was General Thirsk, a sword being pulled from him, the light dying in his eyes. It vanished and his head hurt once more. A fresh wave of nausea shuddered through his tiny frame and the boy retched. Earlier panic had made it hard for his normally agile mind to think coherently. He knew to wait until the dizziness dissipated.

Knave’s rough tongue licked the droplets of water from him repeatedly. The dog’s breath was warm and gradually Fynch found his wits again, coming out of the frightening vision. His head pained him but he ignored it. rubbing himself vigorously with his shirt before he pulled on damp clothes. There was no time to lose. Convinced now that his vision was a warning, a premonition, Fynch knew he had to find Wyl Thirsk, tell him what he had overheard, and somehow make the General believe him.

“Come, Knave. Let’s find him,” he said, knowing he would be risking his job by entering the main palace grounds. It mattered not. The life of a man he was mysteriously connected to was at stake and he alone knew.

The dog bounded off and Fynch ran behind, not knowing he was already too late.

Wyl paused outside the new King’s chamber. Celimus had not even had the courtesy to wait for his father’s body to cool. Tradition required him to hold off claiming kingship quite as blatantly until the old King had been laid out in the cathedral. He should wait until the stone had been laid on the tomb to be actually crowned but Celimus stood on no ceremony. He wanted the crown so badly, Wyl imagined, it was probably already glinting on his head.

It had been only an hour since he had kissed the dead face of Magnus. In that short time, the body had been washed, presumably would now be moved to the chapel, and Celimus had apparently swept into power and his father’s chambers. It was sickening.

Wyl took a deep breath and wondered what Celimus was up to by summoning him so soon. He wished Alyd was there to accompany him. but he had not been able to find his friend, not even in his chambers—which was odd considering Alyd’s state the previous eve. Ylena too was elusive; perhaps she had been cross at her husband’s drunkenness and taken herself off on a shopping expedition in the city. More worrying was the news that Gueryn had been posted north during the night. Wyl was extremely unhappy about this and felt guilty that he had been reveling with his soldiers and therefore unable to prevent the sudden departure of his mentor. The posting had the King’s signature on it but it smelled wrong to Wyl. Magnus would have been in no fit state to be signing off on dispatch orders. That piece of maneuvering had Celimus stamped all over it and Wyl meant to get to the bottom of it. Celimus’s threat to him at the tournament began to niggle anew at his mind.

The soft fragrance of winterblossom wafted in through an open window and reminded Wyl of former days—happier times—when he had stood at these massive oak doors awaiting entry to see King Magnus. Now the King was dead, taken by Shar’s Gatherers to be with Fergys. he hoped. Wyl felt alone indeed as one of the doors opened and a man he recognized as one of Celimus’s most loyal servants stepped out.

“At last,” the man said. “The King does not like to be kept waiting.”

Any number of retorts sprang to Wyl’s lips but he bit them back. This one did not warrant his attention and so he gave the fellow a look of disdain.

“Hurry up. then. Announce me.”

The doors were opened fully and Wyl stepped inside to wait. His gaze was drawn to the carved keystone he had marveled at as a child. Once again he was reminded that the fire-breathing warrior dragon signified he had entered the private domain of a King—but this time, one he detested. The man returned soon enough, a scowl settled on his face.

“King Celimus will see you now.”

Wyl ignored him and strode past to where another servant led him into the study.

Wyl knelt, his whole being privately protesting at having to pay homage to Celimus.

“My King.” he said, not looking up but glad his voice was firm.

“Ah, Thirsk.” Celimus did not invite him to stand. Wyl could just see the feet of an aide step up to the King, who had obviously motioned for him. Celimus whispered something and then the feet disappeared. Wyl remained kneeling, saying nothing although he heard other people had, as quietly as possible, arrived behind him. Out of respect, soldiers were required to remove all weapons when in the private chambers of the royals. He wished now he had not observed the protocol so honestly. Gueryn had oft warned him to conceal a small dagger.

As Celimus finally stood and walked around him, Wyl was grabbed. He struggled valiantly, crushing a nose with the back of his hand. That assailant staggered backward, and Wyl then bent low enough to fling another over his own back. He swung around ready to face the enemy only to feel the razor-sharp tip of a sword at his throat. He felt it break his skin.

“I wouldn’t.” its owner said smoothly and Wyl, perceptive to such things, picked up a Grenadyne accent.

While men Wyl did not recognize chained his wrists and ankles, the stranger’s smile never left his face nor did he remove his blade until the General was twisted around to face the King. Wyl now looked more closely at his burly attackers; their beards and the way they wore their hair marked them as foreigners. He dragged his gaze away from them as the King spoke.

“I’m wondering, Wyl, how loyal you are,” Celimus commented from the large picture windows at which he stood.

“I am sworn to give my life for Morgravia and her citizens, sire,” Wyl answered, breathing hard with fury at this treatment.

“That’s all well and good. But a new King must surround himself with people true to him first and foremost. I cannot have my own General plotting against me.”

Wyl was silent.

“Speak freely,” Celimus encouraged. “They don’t care.” he said, shrugging and gesturing towards the foreigners. “They are loyal to money only.”

“I am your servant, sire. I am your General and yours to command.”

Celimus smiled now and Wyl hated him for that sudden easy way he could become so casual and friendly.

“That’s good. Wyl. It seems both our fathers had high hopes that we might run the realm as they did. Do you think it might work as they dreamed?”

“I see no reason why not. your majesty.” Wyl said, glancing around again, wondering at his options for escape. His mind was already racing to how he could get word to Ylena. Old Magnus had been right to warn him. Celimus knew Wyl was dangerous simply by the power he held over the soldiers of the Legion. Wyl had been the one too slow to recognize it. And now here he was, helpless and captive.

“Well, I’m impressed by your optimism, General. But I need something more than words. Words sound hollow when there is no action as tangible proof of sincerity.”

“How may I prove it, sire?”

“Simple. I have a mission for you, Wyl. And if you can carry it off successfully for me, then I think you will have gone a long way toward proving your words are not empty. I realize we can never be friends but I would value your loyal service.”

Wyl nodded. “Tell me what you wish me to do.”

“Please, sit.” Celimus said, waving his beefy henchmen back.

Wyl preferred to stand but felt it was best to do as he was told. He noted Celimus remained standing by the window, looking out into one of the small courtyards. He also did not give any order for Wyl’s hands to be released.

“It’s a delicate mission that requires your touch—or at least your family name,” Celimus said, not turning. “I want you to lead a small company of men into Briavel and win an audience with King Valor.”

Although he tried not to, Wyl knew he showed his surprise at the audacity of what Celimus suggested.

The King continued. “You will make him an offer.”

Now Wyl was intrigued. “What is my offer, sire?”

“An offer of marriage between myself and Valor’s daughter. Valentyna. He is an old man now and would see the sense of joining our two realms, for no young royal—especially one as flighty as I gather she is—would choose war over peace and prosperity. I alone can give her that security. Or I can bring her interminable grief as I will systematically wage war on her realm until it falls.”

Celimus stopped talking and turned around, his dark gaze resting languidly on the General. Wyl felt strangely heartened. Was he really hearing right? He saw the King was patiently waiting for his response.

“Your majesty, your idea is inspired,” he admitted. “It would bring peace after centuries of war,” he added, hating that he was stating the obvious and yet still unable to contain his pleasure. “I will gladly take this mission and I will not fail you, sire.” Wyl stopped, realizing he was gabbling.

“I’m glad you like my plan,” Celimus replied, looking at one finely manicured hand.

Wyl’s brow creased again. “But why did you think you’d need to bind and subdue me to hear such a promise?”

Celimus glanced up. “Because I don’t trust you, Thirsk, that’s why.”

“And do you now?”

“Perhaps. I have assembled the company you will take with you.” He looked past Wyl’s shoulder and nodded. “You’ve already met Romen Koreldy. I have appointed him your second.”

Wyl’s gaze fell again upon the tall stranger. The man had dark features although his eyes were of a particular silvery gray. They had a laughing quality to them. Hair dropped thickly to his shoulders and a closely trimmed moustache followed the line of his neat, wide mouth. When he spoke his salutation it had the same amused quality in its timber that his eyes held. This was a man who was clearly comfortable in his own skin; confidence and surety seemed to ooze from him.

Wyl stood. “Alyd Donal is my Captain, your majesty.” he said quietly, firmly, swinging back toward Celimus.

“Not on this sensitive mission, Wyl. In fact you’ll be taking none of the Legion with you.”

“You would send me into an enemy kingdom without my own men. sire?”

Celimus opened the window. “Entering our enemy’s kingdom so boldly is precisely why we will not send Morgravians other than yourself. The mere presence of the Legion would be like a spark to kindling. I cannot risk it.”

“And you trust foreigners to the task?” Wyl said, looking again toward Romen Koreldy, who smiled back, his manner infuriatingly relaxed.

“You are no foreigner, Wyl—you are a proud son of Morgravia. The foreigners will be briefed and fat purses await each on their return from a successful mission.”

Wyl wondered if it was his imagination that Celimus’s grin had a new wolfish quality to it. Mercenaries, Wyl thought, grimly. Both our fathers will turn in their graves.

He set his expression gravely, bracing himself for the repercussion of what he was about to say. “No, sire,” he said. “I regret but I cannot do this without the men I trust around me and I must recommend that you reconsider this plan.”

Celimus’s voice was now laced with a sharpness. “This is not about you or what you want.” he snapped. “This is about achieving peace between two realms through a strategic marriage. You are its negotiator.”

Wyl bristled. “I am a soldier, sire, not a politician. Perhaps I am the wrong man after all.”

Celimus shook his head as though in the presence of a stubborn child. “Valor will trust no other name. He may be our enemy but his respect for your father is well known.”

“And yours too, sire.” Wyl countered. “It might be more appropriate for you to go in person and ask her hand.”

Celimus swung around from the window now. He could no longer disguise his anger. “Are you afraid. Wyl?”

“No, sire. I’m just not stupid,” Wyl said, instantly regretting his choice of words and what they intimated. He pressed on. “These men are strangers and I do not trust them with my life or anyone else’s.”

“And if I guaranteed your safety?” Celimus asked. Wyl opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He knew now this was a trap. “I have, of course, sent a diplomatic messenger ahead to request Valor’s cooperation in entering into peaceful talks with my envoy.” the King added.

Wyl shook his head, determined not to show the shock he felt that Celimus had obviously begun orchestrating this plan when King Magnus was still alive. Trusting Celimus was laughable. He was as cold and as unpredictable as a snake. “I regret it. but no, your majesty. I will not head this mission for you under these circumstances and I would respectfully warn—”

“And this is your final answer?” Celimus interjected.

Wyl nodded, fearful now of what his decision might promote, but he remained resolute. He would risk neither his office nor his family name conspiring with mercenaries.

Celimus sighed dramatically. “As I thought. So now we must find new ways to encourage your loyalty.” Throwing open the other window, he turned to the burly men standing near. “Bring him.” the new sovereign commanded.

Wyl was dragged to the window, his eyes helplessly drawn to what had previously held the rapt attention of Celimus. Kneeling at a block was a man. Above him stood an executioner, his hands on a large axe. the blade resting menacingly between his feet.

The prisoner’s hair was grabbed, his head pulled back. Wyl felt his knees buckle. It was Alyd staring back at him pitifully from a shockingly swollen and bruised face. He recognized Wyl and through puffy, smashed-up lips he managed to scream Ylena’s name before one of his keepers cuffed him hard. The fight went out of the prisoner and he was dragged back from his prone position in the dust where he coughed out more teeth and blood. Once again Alyd’s head was forced to the block.

Not even the memory of Myrren, which came sharply back into his mind, could frighten Wyl as much as he felt at this moment.

“My King, please, I beg you—” Wyl cried.

“Too late, General Thirsk. I am not someone to be trifled with.”

Celimus raised his hand.

“Celimus!” Wyl beseeched, forgetting protocol. “For the love of Shar, man! That’s the captain of the Legion out there. He is loyal to Morgravia. His father—think of his family, my King, I beg of you. Felrawthy would give his life for you. Alyd must be spared.” He knew he was blathering.

A choked cry from Alyd calling Wyl’s name urged him on, his heart beating hard with panic.

“I gave you a task, you denied me your service,” Celimus explained, almost gently as one would to a child.

“My lord King, if you would allow me to take my own good men. then I—”

“I don’t make bargains with my General, Wyl. You forget that you serve me.”

Wyl opened his mouth to say something. His mind was spinning with what he could possibly negotiate but it was already too late. Celimus had no intention of sparing Alyd’s life. This was all a ruse. He had meant to have him killed from as early as the moment he found out his intention to bed Ylena had been thwarted.

Wyl watched with horror as the King’s hand dropped, giving the signal. His eyes switched with terror toward the courtyard, where an axe rose and then fell. Wyl watched, mute and devastated as his friend’s life was cut tragically short. Even the use of the axe was an insult to his friend’s noble status.

A choked sob escaped him. “You evil bastard!” His voice broke as he shouted at Celimus, struggling against the men who held him and the chains that prevented him from striking out.

Celimus had barely batted an eyelid at what he had witnessed. “It’s your fault that he had to die, Wyl. If only you had followed your King’s instructions without question—isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that what your father did for mine?”

“My father did not follow the orders of a lunatic.” Wyl spat, realizing too late how calamitous his words were as his mind raced toward how to keep his sister safe, how he might negotiate with this cruel, bloodthirsty man.

At Wyl’s insult. Celimus turned back to the window and gave another signal.

Only then did it occur to Wyl that his sister was no longer safe. “Where is Ylena, Celimus?” Wyl whispered, petrified.

“Right here.” the King replied, menace in his voice.

Wyl dared to look out again and despair wracked his body for the second time as he saw his distraught sister being pushed into the courtyard. She saw her husband’s headless body slumped against the block and she began to scream.

Fynch stopped running abruptly as his mind swam with a vision of blood. We ‘re too late, Knave, too late! he screamed inwardly and slumped against Stoneheart’s cold walls, his distress too much for him to bear as he succumbed to a small boy’s tears. His four-legged companion seemed to understand and allowed Fynch to bury his head against him.

“Don’t do this. Celimus.” Wyl was begging now as he watched Ylena slipping in Alyd’s blood as they carelessly booted her husband’s body aside. Alyd’s corpse toppled to the dust and Ylena had to step around his legs before they pushed her face toward the wet block. He could see her body shaking as she stopped her screaming and began to wail.

“I’ve had her dressed in virginal white. An ironic touch, don’t you agree?” Celimus asked.

The King raised his hand to give the signal and Wyl begged harder, straining against the hands that restrained him. At a look from the King the men holding him loosened their grip to allow him to fall to his knees. He did not even notice the pain as he fell.

“Celimus. I beseech you. Spare her. I will do whatever you ask.”

“Whatever I ask, eh?”

Wyl nodded mutely, blood from where he had bitten his own lips mingling with the helpless tears streaming down his face.

“Dear me. look at the state of you. General. One item of sorrow in your life and you fall apart. I wonder what your father would think of you?” Celimus said, deliberately rubbing salt into the wound. “How can I possibly believe you are the man to watch out for the security of Morgravia?”

Wyl could not focus on anything but winning a reprieve for his beloved Ylena. If Celimus asked him to chew off his own hand, he would try—anything but bear witness to her being hurt again.

“I am. sire,” he beseeched. “I am the right man. I will do this job. I accept your mission.” He broke down again as he spoke the words.

“On your sister’s life, yes, you will!” Celimus said viciously. He turned back to the executioner. “Take her back!”

Ylena was roughly pulled back to her feet, her face and gown soaked with Alyd’s blood. She was alternating between shrieks and whimpers now. Celimus laughed.

Wyl gathered himself and took a risk by calling out to her. “Remember who you are, Ylena. As one!”

She did not even look up at the family motto being called.

Celimus was highly amused by her state. “Wait! Make her carry her husband’s head back to the dungeons. He can keep her company, and tell her if she drops it, she’ll be flogged.” He turned back to Wyl. “I’m glad you saw reason. Ylena will remain in the special accommodation I have chosen for her until you complete the mission we have discussed. Is this clear?”

“Yes” was all Wyl could trust himself to say as tears began to dry on his cheeks. He made himself remember the sensation of the salty rivulets hardening on his face. It would remind him of Alyd. One day Wyl would avenge his death by killing Celimus.

Magnus had alarmed him just hours ago by echoing his own conviction that Celimus must die if Morgravia was to be saved. Wyl looked at the new King now with renewed hate and knew he alone would be the one who must do it.

“Excellent.” Celimus replied. “I have already taken the liberty of briefing the men. and have sent a messenger to Briavel to advise of your impending arrival. You leave immediately. Romen will accompany you to the stables. Don’t worry about packing, it has already been arranged.”

“May I see Ylena?”

“No. You will see her when you return. Until then, she remains a guest of Stoneheart’s dungeons. Questions?”

“What if Briavel is not disposed to your proposal, sire?”

“Then you will have failed me, General, and not only yours but Ylena’s life will be forfeit, as will your wealth and landownings.”

All that mattered was saving Ylena.

“Anything else?” Celimus asked politely.

“Yes,” Wyl said, trying to think straight. He gritted his teeth before he spoke.

“Gueryn. I will need to get word—”

“Ah.” Celimus said with a hint of regret. “I should have mentioned this before, Thirsk. My father asked your friend, le Gant. to go on a special mission deep into the Razors. A task requiring experience but also. I suspect, involving certain death. Le Gant, to his credit, accepted the mission without hesitation—a brave man indeed.”

It was the final crushing blow and Wyl could not hold in his gasp. “This is surely a jest,” he said, eyes wide with disbelief “What special mission? Why was I not told about it?” he demanded.

“A secret mission,” Celimus repeated. “Not everything, General, is cleared through your office.” His voice was filled with sarcasm.

“Gueryn is not dead,” Wyl affirmed.

“Not yet,” the new King said, and Wyl knew now that Celimus had him completely. Once more he recalled Celimus’s threat at the tourney and realized now that it had been a true warning.

Magnus was dead. Alyd was dead. His sister had been imprisoned and, Shar forbid, his beloved Gueryn had been sent on a death mission.

Wyl’s world fell apart. He nodded and bowed his head, refusing to bear witness to the King’s glee.