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.

Upon touching his own corpse Wyl experienced a breathlessness as he felt his own emotions rising up. His body looked small and helpless lying there; it made him think of his father’s and then Magnus’s death. It reminded him that Alyd and possibly Gueryn were dead. All he had left was Ylena to love and Valentyna to protect.

A loud fanfare of trumpets sounded, signaling the monarch’s entry into the cathedral. Celimus was earlier than expected. Wyl grimaced with Romen’s mouth. He had hoped to be in and out before the King arrived. People about him were dropping their heads and bowing low—as Celimus demanded apparently—yet Wyl could not do the same. Something hard and unforgiving prevented him from paying this treacherous bastard any homage. He could see Celimus striding down the main aisle of the cathedral, his heels clicking loudly and arrogantly on the flagstones, resounding all the way up to the magnificent arched ceiling.

The King made his way to the opposite side of the nave from where the winged lion resided. Celimus stood before the stone dragon, his alone until he died and a new King inherited the throne. Here he paused in quiet reflection, not caring that all were required to remain bowed until he had seated himself. He finally extended an arm to touch the dragon’s clawed foot, its rearing head—as befitted the King of all beasts—being too high even for one of his height to reach.

Then he turned and clicked his swaggering way back toward the stone throne at the front of the cathedral. No one was yet permitted to straighten. It was ludicrous. Wyl protested inwardly. Magnus had never asked for such a lengthy and theatrical obeisance. What is happening to the Morgravians? And how much worse will it get, for these are such early days in the reign of Celimus?

He realized the traitor had spied and was now watching him; the King had reached his chair but was not seated yet. The olive gaze stared hard, demanding that Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn bow to the King of Morgravia.

Bow! Wyl urged himself but Romen’s body would not obey. He knew this was not Romen at work. Romen was gone. This was his own spirit rising up against the evil that looked back at him now from that devilishly beautiful face. Celimus cocked his head slightly to one side. He was asking a question of Romen now. Wyl understood he was pitting his wits against the most dangerous of opponents. All that he had planned would come undone if he threw away his one chance to escape after the funeral.

Obey him, bow to him!

It was his neighbor who broke the spell, the old soldier who had been standing in front of him in the line outside the cathedral.

“Bow, damn you,” he growled beneath his breath and mercifully grabbed Romen’s arm to pull him not only downward but to his senses as well.

Wyl dropped to Romen’s knee and bowed fully to the King.

“Thank you.” he whispered to the soldier.

Seemingly satisfied but wearing an unreadable expression, Celimus at last sat. Soft music immediately erupted from a choir on the gallery level above. Their voices soared in the cathedral as though angels were singing. People stood straight and the line resumed its shuffle around the body, the music provoking tears.

At the head of the corpse Wyl looked down upon the closed eyes, the ones that hid the mystery of Myrren’s gift. Ginger lashes lay like soft down against the tops of the dead man’s cheeks—his cheeks. How deeply sad he suddenly felt for himself.

Dead but not dead. Trapped as Wyl and yet free to be Romen.

Grief betrayed him now and Wyl had to recover quickly lest King Celimus notice genuine sorrow in Wyl Thirsk’s assassin. He strode away from the body, pleased to escape, throwing a glance toward the King, who chose not to look his way.

Many nobles had gathered. He noticed the Duke of Felrawthy was not present, probably still shoring up defenses in the north, as was his duty to the Crown. The Duke’s absence was probably a blessing in the circumstances, considering his son’s fate, although the King still desperately needed the support of the influence Jeryb Donal wielded in the north. He wondered what lies Celimus had contrived to send to the Duke regarding Alyd’s death to avoid jeopardizing that relationship. Perhaps the King was beginning to regret his vengeful decision to end the young man’s life?

The service began and pulled Wyl from his musings. The holy men said all the usual things and then the King made a flowery speech lauding the virtues of Morgravia’s favorite man of the military. Music, pomp, ceremony—just as Celimus had promised. Once the body was finally shrouded, later to be laid in the family vault at Stoneheart with all the other Thirsks who had served Morgravia, the service concluded, and was followed by a funeral feast that stretched long into the afternoon.

“Sit next to me, Romen,” Celimus offered as a rare generosity, obviously excited by the closing of a chapter. He was free now to dominate the Legion.

Wyl reluctantly joined him, wondering how quickly he might make his escape. He pretended to eat the food and sipped frequently from his cup yet hardly took any of the wine into his mouth. He would need a clear head later.

Celimus leaned toward him and whispered, “I’ve a good mind to burn the body.”

Wyl pushed away his startled expression. “Oh? Why?” he asked in Romen’s casual way.

“I hate them all grieving like that over him. I wish to rid Morgravia of his memory.”

Wyl felt ill. Would Celimus really open the tomb later and burn my body? Burning was considered unsavory by all Morgravians. It was reserved for witches and traitors. The irony was not lost on him.

He slung his arm over his chair, a typically uninhibited pose of Romen’s. “I wouldn’t, sire. You may just incite trouble. Why not simply send the corpse to the family home? Where does he hail from anyway?”

“Argorn,” Celimus said, curling his lip. “A sleepy, hideously backward region of the realm, which yields halfwits and ugly, red-headed ingrates like those of the Thirsk line.”

How Wyl held his temper he would never know. Bile rose in his throat and his fingers twitched near a fork that he would have gladly stabbed into the King’s throat.

He managed a derisory response, however, that even Romen would have been proud of “All the more reason to send the little troll back to where he belongs. Let him lie in exile,” he offered, twirling his cup of wine instead of his fork.

And now Celimus looked fully at him, just a tinge of gratitude in his expression. “Again you surprise me, Koreldy—this time with your insight.”

“Oh, and when was the previous occasion I surprised you, sire?” Wyl asked, knowing almost immediately it was a trap.

“This morning, in the cathedral, when you took a sincerely long time to pay me due respect. Should I be worried about your loyalty?”

Wyl took a silent steadying breath and then grinned expansively again. “I have none, sire…except to gold.” he said. Celimus did not smile back. “To tell the truth, your majesty. I thought I was going to faint in the cathedral,” Wyl said, his mind moving fast now.

“Why is that?”

“I’m not sure, sire. I made little of my wound yesterday but the physic said it was deeper than I thought and he sutured it. He gave me two draughts of some potion. One to take during his ministrations and another to take this morning. I fear this morning’s concoction was a little too strong, and my apologies, majesty, but it took all of my wits to stop myself from falling cold to the ground.”

“I see. Perhaps falling to the ground would have pleased me more than what appeared to be deliberate flouting of Stoneheart’s protocol.”

Wyl shook his head vehemently. “No, sire, never. I am in your debt. And also to my neighbor, who helped me when I asked for it. He assisted me to my knee.”

And as fast as Celimus’s anger stoked, it passed, much to Wyl’s relief. Already the incident seemed forgotten. The King waved away the apology and asked for a refill of their cups.

“So tell me, Romen. Have you ravished the Lady Ylena?”

Wyl coughed but masked it well. “Not yet, sire. She is still in some shock and behaving as much a corpse as her husband. She also smells as ripe as he.”

Celimus did laugh at this. “So you are showing great patience, my friend. Is that right?”

“I’ve given her until tonight, sire. Then I shall take her—from behind if necessary so I don’t have to look upon that terrified, filthy face.” He had never hated Celimus as much as he did at this moment.

The King laughed again. “And when do you leave us?”

“With your permission, your majesty, I thought I would enjoy your hospitality for another day,” Wyl lied. “Tomorrow eve perhaps?”

Celimus nodded. “Good. Let’s take a ride together tomorrow at dawn. You can see my falcons at work.”

“Excellent, sire, now you must forgive me,” Wyl said with absolutely no intention of remaining more than another hour at Stoneheart.

“Oh, leaving our table early, Romen?”

“Yes, majesty. I beg your indulgence. I am still feeling a little weak. I would rest and get ready to ride with you.”

Celimus raised his cup to Romen and sipped. “Until tomorrow.”

“I shall see you at dawn, sire.” Wyl said, Romen’s disarming smile winning hearts around the table but not where it counted.

As he strode from the hall. Celimus beckoned to one of his men. He had already formed an inner circle of sorts who clustered about him as private guards. None were from the Legion.

“Your majesty?”

“Jerico. do you see that man leaving the hall?”

“Yes. sire.”

“He is preparing to depart Pearlis tomorrow eve—perhaps with a woman in tow. Once he leaves the city gates. I want you to follow him with several of our own and kill him. Kill them both if she’s with him. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“No trace is to be found of either, except his finger wearing the signet ring. That you will return as proof of your successful deed. He will have much gold about his person. Whatever you find, you may keep and split as you see fit.”

The man called Jerico grinned. “Thank you? sire.”