Chapter 9

Elspyth had stayed true to her promise to Wyl. Resisting the urge to head home after their farewell, she made her way very slowly south; accepting rides with a family, a merchant convoy, and a traveling band of musicians. All were very kind and would accept no money for their transport or hospitality. None were in a hurry and in truth neither was Elspyth, happy to meander at their pace, stopping off at towns to perform or make their deliveries. The musicians helped her find some laughter again, even encouraging her to sing with them around their campfires. They were taking a circuitous route toward Pearlis, hoping to earn good profits in the spring months but more than happy to have her in the group for part of their journey. She was surprised at how much she enjoyed her time with them, quietly regretting their parting. Between all her new friends they got her as far as the outskirts of Rittylworth. The troupe gave her a fond farewell and the usual expressions of hope for meeting again.

She was happy to walk the rest of the way, wondering how Wyl’s sister would react to her and what she was going to say to this young, grieving woman. Wyl had extracted a promise that would effectively see Elspyth telling lies from here on in to anyone who knew him. So be it, she had decided. She and Wyl—as Romen Koreldy—had been through too much together already to forsake each other. Furthermore, Wyl had given her his own oath and so she would keep true to him, anticipating the same courtesy when the time came for him to return to the Razors.

Elspyth had no idea why Wyl needed to guard his identity so keenly. She did, however, understand his reluctance to share his tale, for people’s suspicion of magic was too entrenched. This enchantment on Wyl was hardly a fairground trick—the enormity of it was too much for most to cope with. The fact that both she and Lothryn had accepted the sorcery was fortunate for Wyl but was purely because of their backgrounds.

She remembered how he had haltingly told them of the curse on his life. Myrren’s Gift, he had called it, and had laughed bitterly. As much as it had sounded implausible, everything he had said had corroborated that this magic had been wielded on him. It explained her aunt’s strange behavior toward him and the curious comment she had made after the Pearlis tourney that “we haven’t seen the last of that one yet.”

And she could see that Lothryn believed him too. Elspyth recalled how matter-of-fact the mountain man had been, not at all perturbed by the suggestion of magic. She felt the same way. Another reason to love him. Her thoughts turned to how hard and quickly she had fallen for the big man who had wrenched her from her home and, against her will, taken her into the Razors, only to risk his life for her a few days later. Her heart had fully melted for him upon seeing him weeping for his dead wife and holding his newborn son, and since that moment, their relationship had changed. Suddenly there had been a burning connection between them—but they had never so much as shared a kiss. She remembered how he had turned to fight their pursuers single-handed on that lonely escarpment, begging for her to run. Lothryn had pressed Wyl into running too. It hurt deeply to imagine what had befallen him after their escape. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would have been taken alive in order to stand before a wrathful Cailech and take whatever punishment was meted out to him. Would it have been death by some harrowing method that only the Mountain King could dream up?

Elspyth did not want to think about it. She wanted to believe that Lothryn lived and distracted herself by turning her mind to Wyl, trapped in Koreldy’s body. He was trying to save the sovereign of the realm that had killed his father and been his homeland’s enemy for centuries while sending her off to track down his grieving sister. What a tragic family, she thought… so much despair in their lives. But she had agreed to do this for him and in return he had agreed to return to the Razors as soon as he could to find out what had happened to Lothryn.

She had put her trust in Wyl Thirsk. It would be interesting to talk to him, in happier times hopefully, about what it felt like to become someone else. Wyl was lucky, she thought, that it was the darkly handsome Romen Koreldy he had become. She imagined how it might have been if he had been killed by someone who was crippled or retarded…perhaps someone of very lowly birth. Worse—she giggled to herself—a woman!

She found herself approaching the high ground from which she could look down into the valley and see the monastery with its village clustered nearby. Relief that she had made it this far safely coursed through her and her approach was made with a far lighter heart and in happier spirits than when she began her journey.

Still smiling from the notion that Wyl could have become a woman instead of handsome Romen, she began to rehearse what he had instructed her to say to Brother Jakub. But as Elspyth crested the hill, full of hope, she stopped in her tracks and the smile died, taking with it her good mood.

The tiny enclave of Rittylworth was in ruin, one tiny dwelling still smoking from the firebrands. The monastery to one side looked cold and silent. It was still whole, blackened in parts, but even from this distance she could sense it was deserted. What had happened here? She did not want to approach just yet, needed to gather her racing thoughts. Wyl had impressed caution upon her, but even he had assumed she would be safe here in this picturesque hamlet.

She scrutinized the area now, gathering as much information as her eyes would give her. Noticing something odd in the far distance, she squinted and then let out a sound of despair when she realized what it was. People crucified. She could not tell whether they were still alive or merely corpses.

Elspyth did not pause for further thought but picked up her skirts and began to run.

Her fears were confirmed. As she drew closer, gasping for her breath, she could see that the village itself had been torched. It was desolate. There was no sign of other bodies, much to her relief, so she suspected this attack had occurred to teach the villagers some sort of lesson…retribution for something. Presumably they had fled and would return to rebuild the village and their lives when they felt it was safe.

Panting now as breathing became easier, she discovered that the monks had not been so fortunate. The greater lesson had clearly been taught within the grounds of the monastery, where the smell of burned flesh was evident and cloying. The light breeze carried the stench from the host of charred corpses hanging from a hastily erected series of crosses.

She had not realized she was weeping until a gust of wind told her that her cheeks were wet with tears. It was obvious that the lesser monks had been set aflame, then left to burn and die in horrific pain wherever they writhed. She found herself stepping over the blackened remains of men…some boys too, from which she quickly averted her horrified gaze. It seemed that most had either been working in the gardens or had emerged into the gardens when the raid came, for that was where the greatest number of bodies lay. Elspyth had no doubt there were more inside the monastery itself, but she was not prepared to look within.

The full horror of being nailed through the wrists and then burned on the cross had been saved for selected monks—the most senior perhaps. She counted six. They all appeared dead, though she had no way of knowing how recently this outrage had occurred, particularly as decay was not so evident just yet. This made her skin prickle, for it meant the attackers were not that long gone.

Needing to do something to show her despair, while not being able to face going into the holy chapel of the monastery, she sank to her knees and began praying at the feet of one of the crucified. As she murmured her pleas to Shar, the body above her croaked something. Elspyth fell backward with fright, looking up toward the tortured, hairless head with the flesh hanging off it.

She stood, petrified yet craning her neck as close to the man’s moving lips as she could.

“Find Ylena,” he breathed. “She lives. Pil took her.”

“Are you Jakub?” she asked, frantic.

An almost imperceptible, clearly painful nod told her he was indeed Brother Jakub.

“Let me help you,” she said, desperately looking around for a tool that might loosen the nails.

“Too late,” he croaked. She returned to look into his bleeding eyes and smoked flesh. “Tell Romen”—he coughed, his breath now rattling in his throat—“that this was the work of the King.”

“Why?” She could see his death looming.

“Thirsk…he—” was all the monk could get out before he took one last agonizing breath and died.

Elspyth wept for his suffering and those of his brothers, all peaceful men of the cloth. She felt a rage surfacing at this new king, understood now why Wyl’s identity should be protected. She eased the lids down gently over the staring eyes of Brother Jakub. There was nothing more she could do here, other than bear witness to the atrocity. It would stay with her forever. She touched a shaky hand to the blackened cheek of the brave monk who had stayed alive long enough to give her the information she needed before she set off, not knowing where she was headed, to find a woman being hunted by a merciless king.

She had trudged in something of a stupor for more than a day, only realizing as she heard the haunting call of an owl that dusk was darkening to night. She was exhausted. Since leaving the smoldering village of Rittylworth, she had met no travelers along the narrow roads of Morgravia’s midnorth. Her mind too numb to think, she had put one foot in front of the other to gain as much distance between herself and death as she could. It had been many solitary hours.

Elspyth shivered now in the chill night air as darkness finally registered in her blurred thoughts. She burrowed into a small hollow behind a bush for safety and then collapsed, not so much from fatigue as from the emotional trauma of her morning.

She was convinced the smell of burned flesh still clung to her and she could not forget the fire-torn voice of Brother Jakub courageously using his last breath of life to warn her. Elspyth wept quietly into the silence remembering the horrific scene, but she knew her tears for the monk must be brief, for it would not do to fall apart now.

Rittylworth had been torched because of the Thirsk name. Men of holiness, of peace, of love had lost their lives in ugly fashion because of the Thirsk name. Even Lothryn had suffered because of…no, she must not follow that line of thought. She must put him aside in her mind or she would never survive this.

Elspyth sniffed. She dug in her cloak pocket and found some nuts and dried fruit that her traveling friends had provided. There was some hard biscuit too, but she decided to keep that for the morning when hunger seemed at its sharpest. She chewed without interest in what she ate, considering her path now. She must make some decisions, good ones and quickly.

Jakub had said Ylena had escaped. The girl would be on foot presumably and not that long away from Rittylworth herself. Elspyth wondered about Pil, whom the older man had mentioned. She presumed he was a monk as well. Either way Ylena would be confused, frightened, disoriented. The thought brought a sad smile to her face. Much like myself, she admitted, realizing that in addition she was penniless, having used all her money to buy Wyl a horse at Deakyn. They had assumed she would meet up with Ylena and have access to funds again, but now she had no means of getting any coin. She shook her head clear of the doubts, swallowed the last of the fruit and nuts, and settled back against a tree to sleep.

But her thoughts drifted to her journey and where she must go. Felrawthy. That was where she needed to head now. She had in her possession a letter for the Duke of Felrawthy from Wyl. She was alone and defenseless, which meant she would need to find a new method of transport, perhaps link up with another group of travelers who might be heading east—if she could meet any, perhaps find some temporary work to afford food and lodging?

Well, it was a plan. Something to wake up to. The owl hooted again, reminding Elspyth that her kind should be asleep while the creatures of the night went about their business. She wriggled into the least uncomfortable position she could find and let her last conscious thought be cast to Lothryn.

Elspyth dreamed.

Lothryn was calling to her. Crying for her, in fact. He was in pain. Drowning in it. Vast, all-encompassing, mind-altering pain. It seemed to her that he could feel her presence as strongly as she sensed his. What was causing this pain and who was inflicting it she could not tell. There was darkness. Anger too. She could feel the bitterness raging about Lothryn—it was not his own—but she could neither see him nor the person who felt this emotion. Magic swirled around her…wherever she was. It knew she was there also, but it could not touch her.

Did she scream or was that Lothryn again?

Lothryn! she called into the pain.

His voice, just barely there.

Tell Romen I will wait, he whispered, voice thick with agony. I am no longer as he would expect.

Elspyth did scream now, shrieking Lothryn’s name again and again into the darkness and its foul magic, but her lover was gone. Their bond, whatever it was, viciously snapped as if the power wielder had cut through the point where their minds had touched.

She awoke, still crying out, as dawn crept through a heavy mist that had settled about her. At first Elspyth panicked amid the blindness, waving her arms and fighting the foggy swirls, but her vision cleared slightly, reassuring her of where she was, and coldly reminded her that she was alone. Shallow breaths came rapidly. She needed to slow them. Painfully she stood from her uncomfortable hollow and sucked in deep gasps of air, filling her lungs and expelling long breaths as gradually as she dared. Tears streamed down her face while a new fear gripped her…what had become of Lothryn?

Was he talking to her from the dead? Had he spoken at all or had she just dreamed, experiencing a nightmare of sorts? She forced herself to be practical even though she felt more fatigued now than before her distressing sleep. She wiped her eyes, relieved herself, and then sat down to slowly consume the hard biscuit. She was not hungry. The process of chewing and swallowing would help ease her alarm, she hoped, and so she forced herself to eat. Lothryn had made them eat when they were fleeing for their lives in the Razors. None of them had felt hungry and yet he had insisted and he had been right. She took the same advice now and nourished herself.

Elspyth had never felt more alone in her lonely life. Lothryn’s words, real or imagined, were all she had to cling to. She must succeed in her task if Wyl Thirsk was to keep his promise.

Elspyth finally stood, brushed away the crumbs, and patted at her unruly hair as best she could. She knew she looked a fright but no longer cared. Lothryn was suffering. He had spoken from life, not death. She knew it. Knew that her own, albeit vague, susceptibility to magic, even though she could not use it or even touch it, was how she had felt him.

She had heard his voice. Lothryn needed help. Setting her jaw in a way only her aunt would recognize as the stubborn manner of her forebears, Elspyth walked, heading east toward Felrawthy.