Chapter 30

Wyl and Aremys arrived at the Thicket from the village of Timpkenny on the north-eastern rim of Briavel. the village had struck them as an odd, almost nervous sort of place that suffered from being the closest clump of humanity to the place where the Darkstream presumably joined the River Eyle.

Much quiet superstition surrounded the Darkstream. It was not a fear of the magic so much as a privately held belief among these northerners that the unknown beyond was enchanted and was not a place for nonsentient people to roam.

Although they inquired at several Timpkenny establishments, no one could give the pair the Darkstream’s ultimate source or indeed destination, but everyone they spoke to nodded apprehensively and confirmed that to everyone’s knowledge the Darkstream was the only way to cross over into the Wild once you had negotiated the Thicket. Aremys asked one man why he lived so close to a place that carried so much superstition and the man had shrugged, answering that the land of this region was uncannily fertile and the weather, though cold, was reliable. The rains always came and the summer never failed.

“Our animals and crops thrive,” he had said, shrugging again. “My family eats.”

Wyl and Aremys knew they should count themselves lucky for having experienced an uneventful journey north. They had traveled relatively swiftly and without incident from Brynt across the border, always heading toward the mighty Razors and then cutting east once the famed mountains began to rise up menacingly before them. Briavellian guards had picked them up soon after and did little more than smirk when they admitted they were hoping to find a quiet pass to enter the Razors and avoid Cailech’s fortress. That was the cover story they had agreed to use if stopped by anyone.

The head of the guard was the only one of the Briavellian soldiers not smirking when Wyl and Aremys had stood at his checkpoint, brought to him by his men.

“There are several entries into the Razors from this part of Briavel, but you say you’re headed for Grenadyn. Surely it would have been easier for you to access the mountains from western Morgravia?”

“Too much trouble brewing on the border over there, sir,” Aremys had admitted. “It might be dangerous to take Lady Farrow via those routes.”

The officer had nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve made your journey three times as long, though.”

“Sir,” Wyl had interrupted, noting how the man had instantly regarded him with softer eyes. He had wondered if he himself had done this when addressing a good-looking woman. In truth, he found it insulting that a woman should be considered with such instant sympathy—or was it desire? He had tried not to let his irritation show in his tone. “It’s imperative that I return to my home in Grenadyn.” The lie came surprisingly easily. “However, I wish to draw as little attention to myself as possible and I’m prepared to lose the additional week or so that it will take us by using this more circuitous route.”

“And whose attention are you trying to avoid?”

“Why Cailech’s, of course,” Wyl had replied, adding a hint of irritation now. “I’ve learned on our travels that the Mountain King is moving toward the notion of summary executions for strangers.”

“Morgravians only, as I understand it, my lady.” He eyed her and stifled a smug expression. “You could have sailed more easily to Grenadyn, surely?”

“But we were nowhere near the coast, sir. I’m sure you don’t need to know my life story, either, Captain, er…?”

“Dirk, my lady.”

“Captain Dirk,” Wyl had said, “and I appreciate your concern for our long journey, but I have employed Aremys, who knows the mountain routes well. We shall be fine,” he had added, avoiding blatant condescension but hoping to bring an end to the man’s inquisitiveness.

“Well, Lady Farrow, it’s none of my business where or how you choose to go but—”

“That’s right, Captain,” Wyl had interjected, but as gently as he remembered Ylena might admonish someone. “I understand that you are responsible for the security of the realm in this part of Briavel, and as you can surely tell, we are no threat to it. We are simply travelers passing through. I gather there’s no law against that. I appreciate your concern for my safety. Aremys will see to it.”

The man had shown amusement for the first time. “I was only going to say that I thought you were not dressed sufficiently warmly for the Razors, my lady. It will be rough sleeping in the mountains. Are you really up to such challenge?”

“No need to worry,” Aremys had chimed in. “It’s my intention that we’ll make a stop at Banktown and buy what we need.”

Wyl knew there was little more the Captain could do unless he wanted to detain them. Besides, it was now obvious that Aremys did know the region—perhaps the Captain had not expected him to know the local towns and villages and had been testing them. As it had turned out, he had finally nodded, wished them well, and allowed them to move on.

Aremys had seen to it that they left the patrol in a northerly direction as though headed deeper into the foothills and ultimately up into the Razors. He knew the terrain well enough and soon had them back on track heading east in the relative obscurity of the lightly wooded hillsides. They had arrived at Timpkenny—their real destination—just before dark, took a couple of rooms in a very ordinary inn, and in the morning sold the horses. Wyl knew the price they had managed to negotiate was just short of theft, but they had had no choice. It was on foot from here on, as the famed Thicket would not permit horses to be led through. After purchasing a few minor provisions, they had set off.

Aremys and Wyl stared now at the Thicket without knowing it had not been so long ago that a small boy and a large dog had sat and regarded the same scene in virtually the same position.

“It suits its name,” Wyl admitted. “Have you been here before?”

“No. I’ve skirted around this region but never actually seen it.”

“How do we get in?”

“Push in, I suppose, although the old stories say it lets you in once you’ve made up your mind to cross it.”

“Lets you in, but not out?”

Aremys grinned at the beautiful woman who crouched next to him with the scowling expression. Strange as it was, he had thought of her as Wyl since Brynt—not that he had ever known Wyl Thirsk. He had witnessed the magic of Myrren’s Gift with his own eyes and suddenly anything and everything seemed possible. He had never considered whether he believed in magical powers or not. It was simply not an issue that had come up through his childhood in Grenadyn. That far north, the old stories prevailed and were accepted as folklore. It was only when he found himself in the south of Morgravia that he noticed how wary of magic the people seemed to be.

Now, having watched Faryl change into Ylena, stories about the Thicket and the Wild seemed plausible. He suddenly realized how vulnerable Wyl was as Ylena. Who knew what lay on the other side of the Thicket or what was to come?

As if reading his thoughts, Wyl nudged him. “Don’t stare at me like that. I know what you’re thinking, and big as you are, you’re no match for me, Aremys. I may look fragile in Ylena’s body. I assure you I’m not.”

“Did Myrren make you a mind reader as well?” Aremys asked, turning back to regard the incredibly dense line of trees and bushes that confronted them.

“No. You’re as easily read as an open book. Didn’t your mother teach you to mask your emotions?”

“I thought I had,” Aremys said, feigning hurt. They grinned at each other, although with more anxiety than mirth. “To answer your question, no, apparently the Thicket only lets you travel from this side to whatever lies on the other side. That’s my understanding, anyway. I believe legend has it that you can’t turn around halfway through and change your mind. Once committed and once permitted entry, you have to continue.”

“Extraordinary,” Wyl breathed. “And we’re not supposed to believe in magic,” he added, somewhat sarcastically.

Aremys did laugh out loud now. “I think you and I know better. Come on, if we’re going to do this, we should start now. There’s rain clouds set to burst.”

“I’ll go first,” Wyl offered.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aremys sighed. “I thought it was just me.”

Wyl grinned. “Shall we hold hands, then?” he suggested with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh no. Ladies first,” Aremys offered, in an overly polite tone.

Their banter was just another way of avoiding making the move. Wyl forced himself to approach, and as he stepped toward the Thicket, he noticed something to his right dangling from one of the low branches. His gaze slid past it momentarily as he scanned for the best entry point before recognition hauled his attention back. “Look at that!” he said, striding to the clump of bushes and untying the item, elation burning through him. “This is Romen’s bracelet.”

Aremys shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I do!” Wyl said fiercely, tying the oversize thong around his now-dainty wrist. “Only one of two people could have brought this here and I suspect it wasn’t Queen Valentyna.”

“Who then?”

“Fynch!”

“The gong boy you’ve spoken of? But he’s a child.”

“Never dismiss him as just a gong boy… or just a child. He’s a gifted youngster and with enough courage for both of us. If we look hard enough, I reckon we’ll find paw prints close by. Fynch and Knave have already come this way and left this as a sign.”

“Brave lad,” Aremys murmured. “Well, if a boy can do this, so can we.”

Wyl nodded and bent over to push his way into the Thicket. Before he entered fully he called over his shoulder to his companion. “Can you whistle?”

“I guess that’s a fairly important question and needs answering right now?” Aremys said, all but bent double to follow directly after Wyl.

“It’s just that Ylena can’t. One thing I couldn’t teach her.”

“Well, I really appreciate that critical and indeed relevant information,” his friend grunted behind him.

“Aremys, whistle, damn you! I can’t, so you’ll have to do it for both of us!” Wyl snapped.

“Happy to indulge you, my lady. Just not sure why?” came the response.

“Because we don’t know what happens in here. I don’t want us to be separated.”

“Oh,” Aremys said, understanding now. “All right. Any requests?…I do a fine ‘Under the Gooseberry Bush.’”

“Just get on with it, you fool!” Wyl said, daring a laugh through his fear. The Thicket’s presence was ominous and he could not shake the feeling that danger lay ahead.

“Can I just mention, as we’re on the topic of Ylena’s strengths and weaknesses, that she’s got the best arse I’ve had the pleasure of being close to.” Aremys’s muffled voice came from very close behind.

“Whistle!” Wyl shrieked in her voice. He knew what Aremys was doing. He was forcing the lightheartedness to combat their fear, but it was not working; they were both frightened enough to feel their own hearts pumping hard in their chests. It felt as if the Thicket were drawing him in…but to what? He marveled at how Fynch had found the courage to enter the Thicket.

Wyl entered the gloom of the Thicket and was immediately struck by its eerie silence, which was sufficiently heavy to give him a sense of suffocation. He could not stand, either, for the branches were low and tangled. He breathed hard and loosened the button near Ylena’s throat. He knew it was afternoon outside, yet it was so dark beneath the yews that Wyl could swear night was coming on. Nothing moved but he and Aremys.

At that moment he felt a terrible pressure on his chest. It felt as if all his breath were being sucked away; he could hear Aremys crashing into the Thicket behind and he momentarily heard his friend whistling all too brightly before the sound was suddenly cut off. And then he could breathe again. Wyl swung around, presuming the reason for his friend’s quiet was that Aremys had been shocked by the silence and dark, but he could not see his companion.

“Aremys?” He listened. Nothing. “Aremys!” he yelled.

Only dread silence responded.

Valentyna finished dictating her response to the message from King Celimus, the couched threat in his letter burning in her mind.

It had taken much soul-searching to reach her decision, but now it was finally made. She knew it was the only way forward under the circumstances. The nobles were not going to support her without Ylena Thirsk, and even if she could produce her, she could not imagine what the young noblewoman could say or do to change their minds.

Valentyna had seen it in their faces this afternoon, read it in their pained expressions, heard it in their voices, made awkward by the tension. The Briavellian nobles wanted peace with Morgravia above everything.

Above even her.

She was a pawn; the valuable key that might unlock the barrier that stood between Morgravia and Briavel living side by side as friendly neighbors and as allies. Valentyna understood clearly that whatever lip service the nobles had paid her this afternoon, the fact of the matter was that they did not care what Celimus was or what his intentions were. They did not want further proof of his treachery. If she were married to him, no more of their proud sons need die. Even if—Shar forbid—Celimus somehow contrived to make himself Lord High King of both realms, he would no longer wage war on Briavel, which meant their children were safe and Briavel was safe. And after decades of warring, peace is what the Briavellians demanded of their new monarch. Despite all the adoration, she was expendable. The realization was a deep pain in her heart. It made her momentarily breathless. Valentyna was a figurehead queen…her own people might well accept Celimus as their sovereign once the marriage had taken place.

All the talk of finding Ylena and considering new strategies to stall the marriage any further all of a sudden seemed futile. She must marry Celimus on behalf of Briavel and sacrifice her peace for its peace.

As these thoughts raged in her mind, Krell finished his scratchings on the paper and blew on it to dry the ink.

“I’ll add the royal seal, your highness, once you’ve signed it.”

He handed her the quill. She reached for it but did not take it.

“I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I, Krell?”

He searched her anguished face, which so recalled the beautiful woman who had birthed her, and he thought of how proud Valor would be of his daughter right now. She was putting her realm before her own inclination and ensuring its prosperity in the future. “Your majesty,” he said gravely. “Briavel will flourish because of the important decision you’ve made today.”

Her smile was thin and wavered beneath the force of her will, pushing away tears or sentiment. “I don’t want to marry him, Krell, but I know I must.”

“If you’ll permit me, highness…?”

Valentyna nodded. She trusted Krell implicitly and needed his assurances. He had been close to her father and she knew how much he cared for her.

The Chancellor’s rheumy gaze fixed upon her. “If you’re strong from the outset, child, Celimus will never make Briavel bow to Morgravia. You are a queen in your own right; you must not lose sight of this. We need his peace, yes, but, oh, your highness, he needs your sons! The bluest of royal bloods mingling. It’s a royal fantasy, highness, which both our dear King Valor and the great King Magnus dared imagine only in their wildest daydreams. Imagine your own blood reigning over two realms in years to come.”

She nodded again, genuinely teary this time. “I agree. If my reign is remembered for nothing else, I will secure peace for Briavel and birth the heirs it needs to sustain peace in the region.”

“That’s the spirit, highness. Very few royal marriages are made by Shar, your majesty—most are pragmatic and highly strategic. This is no different. Your father, may his soul rest quietly, would advise the same.”

The Queen smiled sadly. Krell knew what she was thinking. She had hoped to marry for love. Which princess did not?

She could not help herself. It needed to be said. “And I must forget that he designed the death of my father, the death of Wyl Thirsk, the murder of Romen Koreldy, the slaughter of those monks at Rittylworth and the noble family of Felrawthy…and no doubt countless others?” Her chest rose and fell with the anger she was holding at bay.

“My queen, we have no proof that his hand was behind any of those deaths.”

“But we know it, Krell!”

“Yes, your majesty,” he admitted truthfully. “But as diplomats, we must pursue the peace he offers or more of our young men are going to die. We stand to lose a whole generation if we go against him. Celimus, I fear, does not possess the honorable qualities of Magnus—he will fight us until the last man of Briavel falls and then he will dissolve the realm as we know it…wipe out its name, make it solely an annex of Morgravia.”

Valentyna did not say that she felt in her heart that he would annex Briavel anyway. “And still you would urge this marriage, knowing I’m sacrificing myself to a man I could never love.”

“Love is not the issue here, my queen,” Krell said firmly. “This is politics now and your emotions must be set aside. Your decision is purely a diplomatic one…a sound one. You will be Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel and you must use that status to high effect. This is not Celimus, King of Morgravia, and Briavel as his queen consort. You are both equal sovereigns with equal say in the running of both realms. You alone can carve a path for this marriage to work. Put aside what you feel you are losing and consider only what you are gaining, your highness.” He surprised Valentyna by suddenly kneeling before her. “You must leave behind whatever has gone before. Cut yourself free of those bonds and those sentiments. Start a new life with Celimus and see if you can’t be the one who makes the difference.”

“To him, you mean?”

“To him, to Morgravia and Briavel. Both realms crave this union and the harmony it will bring. Work hard for peace in the marriage, your highness, and you may well bring about surprising changes.”

Valentyna felt entirely trapped. There was nothing more she could do. All of the warnings she had heard—from Wyl, from Romen, from Fynch, and even more lately from Elspyth—haunted her, yet Celimus’s messenger had been ordered to wait for her response. Time was the enemy. The King was both impatient and impetuous—who knew what he might do if she did not answer in the affirmative? How long could she wait for Ylena and what difference could Ylena Thirsk make anyway? she asked herself, filled with frustration.

She made a small sound of despair before grabbing the quill and quickly signing her name, accepting Celimus’s proposal of marriage on the last full moon of the spring equinox.

“There,” she said, unable to disguise the disgust in her voice. “Get it away with the messenger.”

“Yes, your highness,” Krell said, rising and feeling a sense of loss at his part in forcing this young woman to act against her instincts. But the alliance was necessary for the well-being of Briavel. He and Valor had discussed on many occasions how insecure Briavel might be if faced with a battle on two fronts and Krell firmly believed that the threat from Cailech in the near future was real.

Wyl felt a cold tremor pass through him. Aremys had gone. Disappeared. There was no sign that he had even followed Wyl into the Thicket. Somehow he knew it would be pointless to search. If the Thicket was as enchanted as he had been led to believe, it had made the decision to separate them.

He shivered. Magic.

As that thought passed through him, a black dog melted out of the darkness and sat huge and still before him.

“Knave.”

The dog leapt and Wyl felt a moment of exquisite fear. He should have known better, for although he found himself winded and flat on his back, Knave towering above him, the dog merely licked him enthusiastically.

“Where’s Aremys?” Wyl asked, pushing him away.

Knave growled low. It was an answer but not one Wyl could understand.

“Is he all right?”

This time Knave barked once. Wyl convinced himself the animal had answered affirmatively. Thin though his premise was, he had to believe that Aremys was somewhere safe and not wandering aimlessly through the Thicket.

Knave growled again and turned. Wyl knew the dog wanted to lead him somewhere. They set off, the black beast at a trot and Wyl behind, crouching, blindly following. There were moments when he felt convinced that the branches were reaching out to touch him. None did. The silence was oppressive; there was only Knave’s presence and his own pounding pulse to reassure him that life existed in this strangest of places. It felt to Wyl like they had been moving for a long time and he could hear the rushing of water nearby.

Images echoing his fears began to rush at him. Aremys lost in the Thicket calling to him. Valentyna being raped by Celimus. Elspyth screaming for Lothryn while the man she loved begged Wyl for help. Romen, Faryl, and Ylena walked toward him, their expressions showing the same confusion they had felt when death had claimed each of them. And then that vision disappeared, to be replaced with blood and gore surrounding Tenterdyn. He could almost smell the carnage, and just when he thought he might have to scream for the dog to stop, that he must go back, they burst through the other side of the Thicket, emerging into gray daylight and a soft drizzle of rain.

He dragged a lungful of the damp air, not caring that his cheeks were wet from his own tears. Knave was gone. Instead, through the murkiness he saw a small cottage on the other side of a short bridge. Its chimney smoked cheerfully through the gloomy afternoon and light glowed through the windows; like a magnet, the dwelling drew him to its warmth.