Chapter 1

The vineyard sprawled before them, the land suddenly sloping down in the distance to a small shingle beach and the channel of sea. The tang of salt in the air was invigorating and the bright day with its cloudless sky and sharp light reminded Aremys of how much he had missed the north all these years. He inhaled the air now and smiled. It felt good to be alive, despite the new and sudden complexities in his life.

With his memory now blessedly returned, Aremys felt much better equipped to accept the King’s invitation to “walk the rows” of vines at Racklaryon. The mercenary learned that it was one of Cailech’s great pleasures to see his vineyard bursting with new life each spring, showing the spectacular results of the savage pruning his vignerons insisted upon.

King and mercenary looked out now across the neat rows and Aremys could almost taste the wine this field would produce at summer’s end. Bright green leaves, like the protective wings of a mother hen, shaded their yet-to-mature babies, bunches of fruit that hung like tiny green jewels, fattening and ripening daily as the plants sent out fresh tendrils to weave and curl their way along the special lines that supported the vines. The Mountain People had pioneered this method of support. In the south, the vines were left to themselves, to grow tall at first, stooping over when heavy with fruit. It made for a ragged, untidy vineyard but, in truth, did not affect the quality of the wine. In the north, however, vine support lines had been developed to air the fruit, as some months were humid and damp. It also looked more spectacular.

Cailech’s people took pride in the ordered appearance of their vineyards. Not only were the rows straight but each vine was sung to as it was planted—a small prayer to Haldor that each new beginning might yield life of its own. At each row’s end, the Mountain People planted a flower called a trineal. It was beautiful but fragile, very susceptible to lack of water or other natural attacks. Cailech’s vignerons maintained that if the trineal foundered, they would have but a few weeks to find the solution to prevent the vines from following suit. It was an ancient tradition but one still faithfully adhered to. The bright rainbow colors of the trineal bushes were an attractive feature in this, Cailech’s favorite vineyard, and they stood proud, colorful, and healthy at the heads of the rows. It would be a bountiful harvest, the men murmured.

The King was rarely alone; today he was flanked by Myrt and Byl. Aremys had come to know these particular fellows well since his curious arrival in the Razors. He felt comfortable in their presence and over the past few days had started to view them as companions as much as captors. Nevertheless, he had chosen not to reveal that his memory was fully restored. It suited him that these Mountain Dwellers knew only as much as he was prepared to share, until he could learn more about their intentions for him.

The small company had ridden to the vineyard beyond the lake and Aremys was sorry to see that the King had not chosen to bring the intriguing black horse that had caused him such fright on their previous ride. He mentioned his disappointment to Cailech.

“Ah yes, Galapek,” the King replied softly, and Aremys felt the weight of the green gaze upon him. “I had the impression that he disturbed you somehow the last time we rode together.” It was said without accusation but Aremys felt the scrutiny couched within. Wyl Thirsk’s warning burned in his mind: Only a fool took any comment by Cailech at face value. Everything he says has a purpose, Wyl had impressed upon Aremys during their journey together from Felrawthy. He misses nothing.

The mercenary thought back to the moment of disturbance the King spoke of. It had occurred only a few days ago. Aremys had initially admired the King’s mount but, on casually touching the horse’s strong neck, had felt a blast of dark, tainted magic surge through his hands. It had been an intense shock for Aremys—not only that the creature was alive with magic, but also that he could sense it—and he had jerked back in distress. Worse, he had been unable to regain his composure and had been forced to excuse himself from the party of riders. The entire scene had been embarrassing to Aremys, but, more important, no doubt had also appeared suspicious to his keepers at a time when he was striving to convince them that he was not a Morgravian spy or a threat to any of the Mountain Dwellers.

The only positive outcome was that the shock seemed to have caused his amnesia to dissipate and he had been able to piece together what he was doing in the Razors. He remembered following Wyl Thirsk, who now walked in the guise of his sister, Ylena, courtesy of the powerful gift, the Quickening. Together they had entered the mysterious region in the far northeast known as the Thicket. Aremys recalled Wyl asking him to whistle so they would not lose each other among the tangle of this dense landmark. He had obliged, could even remember the tune he had chosen, but then all had gone black and he had woken, disoriented and without his memory, on the frozen rocks of the northern mountain range. Cailech’s men had discovered him there, and aided by his genuine confusion, he had managed to muddle his way through those early and dangerous stages. He felt convinced now that he had carefully won not only the trust of the Mountain warriors but that of their king as well. Wyl had warned Aremys that the Mountain King was changeable, capricious even, and had recounted the terrible night of the feast when Cailech had threatened to roast alive the Morgravian prisoners his men had captured and feed them to his people.

This was definitely not a man to second-guess and so Aremys had been as honest as he could with the Mountain King, even disclosing his identity when it finally returned to him.

He had not, however, told Cailech anything about his connection to Wyl Thirsk, the former General of Morgravia, or that Wyl was possessed by a magic that had already taken the lives of three people—one of them Romen Koreldy, in whom Cailech had shown a keen interest. Aremys vowed that if the Mountain Kingdom held its own secrets, he would learn them and at least be useful in some small way to Wyl, who had promised to return to the Razors someday in search of his friends Gueryn and Lothryn, both of whom had offered their lives to save his.

Nor had he been honest with Cailech about his arrival in the Razors. It had taken Aremys hours of musing to accept that the Thicket must have somehow repelled him. It was a difficult notion for him to get his mind around. Until recently he had neither particularly believed nor disbelieved in magic, but growing up in the far north, on the Isles of Grenadyn, meant he held a loose acceptance that such a power might exist and was not necessarily something to fear.

Loose acceptance and indisputable proof were entirely different matters, however, and now—since he’d met Wyl and shared the sorrow of his plight—the legend of the Thicket had taken on a sinister character.

Acknowledging that this enchanted place had purposefully separated him from the very person he had sworn to protect was disturbing enough, but accepting that the Thicket had also affected him in such a way that he now possessed the ability to sense magic was terrifying.

The horse itself couched a darker mystery. Just touching the animal had made him feel ill. It reeked of evil—and yet also of despair. Aremys needed to see the horse again, reach toward it once more.

Perhaps his captors had no idea of the darkness in Galapek? But how else could Cailech know the horse was the reason for his disturbance?

Aremys realized Cailech was still watching him carefully. The mercenary, practiced at subterfuge, stretched a lazy smile across his generous mouth. “It had nothing to do with the beast, my lord. I felt very off-color that morning and I slept for many hours after that event.”

“Probably out of your discomfort at almost spewing on the King’s boots!” Myrt added, safe in the knowledge that Cailech encouraged a more casual atmosphere when he was away from the fortress and the formalities of being their ruler.

Myrt’s jest gave Aremys the opportunity he needed to navigate himself from the King’s scrutiny. It suddenly occurred to him that Cailech knew more than he was giving away. His instincts had rarely let him down, so he listened to them now.

“It reminded me of the time,” he said, seizing the opening, “when a very aged and strict aunt of mine came to visit the family.” His companions, sensing a tale in the making, came closer. “She was a cantankerous woman who despised social gatherings, yet insisted on everyone celebrating her nameday each spring. Oh, how we hated that day and her arrival with all of its pomp and ceremony. But our family was obliged to her, for the rich crone had gifted much money to the town, and I would be lying if I said we had not benefited from her gold.”

Aremys saw with relief the loose, expectant grin on the King’s face as he bent to inspect a vine of juvenile grapes. He continued with his tale: a dare by his brothers that went horribly wrong and culminated in his tossing the contents of a chamber pot over the head of the town’s special guest.

The men roared with laughter. Aremys noted that Cailech was less responsive but nonetheless amused; a wry smile crinkled the weathered face and sparkled in his eyes. “I would never repeat such a tale if that had been me,” he said.

“Nor will I again,” Aremys admitted, rather impressed himself by his telling of the story, which was wholly fabricated. “But I am trying to impress upon you, my lord, the level of my dismay. This sorry tale has now been relegated to the second most embarrassing moment of my life. I hope you can guess the first.”

“You are forgiven, Farrow, and it’s forgotten,” the King said as the other two men began to wander away through the rows.

Aremys did not believe him. “Thank you, sire.”

“Perhaps you would like to ride Galapek?”

Aremys had not expected this and he knew his hesitation was telling. The King was testing him and both of them knew it. The mercenary quickly gathered his wits. “It would be a privilege, my lord.”

“Good,” the King replied, his steady gaze unfathomable. “I will arrange it.” He looked beyond the mercenary. “Ah, here comes Baryn. He is head of the vineyard.” The previous topic seemingly forgotten, he strode toward the man, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t you love the Thaw, Aremys? Spring unfurling her fronds, pushing through her shoots, warming the ground, and melting the ice?” Cailech pointed as Aremys caught up. “Just look at these vines, fairly bursting with joy as tiny green buds and tendrils begin their life journey.”

“You should write poetry, sire.”

The King smiled at the compliment. “I have a proposition to put to you, Farrow.” Cailech’s sudden twist took Aremys by surprise. He would have to be careful; Wyl had warned him of this. “Sire?”

“I have been thinking about our conversation.”

“Oh?” Aremys thought back over the past few days; he and Cailech had had many discussions.

“Regarding Celimus,” Cailech clarified.

Aremys nodded. “I recall suggesting a parley.”

“There is wisdom in what you advise and I have decided to act upon it.” Aremys raised his eyebrows but managed to keep the surprise from his voice. “Really?” Cailech nodded. “Yes. I am going to Morgravia, and not under cover of disguise or stealth. Actually, let me correct that. We are going to Morgravia.”

“You and your chosen men, sire?”

“Me and you, Farrow.”

Aremys searched the King’s face for any signs of guile, then realized that he would not be able to tell if Cailech was bluffing. The man was a master at hiding behind a granite expression—although on this occasion Aremys thought he detected the barest hint of amusement.

“Then I am honored, King Cailech,” Aremys said diplomatically.

Cailech simply nodded. “You will set up the meeting, as you know Celimus. You will act as my emissary.”

And with that the King strode away, leaving the newly appointed envoy for the Mountain Kingdom openmouthed.

“Close it, friend,” Myrt said, returning to Aremys’s side.

“He can’t be serious,” Aremys murmured, watching as the King’s broad figure joined the vineyard manager among an ocean of green leaves.

“He never jests about such things. Take it as a compliment, Farrow. He must trust you.”

“Do you know when we leave?”

“As soon as the streams run with the Thaw, he told me.”

“But that’s now!” Aremys turned to look at Myrt.

The man grinned. “True. Come on, we’d better head back—apparently you are to ride his prize stallion this afternoon.”

Aremys’s stomach had clenched when he caught sight of the magnificent horse being led out of its stall by Maegryn, the stablemaster. The stallion flicked its tail constantly, as though angry. A weak sensation of nausea rippled through the mercenary. He forced himself to relax, for he had been holding his breath and was ashamed at himself for allowing this animal to have such a dramatic effect on him.

It’s only a horse, damn it! he berated himself, but to no avail; the sinister feeling intensified.

“He’s a beauty, this one,” Myrt commented by his side.

Aremys fought the swirling dizziness. Did no one else feel it? “Is Cailech not joining us?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“No. Rashlyn will be riding out, though.”

“Who is he?” Aremys asked innocently. He recalled Wyl’s description of the man who seemed to have an unnatural influence over the Mountain King.

“The King’s barshi—a detestable creature,” Myrt said. “But if you ever claim I said that, I’ll deny it first and kill you later.”

Aremys grinned. “A man of magic, then?” he asked, watching as Maegryn saddled Galapek.

His companion nodded and Aremys felt his stomach twist again. “Can he sense other empowered people?” He hoped Myrt would not hear the anxiety in his voice.

“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

Aremys forced a shrug. “Oh, no reason. I’ve always been rather intrigued by those with the power, that’s all.”

“To be honest I wish he’d leave the mountains. His influence upon our king is too strong. There are times…” Myrt’s voice trailed off.

Aremys glanced toward his captor. “Go on.”

The Mountain Man shook his head. “No, I speak out of turn.” Aremys could see it would not be wise to push Myrt further right now, although it pleased him to note that Myrt felt comfortable enough around him to be candid. Perhaps Myrt could become a source of information, or a key to escape.

It looked as though Maegryn was satisfied with Galapek. He was barking orders now for the other horses to be led out.

“Where did Cailech find this magnificent horse?” Aremys asked brightly, noticing that he seemed to be growing more accustomed to the nearby magic.

“It’s the strangest thing,” Myrt replied, clearly relieved to have moved away from the previous conversation. “I really don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the very best horses come from Grenadyn—as you would know—but this animal just turned up one day. He certainly isn’t from our stock.”

“You mean it just appeared out of nowhere?” Aremys asked, astounded. Perhaps the stallion had also been cast here by the Thicket.

Myrt laughed. “No, I didn’t mean that. But Maegryn knows all the foals born here. And if we bring horses over from Grenadyn then it’s quite a big event because they have to be shipped in. I don’t recall this animal being brought across the channel—it would surely have caused a stir if he had.” Aremys was intrigued. It was not his imagination, then. There was something mysterious about the King’s horse. “What does his handler say?”

“Maegryn’s very tight-lipped on the subject. I’ve tried to find out more but he’s refused to discuss it. I get the impression that Rashlyn might have gifted the horse to Cailech, though I couldn’t guess at where he would find such a beast. Perhaps the King has asked both to keep it quiet. Cailech can be quite unpredictable on occasion—in case you hadn’t noticed.” Myrt grinned.

“I have,” Aremys said wryly.

“He is a great man, but he can be contrary at times,” Myrt warned, before adding softly, “I know that worried Lothryn.”

Aremys took a careful breath at the name of Wyl’s friend. “Lothryn—that name sounds familiar. Who is he?” he commented absently.

“A friend. Formerly second in command to our king. A man I would have followed without question into any situation—but who betrayed us all.”

Maegryn was leading the horse toward them now and Aremys again felt the sickening pull of magic. He forced himself to focus on Myrt’s words. “Betrayed you? Where is he now?”

“Gone,” Myrt said, ending the conversation. “Your mount is ready—and here comes Rashlyn. Be warned—he is a strange man.”

The barshi was already mounted on a chestnut mare. He stopped just steps from the mercenary and gazed down upon the tall foreigner. “You must be Aremys,” he said in his strangely hesitant manner.

“Cailech suggested we meet. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Aremys lied, instantly taking a dislike to the wild-looking man with the dead eyes and unwilling smile. He raised his hand in salutation, deciding to avoid all physical contact with the barshi. If Aremys himself sensed the horse’s magic through touch, perhaps Rashlyn could do the same with him.

He wondered whether Cailech had specifically asked Rashlyn to watch how he reacted to the horse today.

Which would mean they are definitely suspicious of me, he thought. The stench of Galapek’s magic buffeted his senses as the handler halted the stallion alongside the mare.

“Master Aremys, you’ll be riding Galapek this afternoon,” Maegryn said. “Be firm with him, sir. But also give him his head on the flat. He likes to gallop. Could use a good run today.” It was all Aremys could manage to nod agreeably and take the reins from Maegryn. How had he backed himself into this situation? Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it and deliberately turned his back to Rashlyn as he mounted. He could not allow the barshi to read his fear.

Waves of revulsion pulsed through him as he took his seat in the saddle. It required all his courage not to leap from the horse immediately. “You lead,” he said tightly to Rashlyn, hoping to get the magic man ahead of him.

Unfortunately, Rashlyn had his measure. “Myrt—you know the best paths,” he said. “You lead. I’ll bring up the rear.”

The party of three set off, with Aremys now fully convinced he was under observation by the King’s sorcerer.