Chapter 30

Wyl entered the same impressive chamber he had been escorted to as Romen Koreldy. Once again he was greeted by the Mountain King, who immediately dismissed the two warriors he was speaking with.

“Ylena,” Cailech said, moving swiftly from the huge windows where he had been gazing out across the valley. “You look enchanting.” He kissed her hand and moved back to the panoramic view, this time with her in tow.

Wyl closed his eyes with revulsion but permitted the courtesy. “Thank you for the fresh clothes.”

“Can’t have you looking like a man all the time,” Cailech replied, his light green eyes sparkling in the dying light. “Are you hungry?”

“Not especially.”

“Mountain People are always ravenous,” the King admitted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be polite and pretend you’re eating plenty. Just push the food around if you must, but let the kitchen know you’ve appreciated their efforts tonight.”

Wyl nodded. “Of course.”

“Your hair is so beautiful and soft,” the King said, reaching a hand to touch Ylena’s carefully dressed hair.

Wyl stepped closer to the window, trying to avoid the King’s caress. “You certainly live in a magnificent place,” he said, keeping his voice steady, mind racing. He had to escape. No ideas had presented themselves, save death, and he was not permitted to force that. The Quickening was sinister enough without antagonizing its magics. He thought about those who were still left to him—Fynch, Elspyth, Aremys, Gueryn, hopefully, and, of course, always Valentyna. He was terrified that Myrren’s Gift might strike at them if he broke its laws, and he could not risk those precious lives.

“This is your home now, Ylena. I hope you’ll come to love it in the same way that my people do.” Cailech watched the Morgravian noblewoman smile wanly at him. “May I ask you a question, sire?”

“By all means. Come, sit, let me pour us something to enjoy while we talk.” Sitting was good, Wyl decided, for there were no chairs in the room that could take the two of them.

“Thank you.” he said, walking deeper into the chamber toward the hearth.

“I had a fire lit. I presumed you might be feeling the cold.”

“Just a bit,” Wyl said, and shivered for effect, making the King grin.

Seated, Wyl broached the subject that had burned on his lips ever since meeting Cailech again. “My lord, I have learned that someone very precious to me was sent into the Razors a little while ago with a scouting party.”

The King did not reply, simply arched an eyebrow in query as he handed Ylena a small, exquisite glass of a honey-colored wine that looked syrupy and delicious. “This is my personal favorite. Please enjoy.” Wyl nodded his thanks and sipped. It was Romen’s distant memory that recalled the wine—a burst of sharp fruit that somehow was also achingly sweet—but it was Ylena’s mouth that smiled with pleasure.

Again the King grinned.

“He is Morgravian,” Wyl continued. “An older man. His name is Gueryn le Gant.” Cailech’s expression remained unchanged. “Yes, I know of him.”

“Is he alive, sire?”

“I don’t know.”

Wyl’s heart twisted in his chest. He had to be especially cautious here. He could not let on that he knew anything more than Ylena herself could know. “I see. But you had him as a prisoner?”

“That is correct.”

“Can we find out if he has survived, my lord?”

“That depends.”

“On what, your majesty?” Wyl drew on all his sister’s sweet manners.

The King put a finger to his lips at the sound of a knock on the door. “Come,” he called.

A servant appeared. “Forgive me, your majesty. Warrior Bore wondered if you could spare a moment.

He said it’s extremely important.”

Bore! Wyl remembered the name all too well—the man had nearly prevented their escape from the fortress the last time.

The King showed his irritation at being interrupted. “Very well. I can spare only a moment, and tell him it had better be vital news.” The servant disappeared. “Forgive me, Ylena,” Cailech said. “This won’t take long.”

Wyl nodded, a polite smile on his sister’s face.

Bore entered nervously. Wyl stiffened as he saw that the man still carried himself with a limp—the legacy Romen’s sword, wielded by Wyl’s hands, had left.

“This had better be good, Bore,” the King warned. “I have company.” The young warrior nodded toward the noblewoman, embarrassed, and made a low bow to his sovereign. “Please forgive me, sire, but I bring dire news.”

“Dire?” the King repeated, not taking the younger man seriously. “Get on with it, then, man.”

“Should I speak freely?” the warrior asked, glancing again toward Wyl.

“I would have said so otherwise,” Cailech replied, his tone brusque.

“Yes, your majesty,” Bore bobbed another bow. “I…er, well, I was passing the stable earlier this evening, sire, and there was a terrible commotion from within. It was your stallion, my lord.”

“And where was Maegryn?” the King asked.

“That’s what I’m here to tell you, sire. Maegryn is dead.” The King paused deliberately in an attempt to steady his erupting emotions. “Killed by the horse?” he asked, mind racing as to whether Lothryn could or would do such a thing.

“No, your majesty. Killed by our own and the Grenadyne.”

“What?” Cailech roared, no longer caring for control.

Wyl stood and backed away, his own mind in a swirl of confusion. What could have happened between Aremys and Galapek to provoke such a thing?

“Farrow was there?” the King demanded.

Bore nodded. “It was not Farrow who did the deed, though, sire.”

“Tell me.” Cailech’s face had darkened, his eyes narrow. Wyl knew the look, had seen it through Romen’s eyes. A storm was raging beneath the seemingly calm expression. The men had forgotten Ylena in the shock of the news and he frantically scanned the room for a way out. But there was no side door, no entry other than the one presently blocked by Bore. He was trapped.

“It was Myrt, sire.”

The room became deathly silent. Even the air seemed to thicken in that moment of dread.

Cailech’s voice, when it came, was strung taut. The impact of a second betrayal from a trusted warrior hit hard, and he half whispered, half groaned, “You are sure of this?” The man nodded, eyes darting toward Wyl and anxiously back to his king. “I was taking a tumble with a girl, sire. Forgive me. We were in the hayloft above your stallion’s stable when two men came in. I recognized Myrt immediately, and of course the Grenadyne was easy to distinguish even in the low light of the stable.”

“Go on,” the King urged, his body tensed like an animal ready to pounce on prey.

Bore looked as though he regretted the whole idea of bringing this alarming news to his sovereign. Gone is the smugness now, eh, Bore? Wyl thought, deriving momentary pleasure from the uncertain expression on the warrior’s face as he tried to explain something the King did not want to hear yet insisted on being told.

“Myrt and Farrow, they…” Bore looked embarrassed.

“What? What did they do?” the King demanded.

Bore took a breath. “They talked to Galapek, sire.”

Wyl had not thought the atmosphere in the room could get more potent with foreboding or that the King could hold himself more still or more tense, but he saw he had been wrong.

Bore tried to fill the silence. “The Grenadyne spoke to the horse as if it could hear him, sire, and so did Myrt. They…well, I feel awkward about this, sire,” he said, looking to his king for help.

“Say it!”

“They called your stallion Lothryn.”

Cailech swung around, a sound of anger combined with anguish escaping his throat. He swatted at the clay flagon nearby and it shattered on the granite floor, the smell of honey and syrupy-sweet wine wafting through the chamber.

“Finish it, Haldor damn you, Bore!” the King said, rounding on his warrior. It was the first time Wyl had ever seen Cailech lose his control.

Bore swallowed. “The horse reared when they called to him, sire, then it began to scream and kick at the walls. Farrow told Myrt that the stallion wanted to be let loose.”

“Did they do that?” Cailech demanded.

Bore shook his head. “Maegryn interrupted their planning. He questioned what they were doing around Galapek. Myrt seemed unsure at first, sire. The Grenadyne did all the talking, said he wanted to go out for a ride or some such excuse. Maegryn said he had to report them because the barshi had given orders since the disappearance of the Morgravian prisoner that anyone acting strangely around Galapek was to be singled out.”

Wyl kept Ylena’s gaze on the floor but sensed the King steal a glance toward her at the mention of Gueryn. He worked hard to give the impression that she was embarrassed to be sharing this information and did not react to the mention of the prisoner.

Bore was racing to the end of his sordid tale, clearly uncomfortable and eager to leave. “Maegryn said he was coming to see you, sire, and that’s when Myrt grabbed him. Farrow told him not to, but there was blood rage there, sire, Myrt couldn’t stop. He strangled Maegryn but I didn’t stop to see what they did with the body, your majesty. I jumped from the small window upstairs and came straight here, although I gather the Grenadyne is also on his way to see you.” He looked behind him as if Aremys might already be standing there.

“And Myrt?”

“Has gone to find Rashlyn, your majesty. Farrow wants to know what has happened to the Morgravian prisoner. Maegryn mentioned that he thought the barshi had taken him for his own uses.” Cailech twisted away in angry thought, staring out of the window. He could only barely see the great shadows of the mountains in the distance now as darkness fell quickly upon the Razors.

“Bore.”

“Sire?”

Cailech’s voice was as cold as the ice that covered the Razors’ peaks in midwinter. “Assemble the senior warriors. ”Tell the gatekeeper no one leaves, not even our own. Send reinforcements to the portcullis.

Have several guards posted on every gate—even those into the town. Neither Myrt nor the Grenadyne is to be permitted access in either direction. Release the dogs. Understand?“ Bore nodded. ”Send Rollo to me immediately with one other of his choice—have runners sent for him if necessary. Tell Rollo everything and then find Myrt.“ Bore bowed and departed.

The King turned slowly to face Ylena. Wyl set her face impassively and took the lead. “I’m sorry, your majesty, that I witnessed that. I’m sure it was a private concern.”

“It was not your fault, Ylena. I should have taken more precaution.”

“That man of yours was speaking about Gueryn le Gant, wasn’t he?” The King nodded, staring so intently at Ylena that Wyl felt himself falter slightly. Perhaps it was not a good idea to question Cailech right now. But there might never be a better opportunity, and time was their enemy. “Gueryn le Gant is my guardian,” he said. “When our mother died, Gueryn was all we had, for my father was away at Pearlis with the King. When I was sent to Stoneheart to be raised as the ward of King Magnus, Gueryn was there too. He is family. He is all I have left.” Wyl made Ylena’s soft tones beseeching.

The news took the King by surprise, but he had no time to respond, for there was another knock. Once again he hushed Ylena with a gesture. Both knew who it was going to be. The same servant appeared with an expression of apology, but Cailech hardly noticed.

“Is it Aremys Farrow?” he asked before the man said anything.

“Yes, sire.”

“Send him in.”

Aremys was shown in and Wyl immediately sent him a look of warning.

“Sire, you were expecting me?” Aremys said smoothly, trying hard not to show his surprise.

“I guessed you would come around soon enough,” Cailech said, his tone casual and his body language relaxed. Behind him Wyl shook his head toward Aremys, desperately cautioning him against saying anything incriminating.

Aremys faltered. The smile he would normally give to the man he now considered a friend did not arrive.

“Care for a cup of wine, Farrow?”

“No, sire, I came here only briefly to pass on a message. Forgive my interruption, I thought it was important.”

“Apparently there are a number of important messages to be communicated tonight,” Cailech replied.

The cryptic response was not lost on Aremys. “I can come back later, sire.” He saw relief move across Ylena’s face and then froze as Cailech also glanced toward her.

“No, please, come and join us,” Cailech said affably. “I’d like to share some wine with you.” Wyl looked at the shattered flagon and Aremys followed his glance. Something dangerous had occurred here tonight; tempers had frayed. “Are you well, Ylena?” he asked, suddenly wondering whether Cailech had hurt Wyl.

“I am, thank you, Aremys. I was just about to tell the King about Queen Valentyna and all she told me of Romen’s tales of the Razors.” Aremys nodded, frowning slightly, and Wyl took the risk of saying more.

“You know, about how Romen’s escape was aided by Lothryn, and how he later worried about what might have happened to the brave warrior who betrayed his king.” Wyl himself had fast reflexes but Ylena’s body moved more slowly than he was used to. He saw the King’s sudden action but as Ylena could not avoid the hard, stinging slap. Ylena’s small body flew across the room, gashing a leg on a small table and sprawling across a chair before tumbling to the granite floor.

Wyl lay still. From the terrible pain, he suspected Ylena’s slim shoulder had dislocated during the awkward fall.

Wyl heard Cailech ranting above his sister’s body. “Do you think I’m stupid, Ylena?” Wyl had no choice; he spoke quickly to his friend. “He knows about Maegryn,” was all he managed before he felt himself lifted easily from the floor and flung again across the chamber. He glimpsed Cailech’s enraged face and heard his roar of anger. Ylena’s body crunched awkwardly against the stone fireplace and this time her leg snapped, the bone poking through the skin. Fresh pain klaxoned through her frail body. Wyl released a scream, partly out of helplessness, partly designed to keep Cailech’s attention away from Aremys. It was too late, though—Cailech’s men had arrived, among them someone Aremys clearly recognized.

“Hold him, Rollo!” the King commanded, pointing at a startled Aremys, who had remained frozen, unsure whether to run toward Ylena or out the door. Either way he left his decision until it was too late and Wyl closed Ylena’s eyes with despair. He moved her bleeding, broken body into a sitting position and prayed the King would not hurt her further. He could handle the physical pain, but the battering of Ylena both at Tenterdyn and now here was more than Wyl could bear emotionally.

“Be still, Farrow!” Cailech commanded. “There is no escape.” Aremys obeyed. “What is this about, your highness? I thought I was a free man.”

“You were,” Cailech said, advancing on his new victim, Ylena forgotten. “Until Bore brought me some dark news.”

Aremys wore a confused expression. “What news, sire?”

“You snake!” Cailech spat. “Am I that gullible, Farrow? Perhaps I am,” he said, answering his own questions with a weariness in his voice. He smiled suddenly, ruefully. “I trusted you. I thought you were on our side.”

“King Cailech—” Aremys began.

“Don’t, Grenadyne,” the King warned. “Don’t begin to spin any lies. Rollo, is everything secured?” The man nodded. “Bore and some others are seeing to it, sire.”

“Myrt?”

Rollo looked uncomfortable at the mention of the senior warrior’s name. “He is being followed to the barshi’s quarters, sire, as you ordered.”

As soon as Aremys heard Myrt’s name, he lowered his chin and his body slumped slightly in the grip of the men. They were all as good as dead now. He looked over at Wyl, equally helpless at the other end of the room, and felt something inside him break.

Rashlyn had been experiencing an inexplicable sense of doom for the past few hours. The Stones, which he had cast for himself, kept showing him the coming of a dragon. It made no sense. Dragons were creatures of myth, as were winged lions, unicorns, and other strange beasts worshiped through the ages—and still revered in Morgravia. The Stones had never given him such a picture before and yet they insisted, time and again. Considering that he had cast the Stones only a few times in his life on his own behalf—and had always found them accurate—this was wildly unsettling.

He had been pondering this curiosity for many hours, wondering at what it could mean for Cailech and, more to the point, himself. Now he felt a light was dawning: Perhaps the vision pointed toward the changing of a sovereign in Morgravia. It had come to him that the King of Morgravia sat upon the dragon throne, and that the King’s emblem—and mythical creature of the Crown of Morgravia—had always been the dragon. So did the coming of the dragon shown by the Stones mean a new king for the southern realm?

That made little sense, however, for the present King was young, virile, and seemingly in excellent health, according to Cailech. Perhaps they were suggesting that the marriage of Celimus to Valentyna would change the Crown somewhat, bringing a new queen to the throne. Except the Stones were specific; they spoke only of the dragon and a new coming. Valentyna was not in any way connected to the dragon throne; nor, to Rashlyn’s knowledge, did the Briavellians have any link to the mythical creatures in the manner of Morgravia.

No, he pondered, pulling at his tangled beard, this was specifically about the Dragon King. There it was again: change. Before Cailech had left for Morgravia, the Stones had spoken change and Rashlyn had thought they referred to something sinister. As it turned out, Cailech had returned triumphant, not only with a new truce and a peaceful neighbor but with a bride as well. Rashlyn nodded to himself, congratulating the Stones on their accuracy. Change had indeed occurred for the King of the Razors.

Everything had changed for the better.

But now this…this time it felt sinister, threatening. The Stones pointed toward the coming of the dragon, but he had done this casting purely for himself, not on behalf of Cailech. This foretelling was about him.

Was the dragon coming for him?

Deep in his thoughts, he jumped in alarm as the door of his chamber crashed open and Myrt’s huge body filled the doorway.

“Good evening, barshi,” Myrt said. The words were polite, but the tone and the expression on the big man’s face belied them.

“What are you doing here?” the small man stammered, immediately summoning a spell of protection.

“I’ve come for the truth about Lothryn—or should I say Galapek?” Rashlyn was intrigued by the big man’s discovery; he held back the magic he had prepared to hurl.

“What do you know?” he asked, his voice light and taunting.

“Where is the Morgravian prisoner?” Myrt responded.

The barshi gave a mad cackle. “I’ll be happy to show you,” he said, and pointed to the corner, where a large gray dog was sitting, chained and quivering.

Myrt, aghast, was unsure whether to take the deranged barshi seriously, yet somehow knew he was being shown the truth. “Gueryn?” he asked the dog tentatively.

The dog whined. It was in obvious pain, but it pawed the ground in frustration and strained against its chain.

“Like my work, Myrt? It’s so much better than Lothryn, whom I’m afraid I must have killed in the process. As you can see, le Gant is alive within the beast and fully aware of his new status.”

“You fucking—”

Myrt got no further. Pain exploded in his head and his nose and ears began to leak blood.

“Shut up!” the barshi screamed. “Or I won’t even give you a choice of what I turn you into, you stupid fool.” Myrt was moaning unintelligibly and clutching his head. “I guess that hurts, eh?” Rashlyn continued.

“Well, listen to me now, big man. I’m going to take away the pain and then you are going to tell me who else knows my secret.”

Myrt shook his head vigorously and blood spattered the barshi. Rashlyn seemed not to notice; instead he stepped up the punishment and the warrior’s eyes bulged as a fresh wave of pain hit.

“Do just as I say, Myrt,” Rashlyn warned. His fingers moved slightly and the warrior was pushed back and held against the wall. “Better?” he asked, dispelling the pain.

Myrt shook his head, refusing to cooperate even as his body was released from its agony.

“Who else knows?” Rashlyn asked, moving toward the warrior.

“Just me and, I presume, the King,” Myrt spluttered. Although the pain had lifted, the toll on his body was significant enough to make him gasp still.

“Oh yes, the King knows. It was his choice to punish Lothryn that way, you see. I think it’s beautifully subtle. And Galapek is so magnificent—”

Rashlyn suddenly stopped and cocked his head, as if listening to something. He turned slowly, fear coursing through every fiber of his being.

“What?” Myrt asked.

“Shh!” Rashlyn cautioned, swiveling his body from the window to the door, then back again. “It’s coming,” he murmured.

Myrt, connected to the barshi through the madman’s magic, also sensed the approach of something.

Stunned by the immensity of power that was being communicated, he whispered, “What is it?”

“The dragon,” Rashlyn replied, suddenly releasing his magic hold on Myrt as his own fears got the better of him.

Myrt fell to the floor, hitting his knees hard and yelling in protest. He was forgotten as the barshi began to spin around in the chamber, a look of terror on his face. Myrt took advantage of Rashlyn’s confusion to drag himself across the floor to the dog, which cocked its head toward a key on the table. Myrt nodded, reached for the key, and unlocked the chain that secured the dog. It barked once and stretched itself on unsteady, gangly legs.

Blood was running freely from Myrt’s nose; he only noticed it now. He tried to wipe it away, but more replaced it. He was thinking he should ignore the weakness imposed by the barshi’s magic and somehow make his way to the door, crawling if necessary, when the doorway was filled by a large figure.

“Hello, Bore,” he said, disdain lacing his tone. He did not like this young man, whom he blamed for Lothryn’s capture and torture.

The warrior looked over at Rashlyn, who seemed to be in a trance, mumbling to himself. “What have you done?” he demanded of Myrt.

“Nothing. He’s off in his own world, muttering about the coming of a dragon or something. Why are you here?”

“Why are you on the floor…bleeding?” Bore continued angrily, dismissing the question leveled at him.

“The last time I checked,” Myrt began, working hard to ignore the weakening sensations in his body, “I was your superior, Bore. Do I need to remind you of how to speak to a superior?”

“And the last time I checked, Myrt”—Bore sneered—“you were busy murdering someone.”

“Ah,” Myrt replied, hiding his shock. He would not give this sniveling youngster the satisfaction he surely craved of watching the most senior of the warriors groveling to him.

“I told the King,” Bore added triumphantly.

“Yes, I’m sure you have, you arse-licking fuck!”

Bore’s reply was cut off as a boy appeared to step through the granite blocks of the high tower’s wall.

He was surrounded by a shimmering light that momentarily blinded the three men in the chamber before it dissipated. The boy looked around at them and Myrt realized this was no vision; the boy was flesh and blood—scrawny and small but terrifyingly real.

Rashlyn’s wildness intensified. “Who are you?” he screeched.

“I am your destroyer, Rashlyn,” the boy said.

Then everything happened very fast. Rashlyn leapt through an open window. The drop meant certain death, yet Myrt was certain he glimpsed the barshi hovering in the open air before he disappeared from view. The boy smiled before seeming to dissolve back through the wall. Bore watched him too, openmouthed and filled with disbelief. It was his slowness to recover that gave the gray dog a chance to leap, bringing the man down.

Myrt watched in horror as the dog, its limbs still trembling, struck for Bore’s throat. Myrt reached for his dagger, but so did Bore. The younger man was strong and he struck at the dog with the blade, wounding it many times in its side. But the creature refused to let go. It had the warrior by the throat at last, seemingly experiencing the blood madness that comes over a beast when defending its life or those it loves just as it comes over a man.

Myrt raised himself painfully, still suffering the effects of the magic, and all but fell onto Bore and the dog.

The animal was growling fiercely now, its huge jaws locked around the man’s neck, tearing at his throat.

Bore made one final valiant effort and managed to sink his blade into the animal’s chest. The dog screamed and rolled away, but Myrt moved quickly. He would mete out death on behalf of the dog who had saved his, Myrt’s, life. Raising his dagger, he struck deep into Bore’s lacerated throat and hit the artery he was looking for. The younger man stared with dismay at the plume of blood that erupted, and grabbed his neck in a sad attempt to retain the precious liquid. He even managed to drag himself to his knees before Haldor claimed him and Bore of the Mountain People fell heavily across the prone dog, dead.