Chapter 32

Fynch sat cross-legged, staring at the man who had brought so much hatred and destruction into the world. now he must die.

Rashlyn did not know Fynch could see him, but he could feel the boy, sensed his powerful presence here among the Razors. He looked so small and helpless; how could a child possess such potent magic?

Rashlyn had fled without thinking, but leading the boy into the small wood behind the fortress now seemed like madness. Perhaps the child would die of cold. Perhaps he himself might. He summoned a spell to warm himself and pondered his next move.

It was not in Fynch’s nature to be violent, but he was a destroyer whether or not he cared for the role.

The blood of the dragon line pounded in his veins and the Dragon King himself demanded this of him. He would not fail. He might die but he would not let his king down.

Not far away from him sat Knave, silent, filled with dread and powerless. His part in this adventure was over. He had guided Fynch to Rashlyn and now all he could do was bear witness.

It seemed to Knave that the barshi had disappeared, but still Fynch sat and waited.

How do you feel? Knave could not let go of his concern.

Well enough to face what I must.

Does your head still pain you?

Yes. There is no more sharvan, before you ask.

Where is he?

Hiding, he thinks. He is confused and frightened, but he will face me soon enough.

Are you frightened?

No.

I am.

Don’t be. This is what you and I were meant to do.

Who are you, Fynch? Please share it with me before… Knave hesitated.

Before I die? Knave did not reply and Fynch did not force it. I am the son of King Magnus of Morgravia, half brother of Celimus. I am of the dragon’s blood.

Is that what the Dragon King saw in you?

Fynch nodded.

What does it mean?

Nothing really, Fynch said, shaking his head gently. Hardly anyone knows. My mother, and she’s dead. The Dragon King, you, and me. Magnus perhaps, but he is cold in his tomb.

Shouldn't you tell someone?

Fynch smiled and shrugged. Best kept between us. I know who I am now and where I belong. It is enough. That’s why the Dragon King took me away as I slept— he wanted me to know the truth before I faced Rashly n. He restored me temporarily so I could fight a king’s fight.

Where is the bars in?

Over there, Fynch said, pointing into the wooded area. He thinks he is hidden.

Invisible?

Apparently. But I see him.

Fynch, what are you planning to do?

Nothing.

What does that mean? You won’t fight him.

He must attack me.

But you’ll then respond?

Wait and see. Be brave now, Knave; you ‘ve told me that often enough.

I don’t want to see you die.

Hush, here he comes.

When Jos arrived at the antechamber outside King Cailech’s meeting room, he was greeted by a look of disdain from the servant who was manning the desk. “Are they sending half-wits to the King now?”

“Shut up,” Jos growled, towering over the man and glad to note that the words sounded perfectly enunciated. “Do your job and let me do mine.”

The man sneered but backed away and knocked at the door. Curiously, the King opened it himself. This dismayed the servant. He was not used to talking to his majesty in person. “Er, sire, there is a messenger for you.”

Wyl looked over the servant’s head to the bear of a lad behind him. No memory of his face registered within Cailech. “Who are you?”

“Jos, sire. I’ve been sent by Rollo.”

The King looked back into the room, spoke briefly, then nodded. “Come in.” Jos entered to find the Grenadyne wiping blood from his face with a dampened linen and a woman, clearly dead, laid out on the floor with the King’s cloak covering her face.

The King looked at him with a stony expression. “I believe you know Aremys,” he said. Jos nodded, his eyes riveted on the dead girl. “This is Ylena Thirsk. She turned out not to be a good choice as a bride.”

“What did you have to tell us, Jos?” Aremys prompted, the blood finally cleaned away, although the wound still seeped slightly.

The warrior turned his confused gaze on his king and bowed. “Apologies, your majesty,” he said, remembering his manners and the message he had been sent to deliver. “Rollo sent me. They’ve found Myrt; he’s badly injured. Bore is dead. Rashlyn is nowhere to be seen.” Wyl sighed. “Where is Myrt?”

“In the barshi’s tower.”

“All right. Jos, I would consider it a personal favor if you would have Ylena Thirsk’s body shrouded and readied for travel on horseback. I’m returning her to Morgravia, where she belongs. Please use people we trust; no one with a loose mouth—you understand?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Good. Then please ready horses for myself and Farrow.”

Jos’s eyes sparked with pleasure. He was rarely involved in any tasks other than lifting, carrying, and general menial tasks around the fortress. “Certainly, your majesty.”

“And Jos, after we depart, I am leaving Myrt in charge. Rollo will be his second and I am appointing you Rollo’s deputy.”

The hulking lad looked toward Aremys and could not subdue a beaming grin. It did terrible things to his already twisted mouth—which is why he rarely smiled—but that did not matter anymore. “Thank you, your majesty,” he repeated, bowing again. “You carry on, I’ll fix everything here,” he added, hoping the King understood him.

He did. “Good lad.”

The King and Aremys left hurriedly, with strict orders that only those whom Jos permitted were allowed to enter the King’s meeting room. Jos gave a twisted smirk toward the servant, who was not quick enough with his bow to miss the young man’s sarcastic gesture.

“How do you feel—or is that a stupid question?” Aremys asked as they strode through the corridors.

“Shaky, but I’m getting used to Cailech’s body. Relieved to be a man again.”

“A king, don’t forget.” Aremys watched Cailech’s face break into a reluctant grin. “You wear him well.” Wyl took no pride in knowing he had just destroyed another life. “Cailech fought me. I wasn’t sure I could win.”

“Inside, you mean?”

Wyl nodded. “Such anger. I don’t know what he saw—presumably me, the real Wyl Thirsk, but perhaps he glimpsed Romen as well. Who knows? But whereas the others capitulated in shock, he was savage in his intensity to hang on to life.”

“It’s a pity he had to die. Cailech had admirable qualities. He was a good king most of the time.”

“Without Rashlyn he would have been the greatest sovereign of his time,” Wyl agreed.

“We have another king to worry about now,” Aremys reminded.

“Poor Ylena. I so wanted to keep her whole.”

“You did her proud, Wyl. Don’t dwell on it. She’s at peace now—and we aren’t. I presume we’re headed to Pearlis?”

Wyl shook Cailech’s proud head. “Werryl. I have to see Valentyna, if I can make it before she leaves for Stoneheart and Celimus.”

“You can’t prevent the marriage,” Aremys warned, knowing it was a waste of breath.

“I know. I just have to see her. Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yes. Up these stairs and then out across the courtyard toward that tower over there. And what makes you think the Queen of Briavel will take kindly to a visit from the King of the Razors?”

“Valid question. I’ll think of something. Knave is here, by the way; I saw him before we arrived at the fortress.”

“Does that mean the boy is here as well?” Before Wyl could answer, Aremys added beneath his breath,

“Remember to acknowledge your people, King Cailech.” He nodded toward a group of warriors approaching.

Wyl received their salutations appropriately, Cailech’s essence guiding his gestures and facial expressions. He answered Aremys: “Yes, Fynch is most likely here too, though I can’t for the life of me think why.”

More people, more polite salutations, and then Firl, the lad Aremys had allowed to beat him during swordplay when he had first arrived in the Razors, greeted them. “Your highness; Farrow,” he said breathlessly, bowing.

Wyl nodded. “How bad is he?”

“Fm not sure, sire. We can’t find Rashlyn to help.”

“Have any other healers been called?” Aremys asked.

“Arrived a minute ago.”

Wyl pushed Cailech’s tall body past the young man and ran up the stairs with Aremys directly behind.

Rollo’s men were guarding the door but automatically stepped aside at the sight of the King. Wyl entered the chamber. He had anticipated the worst but was surprised to see Myrt sitting up.

It was Aremys who spoke first. “I hope you haven’t made us run up those fucking stairs for nothing, Myrt.”

His jest broke the tension and Rollo and Myrt grinned while Cailech’s face twitched in that way it did when he was amused but thoughtful. Wyl had realized he still had to win Rollo’s trust and clear up the business of the barshi and his effect on the King.

He immediately addressed Rollo. “We need to speak.”

Rollo raised his hands. “The fact that Farrow is still alive, sire, says plenty. Forgive my insubordination of earlier.”

“Already forgotten, though we will speak more about your concerns shortly,” Wyl replied. He moved toward Myrt and glanced at the dog lying on the floor, Bore’s body next to it. The dog was deathly still and had puncture wounds on its body. For some reason Wyl felt dizzy and nauseous. It was not the sight of the animal’s blood, but the feeling that it was tainted with magic.

“Are you all right, sire?” Aremys asked, noting the King’s sudden change in demeanor.

“Is that Rashlyn’s dog?” Wyl said, fighting an urge to throw up.

Myrt did not understand what had happened, but he had watched Cailech’s interaction with Rollo and desperately wanted to trust his sovereign. He glanced toward Aremys now, who nodded reassuringly, then motioned at Rollo, who moved to shut the door. “Best to keep this between ourselves for now, sire.”

Wyl frowned. “Speak,” he said, moving away from the animal and positioning himself where he could suck in some fresh air from the open window.

“According to the barshi, the dog is…” Myrt hesitated, looking embarrassed, and glanced again at Aremys. The mercenary had only just become aware of the smell of magic. He no longer had to touch the beast to know it was there; he could sense it. The reek was not as bad as it had been with Galapek, but it was there all right. He despaired for Wyl at what he knew was surely coming.

Wyl followed Myrt’s gaze, sensed the awkwardness. “Say it, Myrt.”

“Yes, sire. Um…Rashlyn was boasting that the animal is the Morgravian prisoner. He used sorcery to turn him into a dog.”

The King’s face was suddenly a mask of anguish. “He what?” Aremys moved to Wyl’s side. “Careful now,” he muttered. “You mean like Lothryn?” he asked, already knowing the truth as he looked back to Myrt. The big man nodded, his eyes fearful.

Aremys decided to impress some reassurance on these men, now so apprehensive around Cailech—and with good reason. If only they knew who Cailech’s puppeteer was now. “We can speak freely,” he said to the Mountain warriors. “The King has accepted that he’s been entranced by Rashlyn on occasion and magically urged to agree to things he would normally never entertain. We’ve deduced that the spells only work if the barshi is close to the King, or his majesty would never be free of his hold—as he is now. He will execute the barshi when and if we find him.”

He looked directly at Rollo. “It is because of this sorcery that our king was convinced to allow Lothryn to be…changed,” he said carefully. “It was not his idea. He would never have agreed to something so horrific, so against our law of honorable death.”

Wyl spoke up as if in a trance, stunned by the horrifying news about Gueryn. “He will never have that effect on me again. I am free of him. Do you men believe me?” Something in the ferocious timbre of his voice and his cold, hard gaze had the right effect. Both Myrt and Rollo nodded.

“I will find Rashlyn and kill him,” he added, and they believed him. He moved to crouch by the dog and stroked it tenderly, battling the revulsion caused by the magic. “Gueryn still breathes.”

“He saved my life, sire,” Myrt said. “Bore would have killed me if not for the animal’s courage.” Wyl stopped himself from saying all that he wanted to about Gueryn’s bravery; he was fighting back tears and took a moment to compose himself. “I will personally deliver Rashlyn to whichever god will accept him,” he said.

“No need, sire,” Myrt said. “You haven’t heard the rest of my story.” And he described the mysterious arrival of the boy through the tower walls, bathed in light and claiming to be Rashlyn’s destroyer.

Wyl closed Cailech’s eyes. “His name is Fynch,” he said into the heavy silence that followed Myrt’s startling revelation. “He is known to me.”

No one dared ask how or why, which was fortunate, Aremys thought, because he could not imagine how Wyl would explain it. Cailech looked haggard, he noted. It had been one shock after another for Wyl: his sister, then Gueryn, now Fynch…not to mention another death, another body, another person to learn about.

“And you are recovered?” Aremys asked Myrt, taking the attention off the King so Wyl could gather his thoughts and emotions.

“Rashlyn used his filthy magic on me to weaken me, but the effects are wearing off. I’m ready to do your bidding, sire.”

“Good!” Wyl growled. “Because you and Rollo are being left in charge here.”

“Where are you going, sire?”

“To Briavel,” came the reply. It provoked surprise and confusion on the men’s faces, but Cailech’s tone suggested it would be imprudent to argue. “Who is Maegryn’s second? Call for him,” Wyl commanded.

Rollo nodded and opened the door to the guards. “Get Obin. Hurry!”

“Gueryn’s life is to be saved, so help you all,” the King muttered. Rollo and Myrt exchanged another confused look. “Where did Rashlyn and Fynch go?” Wyl continued.

“Sire, as I said, one floated out of the window, the other through the walls,” Myrt said, shaking his head.

“I think I may have been seeing things.”

“No, you weren’t,” the King replied, deadly cold. “You were witnessing two sorcerers throwing down the gauntlet at each other in a fight that has nothing to do with us.” It had come to Wyl now what this was about. He sensed that it was related to the sense of doom he had felt for Fynch when he had left him in the Wild. He pieced it together as he paced the room, waiting for Obin, who he hoped could save Gueryn. Elysius must have died, Wyl guessed, and he remembered now the strange sensation of loss he had felt upon arriving in Briavel, courtesy of the Thicket. He had dismissed it as worry at leaving Fynch and his fretting over Ylena, not to mention being magically tossed hundreds of miles across the land. But perhaps Myrren’s Gift had kept him linked with Elysius and he had felt the strange little man’s death. But you didn’t die without luring Fynch into your web of despair, did you? he thought savagely, suddenly hating Elysius.

He addressed the men again, his anger at Fynch’s awesome responsibility and what had been perpetrated on Gueryn spilling into his tone. “Everything that has occurred tonight stays between us and a young warrior called Jos, whom I’ve appointed as your deputy, Rollo. In my absence, Myrt makes the decisions for our people. Agreed?” The Mountain Men exchanged worried glances. “Is that clear?” Wyl shouted.

“Yes, sire,” the warriors said in unison, neither Myrt nor Rollo wanting to point out that nothing was clear about tonight. Not the King’s strange behavior, nor the incredible sight of a ghostly boy appearing through granite walls; not Rashlyn jumping through an open window and hovering outside, not the talk of sorcery or men being changed into beasts. Nor why Myrt, who really did not want the task, was now leading the Mountain People.

“What about Lothryn, my lord?” Myrt risked.

“I’m going to find Rashlyn. Before I kill him, he will restore Lothryn and Gueryn le Gant.” No one wanted to ask what would happen if the magic could not be reversed.

“Aremys,” Wyl said.

“Sire?”

“Stay with the dog for me. If he dies…” Wyl could not finish. “Just see him cared for. I’ll meet you all at the stables in one hour.”

Fynch bowed, much to Knave’s surprise. “Rashlyn,” he said. “I have been sent.” The barshi had appeared as if out of nowhere. He looked rattled.

“By whom?”

“Can you not guess?” Fynch asked, echoing a king, a dragon, who had promised him so much not long ago.

“Elysius?” Rashlyn whispered in wonderment.

Fynch nodded.

“Why could he not face me himself?” the barshi demanded. He sounded deranged, his voice controlled and soft one moment, high and angry the next.

“He is dead.”

“Then I do not fear you,” Rashlyn cackled.

“You should,” Fynch said, unfazed by the madman’s baiting. “Elysius was not the only one who wishes you destroyed.”

Rashlyn sounded arrogant now. “I know dozens just among the Mountain People who would slit my throat happily, if not for the King. I have his protection.”

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

That won the barshi’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“Cailech is dead.”

Rashlyn could not speak as he tried to absorb the terrifying news. Then: “I don’t believe you. You’re just a child.”

“My age makes no difference. You have no protection now; Cailech will not save you. In fact, I would imagine the King of the Mountains is stalking you this very minute for the abomination you have imposed upon two men.”

Rashlyn stared at the boy through wild eyes. “You just said he’s dead. How can a dead man stalk me?” Fynch simply grinned.

“Why are you here?” the barshi screeched. “If Cailech is dead then I am lost anyway, as good as dead.”

“Not good enough. We wish to destroy you.”

“We?”

Fynch nodded. “The Dragon King and I.”

The sorcerer looked at the boy, puzzled by the riddles he was giving for answers.

He regarded the self-possessed child from beneath hooded lids and asked the obvious. “Who is the Dragon King?”

“He is the King of the Creatures.”

“And who are you?”

“I am the Dragon King,” Fynch replied, and opened a bridge to the Thicket.

Wyl ran on long, muscled legs that covered the hard ground easily. Before leaving the tower, he had taken a deep breath and laid his hand once more on the barely breathing dog. Its eyes were glazed and blood seeped from its nostrils; its tongue lolled on the floor from between its jaws and it was all Wyl could do not to weep as he whispered to Gueryn to hold on. The dog did not move and Wyl left, not risking another word for fear his voice would break.

“Let him live,” he prayed to Shar as he ran now. He felt the wood calling to him—sensed the hum of a powerful magic and recognized it as the Thicket. The Thicket and something else, something bright and powerful and good, overlaying an ugliness that he presumed was Rashlyn.

He burst into the clearing, drawing his sword, and pulled to a sharp stop when he saw Fynch standing there, bathed in a fierce glow of golden light. Knave was nearby and instantly covered the gap between himself and the new arrival, nearly knocking the King over with his welcome.

“Hello, Wyl,” Fynch said, not turning his gaze from Rashlyn. “I’m sure you know who this is,” he added.

“Fynch,” Wyl replied, feeling a new sense of awe as he looked at the small gong boy who had so suddenly been infused with power, who was so composed…so brave.

“King Cailech, I—” Rashlyn began. He looked still more confused, his gaze darting between boy and man.

“I am not Cailech,” the familiar voice said, turning a hard gaze on Rashlyn. “I am Wyl Thirsk.” The man groaned. “The General? You can’t be. I…I would know it.”

“Your eyes deceive you, Rashlyn,” Wyl replied. “You didn’t know me when I came here as Romen Koreldy either. Your brother’s magic has given me the power to possess others. Clever, eh?”

“No! I won’t believe this,” the man said, shaking his head to deny what he knew to be true. The man looked like Cailech but did not behave like Cailech; worse, Rashlyn could almost taste the magic emanating from his former protector.

“You know I speak the truth,” Wyl said.

“Tell me how,” the barshi begged. “I must understand it!”

“Not until you lift the spell on Gueryn le Gant,” Wyl demanded.

The wild man’s mouth split into a thin, cruel smile beneath the tangle of his beard. “I cannot. It is irreversible.”

Wyl took an involuntary step toward Rashlyn, his hand going to Cailech’s sword.

“Don’t,” Fynch warned. “It is what he wants.”

“And Lothryn?” Wyl demanded, already knowing the answer.

“Even more of a problem. At least with your friend le Gant, I knew what I was doing. Didn’t hurt him as much. But Lothryn—that was horrible, even for me. He could not have survived it. You’re wasting your time. The barbarian scum is dead.”

It was Cailech, not Wyl, whose anger and grief rose now, who raised the sword and ran at the barshi.

Wyl could not help but join with Cailech’s lust to hack the magic man from skull to feet.

“No!” shouted Fynch, and Wyl felt Cailech’s body slammed to a halt, high in the air. “Do not attempt to kill him. That is my job,” the little boy commanded. His tone demanded respect.

Rashlyn screeched with laughter. “Now even your own people work against you, Thirsk. Perhaps I should kill you.”

“You cannot. My protection will repel anything you cast against him.” Rashlyn sneered at Fynch. He moved his hands and a huge flaming ball roared toward Cailech’s suspended body. Wyl held his breath, but the ball of flame bounced against something he could not see and fell away helplessly to extinguish itself in a nearby pool of thawing snow.

“Wyl, I want you to go now,” Fynch said.

“I can’t leave you.”

“You did before and you will again. We walk different paths now.”

“Will I see you again?”

“I think not.”

“Fynch—”

“Don’t, please. There is nothing to say except that I have loved you as a brother. Go now and do what you must.”

“I need Knave.”

“I know. He will come with you.”

I am not leaving you, Fynch, the deep voice growled in the boy’s head.

You must. It’s the only way we can save Wyl. You are his guide now.

I don’t understand.

You will. Now go.

Fynch…

Knave, go!

“Rashlyn is running,” Wyl warned.

“He cannot escape me.”

“Why do you have to do this?” Wyl’s tone was pleading.

“Because no one else can.”

“Let me go, then,” Wyl said wearily, and felt Cailech’s body lowered gently to the frosty ground. “What about Gueryn and Lothryn?”

“I do not know,” Fynch said, knowing he was breaking Wyl’s heart. “I must deal with Rashlyn.” And you will die, Knave crashed into Fynch’s mind.

So be it.

“Do you and Knave talk?” Wyl asked, noting the odd silences and the expression on Fynch’s face.

“Yes, ever since Elysius passed his magic to me.”

“I thought he must have done so,” Wyl said, feeling helplessly sorrowful.

“Wyl, Valentyna is to marry Celimus in a matter of days. You cannot save her that trial; you know that, don’t you?” Wyl nodded. “But I know you wish to see her and you have something to tell her.”

“I do?”

“Tell her everything. Let there be no secrets between you. She must understand who you really are.”

“I cannot!” Cailech’s expression became dismayed.

“You must. Please, trust me,” Fynch urged. “And in turn she will trust you.” Wyl had no answer to Fynch’s request. The boy had never been wrong before.

“Now please go. It is time I faced the barshi.”

“Who are you, Fynch?” Wyl asked fearfully.

Fynch’s face broke into a beatific smile. His golden hair seemed to radiate a bright glow, which spread to outline his tiny frame. “I am the Dragon King, Wyl,” he said, and vanished.

Knave threw back his huge black head and gave a chilling howl, silencing the twittering birds that had come home to roost among the trees and echoing throughout the Razors. It was the heralding of death.

Wyl knew he would never see the brave boy again. Somewhere deep inside he felt a part of his heart break. No tears and no amount of time would ever heal the loss.