Chapter 34

Wyl and Aremys set off from the fortress in the dead of night, Knave trotting at their side. The Grenadyne chanced airing his concern to the grim-faced King at his side. “We cannot travel the Razors successfully at night, Wyl. Surely you know that the way down is treacherous?”

“I do. We won’t be going far,” came the reply.

“If you’re intent on this mad journey into Briavel, why not leave at first light? We would easily make up the poor advantage of departing now.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t explained myself,” Wyl said, turning to look directly at his anxious friend. “Leaving by horse was purely for appearances.”

“What?”

“I have another method, much faster—though horribly unpleasant.”

“Has becoming a king gone to your head?” Aremys began to sound truculent. The night’s proceedings had worn down his emotional reserves. He was tired, angry at losing Cailech, furious at failing Lothryn and Gueryn, sad for Wyl, and altogether sick to the back teeth of magic. He must have murmured the last thought aloud because Wyl answered him.

“Well, just a little more magic to go. It was you who gave me the idea.”

“Me! Whatever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the Thicket, Aremys. We will use the Thicket to travel.” That won the Grenadyne’s attention. He felt his belly clench and could not speak for a few moments.

Finally he said, “How?”

“Knave. It’s why I insisted he come.”

“He looks none too happy about it.”

“He isn’t, believe me. I’ve never known him to be this aloof.”

“Because he had to leave behind Fynch?”

“Correct. The two of them are inextricably linked.”

“But you told me he was your dog.”

Wyl sighed. “It’s complicated,” he said, smiling sadly. “Knave loves us all and has protected all of us.

Now he is having to suffer each of us dying, and me so many times over.” Aremys was eager to get away from the painful subject. “So how can the dog help us?”

“He is of the Thicket. He is our connection to it.”

“And?” Aremys was still baffled.

“Remember how you suddenly found yourself between the fringe of Timpkenny and the Razors…?” Aremys frowned, then understanding dawned. “Oh, no. You jest, surely?” He saw Cailech’s eyes—now settled back to their pale green—sparkle in the light of the flaming torch he carried. “Not this time, my friend.”

Aremys began to stutter, words falling out on top of one another. “But how do you summon it, command it, control it?”

Cailech’s shoulders shrugged and a twitch of a grin at his mouth disappeared as rapidly as it arrived. “We just have to trust the Thicket.”

“That place is no friend of mine, Wyl. It cast me out, remember? What if it hurts me this time?”

“It won’t.”

“You sound so confident,” Aremys blustered.

“I am. The Thicket will not hurt either of us—first, because we travel with Knave, and second, because of our connection to Fynch. The boy means everything to the Thicket, I believe.”

“How do we know it can do this?”

“It threw me all the way to Briavel in seconds,” Wyl said.

Aremys gasped. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is so much you don’t know,” Wyl said, his voice laced with regret. “Such as the fact that Fynch will die this night, doing what he has done since I first met him.”

“Which is?”

“Acting out of sacrifice, loyalty, love. He has always put others before himself.” Wyl sighed, then added,

“You also don’t know that Valentyna will marry Celimus, come what may.” Aremys felt utterly baffled. “What? But I thought we were going to Briavel to try to prevent it.” He saw Cailech shrug. “I can’t read the future,” Wyl said. “Elysius told me that she will marry the King of Morgravia.”

“Why do we go, then?”

“Because Fynch told me that Myrren’s Gift is still subject to randomness.” Aremys looked quizzically at the King of the Mountains. They were moving slowly, often raising an arm to acknowledge scouts and guides on higher ridges who were recognizable only by the flicker of their small fires. A special flame burning on top of the fortress told these guards that their king was passing through the mountains, so the two men had no fear of being attacked or stopped. “I don’t understand any of this, Wyl.”

“I hardly understand it myself,” Wyl admitted. “Fynch believes that random acts can still affect the outcome of Myrren’s Gift.”

“And so you will try to do something to prevent the Queen marrying Celimus, is that right?”

“In truth I don’t see how I can. I think I am going simply so that I may see her before I die again.” Aremys reined in his horse and Wyl followed suit, knowing his statement was too provocative to be ignored. “Why?” his friend demanded. “Stay as Cailech. Just think of all you can achieve. Let’s turn back. You say yourself that you cannot affect the outcome of the marriage. We have friends here, loyal people. You are a king. You can live. Stop the gift now!”

“Only one thing will stop it, Aremys,” Wyl said, weariness in his tone.

“What?” the Grenadyne asked.

Wyl raised Cailech’s head and looked his friend directly in the eye. “When I become the sovereign of Morgravia.”

“Celimus?” It came out as a choked exclamation.

Wyl nodded, deadly serious. Aremys was shocked to the core. “Is that what this is all about? Myrren’s Gift is to make sure that you become him?”

Cailech’s face twisted into a snarl. “It’s about revenge. Myrren suffered at Celimus’s hands, so she and her father worked out a way to make him suffer in return.”

“But why involve you? You did nothing but offer her pity.”

“I am nothing but a pawn in this complex game,” Wyl said softly. “She has used me to avenge her torture, which Celimus so enjoyed.”

The big man’s horror was written on his face. Wyl recalled his own despair at the discovery of the truth of Myrren’s Gift. Perhaps it was even worse for the mercenary, Wyl thought. Often watching those you love suffer was more intolerable than living through the suffering yourself.

“Wyl,” Aremys began, recovering himself. “This is worse than I could ever have imagined, I’ll agree, but can you not think of it in the more positive light that you will be King of Morgravia and your queen will be Valentyna? Can the knowledge that you will be together soften the damage that has been done? You cannot bring back those you have lost, but perhaps you can make their lives count by making Morgravia great again. Sire heirs with Valentyna and establish a new dynasty. Imagine it—Morgravia ruled by you, not Celimus. One more death, my friend, that’s all it will take.” There was a new brightness in the Grenadyne’s voice, as if suddenly he felt everything could be righted.

Wyl looked down at his new large hands with their prominent knuckles and long, blunt fingers. He had thought of the same scenario many times since learning of his destiny. And every time he tried to convince himself that this terrible episode of his life could end happily, he hit a wall. The wall was called Celimus.

“Aremys,” he said softly into the chill spring night. “I don’t want to be him.” Aremys had not considered that. “You have no choice.”

“I will not live as Celimus,” Wyl said slowly, defiantly. “I would sooner die.”

“But you will have everything—”

Wyl cut him off. “I will have nothing but hate and despair. You don’t understand. When I become someone new, much of who they are remains with me. I have their memories, their dreams. I have their ways and mannerisms. I have their darkness, Aremys. I will not live as the person I hate most in this world, who in turn has hated the Thirsks for two decades.”

“So what are you going to do—die again?” Aremys’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. Wyl remained silent and continued staring at Cailech’s hands.

The Grenadyne shook his head slowly with disbelief. “Tell me you’re not planning to die once you’re him, Wyl?” he urged, a fresh wave of fear washing across him. He realized that once Wyl became Celimus, he would no longer have Myrren’s protection. He would be as vulnerable to death as anyone.

Wyl spoke in a grave tone. “When it happens—and it will, for my destiny is to become the sovereign of Morgravia—you will end my life once and for all.”

Aremys was rocked by Wyl’s words. “I won’t,” he shouted. “I won’t do it.”

“You will! You will do it because I demand it. I will be King of Morgravia, don’t forget, and I will command you.”

“Command me?! Upon the threat of what—pain of death?” Aremys yelled.

Wyl ignored him, kept speaking. “We shall set it up as an accident. It doesn’t have to be by your hand as such, if that revolts you too much. We can manipulate it through others. But you will help me to achieve my death. I think I would like an arrow, clean and swift, to the heart. I would prefer it to be you, Aremys, as I know you shoot accurately. This is about friendship, love, loyalty.”

“No, Wyl. What about Valentyna?”

“I can’t think about what might happen after my death. That will be beyond my control. But Valentyna will be released from her sentence of being married to Celimus, free to return to Briavel and begin her life afresh.”

“But it’s not him. It’s you.”

“Valentyna will not know that. She will look at me with disgust; she will detest my touch and speak my name with loathing. No, Aremys,” Wyl said sadly, “I would rather be dead, truly. Elysius said I cannot contrive for others to kill me, but I am counting on the fact that once I have become Celimus, as Elysius and Myrren intended, the gift will have run its course and will no longer be able to hurt me or those I care about.”

Aremys shook his head; it was too painful. They had battled against so much, but for what? “Don’t make this decision yet,” he beseeched. “Fynch warned of the randomness—let’s wait and see how it all turns out.”

Wyl recalled Fynch begging him to tell Valentyna the truth, and was reminded once again that the boy had never led him astray. Fynch had always been true. “Fair enough,” he said. “We will not discuss it again until I become Celimus, after which I will give you one night’s grace, which I shall spend with Valentyna, and the next day I will expect you to take my life. Agreed?” Aremys was cornered. “Agreed,” he said, deeply unhappy.

“Good,” Wyl replied, feeling suddenly brighter for airing the decision he had been brooding on for so long. Now it was time to ask for the Thicket’s help.

“Come, we’ll try from here,” he said, pointing to a small outcrop of rocks.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Aremys asked, leading his horse in the direction of the rocks.

“Not really, but the journey will take too long by conventional means. I have to try.” Aremys sighed audibly. “So what do we do? Turn the horses loose or remain on them?” Cailech shrugged his broad shoulders. “I haven’t even brought anything for her,” he said, his mind elsewhere.

Aremys lifted his eyes to the heavens and asked Shar to help them. “Come on, Wyl, what do we do?” Wyl collected his thoughts. “Knave,” he said, “please, would you call on the Thicket? I need it to send us to Werryl Palace, like it did for me before.”

Knave could not explain to his friend that he no longer enjoyed the same contact with the Thicket as he had in the past. There was nothing for it now, he realized; he would have to contact Fynch…if the boy was still alive.

Letting his mind flood with the trace that was Fynch, Knave cast out to him, begging him to be alive, to answer him…not because he needed his help but because he wanted to hear his sweet voice again.

Knave. It sounded more of a groan.

Always here, the dog answered, keeping his voice steady even though he was frightened by the pain communicated in the single syllable of Fynch’s response.

Is Wyl safe?

Yes. Knave knew not to waste time on small talk. Fynch was fighting for his life. We need to use the Thicket to travel quickly to Briavel. I’m sorry to—

Wait. There was a silence and then Fynch was back; his voice sounded even more fractured and filled with pain than just moments earlier. I’ve set up a bridge. Use it, but hurry— I can’t hold it together for long.

Fynch, what’s happening?

Hurry, Knave. Please.

Knave closed his eyes in grief. It sounded as though Fynch were near to death. He reached toward the Thicket, feeling guilty at drawing on Fynch’s waning reserves. He could not understand it. Fynch was strong in his power. Surely he could easily overcome Rashlyn?

It was Rasmus who answered the unspoken question. Fynch is following his destiny, Knave. You must do what he has commanded. The Thicket will allow this request.

There are horses too, Knave replied, disguising his rising fear for Fynch.

The owl made a sound of disgust. Wyl Thirsk never makes it easy, the bird said testily. We’ll have to be careful how they land. Tell the two men to sit on horseback. Then we only have to control three

“parcels. ”

Just two. I plan to return to Fynch.

No. You have been commanded. You must do as he wishes. Now make ready.

Knave cut the link angrily, unused to feeling such emotion. He felt a keen loyalty to Wyl and would give his life for him if asked, but with Fynch it ran much deeper. It was love. Not something you turned your back on.

Thank you, Fynch, he sent, filled with sorrow.

He could barely hear the reply, but he felt it. I love you, Knave. Farewell.

And then the boy cut their link. Knave whined softly, feeling a deep and irreplaceable loss, then turned to Wyl and gave a low growl.

Aremys shook his head. “Do you understand him?”

Wyl nodded. “Sort of. I’ve been around him long enough to grasp what kind of message is being communicated.”

“And that one meant…?”

“We wait.” He turned to Knave. “I know you’re hurting, boy, but I need you to come with us.” Wyl’s comment was timely. Knave realized, as much as he hated to admit it, that he was not of much use to Fynch right now. But Wyl needed him for to this trip to Briavel. That settled it. He would go.

The men began to dismount, but Knave barked.

Aremys frowned. “What now?”

“Wants us to remain on horseback, I think,” Wyl said. “Is that right, Knave?” The dog gave a familiar growl and Wyl nodded to his friend. “Yes. I guess we’re taking the horses.”

“This will take some explaining at the other end,” Aremys said as the air around them began to thicken.

“Here we go,” Wyl cautioned. “It’s not pleasant, I warn you.”

“I think I remember that much,” was all Aremys had time to say before he felt a huge pressure on his body and all went dark.

The blinding golden light that had initially shimmered around the dragon had gradually dimmed to a soft glow, taking on a dirty bronze color. The dragon’s wings hung limply and each breath was labored, but still it stood upright, absorbing the magic slamming into its body.

“Die, beast,” the barshi screamed, clearly confused as to why the creature would not retaliate. “You came here to destroy me,” he yelled. “Yet you can’t even shield yourself against my magic.” He blasted the dragon again with a powerful spell and saw the beautiful beast stagger for the first time, its head drooping.

Finch! Lothryn screamed.

He can’t hear you, Kestrel warned. He won’t listen anyway. He is dying, wants to die… has to die, I think.

We must do something, Lothryn cried. He was feeling much stronger, and was restless, frantic to help Fynch.

We are. We bear witness to his sacrifice.

We stand by and let him die? But we could save him! We could all rush at Rashlyn together and destroy him, Lothryn tried.

Kestrel tutted. He is already being destroyed.

What do you mean?

With every spell the sorcerer weakens. He cannot feel it yet, but we can see it. His magic is a filthy brown, tainted and ugly, not bright and golden like that of the Dragon King. The man has been careless— he has used most of it up.

And?

Fynch will absorb the evil magic until there is no more left in the sorcerer. And in doing so, he sacrifices himself

A collective groan echoed around the forest and up to the mountain ridges as the animals saw the dragon slump to one side, its golden light no more than a slight wash of color.

Rashlyn was laughing maniacally. “It is you who dies, you fool. Am I so strong? Can you not fight me? I am the King of the Creatures, not you. I will rule them. I can change them and bend them to my will.” He shook his bony fist toward the animals who watched. “You will all hail me as your king. Look at the dragon now. He dies. I have vanquished him and I shall take all of his power and wield it as I will.” It was true. The King of the Creatures had rolled onto his side and was breathing so shallowly that death was surely imminent.

If Lothryn had not been mesmerized and moved by the boy’s courage, he would have closed Galapek’s eyes. But he could not do that. Instead he focused on Rashlyn, and because he was helplessly linked to him through the evil man’s filthy magic, he could feel the barshi summoning everything he had within.

Curiously, Lothryn felt himself grow even stronger. The pain had diminished; his flesh no longer twitched and trembled. He sensed Rashlyn gathering all his power to hurl at the dying dragon.

“Finish it!” the animals heard their king whisper. Fynch’s words were met by a hysterical cackle from Rashlyn.

The barshi unleashed a primeval howl and launched every ounce of magic he possessed toward the dragon. The animals who had gathered to pay homage bore witness as Fynch, King of the Creatures, rolled back onto his clawed feet again in a last defiant show of strength and will. He too loosed a roar—a death roar—which every creature felt rattle through its chest, and he accepted the powerful killing spell, absorbing the twisted magic. And then, with a mighty effort, he went on sucking hard at the barshi, whose twisted face of triumph turned to surprise. He was no longer giving his magic; it was being stolen from him, pulled in a great and dirty arc into his opponent.

I will take it all from you, Rashlyn, the dragon vowed.

Lothryn and Kestrel watched in awed silence as Fynch, howling with anger, dragged the very essence of the barshi’s being into himself and consumed it in golden fire. The brilliant light pulsed brightly around the dragon before extinguishing itself The King of the Creatures fell, reducing in size and stature until, where the mighty dragon had stood so proudly just hours earlier, the tiny shape of a boy lay curled tightly into himself on the forest floor.

Each creature present cried out in sympathy and then, as if on a given signal, all but the zerkons began to move toward the child, who looked as though he were sleeping. One by one they nuzzled or sniffed the tiny body, each softly giving thanks for the sacrifice that had been given to preserve their lives and their ways.

In Briavel, Knave threw back his head and howled a sound to chill the souls who stood nearby. He did it again and again and Wyl knew the black dog was grieving for Fynch.

He lowered King Cailech’s head in grief “Fynch is dead,” he said to Aremys, and the mercenary knew better than to offer hollow words of comfort.

A man staggered between the trees, his body burned and shriveled, his hair flaming. His tangled beard was a blackened mass and patches of charred flesh ate at his face. His eyes were unseeing, scorched black, and he moaned, arms outstretched as he blindly felt his way. He began to scream and his empty cries echoed off the mountain peaks and returned to taunt him.

“Yes, scream, you evil bastard,” a voice said.

“Who speaks?” shrieked Rashlyn, swinging around in the direction of the voice.

“It is Gueryn le Gant.”

“The dog?” Rashlyn whispered.

“The man,” Gueryn said, and it sounded like a threat. “You have no more magic, Rashlyn. You cannot bind me and so I have been freed.” He looked at the horse next to him, sorrow knifing through him. “I see his magic was not used with such sophistication on you, my friend. You remain entrapped.” Having felt his spirit soar with untold joy at seeing Gueryn whole, Lothryn experienced the sickening fall of disappointment at realizing that he, of course, remained as Galapek. He turned his great head toward the man but could no longer communicate with him by sending thoughts.

Gueryn lifted his finger to his lips to calm Lothryn. “We will find a way,” he whispered to the horse, knowing the man inside could hear.

“How did this happen?” yelled Rashlyn, his voice trembling. “You were stabbed, dead.”

“The other dog, Knave, healed me. He licked each of my wounds, sealing them with his own magic. He sensed I would be returned if you lost your power.”

“Lost my power?” the barshi echoed.

Gueryn advanced on the wild man. He could smell the charred flesh and took great pleasure in noticing injuries that would normally turn his gut. “Try your magic now,” he taunted. “If you can.” Rashlyn reached inside himself and, discovering his loss, screamed in despair.

Gueryn laughed. “Fynch may not have had the desire to kill, but I do, Rashlyn,” Gueryn said. “I do.” He moved toward the staggering man, who was now walking in circles, arms outstretched. But then, looking up, Gueryn had a far better idea. Most of the animals had scattered at the demise of their king, but one type of creature remained. They were gradually closing in on the three that remained in the clearing, but Gueryn could see that their attention was focused on the charred man.

“Ah, a better idea,” he said gleefully. “A fitting one, Rashlyn.” Spinning toward his voice, Rashlyn began to weep. “What?”

“Do you know what zerkons look like?”

The barshi fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. Gueryn laughed, amazed at the man’s audacity. “Go to your god, Rashlyn, and I hope he burns you in eternal fire.” Gueryn bent down to the boy, not wasting time to check for a pulse. He lifted the tiny mass of limbs and cradled the child in his arms. Fynch’s head rolled against the soldier’s chest. Gueryn called to Galapek and rapidly hefted himself onto the stallion’s broad back, Fynch all but weightless in his arms. “Lothryn, if you wouldn’t mind taking us out of here…?” he asked.

Galapek’s powerful frame carried them swiftly from the clearing as two massive zerkons descended on the screaming man, who understood all too well, blind or not, that death had finally arrived. Only one creature remained to witness the barshi’s bloody end—a kestrel, perched high in a tree’s branches.