Chapter 38

The journey across Briavel and into Morgravia passed uneventfully. in any other situation, Valentyna would have truly enjoyed the trip and the chance to mix with her people, for they came out in the hundreds to wave the royal procession through their towns and villages. And what a procession it made: The Briavellian Guard was in full formal dress in emerald and violet, while the Legionnaires looked dashing in their crimson and black. Trailing the rear came a cavalcade of nobles, dignitaries, servants, and attendants, not to mention Madam Eltor’s personal retinue in charge of the Queen’s wardrobe, as well as cooks, pastry makers, and bakers—all the people required to provide a joint wedding feast that blended Morgravia’s culinary specialties with Briavel’s fine foods.

And in the midst of the brightly colored entourage rode a smiling king and queen, graciously accepting the crowd’s blessings for their happiness.

“You can almost believe it,” Valentyna commented, aiming a shy smile toward the King.

He did not look at her, but she heard the softer tone in his voice. Perhaps it was hard work being vicious all of the time, she thought. “Why not? They love you. They love me for marrying you and for bringing peace to the realm.”

“It is a good thing, Celimus.”

“Do you mean that?”

She caught a posy thrown by a young lad and blew him a kiss, which won a roar of approval from the happy mob. “I regret my behavior of yesterday, and indeed throughout our courtship.” He finally looked away from the mass of happy faces and turned to her. “And?”

“I wish us to start again, here and now. Neither of us has parents to guide our choices, no family to lean upon.” She sighed. “We are trying to achieve something extraordinary: two young monarchs, new to their thrones, forging peace and prosperity. I did a lot of soul-searching last night, Celimus, and realized that what you have worked so hard to bring about will become a landmark era in the history books.” Celimus’s expression was skeptical. “But last—”

“Yesterday was different. You frightened me and I was rattled to think that King Cailech had infiltrated Briavel without my knowledge. Did he tell you why?”

“No. I thought I’d find out courtesy of Stoneheart’s clever men of the dungeons,” the King offered unkindly.

Valentyna did not react. Celimus, like any bully, was always looking for ways to hurt others. Instead she planted the first seed of her lie. “Cailech told Liryk that he wanted to meet with me to talk about a surprise festival he was thinking about throwing in your honor.” It was clear that Celimus had not expected this. “My honor!”

“Yes. He wanted to hail you as the region’s peacemaker, bringing long life and prosperity to the three realms.” She held her breath through the pause that followed, forcing herself to look back and wave to the crowd, smiling calmly despite her fear.

“That might change things,” Celimus said softly.

Instead of leaping on his words and giving away her excitement, Valentyna shrugged. “Yes, well, it is of no matter to me, but perhaps you can find out more in due course. It would be a pity to lose a friend in the Razors when you have worked so hard to establish the truce.”

“Indeed,” he said drily, but it was obvious that the notion that Cailech had not been in Briavel for sinister reasons had been successfully planted. She would need to water it subtly throughout the journey, Valentyna realized.

“To get back to what I was saying earlier, my lord, you can rely on me to be faithful and dutiful. Let us make this marriage the success everyone wants so badly.”

He laughed derisively. “I know you don’t love me, Valentyna.”

“As you don’t me, sire,” she countered with care. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot be a successful royal couple. Respect, affection, cooperation—surely these are all qualities we can work to achieve?”

“Surely. But I don’t understand.”

“What puzzles you, sire?”

“The change of heart. One minute you are a spitting cat, the next a kitten.”

“I dreamed last night of my parents, Celimus,” she lied, trying not to recall her true dream of Cailech’s passionate embrace, his ardent yet gentle touch, his kisses so tender and deep, his declarations of love…

she felt herself going hot in all the wrong places.

“Yes?” the King prompted.

“And…they urged me that this was a match made by Shar for the good of the realms. They told me that Shar’s angels, if we let them, will guide us to hold our marriage fast and be good to each other. That we will have sons—strong boys—four of them,” she said, feeling nauseated by her own creative invention.

“Are you superstitious, Celimus?”

“Not really. Why?”

“This morning I found a white rose on the bush my father planted for my mother at her death.” Celimus looked at her quizzically, although she could tell he was intrigued. “What is the significance?”

“Ah, perhaps it is only in Briavel we believe this. Legend has it that if a white rosebush produces a single bloom, which opens before any other buds show themselves, any dream of the previous night is destined to come true.”

“No matter whether it is good or bad?” he asked.

“That’s correct. That is why I went looking for the rose, because my dream was so profound, so vivid. I could see our sons, Celimus—dark, strapping boys, like their father.” He grinned. “That’s very interesting, Valentyna. I’m pleased that you feel so positive suddenly.”

“I intend to be a good wife to you, sire. I will make you proud and happy.” Celimus looked into her clear blue gaze and saw no guile. He reached across the distance between their two horses, his white, hers black, and took her hand. The crowd gasped, then cheered uproariously when King Celimus bent to place his lips against the back of the hand of his queen.

Valentyna felt nothing but revulsion. She was relieved she had chosen to wear gloves.

Wyl was traveling among a different cavalcade but toward the same destination. Tied, gagged, and thrown in a covered wagon, he was driven hard. There were no stops for food or rest. Fresh horses took over at various points until, just by the smell of the air, he knew he was approaching Pearlis. Wyl had lost track of time and thought. His mind felt like a skein of tangled wool.

“Stoneheart ahead!” he heard a soldier cry, and smiled to himself Death was upon him. Myrren’s Gift was reaching its climax and the Quickening would come to an end.

He hoped Aremys had made his own way to Pearlis, and that his friend would keep his solemn promise to end Celimus’s life the moment the change occurred. He thought briefly of Fynch’s caution about randomness, and took solace from it. It was randomness that had given him Valentyna by the fireside not so long ago. Nothing could ever take away that time of exhilaration, that delicious loss of thought and control, that intense passion that had sealed his love for her.

Valentyna was his. They were one, coupled in love and desire; it had been an exquisite pain when they reached that final dizzying, breathtaking pleasure in each other. He had known her in a way no other had.

Her maidenhood had been given gladly, lovingly, and he had taken it with a trembling, feverish joy.

Celimus might marry Valentyna but the Queen of Briavel belonged to the King of the Razors…to Wyl Thirsk.

He would not swap his lying with Valentyna for anything—not even in exchange for his life. He could die happily now, for he was loved—and loved as Wyl Thirsk. She had uttered his name.

His thoughts were interrupted by soldiers unfastening the hood of the cart. He cast a final thought toward Knave, wished he had had a chance to say goodbye to the faithful dog. He did not struggle as rough hands dragged him from the cart and led him to a place in the depths of Stoneheart from which few people returned.

For the first time in his life Knave had neither mission nor magic to call upon. He was still driven, though, urged by a force more complex than anything he had known before. It went by the name of sorrow.

He had hidden himself in the palace compound, close enough to watch the guardhouse for any movement on Wyl’s part. He had made sure that the Grenadyne had gotten safely out of Werryl and had seen him organize transport with some Briavellian folk on their way to the wedding festival in Morgravia. Then he had returned to the palace and kept Valentyna company during her ride, watching her fall so deeply into thought that her horse could have probably stopped and grazed without her realizing it.

He had watched Celimus prowl around the guardhouse, giving orders to his Legionnaires, making sure they remained alert and that nobody visited the prisoner without his express permission—not even the Queen. The palace had finally settled down for the night, although a constant quiet movement of servants prepared for the departure the next day.

Knave had wandered away to the woodland, where he had spent favorite times with Fynch. He found the spot where they had slept the night, where he had heralded the death of Romen Koreldy with a piercing howl into the dark. He lay there, his head on his huge paws, as the hours crawled by, and he mourned the loss of the boy he had come to love, the boy who had given his life to destroy the enemy of all that was good and natural in the world.

Knave threw back his huge head and howled in grief. It seemed the Thicket heard him, for once again he felt himself connected to its magic.

Knave? came a voice.

Rasmus. He groaned, his throat swelling from the pain of his emotion.

We promised Faith Fynch we would aid Wyl Thirsk, the bird said.

Knave waited, his head hung low. He did not want any more instructions.

Go to Argorn, Rasmus finally said. Find Felrawthy’s duke and return him to Pearlis, where he will meet Farrow.

And then?

They will know what to do. Go now. The Thicket will send you.

Knave closed the connection, too numb to care what happened now that Fynch was gone. Very soon he was hurtling through the dark toward the region of Morgravia that had produced Wyl Thirsk.