She hugged him. “Fynch, I wouldn’t part with you for anything. You are an honorary Briavellian from today.”
He beamed, a rare grin on his face.
“In fact I must grant a special role to you. I shall make you the Queen’s spy,” she said, arching her eyebrows, hoping to hang on to that so infrequent smile of his.
Fynch liked the sound of this. “No more dropholes then, majesty.”
“No more cleaning them, anyway,” she replied conspiratorially. “Now, whenever my heart feels this glad I like to feast. Come, let’s get you refreshed and then we shall share a meal together and I can tell you all that has been happening since you left. If you are to be the Queen’s spy, you must have all the facts.” It was several hours later that the two of them, followed by Knave, stretched their legs by going out to visit another of Valentyna’s newborn foals. Over some of the best food he had ever been presented with, Fynch had learned the true depth of his Queen’s grief at her father being murdered and how after a hasty and private coronation ceremony she had ridden alone through the streets of Werryl so her people could share her sorrow and understand that she was so very alone now and needed their support.
It was an inspired decision by Valentyna to do this against her advisors’ wishes. And as a result, a new sense of patriotism was burning fiercely in Briavel. The people would stand behind their Queen and seek revenge for the outrage of their King’s death.
Valentyna had also deliberately fired and then fanned the rumor that the killers were mercenaries only posing as Morgravian. She had decided to play Celimus at his own game. Although going to war had been her initial reaction, she had changed her mind when her blood rage at her father’s death had calmed and she had begun to think clearly. The blame for Valor’s death had been deflected from Morgravia, so her own people would not expect her to seek vengeance on the neighboring realm. She had encouraged her people’s sense of patriotism and now she hoped to direct it toward supporting her. A Queen had never ruled in Briavel. She needed them to trust her, to support her claim to the throne and her right to rule. All of this aside, her army was not yet strong enough to fight, and she herself not experienced enough…but that time would come. No, war would
not
be her first choice—but cunning was.
Much later that night she remembered the letter from Romen Koreldy. Sitting by a small fire in her chambers, she broke the seal. Valentyna permitted herself some tears as Romen Koreldy spoke of the final minutes of her father’s life and how he and Wyl Thirsk had fended off the attackers to protect Valor.
He told her how bravely her father had died, his last words for her, and that just before Wyl had succumbed to his wounds, he had wrung a blood oath from Romen to swear fealty to Briavel and protect its Queen against Celimus. Romen assured Valentyna that he would come but that she was to burn this missive in the meantime. He promised his help… and his blade. And in the firmest of language he implored her to keep Fynch and Knave by her side.
There it was again. This curiosity about the black dog. Well, Knave was nothing if not protective of her, she thought, looking down by her feet where he now lay. He opened an eye to look at her as though sensing her scrutiny. She would do as Romen asked and she would also wait for him. He asked her to make no direct moves and show no aggression. She was pleased to note they were of the same mind.
…Don’t play into the hands of Celimus by responding—fend off any attempts at contact with the
message that yon are grieving. Let your father’s body cool in peace and his memory fade slightly
while you build your loyalties about you. I will come soon
—
I am yours to command, my Queen.
My loyalty to you will never waver. In the meantime I give you a special gift. I give you the dog
Knave, who will be true to you. Trust him alone and his faithful companion, Fynch. They will
protect you
.
Be brave, beautiful Valentyna. Yours, Romen Koreldy.
She was shocked at his final words. How could he know what she looked like? They had not met. She dismissed her query as pure vanity on her part—no doubt Fynch had been overly descriptive of her to this Koreldy fellow. Well, she could do the same. She would rely on Fynch’s brilliant skills of observation to describe him to her tomorrow.
That aside, she felt comforted by his letter—the tone was courteous but there was strength in it. This was surely a leader of men conspiring with her. Valentyna threw the letter into the fire as instructed, then drifted into a doze as she watching the parchment burn, her hopes surging in tandem with the bright glow of the flames.
By the time she woke. Knave had disappeared.
Chapter 20
For the first time in many days Wyl felt his spirits lift. Saying farewell to Ylena had not been as difficult as he had imagined. She seemed peaceful at the monastery and Brother Jakub had seen to it that her accommodation was cozy if not elegant and in an especially quiet wing. Her rooms, although small, were airy and Jakub had deliberately chosen those that overlooked the orchard and the hills in the distance.
She had not cried when Wyl said goodbye but she had hugged Romen hard and told him to hurry back.
Ylena had pressed her brooch, the one Wyl had given her as a present, into his hand.
“It will bring you luck,” she had said.
As he rode away he tried to put aside the nagging thought that the youngster, Jorn, might yet undo his plans by revealing Ylena’s whereabouts. He worried at the possible repercussions, not only for his sister but for these good men who cared for her. And still he knew he had made a sound decision in bringing her here first where she might recover among kind strangers who understood to keep a distance. Too much familiarity, Jakub had agreed, could bring her back to herself too quickly and the memory of her suffering might be too vivid.
“Burying the reality is her way of defending herself against the pain. We can’t all be heroic like you and ride off into more danger after such adversity,” Jakub had said carefully.
Wyl did not understand what was couched in that final statement but he was determined to get to the bottom of whatever it was that sat between him and Jakub. He suspected it had something to do with the reason Romen Koreldy had left Grenadyn and turned to the dangerous life of a mercenary but there were no clues left for him within Romen.
Jakub had insisted on swapping the nag for a decent horse—a lovely roan—and, despite his hot protestations, the old man had finally agreed to accept some money from his friend, which he insisted could only be taken as a donation. Wyl had readily agreed and loved the feel of the horse beneath him. It seemed an age since he had ridden an animal of such quality and yet he realized that it had only really been a matter of days. How quickly one’s life can change, he thought, and how strange his had become in that short time.
He had searched his mind long and hard for any clues to the old woman’s whereabouts and it had only come to him very recently that she had mentioned hailing from the north. Even if it turned out that she had not returned home, it was worth trying; he could comb the towns and villages of the region, for they were few and far between that close to the Razor Mountains.
He urged the horse into a steady canter and once again headed across country to avoid being sighted.
Wyl was well stocked and his intention was to travel for several days keeping the woods to his left and then come out into a town called Orkyld. known for its specific talent for crafting swords and knives.
Master craftsmen from around the realm considered it the high altar of their trade and only the very best were picked to do their apprenticeships at Orkyld itself. It took him almost four days and in the end he had to carefully walk the horse into Orkyld as it had taken a stone into its shoe two miles back.
He paid for a room at the Old Yew Inn and was grateful that this part of the realm was used to strangers.
No one paid him a second glance and the roan was cared for immediately. He treated himself to a jug of ale and several roasted pigeons before finding the local baths, where he gave himself a second treat of a leisurely dip. For those who could afford such luxury, a “smoothing” could be enjoyed for just a few more royals. He was sorely tempted because his muscles protested from being in the saddle so much.
Wyl promised Romen’s body that luxury soon enough.
Right now he needed weaponry and a new pair of stout boots. The boots came first and as an afterthought he added a warm shirt and cloak to his list. The north could be very cold even at this time of the year.
Wyl’s inquiries led him to a master craftsman called Wevyr, who was supposedly one of the three most talented artisans in Orkyld. He recalled his father mentioning this man’s name but had never met him. At Wevyr’s workrooms twenty or so young men were diligently applying their skills to blades of all shapes and sizes. One stopped his work and moved to the counter.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to buy a sword,” Wyl replied.
“I shall fetch Master Lerd for you, sir. May I give him your name please?”
“It’s Koreldy,” Wyl replied.
He waited while the youngster disappeared into a set of rooms beyond the main workroom. Another man reappeared as the first fellow returned to his seat.
“Are you Romen Koreldy, sir?” this one asked.
“I am.”
“In that case, follow me. please,” he said, turning.
“Why?” Wyl asked in Romen’s casual way. It amazed him how Koreldy could do this without giving offense.
“It’s Master Wevyr, sir, he prefers to take care of his clients in his private room.”
“Thank you.” he said, impressed, and followed.
The man took him into a small yet light-filled room where a very old man was inspecting various weapons.
“Hello. Romen.” he greeted him. not looking up from his work.
Wyl nodded even though it wouldn’t be noticed. “Wevyr.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve lost them?”
“Er…no,” Wyl said, carefully. He presumed they were talking about weapons. He took the risk. “I had to give them up at a round of cards.”
“Shar’s Balls, man. You paid a fortune for those!” the master exclaimed, looking up through one huge eyeglass attached to a band around his head.
Wyl shrugged. “It was for high stakes.”
“You’re a fool!”
He could see this man was not impressed by Romen’s noble rank or purse. “I’m sorry.” he replied. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t, because you’re not getting any of my precious weapons again.”
“Oh. come on. Wevyr. Yours are the only blades that kill neatly.” he said, grinning.
It did not work for him. The old man seemed genuinely miffed. “I have crafted blades all of my life for the likes of the Thirsks of Argorn. Armyn Thirsk killed three hundred and seventy Briavellians in his time with one of my swords and Fergys Thirsk admitted the sword I made him thirty years ago needed sharpening only twice in its lifetime.” He coughed after his angry outburst.
Wyl was stunned by the mention of his family name. He had admired his father’s sword on countless occasions and, as was the Thirsk way, the Generals were buried with their blades. When he had lost his father he was too young to know important things like where to get the best swords crafted. Gueryn had held all of that information. Hearing his father’s name spoken aloud moved him. as did thinking of Gueryn. and he began to consider how he might be able to find out about his friend’s fate in the Razors.
He came out of his sorrowful thoughts. “Pardon?”
“I said, are you all right, Koreldy?”
Wyl took a breath. “Yes, apologies. You mentioning Thirsk made me think of the loss to the kingdom.” The old man sighed and his voice softened. “Indeed, a great loss it is. I hear a rumor that the son is dead to us too. Is this true?”
Wyl nodded. “I was in Pearlis for the funeral.”
“A very sad business. The son should never have followed his father to the grave so soon. I did not even have a chance to forge a blade for him. Did you learn how it happened?”
“Treachery, I’m told.” Wyl could not help himself.
“Oh? Whose?”
“They say Celimus was jealous of him—wanted him dead.”
Wevyr looked horror-struck. “Hush, man! Walls have ears even in this remote town.”
“Sorry. It’s what I heard.”
“I don’t want to know any more,” Wevyr said, holding up his hand. “I am too old for intrigues. What is it you require?”
Wyl grinned. “A sword and two knives?”
“Come with me.”
The old man took off his eyepiece and walked around his work table to a display cabinet. He slowly unlocked it before reverently picking up a sword that had unique markings engraved on the blade itself as well as the hilt. It was magnificent.
“My finest ever,” he said, presenting it.
“And you’d let me have it?” Wyl said, incredulous.
The man made a face. “There are very few swordsmen I’d allow to even hold this beautiful weapon, Romen.” Then he scowled, voice scathing. “You are fortunate that you wield a blade with such exquisite finesse that you deserve something as fine as this.” He poked Romen Koreldy in the chest for good measure and his humor was not improved by the wide grin that greeted his efforts.
“Thank you.” Wyl took the handsome blade and weighted it. The balance was perfect. It was as if the sword had its own momentum. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the open door, which led to a courtyard.
“Of course. There are matching knives.”
“Bring them,” Wyl said, marveling at the sword’s lightness and grace in his grip.
Outside he went through some of his old practice routines and felt Romen’s skills intruding, guiding his hand to new movements, and through it all the blade glided effortlessly through the air. As the sunlight hit the sword, it glinted blue, which in itself Wyl found fascinating.
“Did you make this especially for someone?” he asked Wevyr, who had arrived carrying the pair of knives.
“Yes. For me. It is the sum of my training and experience—my life’s work, you could say.”