“Of course, but then I’m not married and so do not suffer even the slightest guilt,” Liryk replied. “I’ve got my heart set on that rather interesting creature in the corner…she looks like she’d be good value, although I fear she has eyes only for you, Koreldy.”
Wyl grunted a dismissal but looked toward her anyway. She was intriguing. Not traditionally beautiful in the way that Ylena could turn heads, this woman was striking by her sheer force of presence as much as handsome looks. She was watching him as she entertained a small group of men, tilting her head as she laughed at their jests and flicking her shoulder-length hair coquettishly. Most Briavellian women preferred to wear their hair long. Still, hers somehow suited her tall, strong build.
He continued to stare, fascinated by her feline manner. There was no other way to describe her liquid movement. He sensed she could move fast even though she gave the impression of being unhurried. As she fetched drinks for her guests, he noticed she moved as lightly and lithely as a dancer…or even as one trained in what was known as the Simple Art. Gueryn had never had much time for that style of fighting without weaponry in which the hands and feet were used to inflict injury and the fighter’s only protection was his own speed and strength. Consequently Wyl had never learned the techniques although he had intended to some day. Many of the younger soldiers coming up through the ranks had studied the Simple Art and Wyl had seen for himself the damage such skills could cause to an enemy during a fighting exhibition in Pearlis. He had promised himself that he would acquire the techniques—once the royal tourney was over. He no longer possessed that young, agile body and would probably never learn those skills.
The woman’s limbs were long and angular. Wyl could see a sculpting of muscle on her bare arms and her belly was flat and tight. Here was someone who perhaps took care to keep herself trim, supple, and strong. He looked away, embarrassed, when she caught him staring. Romen would not look away, he admonished himself. Romen would meet her gaze and return it with lust.
Wyl was disappointed with himself as once again a nagging thought nudged at his mind. The longer he lived inside Romen, the less of Romen there was. When he had first moved across, everything that was Wyl had felt tightly contained and he had depended on the Grenadyne’s personality and character.
Increasingly, it was Wyl who was shining through and it was becoming harder, sometimes impossible, to find Koreldy within. Did this mean that Romen was finally lost? Had what had been left just evaporated over time?
Answers would come only from Myrren’s father, the manwitch, as Widow Ilyk had cautioned.
Someone accidentally elbowed him and it brought him out of his thoughts. He found his gaze once again drawn helplessly toward the woman. He noticed her eyes were a soft murky brown, and with the darkly golden hair, it was an enticing mix. None of her features were particularly beautiful either, he had to admit. It was more her vivaciousness and mannerisms that were so appealing. Confidence was not lacking and she held her audience rapt with what Wyl assumed was witty conversation. Her companions seemed to be laughing a great deal.
Men around the chamber finally began to drift away with chosen partners. The woman deliberately excused herself from the attentions of several men and found a reason to approach Wyl.
“You don’t look like you belong in this group,” she said. She had a low voice, oozing appeal. “But you are most welcome. It’s a treat to have someone so attractive visit us.” Wyl had no retort for such directness and desperately wished Romen would surface to save him. His command was ignored and he watched a slow grin move across her face.
“Where are you from, stranger?”
He was glad to be on safe ground with a question he could answer by rote. “Er, Grenadyn.”
“Then you are a long way from home. Do you have a name?”
“Koreldy!” someone answered for him. It was Liryk, who appeared to be in a suddenly expansive mood. Wyl felt sure the older man was nothing like this back at the palace. “Don’t worry about him. my dear. Us older men are much more fun.” He winked.
But she did not see it. Her gaze had not moved from Wyl and he felt compelled to answer a question he was not sure had been asked. “Look, you two go right ahead. I’m happy savoring this rather superb Alsava. I haven’t tasted such a good wine in many months,” he lied, instantly regretting such a weak remark.
“There, you see,” Liryk said and beamed at the woman. “Now what’s your name, my lovely?”
“I’m called Hildyth,” she replied, still watching Wyl with narrowed, searching eyes.
Liryk wasted no further time in conversation. “Come, Hildyth, we have only a few hours.” And he led the way.
She turned back. “Pity,” she said to Wyl. “I think we might have enjoyed each other.”
“Next time, perhaps.” he said, regaining some composure.
“I hope that’s a promise.” Her voice made him feel hot in places he preferred not to.
He nodded and again the wry smile hinted at her mouth as she turned and left him with his wine.
Wyl felt out of sorts after his meeting with Hildyth. He did not feel like going back to the inn in which Liryk had arranged for them to stay. Instead he made the lonely walk back a few miles to the field where some of the foot soldiers had made camp, far preferring the company of these men right now to a whore or his own troubled thoughts.
The next morning, when the small company had reunited. Wyl was astonished to see Liryk—normally so neat and tidy—looking much the worse for wear after his night in Crowyll.
The elder soldier spotted him. “Shar’s Mercy, man. you’re safe!”
“Of course. What’s happened?”
“There was an incident at the inn where we were staying. Where were you anyway?”
“I came back here. I didn’t feel like sharing my own company last night.”
“Good job you did too. There was a fire. I thought we’d lost you.” Wyl frowned. “We saw some smoke—is everyone safe?”
Liryk sighed. “Yes, our boys were vigilant. Even on these occasions I post lookouts and so the fire was noticed early. Lucky For you that you stayed at camp.”
“Oh?” Wyl asked.
“The fire broke out right near your room. There’s nothing left of that wing of the inn. Your room was gutted and collapsed first.”
“How did it start?”
The soldier shrugged. “No one seems to know. An oil lamp left unattended, someone said, but it’s just a thought. There’s . no proof. Anyway, we leave now.”
Wyl thought no more about the incident,. his spirits lifting at the thought of seeing Valentyna again.
The assassin stood alongside the rest of the onlookers, making similar noises of despair and disgust. They were all waiting with morbid interest to see the charred remains of whichever poor sods had been trapped by the fire. The innkeeper stood with them,
assuring the townsfolk that the inn had been relatively empty the previous night—just a few soldiers staying. He rubbed at his eyes, exhausted from a night of fighting the blaze. Fortunately for him, the section of the building damaged was separated by a walkway to the main inn.
“We did a check this morning. Every guest bar one is accounted for.” he said.
“Who?” someone asked.
“Commander Liryk said it was a stranger, not a soldier. He was travelling with them. A person from Grenadyn—goes by the name of Koreldy,” he answered, eager to allay fears that one of their own may have perished.
It would be tragic for business if word got out that he was careless with his lamps. The innkeeper could not understand it. He had checked everything before turning in for the night. It was ritual for him to walk the length of each floor, trimming wicks, blowing out candles mistakenly left in corridors by guests. Even more baffling for him was the fact that he only kept a few oil lamps burning at any one time and he did not remember lighting one that previous evening. Perhaps one of the girls had but why would it have been burning near that particular room? He had to accept he had been tired and not thinking altogether clearly but he could not even remember seeing the distinctive stranger return to his room that night.
One of his own people trotted up. “Innkeeper Jon.”
He came out of his grim thoughts and looked up. “Any news?”
“None. We’ve picked through the wreckage. We can’t salvage anything, sir.”
“I reckoned as much. What about the”—he hesitated, “body?”
“No sign of that. If the Grenadyne was in the room, he’s gone up in smoke with it.” The carefully eavesdropping assassin frowned and turned away. It had been risky but worth it to ignite oil at the door of Koreldy’s room and again just beneath his room in the empty chamber below. The added precaution of beginning a fire on the bottom floor beneath his window was inspired. He had had no easy means of escape. Hopefully all signs of Romen Koreldy had gone up in flames, as the lad had said.
However, this assassin was too thorough for presumptions.
She wanted her other half of the gold from Jessom when he came into Briavel any day now with King Celimus. She wanted to believe her victim was nothing more than ash but deep down her instincts told her otherwise. She left the gawking audience to return to her rooms feeling unsettled.
On the way. alert to her inner voice of caution—for she never took chances with her prey—she concluded that it would be prudent to remain in this town until she had gleaned word that Koreldy was definitely dead.
Chapter 34
Fynch buried his small hand into the ruff of fur encircling Knave’s neck. The dog turned and looked at him—deep brown eyes all-knowing. It was as though the animal sensed his moods, his thoughts. Even more astonishing was the fact that increasingly Knave seemed to be able to assist with Fynch’s decision-making. As the boy pondered his problems, he felt that Knave could tap into his feelings…press thoughts and notions into his mind.
He did not know when this began to occur and he could not explain himself, so he did not try, although he had admitted as much to Valentyna. To tell any others would be to bring down much ridicule upon himself. It would be a ludicrous claim anyway among people who no longer believed in magic. Magic was the stuff of myth. Tales to scare little ones and give the bards something with which to spice their lyrics.
But magic must have existed in the world at some time, Fynch reasoned, for superstitious people still walked around puddles in case their soul was reflected there. Or said a special warding if they found their butter had soured, their milk had curdled, or salt had been spilled. His favorite superstition was the wearing of something violet the day before the night of a full moon.
Fynch’s mother had been especially “connected” as she had claimed to the spiritual world and she had recognized something in her eldest son she never told him what—that made him vulnerable to unearthly matters.
“They can talk to you,” she would caution.
Many people had called his mother lary, which Fynch came to realize was a kind alternative to being called mad. He knew she was not. It was simply her “connection” that made her appear odd. She had heard voices, experienced visions, but had never spoken of them to anyone, including his father, and only by chance once confided in Fynch, her favorite. Oh, yes, he was one of the few Morgravians who firmly believed in the presence of magic.
Valentyna, perhaps not as cynical as most, had agreed ‘to go along with his notion that Wyl was present among them and that his connection to Romen Koreldy was far less obvious than the Grenadyne was leading them to believe. Fynch could not be sure whether she was simply humoring a child but he chose to believe she honored his reasoning, even if she did not believe. Their discussion of Wyl’s link with Romen had been left behind on the Bridge that first morning of his return to Briavel and not referred to again.
Knave, however, was considered in a different light.
“He’s definitely touched,” she had admitted recently, though she would never use the term sorcery or enchantment.
“He belonged to a witch,” Fynch had replied, leaving it at that.
“There are occasions,” she confided on one of their many long walks together, “when I feel transparent to him. Does that sound stupid?”
He had shaken his head. Fynch had known precisely what she meant.
To Fynch it was enough. Valentyna, in her own rigid way, was acknowledging the possibility of magic—for witchcraft was the only way he could describe Knave’s ongoing strangeness. The animal’s behavior had become less predictable over the past weeks. The dog had disappeared soon after their arrival back in Werryl. He had gone missing the next morning, in fact, having spent the night with Valentyna, or so she claimed when she woke Fynch, anxious at the loss of the dog. Fynch had been inconsolable for the next few days. And then on the fourth day, Knave had reappeared at the palace.
After the initial flurry of excitement and tears of relief, Fynch had scolded the huge dog. He had waited until they were alone.
“Where have you been?” he had exclaimed, holding the dog’s huge face in his small hands.
Knave had looked at him strangely. There was something in the dog’s stare that had frightened him and then he had felt suddenly dizzy. He shuddered even now remembering it…seeing the blood as Romen had hacked off someone’s head. The mercenary too was hurt. Then he saw Knave dragging Romen, unconscious, lifeless—he knew not where. The vision had faded and he was staring once more into the eyes of the dog.
“You’ve been with Romen! He’s injured. Where is he?”
A voice, distant and soft, had then echoed across his thoughts. “Safe for now,” it said and then it was gone. He had shaken his head. Surely he had imagined the voice? Fynch believed he had even made it up just to reassure himself after the unsettling vision.
Knave had given one of his loud barks. He did that to get Fynch’s attention. It was as though he were dragging Fynch back to the present. After that the dog had fallen back into his familiar pattern of traipsing around with him. There were moments during this time when Fynch could believe he was just being fanciful in believing Knave was anything but a lively, buffoonish dog.