“Let me give you a smoothing as you have never had before, Romen,” she muttered in a low voice.
He nodded, allowed her to dry his body with warmed linens. Their gentle roughness against his skin revived his desire again as she dried his legs and buttocks. He realized their time together so far had been mostly silent. She was not curious to know anything more about him, which he found agreeable, and he appreciated that she did not babble, like so many of the brothel girls. Hildyth was comfortable in his silence but not once did he feel she was going about her business with him in a detached manner. If anything he felt a bond with her—as though they were kindred spirits in this comfortable place void of idle words.
She smiled and pointed toward the smoothing bench and he obliged, lying belly down, his face turned away from her.
“On your back, please.” she said in a soft voice and he obliged. This was an unusual position to begin the smoothing but he was past caring about details. “I have a warmed pouch of barley I am going to lay across your eyes. It will feel good and help you to relax.” she explained.
Wyl nodded. He was familiar with this practice and sighed gently as she laid the perfectly weighted, warmed pouch on his face. He heard her opening the cupboard, and then gentle clink of small glass bottles.
Again the voice soft. “Would oil of lavender be to your liking, Romen?”
“Yes.” he murmured, knowing it was dangerous, for it would remind him of Valentyna and the evening they had kissed, the evening their love had first taken flight.
As he listened to her rubbing the oil between her hands he imagined feeling her thighs around him. After the smoothing she would lead him into the adjoining chamber—a bedroom—where they would complete this ritual and she would pleasure him in any way he chose. He desired nothing more complicated than the feel of a woman holding him as he moved inside her. Lost in his lust-filled thoughts, he reached his cupped hands behind, laid his head on them and sighed.
It stretched his body into the perfect position.
He felt her single warm palm touch his chest, not registering that it did not seem quite as oily as it should, and in truth he would later recall that he did not feel the cold tip of the blade when it first entered between his ribs in that sharp upward punching manner. He did. however, jerk and flail almost immediately as it ascended on its killing journey. The barley pouch was flung off his eyes as the blade expertly and swiftly hit its mark, his heart—puncturing it fatally.
Wyl was strong but Hildyth was surprisingly strong too and she leaned her full weight against his prone, already weakening, dying body and looked deep into Romen’s wide, fear-filled silvery gray eyes.
“Hush, Romen. It is finally done,” she cooed, demonically stroking his rapidly failing erection as he listened to her gentle words. “Let go now. Die quietly and bravely. The King of Morgravia bids you Shar’s speed.”
The struggling had stopped, voice had left him, death was claiming him and he felt her kiss his lips as she pushed the knife harder and higher, severing tissue to be sure that Jessom’s contract was fulfilled.
They were locked in a lovers’ silent embrace now—albeit a bloody one—as Wyl, dying, suddenly felt a terrifyingly familiar feeling. The surging sensation took over as his closed lids, accepting of death, suddenly flew open to reveal two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.
Hildyth, as Romen had, stared at him in shock. The convulsive pain was in her too and she had no idea what was happening. She straightened, taking a deep, agonizing breath. Wyl did know what was occurring, although he could barely believe it himself…and he hated it.
They both shared death but only one took life. Wyl felt his soul lifting, wrenching free. All that was him and Romen was torn from their body as he glimpsed the dark, angry soul of Hildyth crossing over in terror into the body of Romen Koreldy, where it died.
Wyl staggered back in Hildyth’s body now, dry-retching and groaning. Tears streamed down his cheeks in disbelief.
Again! It has happened again!
He lay his burning face against the cold marble of the floor and sobbed… deep, dry heartwrenching sobs of intense grief as he curled himself into a small shape and released his pain.
Later, when he could finally bring himself to, he looked over at the body of Romen Koreldy…him. His latest corpse. And then he looked down at himself, frightened and disoriented in the naked body of Hildyth the whore.
No…not Hildyth, he realized.
My name is Faryl and I am an assassin.
He retched again.
Finally. Wyl composed himself. He had to think and quickly.
How long have I been in here with her
?
He looked at the candles. Possibly two hours so far. Liryk would most likely give him up to four hours for this treat but perhaps only three. He looked at his hands—his female hands covered with Romen’s blood—and without thinking further jumped into the pool to cleanse himself of death.
He toweled himself and then struggled back into Hildyth’s gown, damp and frantic. His fingers could not work the clasp that she had so easily worked minutes earlier. He fumbled and swore quietly, his shock still so acute he had to stop at one point and take a slow steadying breath.
It took him several clumsy minutes to finally be hooked into her gown and only then did he find the courage to face Romen’s body. It looked sad and wretched, a vague look of surprise its final expression.
He made his plan. It was thin, as usual, but it was all he had.
Using Faryl’s knowledge he removed the wedged blade from Romen’s body and then, sickening though it was, sliced through the corpse’s ring finger and, wincing, pushed the blade back into the wound in the chest.
He wrapped Romen’s finger in a small piece of linen and hid it behind one of the largest candles, taking care to remember its precise location among the others. Then he threw the wine carafe onto the floor, ensuring the golden liquid spilled at the doorway and then wrenched open the door into the main corridor and began to scream. He was amazed at the high female sound that came out, but he used it to full effect, for people came running from all ends of the brothel and with them ran Commander Liryk, whom Wyl deliberately threw his woman’s body against.
“He’s dead…murdered!” Wyl cried.
“What?” Liryk exclaimed, unraveling himself from Hildyth’s arms and pushing past her into the room. He sagged against the wall, distraught at what he saw. “How?” he croaked.
Wyl began to weep hysterically. His own fragile state of mind helped him to be convincing as he broke down, speaking through sobs. Briavel’s soldiers quickly dispersed the few eager onlookers and closed the door so they could hear privately how such a tragedy had occurred. Through her cries, they pieced together that she had gone to fetch some more wine at her client’s behest and in the few minutes she was out of the chamber, someone had come in and killed Koreldy.
“He had this on his eyes,” she said, reaching to pick up the pouch. “He would not have known it was not me coming back into the room.”
“Did you see the killer?”
“No, not really. I was gone only for a few moments but I did see a man running down the corridor. I thought it odd. of course, but I wasn’t really concentrating I suppose.” Liryk put his arm around her. “Hildyth. you need to tell us everything you can remember.”
“That’s it, Commander Liryk. I…I’m so sorry. I know he was your friend. I only saw the killer’s back. I dropped the wine. He was big and dark-haired but no more could I tell you. Poor Koreldy.” Wyl knew the babbling was effective and real. He felt entirely rattled.
“How was this fellow dressed? Anything distinctive?”
“No, sir. Like any other civilian of Briavel…like any other patron of this place.” It was only then Liryk noticed the missing finger.
“Shar’s Balls!” he said to his men. “This was an assassination.”
“How can you know?” Wyl stammered.
“Koreldy wore a distinctive ring on that finger—he told me once it belonged to his family. It will be proof of his death to whoever ordered it.”
Hildyth began softly weeping again. “Do you need me any more, sir? I’m feeling very unwell.”
“No, you go home, young lady. I’ll send one of my men to escort you back. Please don’t go anywhere else, though, we may need you still.”
“I’ll be fine, Commander Liryk; don’t spare one of your men. Perhaps someone from here can take me home,” Wyl whispered, mind racing—he had no idea where home was. “You catch the killer,” he said, moving to take the old soldier’s hand. “I know you liked him, sir. I did too.”
“That I did. I’m very sorry it has turned out this way for him.” Liryk turned to one of his soldiers and asked him to fetch someone to help the young woman home. He returned quickly with a kind woman called Remy who took charge of the weeping Hildyth.
“Come on, love. I’ll get you back to your rooms,” she said as she led Wyl away.
With Remy’s consoling chatter and guiding arm, Wyl stumbled in Hildyth’s unfamiliar body back to the two rooms in Crowyll amongst the densely populated area near the market. He thanked his companion, shutting the door as soon as it was polite, then he leaned back against it, sucking air in hard to steady his mind.
Myrren’s gift was more generous than he had first imagined. So now he was no longer Romen but Faryl.
A woman
! He had to get away from this town.
What to do first
?
Wyl steadied his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do from childhood. He calmed the raging swirl of his thoughts. Then he centered himself and looked at the problem, his strategist’s mind attacking it objectively.
Steal my weapons back
, was his first decision, then,
fetch my horse. Retrieve the finger. Leave
Crowyll under cloak of darkness. Where to
?
Find the manwitch
, came his own reply.
Seek answers to the Quickening.
One of the most popular questions asked of any fantasy author is “Where did the idea come from?” In this instance I have a friend, Diane Rogers, to thank for sharing her experience of a visit to a “seer.” The moment she began to relate her spooky tale. I felt my hair stand on end. I knew I was hearing the seed of a story which would make an exciting adventure and here it is…thank you for reading it.
Behind each book is a team of people; some in a supportive role, others who physically contribute to the final product. All deserve my thanks…Gary Havelberg and Sonya Caddy, my draft readers, are treasured, as is the wonderful Robin Hobb, who has been such an inspiration for my work. Hooray for the terrific team at HarperCollins Eos for giving me this opportunity for an international audience, especially Jennifer Brehl and my editor, Kate Nintzel both such a pleasure to work with, and special thanks to my agent, Chris Lotts, for his guidance as well as his expertise in his field. And for any of you who may not believe that such a stature as Fynch’s might exist, let me assure you it does by thanking ten-year-old Justin Klimentou for allowing me to borrow his unbelievably slight frame for my gong boy.
Finally to my family and friends, who already know how much their support is appreciated. Heartfelt thanks and love to Ian who keeps the circus of our home and business life rolling forward when I am lost in other worlds and to my sons, Will and Jack, for their boundless understanding and affection.
About the Author
Born in 1960 and raised in southern England. FIONA McINTOSH spent an early childhood in the gold-mining camp of Bibiani in Ghana, where her father was working. She studied in Brighton before starting a career in PR and marketing in London. She made Australia her home in 1980. continuing in a travel-marketing career with an ad agency, a tourism authority, and an international airline. Fiona married her magazine-publisher husband. Ian. and they now live in Adelaide with their teenage twin sons. Will and Jack. Visit her website at www.fionamcintosh.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors Praise for MYRREN’S GIFT THE QUICKENING BOOK ONE
“
Myrren‘s Gift
is a rich, satisfying confection of vivid detail, engrossing characters, and their dark doings, all beautifully written.”
Lynn Flewelling
“[A] delightful and fast-moving story…Fantasy fans will welcome…Mcintosh’s gripping first installment in her Quickening trilogy, a tale of the eternal struggle between good and evil filled with magic, blood, and jealousy.”
Publishers Weekly
“Fiona Mcintosh is a seductress. I have not moved from my sofa for three days, beguiled by her new fantasy novel,
Myrren’s Gift
.”
Sydney Morning Herald
(Australia)
“
[Myrren ‘s Gift]
establishes Mcintosh as a talented storyteller with the ability to create strong characters and a compelling plot.”
Library Journal
“Fiona Mcintosh scores.”
The Guardian
(London)
“I’m looking forward to reading the next two.”
Robin Hobb
Books by
Fiona Mcintosh
The Quickening
Myrren’s Gift Book One
Blood and Memory Book Two
Bridge of Souls Book Three
Credits
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover illustration by Les Petersen
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MYRREN’S GIFT. Copyright © 2003 by Fiona Mcintosh. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.