Myrren's Gift E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Quickening
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 883

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Wyl Thirsk is very young when he inherits the role as commander of the Morgravian army for a new king he detests. His first act is one of compassion to the accused witch Myrren, and this earns him her reward – but is it a gift or a curse? As war threatens from the north, the king deliberately sends Wyl on a perilous mission. But as Wyl discovers the true nature of Myrren's gift, he is confronted with an unimaginable choice. As the line between traitor and saviour becomes increasingly blurred, Wyl must navigate treacherous waters where the sinister new power he wields could either save or destroy him – and his entire country.

Leseprobe

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BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

For my good friend Diane Rogers, who in sharing her fascinating experience with a ‘seer’ unwittingly prompted this tale

PROLOGUE

Heknewtheinjurywouldbefatal.Accepteditattheverymoment he caught the sword’s menacing glint as it slashed down.

Fergys Thirsk, favourite son of Morgravia, began the last part of his journey towards death as a grey dawn sluggishly stretched itself across the winter sky. He faced his end with the same grace and courage he had called upon for all of his life as General of the Legion.

It had been the King’s idea to attack the Briavellians gathered on an opposite hillside under the cloak of night. To Fergys it had seemed somehow ignoble to interrupt the traditional night’s peace in which men sat quietly around small fires, some singing, others deep in thought as to whether they might live through another day of battle. But the King had fixed his mind on this bold plan to take his enemy by surprise on a night where dark, brooding clouds eliminated the moonlight. The River Tague, which bisected the realms of Morgravia and Briavel from the mountains in the north to their midlands, had already run red with the blood of both armies earlier that day and Fergys had been reluctant to put the men to the sword again so soon. But his sovereign had persisted and Thirsk had accepted the challenge. There had been no sense of foreboding as he carried out his monarch’s wishes and led the attack. He simply did not like the plan. Fergys was a man of honour and tradition. War had a code which he preferred to observe rather than flout.

Nevertheless he had fought ferociously – he knew no other way – but had been disturbed when Magnus, his friend and King, going directly against his wishes, had joined the fray. Without further thought Fergys had planted his feet and grimly despatched three Briavellians before he was able to make a move towards protecting his sovereign.

‘The white cloak’s suitably inconspicuous,’ he had yelled sarcastically above the din towards his oldest, dearest friend.

Magnus had had the audacity to wink at him. ‘Got to let Valor know I was here when his army was beaten into submission.’

It was a reckless act and more dangerous than the King could ever have suspected. They were fighting on Briavel’s side of the river and once the element of surprise had passed, both armies had got down to the business of slaughtering one another. Valor’s men were no cowards and had worked with a new-found passion to repel Morgravia.

Fergys had noticed Briavel’s standard – signalling that Valor too was in the thick of the fighting – and remembered now, as lifegiving blood leaked from him, how he had feared for both Kings. With Briavel having the advantage of higher ground, Fergys had made the decision to pull back. His army had already inflicted a terrible price on its enemy; no need for either of these sovereigns to die, he recalled thinking. He knew by daybreak and the inevitable clash that would come later that day, that Morgravia would overcome its enemy once again. So he had given the order and his men had obeyed immediately.

All except one.

And it was that one man whom Fergys Thirsk had sworn to protect. The one he would give his life for.

As with the Thirsk Generals who had gone before him, Fergys had lived long so the only regret which surfaced as the killing blow came was his absence from the family he loved. Fergys was not at all used to losing but it seemed Shar had asked more of him on this occasion; his god had asked for his life and he had given what had been requested without hesitation. He had fought so many battles and rarely returned with more than surface wounds, such was the fighting prowess and tenacity of the man.

And this battle had looked to be no exception until he had seen the danger, heard the man’s battle cry and deliberately stepped in front of that slashing sword. Up to that fateful moment only a thin line of dried blood across one cheek marked the closest a blade had come to threatening him. Duty, however, came first. Fergys had not even paused to consider the implication of pushing aside King Magnus, knowing he would have no time to block the inevitable blow. The only obstacle between the King’s survival and certain death was Fergys’s own fragile body, which he offered up gladly. The blade struck, fate guiding it ingeniously beneath the breastplate armour.

He did no more than wince at the sucking wound in his abdomen, too intent was he on despatching the Briavellian and ensuring the life of his King. Only then did Fergys Thirsk fall, not yet dead but the longest journey of all commenced.

As they had hurried him from the battleground and back over the Tague, he was still calling orders to his captains. Once he had heard the full retreat sounded, he lay back on the canvas which would bear him back to Morgravia’s camp. This journey seemed endless and he now used the time to reflect on his life.

There was little to complain about.

He was loved. That in itself should be enough for any man, he reasoned but then there was so much more. He commanded respect wherever he went – had earned it too – and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with a King whom he called friend. More than friend… blood brother.

That brother now walked in shock by his side, giving orders, fussing for his care, whispering to himself that it was all his fault; his stupidity and recklessness had seen the great General felled. It was all pointless. Fergys tried to tell the man this but there was insufficient strength in his voice to speak above the din of the retreat. If he could have he would have hushed his blood brother and reminded him that Shar’s Gatherers had spoken and whether any of them liked it or not he must now answer that call. No regrets. Duty done.

Men were bowing their heads as the stretcher passed by. Fergys wished he could somehow convey his thanks to each. The Legion produced exceptional soldiers; loyal to a man to his command. They had never let him down; never questioned a decision. He spared an anxious thought for how they would accept the new General, yearned for a last opportunity to beg their tolerance. ‘Give the boy a chance,’ he would beseech. ‘He will be all that I am and better still.’ And he knew it to be true.

He thought of the youngster. Serious, complex, a firm follower of tradition. Tarred by the same brush, as they say, especially in looks. They were plain, stocky, fearless men the Thirsks, and this boy was already shaping to be a natural-born leader. The Morgravian Legion followed a curious tradition of handing down leadership from father to son. Fergys wondered if it could last. The lad was so young. Would he have time to sire his own heir to continue the Thirsk tradition or would a new family vie for the right to lead the army? Thirsks had led the Legion through two centuries now. It was an extraordinary history for one family which seemed to breed sons with warrior capabilities, tempered with intelligence. In his heart he knew his son would be the best General ever, for his mother had given him humility to match his courage, and it seemed the boy had inherited her indomitable spirit too.

The dying man’s bearers were nearing the tent which he knew would be his final resting place. Once he was laid down he would have to concentrate on his King for as long as his heart held out. He wanted time to think about his beautiful wife Helyna of whom so much lived on in their son. Not her looks, mind. Those exquisite features belonged to their daughter alone. Fergys grimaced, not from pain so much as grief. His daughter was so young… too young to lose both parents.

How would his family manage? Money was no problem. They were the wealthiest of all the nobility, perhaps barring the Donals of Felrawthy, he thought sagely. He would have to rely on Magnus. Knew he could. What his family needed now was time. Time to grow into their new lives. Peace must be achieved with Briavel until the young Thirsk was ready to lead into battle. That peaceful time would have to be bought and he hoped his life would be the raw currency.

They laid him down. The King had insisted he be settled in the royal tent. Physicians hurried to Thirsk’s side. He ignored their probing, knowing it would ultimately be followed by a shaking of heads and grave glances. Fergys closed his eyes to the sudden frenetic activity and returned to his ponderings.

The old hate. It all seemed so pointless now. Valor of Briavel was a good King. He had a daughter. Little chance now of a son. Valor had shown no inclination to remarry after the death of his wife; it was rumoured that theirs had been a love gifted from Shar. And he was probably too old now, at seventy, to bother himself with trying to sire a male heir. He too needed peace for Briavel’s Princess to grow up and grow into her role. The wars had been a tradition in a sense. Their forefathers had fought each other when they were little more than feuding families. Initially it had been a case of maintaining the balance of power between two small factions suspicious of one another. But when the two strongest families established their own realms, and kingdoms were born, the battles were fought to increase power, gain more land, greater authority. Over the centuries, neither managed to claim domination over the region and so their animosity degenerated into squabbles over trading rights or merchant routes – any petty excuse, in fact, until by the time Magnus and Valor had inherited their crowns, neither was sure exactly why the two realms hated one another so intently.

Fergys shook his head. If truth be known, he rather admired Valor, and lamented the fact that the two Kings could not be neighbours in spirit as well as location. United in friendship and mutual respect, the region would be rich beyond dreams and near invincible to any enemy. Now he would never see that dream come to fruition. He sighed.

‘Talk to me,’ his King beseeched, voice leaden with guilt.

‘Send the physics away, Magnus. We all know it’s done.’

The King bowed his head in sad acceptance and gave the order.

All except his friend had now been banished by Thirsk. No emotional farewells would he tolerate from his captains. He could bear neither their sympathy nor their despair. They had filed out in silence, stunned by the notion that their General may not even see this day’s sun fully risen.

Thirsk asked for the tent flap to be left open so he could see across the moors to the smoke from the distant fires of the Briavellian camp, where soon the sounds of dying men and beasts would be heard again should the battle resume today. In his heart Thirsk knew the two armies were bleeding and wearied; all of the men were now keen to acknowledge the outcome of yet another battle between these ancient enemies and return to their towns and villages. Many would not be going home, of course, and their widows and mothers, sisters and betrothed were mostly from Briavel.

And yet, as Fergys Thirsk slipped further into death’s cool embrace, most from his side knew it would be later argued in the taverns that it was the great realm of Morgravia which had suffered the stunning loss on this occasion.

The General looked wearily back at his oldest and closest friend.

‘It’s over for them,’ King Magnus of Morgravia finally said.

Thirsk tried to nod, relieved that Magnus had navigated his way out of the shocked stupor; there were things to be said and little time. ‘But Valor will try to fight on,’ Fergys cautioned. ‘He will want Briavel to salvage some face.’

The King sighed. ‘And do we allow him to?’

‘You always have in the past, your majesty. Pull back our men completely and let him have the news of my injury and subsequent passing,’ his dying companion replied, shivering now from pain cutting through the earlier numbness. ‘It will be a proud moment for them and then we can all go home,’ he added, knowing full well he would go home shrouded in black linens and tied to his horse.

The battle was won. Morgravia had prevailed as it usually did under General Thirsk. It had not always been so, however. There were centuries previous when Briavel had triumphed. These nations had shared a long and colourful hate.

‘I wonder why I give him quarter – a weakness, do you think?’ Magnus pondered.

Fergys wanted to tell his King that it was not weakness but compassion which saw today’s Morgravia resist the temptation of out-and-out slaughter. That and the fact that Magnus had never had to watch his best friend die before – suddenly the battle had taken second place in the King’s priorities. And if compassion was a weakness, then Fergys loved his King for the contradictions in his character that could see him willingly pass sentence of death on a Morgravian criminal whilst, on the battlefield, sparing the lives of his enemies. It was this enigmatic mix of impulsiveness and honour, stubbornness and flexibility which had drawn Fergys to Magnus from childhood.

Thirsk noticed his own breathing was becoming shallower. He had witnessed this many times previously on the battlefield as he held the hands of the dying and heard their last laboured words. Now it was his turn. Death was beckoning but it would have to wait just a little while longer.

There was more to be said even though it hurt so much to talk. ‘If there is weakness in this, then it is shared equally amongst us all,’ Fergys responded. ‘Without it, Briavel and Morgravia would not enjoy this regular opportunity to send their young men thundering on fine steeds across the moors to kill each other.’

Magnus nodded at the irony of his friend’s sentiments. There had been a Thirsk at the head of the Morgravian army for so many years, all but the historians had stopped counting. The Thirsk line bred exceptional soldiers. It was a gift, people said. But in this particular Thirsk there were other exceptional qualities, such as his respect for the enemy and fairness; his humility, humour and his genuine hate for war.

Fergys Thirsk never willingly went to battle; he cared too much for the sanctity of peace and the preservation of lives, particularly those of Morgravian men. But history attested to Fergys Thirsk being the most successful of the campaigners to lead Morgravia and not once under his leadership had a battle been lost. He was legend amongst his men. It was a favourite saying of Magnus that if his General told his men to ride off a cliff, they would do so without hesitation.

Through a haze of pain Thirsk scrutinised the grieving man before him, noticing for the first time how grey his King’s hair had become. Once lustrous, it framed a strong-looking face, a determined jaw and eyes which somehow reflected the man’s extraordinary intelligence. The King’s tall bearing suddenly gave the impression of a vague stoop, as though his big body was getting too heavy for him to carry around. They were getting old.

The General suddenly rasped a laugh. He would grow no older than this day. The King looked up sharply at the unexpected sound and Fergys shrugged, sending a new wave of agony through his ruptured body.

‘We’ve always managed to laugh at most things, Magnus.’

‘Not at this, Fergys. Not at this.’ The King sighed again.

Fergys could hear the pain in that deep breath. They had shared their childhood. Their fathers had raised them to be close but the friendship was not forced. Fergys had worshipped the heir and then the King, and for his part, Magnus considered his General a brother in all but birthright. He loved Fergys fiercely and relied on his counsel, had done so throughout his long and flourishing reign. They were as wise together as they were wily.

‘What must I do?’ the King whispered.

With his last reserves of energy, the soldier squeezed the hand of his King.

‘Your majesty, it is my belief that you would no more celebrate the death of King Valor of Briavel than you do mine. Morgravia has nothing to fear from him now for perhaps as much as the next decade – make it so, my King. Call a parley, sire. No more young men need lose their lives today.’

‘I want to. I have no desire to prolong this battle, as you well know, and if it had not been for my own stupidity, you wouldn’t—’

Thirsk interrupted the King’s outpouring of guilt with a spasm of coughing, blood spattering his shirt. It was the ominous sign that death would no longer be patient. The King began to reach for linens but his General pushed the monarch’s fussing hands away, answering his query instead.

‘My death should suffice – it will be seen as a major blow for Morgravia,’ he said matter of factly before adding, ‘Valor is proud but he is not stupid. He has no male heir, sire. His young Princess will be Queen one day and will need an army of her own, and for Briavel to breed the soldiers of the future, they need peace. But her men, and ours, would do well to dispense with the ancient quarrel altogether. The threat from the north is very real, my King, for both our realms. Perhaps you may need each other one day.’

Thirsk spoke of Cailech, the self-proclaimed King of the Mountain People. In the early days Cailech had merely been the upstart and impossibly young leader of a rabble of hard Mountain Dwellers who rarely left their high ground amongst the imposing sprawl of ranges which framed the far north and north-east. His kind for centuries had kept their tribal squabbles to themselves, contained within the Razors, as the range was called. Back then, fifteen or so years ago, this young warrior, no more than eighteen summers, had begun to stamp a brutal authority across the tribes, uniting them. Thirsk had believed for several years now that it was only a matter of time before Cailech would feel confident enough to look beyond the mountains and out towards the fertile lands of Morgravia and Briavel.

‘I will continue your strengthening of the Legion to the north,’ the King said, reading his thoughts.

‘That will help me rest easy.’

Both men could hear Thirsk’s increasingly rapid breathing.

Magnus had to push back all the emotion welling inside him. ‘And so for you, my dearest friend. What can I do for you before you leave me?’ They clasped hands for the last time in the Legionnaire manner.

‘A blood pact, sire.’

The King’s eyebrow raised. He remembered the first time they had mixed blood. They had been lads and permitted to witness the ritual being performed between the former dukes of Felrawthy and Argorn – a special linking of Morgravia’s most powerful duchies in the north and south of the realm. The two boys had watched the rites wide-eyed, impressed at the solemnity of the occasion and the deep commitment between the participants. It had been Magnus’s idea for them to do the same. ‘We’ll commit to each other,’ he’d said to Fergys. ‘You will love me as your King and I will love you as my General, but we will be blood brothers above all else.’

They had found the courage to cut each other and hold palms together as the two nobles had done. They were not even ten years old.

Thirsk coughed violently again. His passing into the dark was just moments away. They could sense it.

‘Name it, Fergys!’ the King growled, his anxiety betraying him. ‘Whatever you ask is granted. You know it.’

Thirsk nodded, exhausted. ‘The children. My boy, Wyl. He must return from Argorn immediately. He is already General of the Legion and does not know it. He must finish his training in the palace.’ A new fit of coughing interrupted him. ‘Bring Gueryn with him, sire. Keep them close. There is no better teacher for him.’

‘Except the one who leaves him now,’ the King replied grimly. ‘And Ylena?’

‘All I ask is that you make a good marriage for her.’ Thirsk looked towards the table where his dagger lay.

Magnus moved without a word and fetched it. He sat down again beside his friend. The King passed the blade over his palm and did the same to Thirsk. They rejoined hands, mingling their blood.

The King spoke softly as he made his promise. ‘Ylena will want for nothing. Your son is now my son, Fergys Thirsk.’

‘A brother for your Celimus,’ Thirsk rasped as his breathing turned ragged.

‘They will be blood brothers, as we are,’ the King said, fighting back tears. His grip on his friend’s hand tightened. ‘Go now, Fergys. Struggle no more, my friend. May your soul travel safely.’

Fergys Thirsk nodded, the light already dying in his eyes. ‘Brothers in blood,’ he whispered, breathing his last.

King Magnus of Morgravia felt the clasp of his friend’s hand slacken as death claimed Thirsk. ‘Our sons will become one,’ he echoed gravely.

ONE

Gueryn looked to his left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirsk, Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why did they all believe Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility on his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. A Thirsk had been at the head of the Legion for almost two centuries. But this one was by the far the youngest. Gueryn thanked the stars which shined on them for giving the King sense enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near fourteen-year-old into battle.

Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital, Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No, Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while… long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be. He had no doubt Fergys Thirsk’s death had much to do with Briavel capitulating – Valor had his spoils now to take home from war.

Gueryn regarded the boy. The distinctive flame-coloured hair and squat set, so reminiscent of the Thirsk line. And he so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.

Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster worshipped his father and who could blame him, most of Morgravia’s men did as well. That Wyl should lose him so young was a tragic blow, particularly as they had not seen each other in many moons.

Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten which Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Ever a serious, complex child, this would push Wyl further into himself, and Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.

The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn, arguably Morgravia’s most talented soldier and strategist next to his General, had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this incredibly important job only to his accomplished captain whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. There could be no finer teacher. Gueryn understood this and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live amongst the rolling hills of Argorn, amongst the lush southern counties of Morgravia.

Essentially he became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.

‘Don’t watch me like that, Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.’

‘How are you feeling about this?’ the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.

Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of colour to his pale, freckled face, betrayed his next words. ‘I’m feeling fine.’

‘Be honest with me of all people, Wyl.’

The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress towards the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.

‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. ‘But I know this was my father’s dying wish,’ Wyl added, trying not to sigh.

‘The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.’ Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. ‘You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,’ Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months – weeks even – just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.

Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity which belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed after a determined fight to the virulent coughing disease which had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through, for her heart was as courageous as her husband’s. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.

Wyl remembered his softly spoken mother, missed her acutely in his contained, reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.

There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion – his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife chose to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plain-spoken, even plainer looking man who walked side by side with a King.

Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colourful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.

Wyl interrupted his thoughts. ‘Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?’

He had been waiting for just this question. ‘I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir,’ he answered tactfully.

‘I see,’ Wyl replied. ‘What else do you hear of him. Tell me honestly.’

Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. ‘The King, I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be moulded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of, although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.’

‘Why?’

‘I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys, they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia, believing it to be filled with peasants.’

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘She said that?’

‘And plenty more apparently.’

‘Where was she from?’

‘Parrgamyn – I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?’

Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia, in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. ‘Exotic then?’

‘Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.’

‘So she would have been of Zerque faith?’ he wondered aloud and Gueryn nodded. ‘Go on,’ Wyl encouraged, glad to be thinking about something different than the pain of his father’s death.

Gueryn sighed. ‘A long tale really but essentially she hated the King, blamed her father for his avarice in marrying her off to what she considered an old man, and poisoned the young Celimus’s mind against his father.’

‘She died quite young, though, didn’t she?’

The soldier nodded. ‘Yes but it was the how that caused the ultimate rift between father and son. Your father was with the King when the hunting accident happened and could attest to the randomness of the event. Adana lost her life with an arrow through her throat.’

‘The King’s?’ Wyl asked, incredulous. ‘My father never said anything about this to me before.’

‘The arrow was fletched in the King’s very own colours. There was no doubt whose quiver it had come from.’

‘How could it have happened?’

Gueryn shrugged. ‘Who knows? Fergys said the Queen was out riding where she should not have been and Magnus shot badly. Others whispered, of course, that his aim was perfect, as always.’ He arched a single eyebrow. It spoke plenty.

‘So Celimus has never forgiven his father?’

‘You could say. Celimus worshipped Adana as much as the father despised her. But in losing his mother very early there’s something you and Celimus have in common and this might be helpful to you,’ he offered. ‘The lad, I’m told, is already highly accomplished in the arts of soldiering too. He has no equal in the fighting ring amongst his peers. Sword or fists, on horseback or foot, he is genuinely talented.’

‘Better than me?’

Gueryn grinned. ‘We’ll see. I know of no one of your tender years who is as skilled in combat – excluding myself at your age, of course.’ He won a smile from the boy at this. ‘But, Wyl, a word of caution. It would not do to whip the backside of the young Prince. You may find it politic to play second fiddle to a king-in-waiting.’

Wyl’s gaze rested firmly on Gueryn. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Your sensibility in this will protect you.’

‘Do I need protection?’ he asked, surprised.

Gueryn wished he could take back the warning. It was ill-timed but he was always honest with his charge. ‘I don’t know yet. You are being brought to Pearlis to learn your craft and follow in your father’s proud footsteps. You must consider the city your home now. You understand this? Argorn must rest in your mind as a country property you may return to from time to time. Home is Stoneheart now.’ He watched the sorrow at those last words take a firm hold on the boy. It was said now. Had to be aired, best out in the open and accepted. ‘The other reason the King is keen to have you in the capital is, I suspect, because he is concerned at his son’s wayward manner.’

‘Oh?’

‘Celimus needs someone to temper his ways. The King has been told you possess a similar countenance to your father and I gather this pleases him greatly. He has hopes that you and his son will become as close friends as he and Fergys were.’ Gueryn waited for Wyl to comment but the boy said nothing. ‘Anyway, friendship can never be forced, so let’s just keep an open mind and see how it all pans out. I shall be with you the whole time.’

Wyl bit his lip and nodded. ‘Let’s not tarry then, Gueryn.’

The soldier nodded in return and dug his heels into the side of his horse, as the boy kicked into a gallop.

Wyl remembered that ride into Pearlis as if it were yesterday. It had been three moons now since his father’s death and, although he was now used to the routine of the palace and his role, Wyl hated his new life. If not for his overwhelming sense of duty he would have run away.

He scowled as an exasperated Gueryn struck him a blow on his wrist. ‘You’re not concentrating, Wyl. On the battlefield that slip could have cost you a hand.’

The soldier deliberately struck again but this time Wyl countered just as ferociously, his wooden sword making a loud clacking sound as he pressed back against his opponent.

‘Better!’ Gueryn called, relieved. ‘Again!’

From out of the corner of his eye, Wyl could see Prince Celimus had sidled up to a few of the flatterers he usually surrounded himself with. Wyl doubled his efforts and Gueryn was prudent enough to not criticise further.

About time, the soldier thought as he increased his speed, stepping up the session to a combat level rather than just a drill. He was pleased to see the boy relax slightly – a good sign that he was no longer concerned with who was watching but fully attendant on defending himself. Gueryn then upped the skills still further, delivering a frighteningly fast series of slashes and thrusts which would have challenged a battle-hardened soldier, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy. Those around them in the practice courtyard had fallen silent, and various trainers and other lads wandered over to watch what was clearly a ‘fight to the death’.

Wyl, sweating lightly now in the chill morning, stepped back, feinted, moved to his left, parried and then dodged back to his original position, feinting once again before he saw the gap and struck hard and fast. He crouched nimbly to avoid the low, normally ‘fatal’ slash he had already anticipated from his wily opponent and then struck upwards with force, two-handed. Suddenly Gueryn was on his back panting and Wyl’s piece of timber was at his throat.

There was murder in the boy’s eyes and if they were on the field, Gueryn believed he would be drawing his last breath. Gueryn also knew Wyl had genuinely bested him, despite his smaller stature and strength, with a blaze of raw anger. He realised he would have to counsel him on this and explain that Wyl needed to fight clear-headed. Fighting decisions were always based on training and intuition rather than just pure emotion. That approach only worked once; Gueryn knew that when wave after wave of soldiers were bearing down, it was the cool, emotionless approach that won the day.

He stared back at Wyl, forcing him to give way. Onlookers were clapping and whistling their appreciation of the demonstration. Wyl regained his composure and pulled Gueryn to his feet. He glanced towards the smirking Prince, anticipating some snide comment to humiliate him in front of his peers.

The Prince was predictable in this. ‘Can you do that with a real sword, Wyl?’ Celimus enquired, innocently.

It was Gueryn, smacking the dust from his clothes, who replied. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to take him on with a blade,’ he said, hoping to deflect attention. He laughed and clapped Wyl on the back.

‘No? But I shall,’ Celimus interjected, his smile broad and anything but genuine. The Prince’s voice was sly now. ‘What do you say, Wyl?’

Gueryn held his breath. This was the most direct provocation that Wyl had encountered from the Prince, who had spent much of the time since their arrival simply baiting the youngster.

Wyl regarded the heir to the throne coolly. Gueryn’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing hard. They did not permit the lads to drill against each other with anything but wooden or blunted swords and this rule was especially rigid where Celimus was concerned.

Wyl looked away, hating to back down from that clear, defiant gaze. ‘I’m not allowed to fight you, your highness.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ the Prince said, as though suddenly reminded of the palace rules. ‘You’d better remember it too, General.’ Celimus laced the final word with as much sarcasm as he could.

Wyl had never felt such a well of hate rise within himself. Until recently he had lived life with carefree joy, had hardly known dislike for anyone. He had been surrounded by people who loved him. Now his every waking moment seemed filled with torment. Celimus baited him at every opportunity and if he was not using his cruel mouth against Wyl, then he was laying traps for him with a few of his henchmen. A day hardly passed in which the Prince did not succeed in bringing gloom to settle on Wyl’s shoulders. If there were not dead rats in his bed, then there were cockroaches in his drinking water, or mud in his boots. His food was tampered with and his training kit hidden. Childish and pointless it all was and yet it wore Wyl down, nibbling at his resolve to follow in his father’s footsteps.

It was then a page arrived. ‘Wyl Thirsk?’

‘Over here,’ Gueryn replied, nodding towards his despondent charge and grateful for the interruption.

The messenger addressed Wyl. ‘You’re wanted in the King’s chambers, General,’ he said, politely. ‘Immediately, sir.’

Wyl looked up at the still-grinning Prince and bowed. ‘With your permission, your highness, I’ll take my leave,’ he said, carefully observing the correct protocol.

Celimus nodded, his silky lashes blinking once over olive eyes that missed nothing. Everything about Celimus was beautiful. Even at fifteen, when most of the boys were still struggling to fit into their awkward bodies, his looked as though sculpted from pure, smooth marble. Muscled and polished, there was not a blemish on it.

In looks, Celimus represented to Wyl everything he personally was not and that realisation was painful for a boy born to lead men. Celimus was tall with wide, squared shoulders. His hands were large but deft and he carried himself with grace; even his swordplay was elegant and clearly highly skilled. His features were independently arresting but together they formed a face which was destined to turn heads. Manhood was still to settle on him but, looking at the youth, it was obvious an especially striking man was in the making here. His voice had already deepened to a timbre Wyl could only dream about, whilst Wyl’s own still squeaked and cracked in places – usually at inopportune moments.

He’s perfect, Wyl thought glumly to himself, cursing his own shorter stature, red hair and no doubt blushing face of pale, freckled skin filled with unremarkable features. He tried to mask his despair as the Prince nudged his friends and excused himself, still smirking. The men standing nearby gave polite bows but exchanged looks of distaste. Celimus may be a glorious-looking individual whom the young women of the court were already swooning over but he was unpopular amongst the larger palace community. In this he was his mother all over again. Whilst the King was revered, the heir had no loyalties he might count on from any but the sycophants who hung around him.

‘May Shar help us all when that one takes the throne,’ someone said, and many gave wary nods of agreement.

Wyl strode away, a sense of foreboding now mingling with his hate: King Magnus had summoned him, no doubt to ask questions about his loyalty. It was hardly news that he and Celimus did not get on.

‘Come on, Wyl, make haste,’ Gueryn urged.

They did so, following the page as he weaved a practised route through the halls of the palace, taking shortcuts via various walled courtyards and sunlit atriums. On the way they stole a chance to wash their faces and rinse their hands in a bucket of water raised from a convenient well, whilst the page hopped from foot to foot in urgent need to deliver his ‘goods’ to the King’s secretary.

Neither Gueryn nor Wyl had realised how beautiful the palace of Stoneheart was. To them it was an impregnable fortress with solid, grey walls, dusty yards, stables and a mess hall which was always noisy. Dogs, horses, soldiers and servants scurried about in a small world of their own within the castle walls. This more serene aspect of Stoneheart was as unexpected as it was attractive. They felt like intruders on a new world.

The dark stone looked suddenly handsome in the many light-filled, elegant spaces especially created within the internal structure of the castle. For the first time, Wyl began to appreciate that the castle was not simply a fortification of stone but a palace in its own right, possessing a distinctive style of which simplicity was the key. Walls were not busily cluttered; instead, one eye-catching tapestry might be the only decoration in a vast chamber. Furniture was practical, always simple, favouring the heavier, dark Lomash wood so abundant in Morgravia. Adana had had no influence here, Wyl mused; there was no hint anywhere that a Queen of such exotic heritage had lived any of her short life in this place. He wondered if Celimus’s more extravagant taste would leave its garish mark on Stoneheart when he took the throne.

Wyl considered his own home in Argorn, which was a mix of his parents’ tastes. Solid Lomash furniture, favoured by his father, seemed to sit comfortably alongside his mother’s more whimsical pieces, including her gold-framed mirror and screens, and the wealth of soft cushions and drapes. His mother loved colour and he imagined she might have rather liked Stoneheart because of the richness of colours that punctuated the decoration of its chambers.

Hurrying through the corridors and up stairs, trying to keep up with the page, Wyl caught glimpses of carvings of the great beasts. It was believed that every Morgravian was chosen from birth by one of the beasts, and the choice became known when a person made their first pilgrimage to the cathedral at Pearlis. There, the magical creatures were gloriously presented, each holding up one of the pillars of the great nave. Whenever Wyl visited the cathedral, he looked for the famed winged lion – his creature. Now, in the palace, he spotted the taloned bear, the magnificent eagle, the serpent, cunningly twisting out of the stone, and the beautiful jewelled peacock. Finally, as they drew nearer to the King’s chambers, he saw the mighty warrior dragon, talisman to all the monarchs of Morgravia. Wyl looked at it in wonderment, then thought about his father’s creature, the phoenix. There was a symmetry there which pleased him: both Magnus and Fergys were creatures of fire; no wonder they had loved each other so loyally.

‘Wait here please,’ the page said finally, at the top of a second flight of stairs.

‘Where are we?’ Gueryn wondered aloud.

‘Outside the King’s private study, sir. Please be seated.’ The boy gestured towards an open corridor with a stone bench fashioned on both sides out of the walls. The area was flooded with sunlight and by the soft, unmistakable fragrance of winterblossom. It was seductive. They strolled over to the balcony and stared into a small but exquisite orchard. Its beauty and perfume kept them silent in their own thoughts.

Soon enough an older man arrived quietly behind them. ‘It’s difficult to drag oneself away, isn’t it?’ the man said, his voice low and friendly. Gueryn assumed he must be the King’s secretary. When they turned, he added, ‘You must be Wyl Thirsk.’

Wyl nodded.

‘We all loved and greatly respected your fine father, son. He is deeply missed in our community.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Wyl stammered, unsure of what else to say, wishing people would allow him to heal that wound and not keep reminding him months after the hated event. This man meant no harm, though. It was their first meeting and only right that he would make mention of his prestigious lineage.

The soldier beside him cleared his throat. ‘Er, I am his guardian—’

‘Ah, yes, Gueryn le Gant, isn’t it?’ the man said. His manner was brisk yet kind. ‘Welcome to you both. Can I offer you something cool to drink? I gather we interrupted your training.’ The smile was genial.

‘Thank you, we’ll be fine,’ Gueryn answered politely.

‘I am the King’s secretary, Orto,’ their host said. ‘The King has requested a private discussion with the young man so I will ask you to remain here, Gueryn. Please sit, we shall call Wyl soon.’ He smiled again and departed.

Within a few minutes Orto returned. ‘Wyl, come with me now. You may leave your weapon and belt out here with Gueryn.’

Wyl did as he was asked and, with a glance over his shoulder towards his friend, followed the servant.

Massive oaken doors, carved with Morgravia’s crest, were opened before them. Wyl looked up at the keystone of the archway they passed through: carved into it was another fire-breathing warrior dragon, signalling that he was entering the private domain of a King… his King. The large chamber he entered had windows running the length of it and a stone fireplace at either end, again featuring the royal talisman.

Wyl had lost his bearings in the journey through the palace; he wondered what those windows looked out onto. But the sound of voices called him back from his distraction and he heard the scratching of ink on parchment.

‘Last one I hope?’ a gruff voice said.

‘It is, sire,’ another man’s voice answered and then the owner of that voice shuffled past them carrying rolls of documents.

‘Ah, Orto, you have the boy? Bring him in, bring him in.’

Wyl emerged fully into the study and came face to face with the man he had met only briefly once; the man his father had died protecting. Magnus had headed north to Felrawthy almost immediately after Wyl’s arrival and this was their first occasion to meet again. He noticed that the King was tall but stooped and he appeared much older, even since their first very hurried talk. Magnus, he noticed now, looked very little like Celimus, although the strapping physique was there. A gentle push from Orto, on his way out of the room, reminded Wyl that he was in the presence of his sovereign. He bowed low.

‘You look like your father, boy.’

It had been meant as a compliment but Wyl’s plain looks made him feel that almost any reference to them was a barb.

‘He always told me I look more like my grandfather, sire,’ he replied politely.

Magnus grinned then. ‘That’s probably true, son. But you remind me of how he was when we were both mere scamps together in this same castle.’

Wyl could tell the King meant it sincerely. He knew how fond the friends had been of each other and imagined that Magnus losing Fergys Thirsk would be like him losing Gueryn. More than just painful.

‘I miss him, sire,’ he admitted.

The King gazed down at him with soft eyes. ‘Me too, Wyl. So keenly that I still find myself talking to him now and then.’

Wyl regarded the King and saw no guile. He appeared nothing like his son in temperament either then, thought Wyl.

‘So, Wyl,’ the King said, sitting down and gesturing for Wyl to be seated too. ‘Tell me, how are we treating you in Pearlis? I imagine you must regret not being in that glorious world of Argorn. I know your father constantly did.’

‘Yes, sire, but… I am settling in.’

Magnus scrutinised the lad before him, sensing he was cautious like his father – and probably just as unforgiving if he was wronged, judging by that proud jut of his chin.

‘I have seen your sister about the place. What a sunny, pretty young thing she is. I trust she is happy?’

Wyl shrugged gently. ‘I think Ylena would be happy anywhere, your majesty, providing she has her dolls and fine dresses.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you for all that you’ve given her, sire. She is pretty, that’s true. She’s the lucky one in looks who took after my mother.’

He was startled by the King’s sudden laugh. ‘Don’t put yourself down, Wyl.’

‘No, sire. I’ll leave that to others.’

‘Ah.’

Orto re-entered the King’s study and brought with him a small tray with two cups of blood red wine.

‘Don’t tell old Gueryn, eh? He’ll think I’m corrupting you.’ The King winked.

Wyl could not help but like the man who sat before him. He wanted to be wary of him. He was the father of Celimus after all, but still it was hard not to enjoy his company.

‘Now here’s to you, young Wyl,’ the King said, lifting his glass.

‘And to your continuing good health, sire.’

The underlying message was not lost on Magnus.

‘Has it been hard settling in?’

‘Oh the usual stuff, sire.’

Wyl felt Magnus fix him with his direct gaze. ‘Tell me about Celimus,’ the King said.

‘What can I tell you, your majesty, that you don’t already know?’

The King paused and Wyl thought it was a telling hesitation. ‘Tell me any good points you’ve noticed about him.’

Now Wyl felt really cornered. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Magnus said gently. ‘I grasp more than people credit me, Wyl. Celimus has many imperfections within himself. On the outside, however, he is a truly remarkable individual. I freely admit, without any shame, that I think he will turn into one of the finest-looking men Morgravia has ever bred. Shar rest his mother’s soul,’ Magnus added, more out of habit. ‘I don’t know whether it’s because he lost his mother early, or because he has no siblings… or simply that I am a woeful father. Whatever the reasons, Celimus is not so remarkable on the inside. In fact I know him to have a darkness within which troubles me.’

Wyl nodded, fearful of what to say to a King making such a frank admission about his own son.

Magnus held him with a light blue gaze. ‘I’ve heard the two of you are enemies. Is this true?’

Wyl felt tongue-tied. He had no desire to lie to Magnus who was being so candid with him and he tried to be diplomatic in his response.

‘That’s a strong word, sire. I am Morgravian. I am prepared to die for my kingdom and for its ruler. I am no enemy to the King,’ he assured him, horrified to think the King might think otherwise.

Instead Magnus grinned. ‘So like your old man. But perhaps you are prepared to die for this King, son. How about King Celimus?’

Wyl understood. ‘You obviously wish me to do something for you, sire,’ he said, pleased with his forthrightness in the presence of this powerful man.

The King sighed. ‘Yes, Wyl, I do. And it’s not going to be easy. I trusted your father all of my life, I trust his son now. Moments before your father died we joined our bleeding palms to make an oath. Your father’s deathbed wish was that I bring you back to Pearlis and make a General of you. You are a Thirsk and it is your birthright to head the Legion. But part of our oath was that we make our two sons blood brothers.’

Wyl had known nothing of this blood oath. He felt the slow crawl of a chill through him as Magnus continued.

‘I gave my word to your father – my closest friend, my blood brother – that his son would become my son.’ He paused again. Wyl said nothing, his silent thoughts racing ahead to guess what the King might ask of him. ‘Do I have your loyalty, my boy?’

Startled, Wyl quickly moved to kneel before the King. He placed his hand on his heart. ‘Yes, sire. You will never have to question it.’

The King nodded. ‘Good. I am elevating you to your father’s revered title of King’s Champion. It comes into effect today but I do not grant this position lightly. You despise my son.’ He held up his hand then to hush Wyl’s ready objection. ‘I know this – and he has given you little reason to think in any way highly of him, so I do not hold this against you. However, from now and especially from when he takes the throne you will protect him with your life, as your father protected me with his.

‘As of this moment you will shadow the Prince in all that he does. I don’t doubt for a second that many of his activities are distasteful, as I know my son has a penchant for cruelty. Together we will try to change this. Make a friend of him, Wyl. Influence him. Everything which made your father the fine man he was is embodied in his only son – I know this to be true. Your reputation precedes you, boy. You have the qualities that make a special man, a leader of men, and I want you to do everything you can to imbue Celimus with those qualities.’

The boy tried to object.

‘No buts, Wyl. This is my command. You are already General to the Legion and Champion to the King, and one day you will be called to act for Celimus – at his command. In the intervening years, you will befriend the Prince and somehow, child, I pray your humility, your sense of right and wrong, your courage and your leadership will rub off and help him as he matures. I know I ask a lot of you, Wyl, but this is your duty now… your duty to me.’

The King’s eyes blazed as he reached forward and grabbed Wyl’s wrist. ‘Swear it to me, Wyl. Make this pact with your sovereign.’

Wyl felt his world suddenly spin as he put his other hand over his heart and gave the solemn oath to be ‘blood’ to Celimus.

Magnus suddenly dropped Wyl’s wrist and reached for his dagger. Wyl saw the blade glint as Magnus drew the sharp edge across his own palm; bright blood sprang instantly to the surface. Without hesitation, Wyl offered his own hand and the King repeated the process. The knife bit cruelly and swiftly through his young hand until it too yielded up its precious liquid. Wyl did not wince at the pain, but he suspected the King had deliberately cut deep enough to leave a scar – one that would always remind him of this oath.

‘You will protect the life of Celimus with yours, preferring to die by his hand than save your own life.’

They clasped fists, blood to blood.

‘I pledge it,’ Wyl affirmed.

‘You and he are to be as one body, one life.’

Wyl swallowed silently. ‘As though my blood runs in his veins. I swear it, sire.’

TWO

In the end it was her eyes which gave them their excuse to hunt down Myrren.

Her eyes were bewitching indeed – one a piercing grey, the other an arresting green with flecks of warm brown. Lovely enough in isolation but so ill-matched as a pair they were alarming to behold. Little wonder then that as soon as those eyes had settled from their newborn blue to their strange final colouring, her parents had fled from the city of Pearlis to the sleepy hamlet of Baelup in the west, where they raised their only daughter in relative obscurity.

Both knew this facial oddity would symbolise much to the Stalkers, hungry for prey. Thankfully the family’s sudden departure was soon yesterday’s gossip and quickly forgotten. Meanwhile, the folk of Baelup were known to be of liberal mind. The father, a wealthy physician, was a great boon for a community lacking in any medicinal talent, whilst the mother, a scholar, was a special bonus for the youngsters of Baelup.

Not prone to the old supersitious fears of their city cousins, the folk of Baelup welcomed the gentle child, Myrren, with her strange eyes and shy smile.

So when the Witch Stalkers finally came some nineteen years later it was such a shock that the physician’s weak heart had given out. He had died at their feet upon answering their terrifying banging at the door. The mother was helpless; all she could do was rail at them, cursing them for having ever been born. She had finally slid to the floor in despair as she had watched Myrren, now a beautiful young woman, being dragged into the street.

The Stalkers had gone through their usual pointless list of contrived accusations – everything from disease in the south to an irritating bunion on the King’s foot was now firmly linked to Myrren’s devil craft.