Revenge (23 page)

‘And to you, Maiden,’ he said under his breath, looking at the machine with awe.

Tor climbed up into the beautifully carved stone tiered seating to watch the preparations. One man—he assumed he must be the Queen’s man, Lorke—was giving directions to a dozen others. Tor softened down the noise of the city about him and cleared his head to listen.

‘…just a boy. The Maiden is parched for blood. I don’t want the boy’s blood on her lips or my conscience,’ Lorke griped to a soldier.

‘It is the Queen’s judgement,’ the man hissed.

‘Yes, and it’s because of her I’ll obey,’ Lorke grumbled, banging a final wooden pin into place on the Maiden’s framework.

‘Are you set?’

‘We will be before the Fourth bell.’

‘The aggrieved and the prisoner will be brought in at the Sixth. Her Majesty will arrive at the Seventh—’

‘I know, I know. I’m the one who has been doing this for the past two decades, you fool. And the first kiss will occur on the stroke of the Eighth—I am well aware of the proceedings.’

‘Good. Then stop your moping and do your job. I must report back to the palace. By the way, if a tall stranger who goes by the name of Torkyn Gynt approaches, do not involve yourself in conversation. Queen’s orders.’

So, Tor thought, Sylven was taking precautions. He could not blame her. He should not have been quite so fast to boast of his powers. Merkhud’s
voice came back to haunt him as he sat and watched the final preparation for the Maiden’s Kiss. As far back as when Tor was fifteen summers, the old man had warned him never to showcase his talents, always to keep them secret. He could not help but smile wryly; it had taken him barely a day or more to break that promise. By the time he had reached Hatten he was using his power with abandon, first to punch a bully in the belly and then minutes later to assist poor Cloot who was nailed to a post by his ear. Merkhud’s warning had fallen on deaf ears then and clearly still did, Tor decided. Just a little playfulness from the Queen and he had demonstrated his magics like a sideshow practitioner.

Tor shook his head at himself and his poor judgement. He looked up to see that the amphitheatre was gradually filling. There had to be a hundred more people milling around now than there had been just a short time ago and they were being joined by hundreds more, streaming in from the main city square.

A small man seated nearby caught Tor’s eye as he looked around. The dwarf grinned at him and his grizzled face looked as though it was lit by sunshine. What a difference a smile makes to this fellow, Tor thought.

‘Have you ever been to one of these before?’ the stranger asked.

Tor nodded. ‘To an execution? Yes. But I have not seen the Maiden before today.’

‘Ah,’ his companion replied carefully. ‘This place will be very crowded soon. It is not often the Cipreans have the opportunity to witness the Maiden’s Kiss.’

‘So I gather,’ Tor said. ‘Are you a local?’

‘No. My people come from a place so far away that you will see only a few of us wandering these lands.’

‘Who are your people?’

Before the little man could answer, Tor felt a jolt on his shoulder and, turning, saw he had been joined by Quist and some of his crew. Tor looked back at his neighbour but the little man had moved on a few rows. Tor shrugged his shoulders to indicate he was sorry that their conversation had been interrupted. The little man from a faraway land smiled radiantly again and returned the shrug, accepting the apology.

‘So what now?’ Quist asked, dragging Tor’s attention back.

‘We wait. I shall make my move when I see my chance.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Interfere,’ Tor said and grinned mischievously.

At the Sixth bell, a cart rumbled into the amphitheatre carrying a wide-eyed but composed Locky and Haryd, who was slumped in the back. As Locky stepped down the audience applauded. Word of this brave young man had spread quickly through
the city. Haryd was helped out of the cart by some guards. He was unsteady and could only walk doubled over. When they caught a glimpse of his face, they could see he looked confused. Remembering the terrible duel with Adongo, Tor wondered how Haryd could stand at all.

One of the officials read out the grievance and the Queen’s ruling, then filled in the time before her arrival by outlining how Locklyn Gylbyt found himself to be there this afternoon. This was followed by a bloodcurdling description of how the Maiden administered her Kiss.

Tor noted that Haryd seemed entirely dazed by the proceedings. Locky, meanwhile, did not flinch during the gory explanation.

Quist was nervous. ‘He can’t die, Tor.’ It was the first time since they had met that the captain had called him by his first name.

Tor looked at him. ‘He won’t die.’

The Seventh bell pealed and within moments Queen Sylven’s glittering carriage, carried by eight burly men, came into view. A small unit of guards surrounded it. She was shrouded by her veils once again. Even though they could not see their Queen, the crowd went into rapturous cheers. It took several minutes for the noise to die down. More formalities took place, another parchment was read out and then Locklyn Gylbyt was led to meet the Silver Maiden.

Tor allowed his Colours to blaze within. Just then, the Queen’s head guardsman stepped forward and called out a short statement. Heads turned and
people suddenly began talking all at once, debating this unusual occurrence.

Tor could hardly believe it. The Queen had summoned him publicly.

He noticed for the first time that there were guards surrounding him, all dressed as civilians. A clever ploy by Sylven’s men. He should have been paying more attention. The man in charge politely asked him to come before the Queen.

Tor had no idea what Sylven was doing. All in the audience were watching him.

‘I can use my magics down there just as easily as up here,’ he whispered to Quist.

Without another word, he stood and followed the guards down the tiers of seats into the centre of the auditorium, where he was then allowed to approach the Queen.

Tor wanted this over and done with. He would save Locky and then be on his way in search of Cloot.

He bowed. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, with nothing more in his voice than the respect she was owed.

There was no one within close earshot and Sylven spoke very softly; his acute hearing picked up her words with ease. ‘Last night was lovely.’

He smiled, but no one else saw for his head was still bowed. So these theatrics were just an excuse to be close to him again.

‘It was for me too,’ he replied.

She continued, ‘Which is why it makes it very hard for me to do this.’

Before Tor could react, his hands had been pulled behind him and tied. He felt something being pulled over his head. Instinctively, he let his Colours blaze and pushed out with them.

Nothing happened.

Tor was dumbfounded. He became very still. He could hear a voice—it seemed distant—telling the onlookers why he was being bound like this. He could not focus on the words. He pushed again. Once more nothing occurred.

For the first time in his life, Torkyn Gynt was severed from his powers. The Colours were blazing; he could feel them. The power was there to use but when he drew upon it, it was ineffectual.

He turned wildly towards the Queen but was forced to his knees by the guards. ‘I’m so sorry, Tor,’ was all she said.

Meanwhile, Locklyn Gylbyt was being strapped expertly into the Maiden’s embrace.

‘The blade will fall at least once in every ten drops,’ Lorke announced. ‘Our Maiden has not killed in four drops and she is eager to deliver her Kiss. Are you ready, Locklyn Gylbyt?’

To his credit, Locky did not so much as pause. ‘I am ready to taste her lips, sir, and know her judgement upon me,’ he called out loudly.

Everyone in the amphitheatre cheered their support for this brave fellow.

It was hideous. Tor was reminded all too keenly of a similar scene nearly five winters ago, when an innocent man had been strapped to a cross and his
body stoned until it gave up the life within. Except on that occasion, the crowd wept. This gathering had a festive atmosphere which his execution scene had lacked.

He loosed the Colours once again but realised it was futile. He had been moved away from Sylven’s carriage, so he could not even communicate with her. Lorke was doing one final check on his charge; no doubt praying to his gods that she would not show any affection for the boy in her grasp. He searched out Quist, whose face was a mask of anguish. It looked as though he was already convinced the boy would die horribly.

Tor began to probe around the magical ‘crown’ on his head. But it was too late. There was no more time to search for answers.

Women in the crowd screeched as Lorke pulled the heavy blade to the top of its axis and then let it go.

The blade hit the first series of locks, all of which opened immediately to allow it to pass through.

The Maiden was thirsty for blood. Locky was going to die.

The blade was moving quickly now; it was already onto the fifth of the ten locks. It opened. So did the sixth.

And then Tor felt it. Glorious, exquisitely sweet power washed over him. He looked around and realised that no one but he could sense it. It was strong and focused, felt otherworldly. It hit the blade as it met with the ninth lock and there the silver metal stopped, shuddering monstrously. Locky was trembling in time with it.

There was a moment of shocked silence and then the massive crowd erupted into delight. Hats were thrown in the air; babies were held aloft; women dabbed at their eyes and kissed their neighbours; men hollered their pleasure that the Maiden had spared the lad.

The magic was still all around him. It was beautiful. Tor could feel it but he could not respond to it or even touch it. It brought tears to his eyes that he could not reach out to this person and offer thanks. The Maiden had not spared Locky at all. A profound magic had interfered and Tor desperately wanted to learn whose.

He looked to Quist, whose sailors had enveloped him in a bear hug. Tor felt relief replace all his previous tension and he even laughed aloud as he scanned the crowd through watery eyes for the dwarf he had spoken with earlier.

The man put his hand to his head and then to his heart before bowing to Tor, who realised that the little figure was the wielder of the otherworldly magic. And then, curiously, the dwarf held up nine fingers. Tor was puzzled for a moment, then it dawned on him that he was looking at Figgis of the Rock Dwellers, Ninth of the Paladin.

Tor wept openly now; not just because Locky was saved but because the Paladin were almost fully re-emerged and gathering bravely, for his sake and for the real battle ahead. He must never forget the true purpose of his life. The Paladin had not, and now eight of them had bravely shown themselves. Only Juno and the lion-hearted Themesius, who, for the time being, kept them all safe, were still to emerge.

No one took any notice of the weeping man in the strange, studded leather crown; no one except Queen Sylven, who wiped tears from her own eyes behind the veils. She hated to see this man so weakened. Sylven had not touched the headband since it was first given to her by her grandmother more than two decades earlier. She had hardly understood its use and had not even thought on it again until the previous night, when Torkyn Gynt had displayed a power that shocked her speechless. It had reminded her of her grandmother’s warning and when Tor defied her, she went scurrying for that enchanted headband.

Queen Sylven had never before shed a tear over a man. Torkyn Gynt was changing her life in more ways than she could ever have thought possible. She looked away from his kneeling figure and at the new prisoner, now strapped into the Maiden.

Locky staggered past the elated crowd to Quist, but Haryd was not so fortunate. This time the Maiden intended to drink fully of her prisoner’s blood. The blade dropped so quickly there was hardly any time for the more squeamish members of the crowd to look away. It passed through all ten locks without resistance and Haryd just had time to shriek his despair as the Maiden bestowed her Kiss of Death. His scream was cut off as his body was split efficiently in half, gushing its contents into a dark red mass on the amphitheatre floor.

For the time being, the Maiden’s thirst was quenched.

At the Queen’s pleasure, Tor was given a few moments with Quist and Locky. There was only time for a brief farewell.

They hugged and Quist looked Tor hard in the eye, his way of conveying his thanks.

‘Travel safely,’ Tor said.

Locky, still in a state of high excitement and satisfaction, said, ‘Come back to Caradoon soon.’

Quist nodded. He said no more but gave Tor the Tallinese salute of farewell. It was a respectful gesture for a Caradoon pirate who rarely acknowledged any laws of Tallinor.

Then the guards were pulling Tor towards the cart, which he had to share with what was left of Haryd, covered by an inadequate sack. The crowd had dispersed quickly and the Queen had long gone back to her palace. As the cart made a slow circuit to
turn around, Tor noticed that Lorke and his team were dismantling the Maiden; her blade had already been cleaned and returned to its special box.

Tor spent the night in a dungeon. He was not treated badly there but it was cold and damp. To his surprise, he was presented with an exceptionally fine meal during the evening. It was small and served on a humble clay plate, but beyond that had no resemblance whatsoever to regular prison food. A small mercy from the Queen, he decided. It was delicious.

Afterwards, he slept fitfully on his pallet. He dreamed of Orlac. Tor watched him rise from the floor where he had obviously been sitting, though he could not tell where the god was located. The vision was hazy but the surrounds appeared cavernous.

The god stretched and spoke. ‘It is time,’ he said.

Tor strained to hear more but his attention was pulled away by the feeling of another’s presence. The sensation was cold, not friendly. He had the notion of a red mist and an icy wind enveloping him; it reminded him of when he was travelling back to the Heartwood after leaving Cloot’s body. There was something trying to reach him. In his sleep he shrank back. The presence felt evil.

Tor.
It was Lys.

What is that which pursues me?

He is of no concern. He will not come close to you again.

He?

Lys sighed.
His name is Dorgryl. He is just an observer, Tor. Give him no further thought.

Are you in danger from him, Lys?

He heard her laugh gently. Tor did not think he had ever heard her laugh before.

Dorgryl is no threat to any of us, Tor.

I saw Orlac. He said it was time. What does this mean?

That Themesius must face his final battle.

I see. How long have we got?

Not long.
Her evasiveness in the past had often fired his anger but not any more.

I must find Cloot.

Yes, he needs you,
she said cryptically.

He knew not to ask her to elaborate.
The children?

Are safe. They travel towards you. You must get back to the Heartwood quickly, Tor.

The vision melted, Lys disappeared from his consciousness and he woke grumpy and stiff, wondering what the day might bring. How would he escape confinement whilst his head was bound by something which overwhelmed his powers? He passed the following hours niggling away at the magical binding.

By the time the sun had risen, he had begun to understand its complexity. He wondered if, like the archalyt, he would be able to overcome it once it was removed because he had begun to unravel its secrets.

Finally some guards arrived and helped him to his feet.

‘Take his shackles off but bind his hands. Queen’s orders,’ the main warder said.

The fellows who would be escorting him to his next stop nodded.

‘Where now?’ Tor asked.

‘To the baths,’ one replied curtly.

The Queen’s maid, Hela, met them outside a pretty, stone structure. It had taken several minutes to reach the baths on foot and Tor realised he was now well away from the prison complex and deep into the main palace grounds.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Hela.’

‘Likewise, Physic Gynt.’ She smiled warmly at him. ‘I can take him from here,’ she said to the two men, who left without another word.

She led him inside the structure to a small pool carved into the stone. Steam billowed off the top of the faintly blue water and a delicate fragrance wafted towards them.

Hela saw him inhale it. ‘Nettle, mint, lavender and citrus. They will refresh you,’ she said and began to remove his clothes. When Tor was naked, she took off her own loose robe and stepped into the water with him. ‘Her majesty wishes you bathed before she gives audience,’ she explained.

Tor spent the next hour being washed with great care by the attentive Hela. He could not imagine anything more delightful than the treatment he was receiving at her hands. Finally, when his skin was warmed and supple, she dried him and laid him on a table, then massaged his body for another hour, applying sensual oils.

A final dip and cleanse before he was shaved, his hair groomed and he was dressed into clean garments. Hela did not speak a word during this time and Tor was happy to receive her ministrations in gratified silence. Hela tidied herself and then, with a smile which said droves, asked him to follow her.

After passing through various halls and passages, Tor recognised the route they were taking. Before long they were climbing the familiar tower to Queen Sylven’s private chambers. He was shown inside and left. He knew she would be standing on the balcony.

Sylven turned around and looked at him, her eyes apologising before her voice did. ‘Let me remove those bindings for you,’ she said. She busied herself untying his hands. ‘Can I count on you not to do anything untoward?’

‘Such as?’

‘Hurting me.’

He was genuinely grieved. ‘Sylven, I made love to you the night before last. How could I hurt you?’

She dug her nails into her palms. It would not do to allow her eyes to mist up in front of him. If her grandmother were alive, she would flog Sylven for showing such weakness towards a man.

The thrill of his touch made her lightheaded as he gently reached around her waist.

‘Turn around so I can untie the headband,’ she said, terrified by her own feelings.

Tor did so obediently. He was still angry at what had happened but after the visit from Lys, the vision of Orlac, finding out about his children’s arrival—
what was happening now suddenly seemed so much less important. He knew he had to exploit every opportunity to find Cloot as quickly as possible and Sylven was the key. That he was fond of her was a bonus.

‘You must be angry with me, Tor,’ she said, slowly untying the bindings at his head.

‘I am.’

‘Will you forgive me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I am indebted to you.’

The band fell free and Tor was connected to himself again. He summoned the Colours and cast out freely. He never wanted to feel that dislocation again.

‘May I?’ he said, reaching out.

Sylven handed him the soft leather band which was encrusted with dull black studs.

‘Sylven, what is this?’

She turned to where the table was laid with wine and cheeses, fruits and savouries. ‘Sit with me, Tor. Eat,’ she said.

Tor wanted information but remained patient and helped himself to a plate of the food. He even allowed her to pour him some excellent chilled wine.

‘We have a new cook in our kitchens,’ she said, relieved and very pleased to see him at her table again.

Tor grinned. ‘And is his name Ryk?’ he asked, as last night’s exquisite food suddenly made sense.

‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘How could you know?’

‘It is not magic, your majesty, relax. Ryk was on board
The Wasp
with me. I came to know him well
and like him very much. He comes from a long line of famous chefs from Ildagarth and I mentioned this to Master Lard on the day we were taken to the slave market. I gathered from his reaction that a good cook would be warmly welcomed at the palace.’

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember eating any better. Those pastries yesterday morning were his and he even visited last night to insist that he prepare an evening meal for you. He seems totally enchanted by you, Tor. I’m beginning to wonder if everyone is affected by your presence in the same way?’

‘Are you, Sylven?’ he said, taking a sip from his wine.

It was rare that Sylven could not hold someone’s look; she was never one to back down. But she did so now, looking away almost shyly. She simply could not admit out loud how good it was to see him back here and smiling. She was already imagining the night’s sport in the bedroom and how much fun it was going to be.

She changed the subject, hoping her cheeks were not flaring with colour. ‘Tor, I want to apologise again about yesterday. I do mean it and it’s important to me that you understand I say it from my heart. However, I think you will agree that my decision was the right one. The Silver Maiden honoured Locklyn’s decision to call upon her; she spared his life and endorsed his grievance against Haryd, dealing with the sailor in her harshest manner.’

She looked at him steadily now. ‘I think we can say the very best outcome was achieved.’

Tor was not about to tell her the Maiden had had nothing to do with it. The contraption was nothing more than a deadly game of chance, with the odds stacking up against each victim with each unsuccessful drop of her gleaming blade.

Instead he gave her peace. ‘Yes, you were right, Sylven. There is no need to apologise, because you showed me there was never any need to employ any magical powers to save Locky’s life. I hope the fact of my powers remains private between us.’

Relief flooded through her. She had not realised how very important his acceptance and agreement was to her. Perhaps there could be a future for them?

‘I will never share this knowledge with anyone, Tor. Your secret is safe.’

He raised his glass. ‘To friends and true loves,’ he said, thinking of Alyssa.

The Queen of Cipres smiled sensually. ‘To true love,’ she said and drank.

‘Tell me about this headpiece,’ Tor said.

Sylven explained all she knew of it. Tor listened carefully.

‘Do you know what the black stones are?’

‘Ah, yes. My grandmother called it…er now, let me get this right…’ She tapped her manicured nails on the table. ‘Midnight archalyt—yes, that’s it,’ she said, pleased with herself for her exceptional memory.

Tor nodded and continued to eat, betraying nothing. So it
was
archalyt. That meant he could overcome it. He just had to learn more about it.

‘And how did it come into your family?’

‘Oh, Tor, I hardly paid attention in the first place. No one ever thought it would be used. You can see how new-looking it still is. It has never been used in my two decades as Queen and I never heard of it being used during my mother’s reign either.’

Tor could tell Sylven had no interest in this conversation but it intrigued him. He would learn more of this midnight archalyt. But for now, he masked his fascination and allowed the discussion to move to more trivial matters until their meal was complete and the wine almost finished. The Queen ordered another flask to be brought.

Tor stretched. The next few moments would be tricky.

‘Your majesty, I have been honoured by your hospitality and personal attentions. But I must now take my leave,’ he said graciously.

‘You’re leaving?’ She banged down her glass, more from surprise than anger.

‘Yes, your highness,’ he said gently. ‘When I set off on my voyage from Caradoon I was on a mission. I am searching for something. I became embroiled in all sorts of distractions, including a memorable day and night with a beautiful woman.’

She dipped her eyes.

‘But my task is still ahead, Queen Sylven, and I no longer have the luxury of time to spare.’

‘Whatever do you search for, Torkyn Gynt?’

‘A bird, your majesty.’

‘A bird?’ She wondered if she had heard correctly.

‘A peregrine falcon. He was captured and taken from me by mistake, then brought here and sold, as I understand it. I am on a journey to find him.’

She looked at him as though she hardly understood a word he had said.

He played his card. ‘Perhaps you could help me, Sylven?’

‘I can help?’

‘Yes. You keep aviaries of hunting birds, do you not? He is a magnificent falcon. Perhaps the royal keepers purchased him. It is a thought, anyway,’ he said hopefully.

Hela arrived with the fresh flask of wine and it seemed to snap Sylven out of her dreamy state.

Her voice was commanding again and her attention sharp when she next spoke. ‘You are asking me to help you find your falcon?’

‘I am.’

‘I suppose I could,’ she said, accepting a glass of wine from him. ‘My very best birds are sent to the winter palace at Neame, in the foothills.’

‘Would you allow me to visit there, your majesty? Perhaps a note from you would gain me entry?’

‘Oh, I can do better than that, Torkyn Gynt. I shall come with you. We normally close up the city palace for several weeks at this time of year anyway. I like to spend some time in the hills. We shall go together and if my aviaries have your falcon, we will find him and I shall return him to you.’

It was more than Tor could have hoped for, but he needed for her to move fast. He decided to press his
advantage. ‘This is kind of you, Sylven. I am more grateful than I can show.’

She cut across his words. ‘I’ll make you earn it all right,’ she said, with that familiar wicked sparkle in her eye.

It made them both laugh, though Tor’s humour was forced. Sylven could never understand how important this was to him. ‘Speed is critical, your majesty. Cloot—that is my falcon’s name—and I have been parted for too long. If he is not at Neame, then I will be forced to search far and wide throughout Cipres and its islands.’

‘Then let us hope he is as magnificent as you say, Tor, because such a bird would not have slipped past my men’s notice and he will be at Neame. We can leave today if you wish.’

Tor could hardly believe his luck. ‘That would make me very happy.’