She wiped her hands clean and hurried back to her chambers, where she met Gyl coming the other way.
‘Were you waiting for me?’ she asked, surprised.
He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Mother, no one seemed to know where you might be. Is this normal for the Queen of Tallinor? Is it also usual for her to walk around the palace covered in…what is that? Flour?’
‘Oh, stop fussing. Come back and share a cool ale with me.’
‘Ale!’ He burst out laughing.
She winked. ‘Don’t tell the King I’ve developed a passion for Tallinor’s light ale. He’s desperately trying to educate my palate with fine wines.’
‘Our secret, I promise,’ he said and followed her towards her suite of rooms.
Inside, she made him sit whilst she cleaned herself and ordered her favourite beverage. Gyl never failed
to be surprised at her beauty when he studied her. Now, scrubbed and changed out of her working garments and into a soft shift, she looked like a young carefree girl. He knew Alyssa was still a relatively young woman at twenty-five summers; nevertheless, he also knew there were few women in the Kingdom, even those younger than her, who could hold a candle to her incredible looks.
He loved her very much and, although he would never forget the devotion of his beloved birth mother, Alyssa was now the woman he considered his mother. The first time he called her by that name, Alyssa had wept. It had just slipped out that first time but then it had stuck. He knew she loved to hear him call her mother and he cherished the fact that he could. Surprisingly, it had not been hard to think of her as his own parent.
Saxon understood and told Gyl to unburden himself of the guilt of loving another woman as a mother. The Kloek had assured him that the love between a mother and child was the purest of all loves and it mattered not whether they were of the same blood. That Alyssa accepted him as her son, and that he had not struggled to accept her as a mother, was proof enough that they had a special bond. What had helped most was Saxon’s reassurance that his birth mother would feel free of her own burden of guilt for leaving him and could move forward in the spiritual planes and find peace.
‘Anyway, who doesn’t love Alyssa?’ Saxon had laughed and slapped him on the back.
Gyl watched his mother now, curled up on her favourite sofa. That she was Queen seemed impossible to him at times, but the King was clearly lovestruck for his mother. They made a dashingly handsome pair and their laughter rang out often in the palace. They really were so happy and, after the grief following the previous Queen’s death, it had been good for the people to lift their spirits at the sight of Alyssa’s romance blossoming with the King.
‘What time does it all begin tonight?’ he asked, knowing the question would irritate her.
Alyssa pulled a face. ‘At the seventh bell. You know, Gyl, it’s going to take me years to get used to all this.’
‘Nonsense, Mother. You are already most regal.’ He bent to kiss the top of her head. ‘You just don’t know it.’
‘Now you sound just like the King.’
She winced at the truth behind her words. Gyl was increasingly becoming more and more like his father and he would need to know about his background very soon. Their avoidance of the subject was asking for trouble, for the truth would surely come out eventually. Already some canny palace watchers had commented that the Under Prime was spending too much time in the company of his sovereign.
Not only does he walk and talk like him, but he even looks like him at times
, was one comment Alyssa had overheard. Such remarks bothered Alyssa; not because they were true but because Gyl did not know the truth. He deserved better.
There were undoubtedly petty jealousies around the palace with regard to Gyl’s meteoric rise through the ranks to his position of Under Prime and the fact that such a young man was commanding so many older men. Thank the Light for Herek and his wisdom and guidance. The older soldier was solid and dependable but the best part was that Herek had agreed with the promotion. When she had questioned the Prime, he had surprised her with his candour that Gyl was the only man he would pick from the Legion right now to be groomed for the top job.
‘He’ll have to earn their respect the hard way, your majesty, but he’s got what it takes,’ he had told her. ‘I believe he’ll do the job well.’
‘I hope so, Herek, for his sake.’
‘Trust in him, my lady, as I trust your security to him as Queen’s Champion. It is wise for Gyl to learn young. Should anything happen to me, then—’
Alyssa had refused to let him finish. She liked Herek very much. He was a plainly spoken man who wasted no words on obsequious flattery or superfluous conversation. He was intensely committed to his job and his brevity and seriousness was often misinterpreted. But she knew him to be the kindest of men and one who had cared for her during those early months after Tor’s death. She also remembered how he had shown great compassion for Tor during his execution. Saxon held him in the highest regard too. She would not hear of Herek dying. Gyl would have years to grow into the top job.
The musicians, assembled under Sallementro’s careful eye, played their hearts out for the King and Queen of Tallinor, who, much to all the guests’ delight, generously led the boisterous dances. Sallementro slowed proceedings a little when he sang the special Name Day song he had written for her majesty; although it was a jolly tune with a rousing chorus which everyone quickly learned, Alyssa cried with pleasure at his beautiful lyrics. Now the music was gathering momentum again into a frantic Strip the Willow and the King and Queen had taken to the dance floor once more.
‘Not around again,’ Alyssa begged Lorys.
The King’s laugh thundered around the Great Hall. ‘You had better have bruises on those arms tonight, my beauty, or I shall order this all over again. You know the rules of Strip the Willow. No bruises means you’ve shirked your dance duties.’
‘You are a brute, Lorys,’ Alyssa called to her grinning husband as he mercilessly spun her around once more before letting her go to the next man in line. She made herself feel better by reminding herself that at least the balcony scene was done. The people of Tallinor had come, eaten, drunk, departed and were now making merry elsewhere. She had accepted their cheers and goodwill graciously.
Everyone was exhausted after the effort of Stripping the Willow so yet more mugs of ale and goblets of lightly chilled wine were brought out on
huge trays for the royal guests. Gyl, whose men were peppered throughout the city to prevent the happy tavern festivities getting out of control, appeared in the Great Hall and walked over to his mother who was flopped in her chair.
‘Don’t you dare, Gyl,’ she warned.
‘The next dance is mine, your majesty. Surely you would not refuse your son, a simple soldier, in front of all these people?’ he said and bowed low.
‘I hate you both, you know that, don’t you?’ Alyssa said, murderously eyeing both Lorys and Gyl, co-conspirators; their smiles unmistakably born of the same blood.
‘Last one, Alyssa, I promise,’ Lorys whispered. ‘Then I shall rescue you from this scene, take you upstairs and—’
‘Come, Gyl.’ Alyssa cut across Lorys, then whispered in his ear, ‘I am not sure which is more exhausting, my lord, the dancing or thinking about what comes after.’
She stepped down from the dais, glaring at Sallementro who, clearly part of the conspiracy, had whipped up the music into another feisty village jig.
‘Ah, the Dashing Demon. My favourite,’ Gyl said, enjoying his mother’s groan.
‘I shall have Sallementro beheaded for this,’ she replied, as her handsome son twirled her around in a series of nauseating spins. She had always considered this dance unfair on the women, who seemed to do all the spinning and none of the twirling.
At first Alyssa thought she had just spun once too many times, but the dizziness was quickly followed by crushing pain in her head. She must have stopped moving; she could not be sure. Had the music stopped too? Perhaps. Gyl was looking at her, concerned, offering a steadying arm. She could see his lips moving but no sound was reaching her. In fact, there was no sound at all, just a sinister drumming in her ears.
Alyssa, panic rising, searched for Lorys, who was already striding towards them, bewilderment on his face.
And then the drumming in her head stopped and she heard them: sounds which would live in her soul for the rest of her life. The heartwrenching shout of a man, followed by a horrible silence, and then a brief whispering between two men, but she could not make out any of the words. Then a terrible shrieking which tore at her mind; she had a vision of the Heartwood screaming. A far more intense pain hit her and she dropped unconscious into the arms of the King.
Pandemonium broke out in the Great Hall. All music and gaiety was abandoned as the Under Prime blasted orders to servants and pages to find Physic Kelvyn immediately. The King was stunned. He sat on the cool, stone floor of the Hall and shook his head with disbelief. She could not be dead, surely? He looked at Gyl, who shook his head briefly to show he did not know what had happened.
‘Your highness, she breathes,’ he reassured the King. ‘Let us get her to her chambers.’
‘You were both dancing and then she just stopped and went rigid,’ the King whispered.
‘I know. Come, sire, please,’ Gyl urged, aware of all the courtiers, guests and gossip-mongers drinking in the scene. ‘My lord…’ He bent to release Alyssa from Lorys’s grip. ‘Allow me to pick up her majesty so you can escort her to her chambers.’
A shout from the back of the Great Hall broke the spell that seemed to have fallen upon the King. ‘Yes…of course,’ Lorys said and allowed the Under Prime to take the small, light body of his wife into his arms. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.
As they moved off, Lorys looked back to see where the shout had come from. He could just make out the twitching body of Sallementro lying on the ground, surrounded by horrified onlookers.
Gyl had seen the musician too; knew this man was almost as close to his mother as he himself was. He signalled to Caerys, the King’s competent squire. ‘Quickly, Caerys, find some helpers and follow us with Sallementro. They must have both taken some bad wine or something,’ he offered hopefully.
Tor was showing Gidyon how to cast a glamour over himself. Lauryn was laughing. ‘You’re just blurring, Gid. Try harder,’ she said.
‘This
is
harder,’ he complained.
‘It’s not really difficult once you know how,’ his father encouraged. ‘Just let go inside. Can you see the Colours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let them swell. Allow them to consume you within but don’t lose control.’
Gidyon was holding his breath in his effort to control the surge of power within.
‘Relax into the power, Gidyon. You control it; not the other way around. Don’t clench your teeth. Breathe.’
Gidyon let out all the air he was holding.
‘Good,’ his father said. ‘Now, go through the steps I’ve taught you…take it slowly.’
He sensed Gidyon cast out superbly and, as he watched, his son changed into an old man. He heard Lauryn squeal with delight that her brother had finally mastered the complex spell and in the same instant felt a monstrous pain thump into his head. He was sitting cross-legged opposite his son; now he fell back, rigid, breathless from the pain.
Gidyon was writhing on the forest floor nearby. Lauryn had both hands to her head and was grimacing in silent agony, her eyes wide and begging her father to stop the pain.
Tor did not want to lose consciousness; he fought it, somehow opening a link to his falcon.
Cloot!
he screamed.
Themesius!
was all he heard before Cloot fell off the branch where he had been perched and joined the other bodies on the soft turf.
Suddenly Tor felt the link slam shut and the most exquisite pain wrenched from his body, which lay contorted on the ground near his children. Now his spirit was soaring; freed from the agony of his body but bewildered—and afraid.
Cloot had called out Themesius’s name. It could only mean that the giant had fallen. Orlac was finally free.
Saxon had felt the blast of pain and the shriek of a man in his head. Immediately he began to run back towards Figgis, now healed and whole again, who had decided to accompany him on this walk through the Heartwood. But Saxon only made a few steps before he collapsed. It was all he could do to drag in enough air to keep breathing. He lay on the ground, fighting the agony, begging for it to pass.
In another part of the Heartwood, Solyana and Arabella were also suffering.
Figgis was admiring an enormous oak, craning back his head to look to its very top, when the pain came. He fell backwards and lay there in an agony greater than that he had ever experienced during his battle with Orlac, but one which he recognised immediately. He wept as he imagined his great friend, Themesius, finally falling to the vengeful young god.
Tor was travelling again. He remembered this sensation from his escape from Caradoon, when he had been forced to leave Cloot’s body and return to his own, but he was more frightened this time. He knew with certainty that he was travelling towards terror rather than away from it.
He stopped suddenly and found himself watching a magnificent, golden-haired stranger. Tor realised it must be Orlac, and the huge man nearby was Themesius the Giant. Strangely, Tor was privy to Orlac’s words and thoughts, as though himself a part of the young god.
Orlac sensed that final hold over him give and he felt great sorrow for the giant who had been the Paladin’s anchor over so many centuries. Orlac had overcome the members of the courageous group, one by one, with his mind’s strength. But all the time this
battle had raged across the enchanted link, somehow both he and Themesius had known it would come down to the two of them. And Themesius also had understood he would eventually be defeated.
In a way, there was a special bond between them. A bond of hatred, no doubt, but a noble bond nonetheless and their respect for each other was deep. Which was why Orlac felt pity for his foe now: it took immense bravery to fight when you knew the battle was lost.
The pain became so intolerable for Themesius that he crouched to the floor and let go of Orlac’s mind. The link was severed. The hold was gone. As the young god finally stepped free of the cursed ledge where he had been held through their magics for so many centuries, he considered how, in another situation, he and the giant could have been friends. Love and hate—there was such a fine line dividing the two emotions. In a different lifetime, in a different existence, perhaps all of them could have been something more than enemies.
He looked over at Nanak, the Keeper. ‘Be gone, old man. You are done here.’
It was not said cruelly; he simply stated a fact. Nanak, his face a mask of despair, disintegrated to dust, which dispersed as the god walked through it to reach Themesius. He felt the need to say something to the giant; some last few words to respectfully herald his passing.
There was no longer any need for Orlac’s mad giggle; it had been an affectation employed purely to
annoy his captors and insinuate himself beneath the Paladin’s guard. To laugh in your captor’s face was to feel powerful. Orlac had learned this over the ages he had been imprisoned. He took no pleasure in seeing this strong man crumpled before him. In that moment, Orlac vowed to make Merkhud’s man pay all the more for forcing him into this terrible humbling of those more worthy of his friendship than his spite. In the earlier days it had been easier to watch them fall. He recalled the beautiful one, the one known as Solyana, and how he had taken great delight in seeing her own failure reflected in her large, deep eyes. But now—the sight of Figgis’s pain and especially that of Themesius made him feel the tragedy of the situation.
The giant was spent; Tor could see he was dying. Themesius rallied one last time to respond to his victor. ‘It is not over, Orlac. This is the beginning of your end,’ he croaked.
Tor expected Orlac to laugh, but when he spoke the god’s voice was even and sober. There was no trace of arrogance.
‘You have battled bravely, Themesius. I honour you and all the Paladin.’
‘We will meet again,’ the giant said. The last breath wheezed from his body and he winked out of the Bleak, his body disappearing from where it had crouched at the god’s feet.
Tor heard Orlac sigh. It seemed genuinely laden with regret. He could still sense the god’s thoughts, share in his memories.
Orlac was remembering the moment when his mortal father had died. The man had lived for centuries, a gift bestowed upon him by Orlac’s true father, Darganoth, but when his final time had come, Orlac had sensed it. That Merkhud could escape his wrath had enraged him, the idea was unthinkable. But then, he had sensed a spirit within Merkhud that was not his father. That spirit had lifted itself from the body of his despised, cheating father and had gone…to where? To another host, no doubt, but Orlac did not know where or who. All he knew was that this person was now his enemy and would be the target of his revenge before razing Tallinor.
The moving of that spirit had created a powerful trace. He would always remember it. He had decided that it would serve the impostor well to see him as he stepped free, and so Orlac had summoned it, locking onto the unsuspecting spirit with ease and wrenching it free, dragging it without care to where he was. And he knew it was present now, could taste its trace.
Watch me now, impostor!
he shouted.
Just as Themesius had vanished from the Bleak, so now did the Bleak itself as Orlac transported himself from where he had been incarcerated. Tor was carried along with him and saw that the god was now standing on a tall hill. The scenery looked familiar but there was no time to focus on anything other than the fact that Orlac had returned to the world he had been banished from centuries before.
Orlac’s liberation was not Tor’s worst surprise, however. The god spoke directly into his head.
I have brought you here to witness this, whoever you are. I know not your name, only that you are my mortal enemy and I will track you down. No power you possess can ever match mine. The hated Merkhud has escaped my wrath by dying, but you are his man and I shall make you suffer. You have become Merkhud in my eyes and you shall pay the price I demand.
Tor was frightened. His trust in the Trinity, his faith in Lys and even his courage seemed to seep away. Then he thought of Cloot, of all the brave Paladin, and how much they had suffered for his sake. From them he drew strength, found his courage again.
He stared at the god who, for Tallinor, was only legend and he understood why he had been chosen. Only his powers, combined with those of the Trinity—whatever it may be—could fight this strength.
He took stock of the god who stood before him and committed everything he could to his memory before he spoke in a measured tone.
As Themesius said, we shall meet again.
Orlac had sensed the remarkable change within the stranger. What power had allowed this man to find such valour at a time when he should rightly be cringing at the feet of a god? He could not imagine, but he was impressed. The man spoke like the Paladin, fearlessly. This would make their clash interesting. He acknowledged Tor’s words with a nod, as two fencers might touch swords before a duel.
Now, go and hide. You may await my coming,
he said.
Orlac felt the breeze blow around him now. He lifted his arms to embrace its reality and stamped his feet on the grass of the hillside where he now stood. He was back. Back in the Land he intended to destroy.
He flicked the spirit away and suddenly Tor was travelling again.
Tor had no idea where he was going, except that it was fast. When he finally lurched to a sickening stop, he heard Lys’s voice.
Tor! How can you be here?
Tor’s unexpected arrival in the Bleak distracted Lys’s attention and Dorgryl took advantage of that split second of time. The mist of red whooshed past Tor’s consciousness and was gone from the Bleak.
Lys—
But Tor did not get his words out.
No!
Lys’s scream was so loud that he cringed.
Tor instinctively turned away from her to follow her gaze. From the Bleak they were privy to all worlds and he shared Lys’s horror as Orlac, still standing on the hillside in Cipres, was enveloped by a red mist. The god convulsed, then began to growl and thrash, his beautifully muscled body contorting into impossible positions. It was horrifying to witness.
Tell me it isn’t so,
Lys whispered, each word laced with terror.
I don’t understand,
Tor replied very softly.
Dorgryl has escaped. Orlac has broken free and Dorgryl has merged with him.
Tor turned his attention back to the shimmering, radiant presence in front of him. She was weeping.
This should not have happened. I have failed the Host,
she cried.
It dawned on Tor that he was finally laying eyes on the Custodian, the Dreamspeaker who had manipulated all of their lives. She reminded him strongly of the only woman he had ever loved. That golden hair and that small, almost fragile-looking body. He was bewildered.
Lys, I see you.
I know. You should not be here, Tor. How is it that you are here?
Her words rushed out on top of one another.
Orlac. He took me from the Heartwood. We spoke briefly and then he pushed me away. I ended up here. What was that red mist? Was it the thing you told me would never concern me the last time I spoke with you?
Lys wept harder. Perhaps it was just the golden hair, or maybe the grey-green eyes he had glimpsed, or possibly the long fingers held in just such a manner that prompted him to say it. The words spilled out before he could pull them back.
Lys, are you related to Alyssa?
She lifted her head from her hands in a manner similar to how Alyssa had lifted her head as she stood on the balcony, forced to watch his execution. As Lys fixed his impossibly blue eyes with her own, Tor saw how familiar in shape they were.
I am her mother,
she said firmly. The fear in her voice was gone; the Custodian was back in command
of herself.
Come. This spiritual plane is dangerous for you and we have much to discuss.
Tor re-entered his body and sat up with a jolt. His face filled with dread when he saw the bodies of his children and Cloot lying on the forest floor.
They all sleep a special healing sleep,
Lys reassured him.
Tor looked over in surprise. She sat fully visible in the hollowed area of a tree.
How is it that I can see you even though I am not asleep?
She smiled sadly.
A special treat, shall we say. Do not ask me to move; I cannot. I am allowed to visit a world physically only once. I am only able to return if I keep contact with the trees: it is through the generosity of the Heartwood and the magic of its god, Darmud Coril, that I am permitted to be here in this way.
Tor felt weak from the trauma he had just experienced but he wanted to be closer to her. He walked over to the tree and sat down opposite the shimmering Custodian.
She looked towards Lauryn.
Beautiful, like her mother.
And her grandmother,
he observed, gently.
She smiled.
Will you tell me the truth?
he asked.
Predictably, she made him earn it.
What is it you wish to know?
Alyssa—why did you abandon her?
I am not a mortal, Tor. I could not remain in Tallinor.
Then why did you come to Tallinor?
You will understand soon.
So Alyssa and I were meant to be together?
As designed by the gods themselves,
she said, cryptically.
Be patient, Tor. All your questions will be answered.
May I tell her?
That she has a mother who watches over her but never visits? A mother who is a god?
Lys laughed.
I think you have enough on your plate with Alyssa, without complicating the issue further.
Then will you tell her?
Yes.
When?
When the time is right for her to learn such news.
More secrets. Tor hated it. He sighed. He knew Lys would not change her mind for him, and she was right. Just thinking about how to approach Alyssa with the news that her son was alive and that she had a daughter she had never known about would be more than enough for him to cope with.
Tell me of Dorgryl,
he said.
It was Lys’s turn to sigh.
He tricked me. All these centuries he has fooled me with his petty conversations and moans about his existence, when in fact he was lulling me into believing he was helpless.
She spoke angrily.
Lys, you will have to explain from the beginning.
I have none of the background; I don’t know what you are talking about.
The Custodian took a deep breath.
Dorgryl is a former member of the Host. He was brother to King Darganoth and, like most younger brothers—
her tone was deliberate
—he coveted the crown.
Tor nodded although her comment was lost on him.
Go on.
He devised a cunning plan which would see the King dead and him crowned, but Evagora’s announcement that she was with child threw those plans awry. Now Dorgryl had to rid himself of both King and heir.
Orlac?
Tor asked.
As you know him, yes.
Dorgryl obviously failed then.
Only just, Tor. He came within moments of achieving his dark goal of slaying the King and the infant prince but, when the Queen announced she was with child, he hesitated. It was his arrogance which betrayed him: his own wife spilled the news to the King when she learned of her husband’s treachery.
When he discovered his brother’s betrayal, Darganoth refused to kill Dorgryl but there was no precedent to follow to punish him. Gods do not fight gods; they certainly do not kill one another, but Dorgryl was dangerous. Much too dangerous to be allowed to remain within the Host. And so Darganoth devised a plan to banish him to a place known as the Bleak; a place of nothingness. His spirit was banished from his own body and for
centuries he existed only in the form of that red mist you saw.
She stopped to allow Tor time to consider what he had heard and hoped he would ask the right question next.
Tor’s mind was racing. Every conversation with Lys felt like some sort of test.
You said ‘infant prince’. So Orlac was no longer a babe in arms?
Lys was pleased. She had taught him well.