Scrivener’s Tale

‘Ah,’ Fynch said, ‘that explains the phiggo root I noticed in your hut.’

He stared at the older man, confused. ‘I was instructed to brew a liquor from it each week and drink a spoon of it daily.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you were and I’m also sure that Loup checked on that brew and your supplies regularly.’

Cassien nodded. ‘He was quite particular. Assured me it was for strength, good health.’

Fynch sighed. ‘It’s traditionally used by armies to keep the men focused on their soldiering. It’s why you haven’t gone mad with pent-up lust.’

Cassien looked at his companion, astounded by this information. It made instant sense but that didn’t lessen the shock. ‘They drugged me?’ he murmured, shaking his head.

‘How else could they keep a virile young man in the forest without companionship for so long?’ Fynch nodded at the approaching serving girl. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll rectify the situation soon enough, although perhaps it should wait until we reach Pearlis.’

Fynch hurried the serving girl on with a bigger than usual tip. He gently tossed the moneybag and a second one he’d dug from a pocket across the table. ‘You’ve had no need of coin in the past. But you will need it from here on. Tie those to your belt, although I do think we should kit you out with some fresh garb.’

Cassien looked down at his clothes. They were certainly the worse for wear. Dun, colourless, shabby.

‘Have we time?’

Fynch nodded. ‘Plenty. You could use a shave, a haircut, too. Drink up, Cassien. And while you do, I’ll talk.’

He took his first sip of dinch sweetened with honey, although sparingly, knowing all of these rich new substances hitting his belly might bring him some grief. He could taste flavours of cinnamon and shir, and something else he couldn’t identify. The taste was complex and delicious. He sipped slowly and paid attention as Fynch looked away, lost in his thoughts, before beginning to speak. Gone was the light-hearted tone of their previous conversation. His voice was grave now and his expression sombre.

‘I told you I don’t know what the re-emergence of the magic means, but it was a cynical, sinister and destructive magic when it was first cast so I can’t imagine that part of it has changed. There is a demon called Cyricus who is likely to be its puppeteer but I don’t know who will be its host. I warned her majesty of it more than fourteen moons ago. I felt it stirring then. The Wild is like that. It is highly sensitive to changes, not just in our world but in the spiritual world that surrounds us. My experience with Wyl Thirsk and the evil curse on his life meant I would always know the taint of the same magic.’

Cassien didn’t like to interrupt but couldn’t help himself. ‘You said you warned the royals.’

‘As best I could. The chancellor believed me, or at least in taking seriously any threat to Florentyna, magical or otherwise. He supported my efforts to have an audience. Darcelle, I learned, sneered at the suggestion; regarded me as some sort of senile herbwizard. The queen gave me a fair audience but she couldn’t countenance the threat of a demon.’

‘Does she trust you?’

‘That’s tricky. I sensed she wanted to but demonic threat is hard to prove … and she wanted proof.’

‘So?’

‘We decided to find it.’

‘We?’

‘The chancellor and I. He offered his help and I took it.’

‘What of Briavel? Every little morsel of news I could glean from Loup I would turn over in my mind for days, trying to piece it together with other titbits he’d give me. I got the impression that Briavel’s and Morgravia’s relationship was strained.’

‘To say the least,’ Fynch admitted. ‘While Cailech and Valentyna unified their realms, their grandchildren allowed the strong bonds to slip. Briavel became touchy when much of its rich farming land was given to members of the Morgravian aristocracy and Briavel’s nobles didn’t seem to warrant equal generosity. There were high hopes for the great-great-grandson, Magnus. He was fond of a very senior and beloved noble’s daughter from Briavel. It was exactly what the empire needed; a marriage between those old realms and their families to reinforce the imperial bond. But when he died so did our hopes.’ Fynch shrugged with a soft sigh of despair. ‘It could all break down quickly because the union was only ever as strong as the royal couple that led it.’

Cassien noticed Fynch had not touched his dinch, just as he had not eaten a morsel since they’d met. There was clearly something otherworldly about the man, if indeed he could call him a man. ‘All right, that’s in the past,’ he began, finding it easier to leave that confusion behind. ‘Obviously you believe there is hope for the empire or you wouldn’t be conscripting help.’

Fynch nodded, pushed his untouched dinch forward. ‘Help yourself to more,’ he said absently. ‘I do believe in the empire. We can only have this conversation once, Cassien, so you need to understand all that you can now. Once we get deeper into the capital, there are ears listening everywhere, and I also don’t trust how long we might have. So with that in mind let me quickly sum up what you need to know. I believe our hope is Queen Florentyna.’

‘So you want me to protect the queen from any potential threat from her sibling or from an otherworldly attack,’ Cassien concluded.

‘Her life is paramount — there are no heirs other than Darcelle.’

‘How old is Florentyna?’

‘Twenty-two summers. She thinks like Cailech, looks like Valentyna, has all the dash and daring of her Briavellian line, and the courage, agile mind and determination of her mountain king forebear. And she has the green eyes of Wyl Thirsk. When I looked into them, I saw him there. I know he lives on through her.’

‘But what of the threat of Cyricus?’ Cassien demanded.

‘Indeed. Who sits on the throne is only one half of our frightening equation.’

‘Fynch,’ Cassien began, his voice hard, looking directly at the older man, ‘explain precisely to me what you believe Cyricus aims to achieve?’

Fynch took a deep breath. ‘The magic that was once the witch Myrren’s is, I believe, returning in a more dire form. It was formerly focused on revenge, Myrren finding a way from the grave to punish Morgravia for her torture and burning, but particularly its nastiest son, King Celimus, for his part in her demise. This time I think it will be used directly against the imperial Crown.

‘I have seen Cyricus in my dreams and in my spiritual wanderings. I don’t know from where he comes but he is an old, old mind. He is not of this region. He was ancient even when Myrren was casting her curious magic. I was too young, too caught up in the curse on Wyl Thirsk to notice Cyricus. But he was there — an interested bystander you could say, watching us. And I suspect his curiosity was pricked by her unique, twisted magic.’

‘What is he?’

‘A demon, as I told you,’ Fynch said, standing. ‘I think we should give you a chance to bathe, to get new clothes.’

‘But what about —?’

‘I realise I have given you a sense of urgency but in this matter we must show a little patience,’ Fynch said, raising a hand. ‘Now, you are wrinkling your nose at the smells of the town but I can assure you, the other travellers are going to pinch theirs when they get a whiff of your particular aroma.’ Fynch beamed Cassien the bright smile that lit up his eyes and warmed anyone it touched.

Cassien sniffed the sleeve of his leather jerkin.

‘That bad?’

‘Eye-watering,’ Fynch assured. ‘You’re going to meet a queen. We want you at your best.’

Cassien found himself immersed in an oaken barrel of hot water. He was mesmerised by the feel of the soap’s slipperiness on his skin, and the sensual pleasure of having someone wash his hair, rubbing his scalp clean. The fact that it was the bark-smoking Wife Wiggins with her black teeth and gravelly voice, rather than a pretty young woman like the inn maid, didn’t matter. It was heavenly.

Wife Wiggins was not in the least moved by his nakedness; she’d raised her eyebrows in disdain at Cassien’s bashfulness and cast a sigh over her shoulder towards Fynch. Nevertheless, Cassien emerged from the depths groaning with satisfaction.

‘I’m surprised you have no lice,’ she remarked, ‘you’re so grubby. Make sure you use the soap on your —’

‘Thank you,’ Cassien said, cutting off her advice. ‘I can manage now.’

She looked at Fynch, who nodded. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it,’ she grumbled. ‘I suggest you soak for a while. You seem to have leaf mould growing out of your ears, young man.’

‘I’ll see to it. Thank you again for the clothes,’ Fynch said.

‘Yes, well, you’ve paid handsomely. And I’ll be burning those old rags he wore when he walked in here.’

‘Do we tip the water out or —’

‘Tip it out?’ she cried from the doorway of the barn she called a bathhouse. ‘Are you mad, sir? I’ll wash three more men in that water before it gets tipped. Just leave it as you found it.’ She left, pushing the bark smoke back between her lips.

Cassien blinked. ‘What a scary woman.’

Fynch’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You can just imagine the array of men who pass through her tubs. It started out as a service she offered the tanners but now she has to run ten tubs, and in high season can bathe fifty men a day. She doesn’t usually scrub them down herself, I must admit, but you’re special.’

‘Fynch, I must know more about this demon. It’s as though you hesitate.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to accept it as real and by getting you involved I must fully accept the reality of his threat.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I told you Cyricus has been watching us from afar for decades.’

‘And you have been watching him.’

‘I have watched you too. You are suited to the role.’

‘What role?’

‘To kill the demon when he presents himself. You are all we have. Your killing skills and your very special magic.’

Now, finally, it made sense. Fynch was after the weapon of his mind. He could see in Fynch’s open face that the old man knew Cassien understood that.

Fynch sighed. ‘Cyricus will come to Morgravia in the guise of a man, of that I’m sure. He must travel in that form in order to walk our land, otherwise he has no substance.’ Fynch held up a long, slim finger. ‘But as flesh he is also vulnerable in the way a man is.’

‘How will I know him?’

‘You won’t. But he will attack the Crown. That will be part of his plan. To bring it down. He will seek to destroy first the royals and then seize power.’

‘Why would he want to?’

‘Because he can,’ Fynch said in a weary tone, handing Cassien a linen, signalling it was time for him to clamber out of the tub. ‘Because he is bored. Because he enjoys stirring trouble, bringing problems. He sees an unsettled people and he wants to spice up the discontent. And because he has reason to destroy a single region of the empire that I will not, cannot permit.’

‘And where is that?’

‘It’s called the Wild. It is our bad luck that his attention has been attracted and focused on our empire but it’s no good bleating. We must act.’

‘Surely an army is better than a single man?’ Cassien stood with the linen wrapped around his lower body, water pooling around his feet. He knew Fynch’s story sounded far-fetched, and yet because Romaine trusted him Cassien felt compelled to follow suit.

‘An army against another army perhaps,’ Fynch replied. ‘But an army is no match against a foe it can’t see, or doesn’t know is there. What’s more, I have no desire to give Cyricus warning that we know of his presence. Right now he believes himself unknown — and to most he is. But I know him. I feel him. I smell him. I taste him and his hungry interest on a bitter wind. One day I may hear his cries for mercy or touch the dead body he chooses to inhabit, but right now surprise is my only defence … and you and I the only people who stand in his way.’

‘Has our world faced a demon before?’

‘Not to my knowledge, although Myrren’s curse on Wyl Thirsk could be viewed that way. But, while I might be old, this demon is as ancient as the Razors, maybe older. He comes from the east, I believe.’

Cassien pulled on the ill-fitting pants and shirt, posing for Fynch, who made a face of amused resignation. ‘That will have to do for the moment.’ As Cassien continued dressing and tidied his hair, Fynch finished what he could of the story.

‘Cyricus was astonished, excited by the power of the Wild when he discovered it, and sought to use it. The magic within the Wild repelled him, bouncing his acolyte, the sycophantic Aphra, out of our plane to another, trapping her and weakening Cyricus. This is very ancient history, mind you,’ Fynch warned, ‘long before my time. Cyricus did nothing until the scent of the magic of Myrren reached him centuries later, stirring him from whichever depths of thought he lived in.’

‘And being cautious now he simply watched?’

‘Exactly,’ Fynch said. ‘Ready?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Then it’s time to call on the tailor,’ Fynch said, looking up as they departed Wife Wiggins’s barn.

‘How do you know all of this information about Cyricus?’

‘I told you I’m old. I’ve mentioned I’ve travelled — and not just in this plane. On this you must trust me. I’ve had a talent since childhood for gathering, memorising and being able to collate vast amounts of what might appear to be unrelated pieces of information. And the beasts of the world are far more attuned to the natural order of things, especially if they are disrupted in any way. They know he is coming.’

Fynch guided Cassien to a small lane that dipped down and led to the centre of the town. ‘We don’t have to go all the way in. Just a few doors down is Master Zeek.’

‘You said he needs a host,’ Cassien wondered aloud.

‘He will inhabit a mortal to gain power before he begins to lay waste to the forests and the Wild as well as its creatures.’

Fynch had his hand on the door-knob of a shop doorway.

‘This is the tailor. We must stop our discussion now. I know you have more questions but there are only two points that matter in all that I’ve said.’ He raised a finger. ‘Your role to protect the new queen with your life.’ He raised a second finger. ‘And to find a way to slay Cyricus when he presents himself … and he will.’

The door was opened and Cassien had to bite back the flood of new thoughts because a smiling, rotund man emerged from behind a small curtain.

‘Master Fynch, welcome back. And this must be your nephew.’

The small shop smelled of endless rows of fabric, slightly oily and earthy and pleasing to Cassien. It was quiet too, which he appreciated after the bustle of the small lanes they’d walked to get here. Bolts of linens were piled high behind the smiling tailor in towers of colours of all hue; others lay on the ground in smaller heaps and others still, the finest cloths, were in glass cabinets.

Cassien watched Fynch smile warmly at the man. ‘Tailor Zeek, this is him, yes. Do you think we made a good fit between us?’

Zeek’s waxed moustache twitched as he appraised Cassien with a knowledgeable look, his head cocked to one side. ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. I doubt few, if any, adjustments may be required to what I made up on your instructions. Shall we try?’

Fynch turned to Cassien. ‘Would you care to try on some new clothes?’

‘They’ll scratch at first,’ Zeek warned, ‘but this particular yarn from the senleng plant softens like no other. You’ll barely know you’re wearing the garments in a moon or two.’

Cassien looked between the pair of them, realising that Fynch had had these clothes made for this moment, had obviously decided some time ago to steal Cassien away from beneath Loup’s nose and Josse’s rules and the Brotherhood’s care, and had planned their escape. ‘I’ll be glad to try them on,’ he replied, and stepped into the back of the shop.

‘I shall hang them here,’ Zeek said, placing a shirt, vest, trews and cloak on a hook nearby. ‘Take your time, young man.’ He disappeared to the front of the shop and Cassien could hear the men talking in low voices.

He regarded the clothes. The trousers were dark … the colour of scorched wood. The shirt was a lighter hue, but not by much, while the cloak was soft wool, black as the forest night and whisper-light. Each item was cut and sewn together beautifully. He’d never handled such fine garments before and could barely believe they were for him. Guiltily he climbed into them, amazed by their nearly perfect fit.

He came out from the back area and Zeek cast an appraising eye up and down, getting Cassien to turn this way and that.

‘Those trousers are not snug enough around the waist.’

‘Yes, I think you might have worked a little harder in the last few moons, Cassien, than I calculated,’ Fynch admitted, regarding him.

‘They fit like a dream,’ Cassien replied, unsure of what they were both unhappy with. He turned to stare at himself in the tall mirror on one side of the shop and blinked. He’d not seen himself from the chin down in a long time.

Fynch sidled up. ‘Recognise yourself?’

Cassien looked with surprise at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He was familiar with the face but the frame that these new dark clothes hung from was surely too tall, too hardened beneath the linens. He could see muscles outlined on a chest he’d never realised was that broad. He’d arrived in the forest as a youngster and he’d left it as a man. His hair was darker than he ever remembered it, even despite its dampness.

‘Now,’ Zeek continued, ‘as per your instructions, Master Fynch, I had these made in a town in the far north. Only recently delivered — I was worried, I’ll admit,’ he said, reaching behind his counter and straightening, holding an odd contraption of leather straps.

‘This is for you, Cassien,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you’ll work out its use.’

Cassien studied what now lay in his hands, knowing instantly what it was. Fynch had obviously commissioned a special holster, not just a belt for a sword, but with straps that wrapped diagonally across his body and over his back so that he could also carry two concealed daggers on his back. Except he’d not brought any weapons. Loup had taken them.

Even so, he was thrilled to tie on the holster and marvelled at how its colour matched the shirt so as to blend in and almost disappear.

Zeek came up behind him and placed the hooded cloak around his shoulders, tying it at his throat. ‘This covers everything, but you should find it light enough that if you need to draw your weapons it can be flicked aside.’

‘I can see you are happy,’ Fynch said to him.

‘I am privileged,’ he remarked, unsure of what to say. ‘Thanks to you both.’

‘Well, there’s more, Cassien,’ Fynch continued. ‘All of that leatherwork is useless without its weapons. I presume you have my parcel, Master Zeek?’

‘Oh yes, indeed. I have kept these hidden and am very glad to finally pass them to their owner. They are fearsome. I hope you never have to use them, sir,’ he said to Cassien. He disappeared once again behind the shop.

Zeek returned, this time carrying a box. ‘Impossibly beautiful craftsmanship, Master Fynch, as only Orkyld knows.’

Fynch nodded. ‘Master Wevyr is a magician with weapons,’ he admitted.

Zeek placed the box with great care on the counter and Cassien, holding his breath, peered in. He could barely believe he was looking at the most beautiful set of sword and daggers he’d ever laid eyes on.

‘Aren’t you going to hold them?’ Fynch asked.

He tore his gaze away and turned it on Fynch. ‘These are truly for me?’

‘I can’t handle them, and I know Master Zeek is a wizard with a needle and thread, but a sword?’ Fynch shook his head in mock despair. ‘We are old men.’

‘I couldn’t even swing that more than once, Master Fynch,’ his co-conspirator, Zeek, agreed. ‘My shoulders aren’t what they used to be.’

Cassien reached in, holding his breath, and reverently lifted the two daggers first. ‘Caronas,’ he whispered.

‘Wevyr said you’d know them.’

‘Matching. Ancient styling. Perfect balance. To be drawn as a pair over each shoulder.’

‘Hence the special holster,’ Zeek remarked rather unnecessarily, but it seemed all three men were under the spell of the beautiful blades.

Fynch gave some explanation as Cassien ran his fingers over the metalwork of the throwing daggers. ‘The metal on all of these has been forged personally by Master Wevyr of Orkyld. Wevyr said he’ll discuss them if you pay a visit. For now I’m to tell you that they contain three metals each, and one additional ingredient that is a secret only Wevyr and I know is in the sword. They have been heated and cooled, hammered and re-heated many times. Their strength is unrivalled but within that strength is a flexibility you will appreciate. That pattern on the blade you see …’

Cassien touched the exquisitely expressed symbol of the Brotherhood — a twisted knot — that ran the length of the blades in a lighter metal. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

‘No other sword or dagger will ever bear that marking again. He said he has done this for you alone.’ Fynch smiled. ‘He called this the Cassien Collection.’

‘Master Fynch, they must be worth a fortune,’ Cassien said, shaking his head.

‘Indeed, and if Master Zeek wasn’t such a reliable man I would have to ask you to use that blade on his throat right now to ensure secrecy.’

Zeek gave a soft squeal of horror. The weapons possessed a presence of their own — frightening in a quiet, elegant way. Fynch chuckled to reassure Zeek that it was a jest, but Cassien frowned. It was the first time that he’d heard a note of insincerity in Fynch’s laugh; he wasn’t so sure that Fynch had been jesting. In that moment, he saw the toughness, the spine that Fynch possessed; beneath the kindly façade was a man on a mission.

Zeek laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Master Fynch, you know I would never discuss private business matters,’ he assured him.

Cassien noticed what would be invisible to most people … tiny beads of perspiration on the man’s forehead.

‘Did you get the boots as I asked, Zeek?’ Fynch continued.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said with forced merriment. ‘Let me fetch those too. I hope they will fit.’ He disappeared once again.

‘He’s lying.’

Fynch regarded Cassien. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Small signs betray him.’

Fynch had no time to ask more, for Zeek was back, his forehead patted dry of its telltale beads, although Cassien’s keen sense of smell picked up the tangy dampness of fresh sweat. He was sure now.

‘Here we are,’ the merchant said brightly. ‘Boots, as you asked, Master Fynch.’

Fynch forced a smile at Cassien. ‘Hope they fit.’ He could smell the leather that creaked beneath his touch; it was soft yet held the shape of the boot perfectly. He knew they would be comfortable and this was proved as soon as he slipped them easily on to each foot.

‘Once again, perfect. Thank you, Master Zeek.’

‘Expensive, but worth it. I’m afraid I have no money to return to you, Master Fynch. But then we did —’

‘Yes, we did,’ Fynch agreed. ‘Have you kept any record of the transactions, Zeek?’

‘None at all,’ the tailor replied, scratching his head. Then he busied himself with clearing away the string that held the boots together. He began talking about the onset of bad weather. ‘I hope you don’t have far to travel, Master Fynch. There could be a storm in the region.’

Fynch ignored the small talk. ‘And you spoke to no-one else about the weapons or the belts, the boots or the garments … or of my presence?’ he pressed.

‘No, no,’ Zeek protested, his tone defensive. ‘I am as good as my word,’ he said, irritation beginning to crease his face but Cassien saw that his gaze never lighted on Fynch.

Fynch glanced at his travelling companion, but Cassien’s attention was drawn abruptly to the mirror … which held the image of Romaine. It was as if time stood still, just for a heartbeat.

He can describe you. He must be dealt with.