Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh Page A

was a boy. Persuaded by his bigoted mother, he held the view7 that those who appeared to wield magic—not that he believed in it—should be hunted down and executed. In truth Celimus cared nothing for witches or warlocks. Their kind had never impacted on his life and his generation had no belief in such folk, yet the idea of wringing confessions using methods of torture from supposedly empowered people did interest him. It interested him in the same way it fascinated him to hear the screams when he bullied and hurt defenseless creatures such as the palace dogs and cats. As a youngster he had enjoyed listening to their pitiful cries for release from his ministrations. He wondered if anyone knew how many corpses he had secretly buried, mostly in the midden heaps around Stoneheart.
    He would have to sneak into the dungeon today, of course, but he was counting on no one having the courage to ask a royal Prince to leave—not now that he was a man and tall enough to look down on most. No, he would have a fine afternoon’s entertainment, not the least of which was dragging thirteen-year-old Thirsk through what he hoped would be a shattering experience that would show up the General for the cringing child he surely was.
    “I’ll bring you down. Wyl Thirsk. I shall crush you like overripe fruit and then I will poison your family name. And when I’m King,” he muttered to himself, unaware that his words were becoming loud enough for others to hear, “I shall end the reign of the Thirsk ingrates as generals by—” His rantings were interrupted by the arrival of the breathless page.
    “Well?” the Prince demanded.
    The boy, sweating from both exertion and his nervousness of having to face the well-known temper of the young heir, stammered that Wyl Thirsk was not to be found in Stoneheart.
    Before Celimus could explode the boy tremulously added, “But I have an idea where he might have gone, my lord Prince.”
    Celimus bent low toward the trembling child. “I don’t care where you have to go, you dullard, but you find him and do it quickly!” he bellowed at the youngster. “Don’t come back here without Thirsk,” he yelled toward the retreating figure. “Or it will be your neck I’ll snap!” The boy fled.
    Wyl was not so far away on this particular afternoon but had made himself scarce with Alyd Donal.
    Fortune had smiled upon him a few months after the meeting with the King. A new boy. the same age as Wyl. had been brought into the group. He too came from a close family and because they were both feeling a similar emotional dislocation the boys became inseparable.
    Wyl could tell that Gueryn had done everything within his power to encourage the friendship and had gone so far as to include Alyd in his personal training with Wyl. But Wyl. much to his lament, now spent long periods out of the yards and in tutoring with Celimus.
    Wyl had kept his promise to the King and made himself as available as he could to Celimus but nothing had changed in how they felt about each other. But he had forged the ability within himself to simply accept his lot. He would not join in with any of the mischief that the swaggering Celimus promoted and yet, like a shadow, was never very far away. Wyl watched and Wyl protected wherever he could, often warning Celimus of impending discovery of his latest scheme or diverting attention to prevent him from being found out. It was not without its risks and it was obvious to him that Celimus was unaware of the pact Wyl had forged with his father. He never promised he would like the heir, though, or even respect him and Wyl could never fully suppress his smoldering contempt. His friend Alyd warned that it showed.
    “Tread carefully. Wyl. He will make you pay somehow.”
    “I’ve saved his lot so many times.”
    “For which he owes you nothing! Don’t forget your place or the fact that your pact is with the King alone. One day Celimus will be King…what will you do then?” Wyl could not answer