Bridge of souls, p.12
Bridge of Souls, page 12
We all do.
“No, it was more than that. I felt like I belonged to him,” Fynch said softly, slightly embarrassed. “Even though I know my creature is Roark, the unicorn.”
The dog offered no explanation and Fynch sensed his friend was confused when he replied: It cannot be a bad thing to feel connected to the King of the Beasts.
Fynch understood he would get no more insight from Knave. He knew the Warrior King had also sensed something between them. He had seen recognition flare in the creature’s dark eyes. But the King had gone now and there was no point in teasing at that problem.
Not when there was a journey to make, a man to kill, and another to save.
Despite his sleep, Wyl did not feel rested in the slightest, and Fynch’s words had so disturbed him that he could not face putting his head back on the pillow. Soon enough, a gaggle of servants arrived to deliver the bath, hot water, fresh clothes, and a tray of welcome food and wine.
He took his time luxuriating in the steaming water and staring at the trio of gowns Valentyna had sent for him to choose from. He hated the sight of them, despised having to climb into a dress and curtsy before the woman he loved. And what was more, something terrifying was occurring in Ylena’s body. At first he had been alarmed by the creeping hurt that had begun low and deep, almost at his groin. Sharp needles of pain had stabbed regularly at him since he had woken. The heat of the bath had soothed them but not taken them away, and then a fresh ache across his back had begun. When the dull throb of a headache gathered, he knew he was ill, but it was only as he was considering how to explain the discomfort to a physic that he understood what this was all about. He had Ylena’s monthly bleed. A new wave of sickness passed over him. How much more humiliation could he take? Did he truly have to contend with this?
He took his mind back to easier times, when life was bright and happy for Ylena. He recalled how she would withdraw each month for a day at least and rest, but he had hardly been privy to much more information than, “Your sister is indisposed. She leaves a message that you should visit tomorrow when she will be feeling better.” He smirked bitterly in the warm waters. The first day is always the worst, she had told him when he had dared to ask more than was polite. So he had to deal with this pain for one day—and then what? How long would the bleed last? He knew there was something about linens and regular changing, but that was a woman’s world. His world now. He dipped deeper into the warmth of the bath.
Fynch’s words haunted him. His friend was right: What did it matter if Ylena died at the hands of Celimus, or anyone else? Her death would buy Valentyna time. Wyl Thirsk would go on living anyway, he thought grimly. Perhaps he could persuade Celimus to do the ugly deed and end it once and for all. But just as he began to work out a plan, he remembered Elysius’s warning that if he attempted to contrive his own death, the repercussions would be savage. He could not risk another person he loved suffering and he felt sure the penalty would be leveled on someone else rather than himself.
He dropped Ylena’s head to her hands in deep frustration, but in truth his mind was made up. Fynch’s advice was wise. Wyl could represent Valentyna to Celimus. The King of Morgravia would hardly turn down the opportunity to welcome Ylena back to Stoneheart—and no doubt directly into her former cell in the dungeon…or worse. He cared not. The sooner he was rid of Ylena’s body, the better. He felt sick at heart that he would lose her again, but he would be glad to no longer walk in her skin.
Wyl pondered a plan as he washed Ylena’s hair and readied her for dinner. A small glow of luck saw a maid arrive to clear his tray. He begged a favor and it was taken care of in minutes. She brought him strips of linen and a strange brown liquid that smelled awful and tasted worse.
The young maid smiled at him as he thanked her. “The pain will go quickly, my lady. I’ll have some more linens delivered.”
The Duke of Felrawthy crossed the room and swept Ylena into his arms. “Wyl,” he whispered into his prisoner’s ear, “thank Shar you’re safe.”
Wyl felt self-conscious at the show of affection and yet knew it would appear perfectly normal to the Queen, who stood regally nearby, delighting in the reunion of her Morgravian guests. She looked dazzling in a dark brown gown of the simplest design. Figure hugging, with no frills or flounces, ruches or tucks, it flattered her tall, slim frame, the deep color accentuating the brightness of her eyes against her creamy complexion and the dark hair she had twisted up behind her head with a tortoiseshell comb.
When he was placed back on the floor, Wyl took the Duke’s hand in his own and placed both their fists against his own heart. It was the gesture of a Legionnaire, and in Morgravian society would have looked not only odd but vulgar when performed by a woman. Fortunately, Valentyna had no understanding of the gesture, although Wyl knew Crys would instantly understand its intent. For Wyl, it was the only way he could show his true self and convey the depth of his feeling for what had occurred.
“I’m shattered by the news of your family,” he said softly.
Crys momentarily lost his tight grip on the sorrow he kept locked away and Wyl saw it march slowly, painfully, across the handsome Duke’s features.
“I can’t—” Crys began haltingly.
“I know,” Wyl said, fighting down the lump that was closing his own throat. “I understand. Stay strong, Crys. Their lives will not have passed in vain.”
All Crys could do was gather up his hurts quickly and hide them again. It was either that or break down completely. He nodded as he turned away.
Valentyna rescued them both. “Ylena, Crys, come, I’ve had a table set up by the fire. Let us break some bread together.”
Had the Queen deliberately chosen to entertain them in the same chamber in which Wyl had first met her father, with its secret doorway and huge tapestry covering the privy? He could not guess but it felt strangely comforting to be here again—as though he had come full circle. Nothing much had changed in the room, save a few Valentyna-esque flourishes. A jar of blooms, some fresh lavender and herbs scattered on the floor that would release their scent as they were crushed underfoot, a thick rug, and a charcoal-sketched likeness of Valor done by his daughter that hung unobtrusively in a corner. It was not a great work of art but had obviously been done with raw emotion and she had somehow captured the spirit of the man. The final brightening touch was a tiny puppy, gamboling about near the warmth of the hearth, teasing at a bone.
Valentyna saw Wyl’s amusement at the little fellow as they seated themselves and shrugged. “I miss Knave.” Then she whispered, “I hear you have the curse. Have you taken some raspberry-leaf tea?”
Wyl nodded, though he had no idea whether he had taken such tea or not. He was startled by her candidness. Did women discuss these maladies openly with one another?
Valentyna’s smile was all sympathy. “The first day is always the worst.”
Wyl wondered if his face was flushed red with the embarrassment he was feeling and was glad when Crys claimed his attention, drawing him away from the Queen’s conspiratorial gaze.
“You’ve heard that Elspyth has gone?” Crys inquired of Wyl, the young Duke fully composed again.
Wyl felt proud of him. Morgravia could recover with young men like this to lead the future. If only he could rid the realm of its present monarch, there was hope. “Yes, into the clutches of Cailech, I suspect.”
“What can we do?” Crys asked, not really expecting a response.
“I shall have to go after her.”
“What?” Valentyna cried, and Wyl could understand how strange his comment must have sounded. “What can a tiny creature like you do against Cailech and his Mountain Men?”
“Oh,” Wyl said, finding a lazy grin he was certain Romen would be proud of, “you’d be surprised, your majesty.”
“But you’ve never been there. You have no idea about this man!” Valentyna spluttered, the noblewoman’s arrogance reminding her of someone she had once loved.
“True,” Wyl lied. “But Elspyth decided to risk it,” he continued, “and we have time on our side. Presumably she is on foot?”
The Queen nodded. “She took nothing, not even the horse she rode in on.”
“She’ll be a while getting into the Razors, then. In the meantime, there’s a realm at stake.”
Valentyna found a sad smile for her new friend. “I was measured for my wedding gown this afternoon.”
“As you should be,” Wyl said, suppressing the nausea that rose in his throat at the thought. “You must be seen to be progressing with your plans for the wedding, your highness. Let the spies report that you are preparing as any imminent bride would be.”
Valentyna put down her goblet, her expression one of disgust. “And in the interim allow him to intimidate my people by setting up his arrogant Legionnaires in camps along our border?” She briefed her guests on everything she had gleaned from recent reports.
Wyl considered this information, sipping quietly from his own wine, as a poultry course was laid before them. Valentyna’s fare was simple but delicious, as was her choice in most things. He stared now at the roasted chicken before him, the heady scents of lemon and rosemary wafting up to tantalize him.
“The Legion’s movements are purely that,” he said, looking up from his plate and sounding nothing like a pampered young noblewoman.
“Pardon me?” the Queen inquired, a fork speared with meat balanced halfway to her mouth.
“You think it’s a ruse?” Crys chimed in.
Wyl shook his head. “No ruse. Celimus would not hesitate to send in his men, if pushed, but he has a good soldier’s brain. And he’s a king now with designs on broadening his empire, not losing his subjects. No, I think this is what you might call stage one. I would do precisely the same in his shoes.”
“Which is what, exactly?” Valentyna asked, stunned by Ylena’s sudden likeness to Liryk or, indeed, her own father. The girl’s brother, Wyl Thirsk, had sounded just as straightforward in the final few moments she had known him as he had helped her escape the fate both he and her father had met that afternoon.
“Parade the might of the Legion, remind Briavel of the power that lies across the border. He knows you are aware that war with Morgravia would be insanity and that you will not permit it.”
“Won’t I?” she said, suddenly contrary. She sounded as if she would rather fight. Ylena’s presence, fragile though it appeared, seemed to have given her a new rush of hope.
“No, your majesty,” Wyl answered. Ylena’s voice was high-pitched and very feminine, but the tone he managed to hit left no room for argument. “You will send him a declaration of your affections instead. A reinforcement, if you will, of your commitment to the marriage and peace for the region.”
A hard blue gaze riveted Wyl to where he sat. He swallowed to loosen his throat, which felt suddenly tight. Oh, how he would love to take her in his arms and kiss her, declare his love, and tell her everything, to hell with whether she believed him or not. A roll of pain in his belly reminded him that the Queen saw a woman across the table and certainly did not harbor the same sentiments. What was more, her expression demanded an explanation of his statement.
He was about to continue when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Valentyna called for one of her aides to enter and Wyl saw the irritation flicker across her face. He realized how much she would be missing Krell’s competent presence, knowing how much he had screened from her and dealt with himself.
The man bowed. “Your highness, Commander Liryk said you would want to have this information immediately.” He handed her a document.
“Thank you,” the Queen said, standing as she took the paperwork and nodding to dismiss the messenger. She moved to the fire to read it. “Excuse me,” she murmured to her guests.
Both watched her expression grow more serious as she read, then darken. She let out a harsh sound, half laughter, half despair. Wyl pushed his chair back and, despising the swish of his gown and girlish click of his heels, was at her side.
“Your highness, what is it?” He could see her pale before him.
Crys too was on his feet. “Your majesty?”
The Queen shook her head, eyes closed, jaws firmly clamped together as she gathered herself. She opened her eyes and they were filled with tears. “Our spies report that King Celimus of Morgravia is on his way north to Felrawthy, where he will meet for a parley with the Mountain King.”
“Cailech and Celimus?” Wyl murmured in disbelief.
She nodded. “It’s a reliable source too.”
“What on earth would they have in common?” Crys said into the tense silence.
“Briavel!” Valentyna banged her fist against the mantelpiece and let out a sound of deep anguish. “They mean to destroy us.”
“Wait, Valentyna!” Wyl cried, forgetting himself and all protocol. “Let me think.” He began to pace.
Anyone who had known Fergys Thirsk, and perhaps his son, would be aware that this was a family trait. It had always amused Magnus to see his general pacing as he formulated battle or peace plans, and if Ylena or Alyd were alive, they would be able to confirm that Wyl was hewn from the same block. Neither of the two people watching Ylena pacing now had known Fergys or Wyl Thirsk that well, but Valentyna had known Romen and she had watched him perform this very action when thinking and plotting. It struck her so resoundingly she felt her breath catch in her throat. Even more disconcerting was the fact that Ylena was pulling at her ear as she paced, a habit Valentyna had teased Romen Koreldy about on several occasions during their short time together. There it was again, the tugging at the right ear, the relentless slow pacing, the face lost in thought. Shar! She was going mad. She looked away and reached for her wine, swallowed it in a single draft. The liquor helped steady her but did nothing to alleviate the shock of the news or the bewildering sense of Romen’s presence.
Suddenly she was reminded of Fynch’s strange suggestion that Wyl Thirsk and Romen Koreldy were of one mind. The boy had stopped just short of saying they were one person. How could it be that Wyl’s sister now seemed to reflect similar traits? And then Elspyth’s words blew through her mind:
I believe that some people are reincarnated. Perhaps you should listen more carefully to your friend Fynch. It is to this which he refers, I am sure. And you must promise me that should another person look at you and perhaps touch you emotionally as Romen did, reminding you uncannily of the man you loved, that you will permit it.
Permit them to love me, you mean? Valentyna remembered saying in amusement, almost teasing.
But Elspyth had nodded seriously and added, Perhaps even a woman.
Valentyna looked back at Ylena. Perhaps even a woman. She gasped, turning away to hide the sound and the frightened look on her face. What was happening here? What was Shar’s plan? Something else nagged at the edges of her mind, something urging her to recall it. But it remained on the fringe, hovering and niggling, and her anxiety over this latest action of the Morgravian King won the battle and banished the thought. Valentyna had to focus on Celimus and his intentions, not her spiraling emotions and deranged thoughts that Ylena Thirsk was the embodiment of Romen Koreldy! Fool! she screamed at herself inwardly.
Crys urged Wyl to speak his thoughts.
Wyl swung around, the swish of his gown annoying him again. How he wished he could at least be Faryl, tall and strong in her masculine clothes. “I know Celimus,” he said, just pulling himself back from blurting out, I know Cailech too. “And I have traveled with someone who knows Cailech,” he lied.
“And?” Valentyna prompted, pushing away her own confusing thoughts.
Wyl raised Ylena’s delicate hands. “Celimus despises Cailech. He is quietly obsessed with the Mountain King, your highness, and nothing would prompt him to organize a parley with a sovereign whose realm, I’m sure, he entertains visions of destroying.”
“At least Celimus is consistent in his ambitions,” Valentyna commented bitterly. “Go on.”
“Everything I’ve heard suggests that Cailech hates Morgravia’s new king just as energetically—has more reason to, in fact.” Wyl’s mind was racing. “So in truth, I can’t see either of them making such a move of their own volition. Something has prompted it.”
“As the Queen suggests, then—joining forces against Briavel,” Crys argued.
Wyl shook his head, felt Ylena’s hair bob from side to side, and grimaced to himself. “No. Celimus doesn’t need the Mountain King to overwhelm Briavel. The Legion could crush the Briavellian Guard resoundingly. If he were of a mind to do so, he could take Briavel by force and then combine the armies to take on Cailech. That’s the more logical scenario—no offense intended, your highness.”
“None taken,” she replied, frowning. There was no doubting it: She felt as if she were being briefed by a soldier. “Why the parley, then?”
“Does the letter say any more?”
Valentyna scanned it quickly again. “No, just the name of the man who brought the original message out of the Razors and delivered it to Celimus’s people.”
“Who was it?” Wyl said. No doubt someone reliable like Myrt, he reckoned.
Valentyna squinted at the page. “Dreadful writing,” she murmured. “I think it says his name is Farrow. Yes, Aremys Farrow.”
10
USING FRESH HORSES AT INTERVALS, KING CELIMUS HAD SWEPT THROUGH THE GATES OF TENTERDYN EARLIER THAN HE’D EXPECTED. HE WAS IMPRESSED BY THE SPRAWLING estate of Felrawthy’s duke and delighted to see that the manor itself was exceptionally well appointed. For a provincial family, the Donals had not lived without creature comforts. Freshly bathed and changed now, and having taken ownership of Jeryb’s magnificent study with its view over the heather-laden moors, Celimus nodded at his chancellor. “Bring him before me.”
Jessom entered the small antechamber where Aremys Farrow had been asked to wait. “I trust there are no tricks up your sleeve, my friend,” he cautioned the mercenary.
