Bridge of souls, p.13
Bridge of Souls, page 13
Aremys eyed the hook-nosed Chancellor. “Just earning my living, Jessom,” he replied. “Lead on.”
The man turned and showed Aremys into the main chamber.
“Farrow,” Celimus said from the window where he had been admiring the vista.
“Your highness,” Aremys returned, dropping a low bow.
“You are quite a surprise.”
“That is not my intention, sire,” the mercenary replied, straightening.
“Will you tell me how it comes about that you are working for my enemy?”
“Your highness, I am a man available for hire by anyone with coin to pay. I am always loyal to my employer, as your chancellor would know. You must not fear that I have shared any secrets with Cailech, just as he need not fear I will share any of his with you,” Aremys said smoothly.
“So you admit he has secrets?” Celimus said, moving in his fluid, elegant manner to sit on the corner of Jeryb’s old desk.
“We all have secrets, your majesty,” Aremys said carefully. “It does not mean they necessarily impact on one another.”
“Farrow, I would know how you came to be in the Razors when you were on paid business for the Crown of Morgravia,” Celimus replied testily, tiring of the banter.
Aremys was prepared for this question. “Your majesty, I was following the trail of Ylena Thirsk, as instructed.”
“Did you meet up with Leyen?” the King interrupted.
“No, sire. But I believe she may have discovered that our prey had visited this very house.”
“Is that so?” Celimus said, olive eyes narrowing.
Aremys moved into the critical area of his fabricated story. He would have to be convincing. “I don’t know what happened to Leyen. I presume she must have given up her pursuit because I haven’t found any trace of her since Tenterdyn. Perhaps she had other tasks to perform?” he prompted carefully, and pretended not to see the glance between Chancellor and King.
“I gathered Ylena Thirsk had already left Tenterdyn before Leyen’s arrival,” Aremys continued, “and found myself giving chase to the eldest son of Felrawthy and the Thirsk woman, who seemed to be heading north to the very rim of the Razors before veering east.”
Celimus nodded. “Into Briavel.”
Aremys hesitated, a question in his expression. Perhaps the King knew something he did not.
“We have heard reports that Crys Donal is at Briavel’s palace. Perhaps Ylena is with him.”
Aremys wondered how in Shar’s name the heir to Felrawthy had found himself in Werryl, although having heard with horror of the slaughter of Jeryb’s clan, he wasn’t terribly surprised that the young man had fled Morgravia. “Not necessarily, your highness,” he said into the lengthening silence.
“What do you mean?” Celimus queried.
“Your spies have not reported a sighting of Ylena Thirsk, have they?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Hmm,” Aremys said, quietly theatrical, as though thinking through something complex.
“Farrow, you still haven’t explained how you come to be with Cailech’s people,” Jessom prompted.
Aremys understood now why Wyl had disliked Jessom so deeply. He felt his own hackles rise at the interruption.
“I was getting to that, Chancellor. I overnighted in a border village, preparing to cross into Briavel the next morning to see if I could pick up the trail of Ylena Thirsk. There was no inn, just a shorrock house, and perhaps I had one too many, I don’t know. I suspect my nip was spiked with something in order to make it easier for thieves to set upon me later. It seems I wandered away from the main village in a stupor, and I do remember stumbling onto a track which I presumed would lead me into the Razors proper. I was very cold, I recall, and desperate to lie down. I remember men following me from the village, which is what drove me toward the mountains. But I’m afraid I remember very little else, sire.”
The King shook his head. “So what occurred next, Farrow?”
“I’ve pieced together that the thieves did attack me but were fended off by some men from the Razors, obviously using the track to enter Morgravia. They dealt with the villagers swiftly, by which time I was unconscious, and then decided to take me with them.”
“Why?” Celimus demanded.
“I don’t know, sire. Perhaps they knew I would die in the cold if they didn’t. They could see I was drugged and had been set upon by bandits. They felt obliged.” He shrugged.
“Obliged!” Celimus roared. “To help a Morgravian?”
Aremys was determined not to be intimidated. He kept his voice low. “They are not all murderers and thieves, your highness. The people of the Razors have scruples, families, a desire for peace—”
“Ah, you sympathize with the Mountain horde, Farrow?” the King interrupted, a definite barb in his tone.
“My king, I am a Grenadyne, so my soul is of the north. I like the notion that realms may prosper in peace rather than conquering one another through war.”
“Is that what this is all about, then?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Cailech is holding out the olive branch to Morgravia?” Disbelief was thick in the King’s voice.
Aremys nodded slowly. “You would like him, your majesty, if you’d agree to meet with him.”
“This is rich beyond words, Farrow. When did the leap from drugged captive to King’s counsel take place, might I ask?”
“King Cailech naturally wished to meet the stranger who had been picked up lurking on the fringe of the Razors. He learned that I was from the north, working as a mercenary in the south, and on business for the Crown of Morgravia. He does not know the details of my task for you, your highness. When the King interviewed me our conversation led us toward discussing the future of the Mountain People. When he said it was his greatest desire to create peace in the region, I asked him what was stopping him from discussing the same with the King of Morgravia. I mentioned that you were preparing for your wedding, sire, and that the two great realms of Morgravia and Briavel would soon be joined in peace. It fired his imagination, I think. He asked me to set up this meeting.”
“That’s it?” Jessom posed. “You are merely a go-between?”
Aremys did not look at the Chancellor but addressed Celimus. “Yes, sire, that is precisely what I am. Because I had been employed directly by you, Cailech thought it would be easier for me to seek an audience and set up this parley. He believed you were more likely to trust me than him.”
“I don’t trust anyone, Farrow, least of all mercenaries who have no loyalties.”
Aremys said nothing but he did not shrink under the hard gaze of the King. He understood that Celimus was used to staring down others. He must practice it in his mirror, Wyl had once commented caustically. Aremys remembered that now and had to stop himself from smiling.
“King Celimus, I sell my services, not my soul,” he finally replied, determined to stand his ground. “Cailech certainly does not own me—no one does. I am here to respectfully suggest that you, the reigning sovereign of a powerful kingdom, might consider it worthwhile to listen to what your northern neighbor has to say. Far more can be achieved around the dinner table, sire, than on the battlefield.”
“So now you’re a philospher and peacemaker, Farrow? I could have you killed for your insolence.”
“Yes, you could, sire,” Aremys said in a tone that made it clear he knew that worse had happened to innocents around this man. “But I ask your forgiveness if I have given the impression of presumptuousness. What you need to understand is that my own life is at stake, sire.”
That seemed to win the King’s attention. He gestured for Jessom to pour some wine. “Carry on,” he told Aremys.
Jessom offered Aremys a cup of wine and the mercenary was relieved by the gesture. Perhaps he would make it out of this meeting alive after all.
“Thank you,” he said before continuing. “I give the impression of being a free man, sire, but I am in fact Cailech’s prisoner. I have bought my freedom with the promise that I would attempt to set up this meeting. No money will exchange hands.”
Celimus held his cup up toward Aremys in an ironic toast. “You play with your life freely, mercenary.”
“It is mine to give, although I’m not sure I had any choice, your majesty.”
“And did you think I’d just say yes?”
“I could only hope so, sire.”
“In order to save your life?” Celimus mocked.
“No, my lord. To save Morgravia from war. I presume you’d like your marriage to be conducted in peace.”
Celimus arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So the Mountain upstart believes he can wage war on Morgravia—is that right?”
Aremys was tired of this but knew he was treading a fine line. Celimus walked his own knife edge of madness and would just as easily snuff out a person’s life as swat at a fly. He needed to be careful. “No, your majesty. I think he believes he can achieve peace between his realm and yours.”
Celimus smiled slyly and walked around Jeryb’s desk to sit down. As he did so, Aremys had time to notice a child’s engraving in the wood of the desk. The letters carved clumsily into the timber said ALYD and the mercenary was reminded of how that young man had been treated by this very King—his life taken on a whim, in front of his new wife and his closest childhood friend. That same friend who was now considered friend by Aremys. The mercenary felt a charge of anger as he considered that the two great families of Morgravia—the Donals of the north and the Thirsks to the south—had been all but wiped out on the command of the cruel man before him.
He watched Celimus lean back in Jeryb’s handsome chair and sip from Jeryb’s cup what was presumably a refreshment from Jeryb’s cellar. Anger settled in his gut. He joined Wyl in hating Celimus more than any other man, alive or dead, and determined to bring about his demise.
“Farrow,” the King began in a voice filled with tedium, as though explaining something obvious to someone stupid, “you know full well that I will not risk myself by going into the Razors to meet with your cowardly captor, a man who sends one of my own people—if I dare call you that—to do his dealings for him.”
“I realize that, your highness.”
“So I must presume that he is prepared to risk coming here alone, for I will not brook his men setting foot on Morgravian soil.”
“They would set up camp at the border,” Aremys replied, as though he and Cailech had already anticipated as much from Celimus. He felt relieved that the Captain had not reported that Aremys had been escorted into Morgravia by men of the mountains. Aremys inwardly saluted Bukanan’s foresight at not risking anything that might turn this situation ugly. Presumably the man knew how vicious his king could be and that an opportunity to make an example of Cailech’s men would prove irresistible.
“I see. So that means Cailech is perfectly comfortable about coming to meet me, in Morgravia, with no protection other than the sword of a Grenadyne mercenary who is in my employ and presently under my guard?” Celimus’s tone was filled with ironic amusement.
“I am not his protector, sire. I am purely his emissary.”
“Excellent. The situation is even more precarious, then, for Cailech is all alone and on Morgravian soil. What is to stop me from simply killing him?”
“Your desire for peace, sire,” Aremys offered as reasonably as he could. “The men of the Razors can be damnably elusive and they do not forgive, my lord. I am guessing they would wage systematic attacks on your borders until their last man fell…the last woman, even.”
“That does not scare me, Farrow,” the King replied, lazily twirling his goblet. “Frankly, I’d prefer his head on a spike at Stoneheart to holding talks in my court.”
“Of course he does have some insurance, sire.”
Celimus laughed, genuine enjoyment spicing the mirth. “Of course he does! Now what could Cailech possibly offer me that I don’t have and could possibly want?”
Aremys felt a tremor of fear pass through him. He was about to weave his most audacious lie yet, the only trump card he could produce from up his sleeve, and to a king who would have his throat slit from ear to ear this very second if he even suspected the ruse. “I believe there is one item you desire more than anything else, sire.”
“I didn’t know you possessed such magical insight into my desires, Farrow. Perhaps I should have you tortured and burned as a warlock?”
“No enchantments, sire,” Aremys replied calmly. “Simple logic tells me what you covet at present.”
“And that is?” Celimus said, a sarcastic sneer on his face.
“Ylena Thirsk, your highness.”
The sneer vanished instantly, as did the casual posture. The King sat forward, suddenly alert. “You have her?”
“I will deliver her, your majesty, on the promise that both Cailech’s life and my own are ensured your complete protection. We will come to Morgravia for the parley and you will allow him an escort of his men. Your two best captains, including Bukanan, who I gather is currently indispensable in the north, will stay at the border with the Mountain warriors. When the parley is complete, we will be escorted safely to the border of the Razors and permitted to depart into the mountains. When this promise is in writing and announced publicly to your people, I will arrange for Ylena Thirsk to be delivered to you.”
Celimus ignored everything Aremys had just listed. “Do you have her, Grenadyne?” the King bellowed.
“I do, sire,” Aremys lied, schooling his features to show an expression without guile. “Although I am not at liberty to tell you how that came to pass or where she is.” He smiled. “I do not require payment for her capture, sire. I would not consider that fair,” he added, and chanced a soft grin.
The idea to use Ylena as bargaining power had only occurred to Aremys when he had stood before Captain Bukanan and had arrogantly claimed that he had something in store that would keep Cailech’s life safe. He had no idea where Wyl was or how he might reach him, but he reckoned Celimus would go along with the notion that Aremys was holding Ylena, not just because he was a mercenary paid to track her down, but because the King wanted her. Celimus’s own greed and cruel desire to visit more torture on this last remaining member of the Thirsk dynasty far outweighed any doubt of Aremys’s honesty—at least, that was what Aremys was counting on. How he would deliver on his promise or, more to the point, wriggle out of it, was a whole new problem, but for now he was bargaining for his life and Wyl was all he had. If he could win Celimus’s nod with the lie, he would also win his freedom from Cailech. He reassured himself that he had no intention of betraying Wyl; he was simply using Ylena’s name as the lure to buy some time and his own safety.
Celimus leapt to his feet. His eyes were dark and stormy with wrath, and Aremys wondered if he had misjudged the monarch. But he had not. The impending storm cleared as swiftly as it had gathered and the King began to laugh as he applauded Aremys.
“Bravo, Farrow. Bravo indeed. I shall guarantee your life and that of King Cailech for the duration of his stay on Morgravian soil. Is that good enough?”
“With all the other provisos in place, sire.”
“Yes, I agree. When?”
“When it suits you, your majesty. You are the host.”
“Where, Jessom?” Celimus asked.
“Here, of course, sire. Tenterdyn offers easy access to and from the border, plus the ambience of a provincial palace. I would suggest a feast and entertainment, your highness. Show Cailech that you are a magnanimous host and prepared to extend the hand of fellowship while you hear what he has to say.”
“Good. See to it all, Jessom.” Celimus turned back to Aremys. “And Ylena?”
“I will start making preparations, sire,” Aremys said, feeling very nervous now.
“Waste not a minute, Farrow. Return to your captor and pass on your news. I expect the Thirsk woman to be delivered as soon as our talks are done.”
Aremys bowed and departed, eager to be out of the King’s sight.
11
SO HOW DID THIS AREMYS FELLOW END UP IN THE RAZORS IF HE WAS WITH YOU IN BRIAVEL?” THE QUEEN ASKED, HAVING DISCOVERED WHY BOTH her guests had reacted so dramatically to the mention of the man’s name.
“I have no idea,” Wyl replied, feeling both relief and delight that Aremys was alive. “We lost each other in the north.”
“How does one lose someone?” Valentyna said, sipping her wine.
It was not a serious question and Wyl opted not to answer it. “Long story,” he murmured. “I have an idea,” he added hurriedly when it seemed the Queen might want to hear the long story. Fynch’s suggestion would work now, with this latest news about Aremys.
“A plan?” Valentyna repeated, fractionally sarcastic. She folded her arms.
“Yes. But you won’t care for it much.”
“What’s this about?” Crys queried.
“We have to buy some time with Celimus,” Wyl explained, and Crys nodded. “So we buy it with me.”
“He’ll kill you!” Valentyna exclaimed.
“No, he won’t,” Wyl said, not believing it himself.
“He razed Rittylworth Monastery and its village, killing dozens, before turning on Tenterdyn and slaughtering my family,” Crys said, his voice cold, “all to hunt you down. Don’t tell me he won’t kill you the moment he sees you.” Then he added, quietly, “You know what will happen!” He was stilled from saying anything further by a dark glare from Ylena.
“What will happen?” Valentyna asked, sensing a new tension.
Wyl shook his head, ignoring the Queen’s question. “He won’t kill me because of Cailech,” he said. “I’ll make sure to time my arrival when the King of the Mountains is present. If they’re planning some sort of treaty, Celimus won’t be so stupid as to demand the death of a noble before his newly formed partnership, will he?”
“Won’t he?” Valentyna said, an appalled expression accompanying her query. “You’re gambling an awful lot on his sense of courtesy.”
