Bridge of souls, p.24
Bridge of Souls, page 24
He watched the surprise leave Ylena’s face. There was a momentary hesitation before she replied, but so slight he was sure he alone had been sensitive to it.
“Congratulations, sir,” Wyl said. “Do come closer and allow me to spit on you and the trade you ply.”
Bravo, Wyl, Aremys thought. Thank you for saving my life. Now how am I going to save yours?
“You high-and-mighty Legion wives and daughters are all the same—don’t think your men are any different. I’ve heard what happened at Rittylworth—”
Aremys was interrupted by the arrival of a Legionnaire at the doorway.
“Chancellor Jessom, the King wishes to speak to you before he leaves on his ride.”
“I’ll be just a minute, Farrow,” Jessom said. “Try not to make the wildcat too angry—her claws are sharp.” He smiled thinly as he left the hut.
“What are you doing here?” Wyl whispered.
“Listen to me, Wyl!” Aremys urged in an equally terrified whisper. “They are going to kill you.”
“And that’s supposed to frighten me?”
The big man frowned. It had not occurred to him that Wyl might welcome the next stage of the Quickening. “I…I suppose not.”
“That’s why I’m here—I want him to kill me.”
Aremys shook his head. “This is all too much for me,” he groaned. He stole a look over his shoulder to the courtyard, where Jessom was conversing with his sovereign. “Look, I used you as a bargaining tool. I told Celimus I could deliver you to him—it was my insurance to get Cailech and myself out of here alive.”
“I gathered as much,” Wyl said, just a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
“I had no idea you would deliver yourself. It was just a ruse—to buy us time.”
“Well, I’m here now. What intrigues me is how you and Cailech come to be here together.”
“It was the Thicket. It separated us.”
Understanding dawned on Ylena’s face. “Ah. I suspected as much. Any plan in mind for yourself?”
“None,” Aremys said, and looked at Ylena’s lovely face with despair.
She nodded. “When do you leave?”
“Tonight,” Aremys replied, then heard Jessom’s footsteps approaching. He gestured to Wyl, who quickly switched Ylena’s expression to one of rage.
“Get out!” he screamed.
Jessom entered to hear her shriek. “Oh dear, I did warn you, Farrow.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going. What are you going to do to her?”
The Chancellor looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, the King wants her dead, as you know.” It was a callous comment designed to frighten Ylena.
“Good, I can’t wait,” Wyl said.
Jessom was unable to hide his astonishment at Ylena’s reckless statement. “I was going to say that I was hoping to persuade him otherwise, but the young lady seems determined to die.” He shook his head. “I imagine King Celimus will make an example of her.”
“That’s risky, isn’t it?” Aremys queried.
The Chancellor sighed. “He will want to impress his regal companion.”
“He won’t—not in that manner,” Aremys said, desperate to prevent Wyl’s death, no matter how much his friend wanted it.
“We shall see. Come, Farrow, I trust you have gloated sufficiently. Farewell, Ylena. Prepare yourself to meet your king.”
“He is no King of mine, Jessom!” Wyl called out after the two men. A memory of kneeling before King Magnus filled his mind, and he recalled how he had pledged his life for Celimus. “And gladly will I give it,” he muttered now. He hoped Shar would hear and let Magnus know.
Cailech allowed Celimus to ride the exquisite white stallion that had been bred in the Razors. The Morgravian King’s silence as they guided their horses toward the back of Tenterdyn where the lush plains stretched toward the mountains, attested to his enjoyment of the beautiful beast.
“He’s extraordinary,” Celimus finally said when they halted beneath a small stand of trees.
“He is yours.”
“I could not—”
“No, really. Let me gift him to you to seal our historic union. It is appropriate. I reared this one from a newborn foal. He has a twin brother, identical. His mother is one of my most treasured broodmares and his sire is a tough old rogue with perfect bloodlines. He suits you as much as he does me. Now we shall both have white stallions of the same family. Fitting, don’t you think?”
Celimus gave Cailech one of his dazzling smiles. This gift pleased him more than anything the Mountain King had brought with him; it meant more than the alliance itself. “Thank you. I will think of you whenever I ride him.”
“His name is Wildfire, like the falling-star trails we see on a clear night in the Razors.”
“And what can I give you in return?”
Cailech shrugged. “Oh, I’ll think of something,” he said. Both men laughed.
“Whatever you want, it is yours.”
“Be careful. That promise sounds wide reaching. I might choose your bride-to-be.”
Celimus gave a wolfish grin. “Whatever you want that is here in Felrawthy, then.”
“I know I mentioned this before, but I feel compelled to repeat it: Our fathers would be proud of this alliance,” Cailech said, his voice suddenly wistful.
“Not mine. I never made him proud.”
“What you have done today, and what you have achieved between Morgravia and Briavel, should make him sit up in his tomb and applaud.”
Celimus liked the notion. He laughed, respecting his companion despite himself, despite his plans to betray him. He and Cailech were similar. Not in looks of course but in…what was it? He reached for that intangible something he had recognized in Cailech. Texture, that was it. They had a similar texture. Both Kings, both ambitious. Celimus believed the Mountain King was as ruthless as he himself was. The likeness pleased him. Cailech’s personality, though less flamboyant, was just as large and domineering as Celimus’s own. His father had seen these facets of his son’s nature as flaws, and yet here they were reflected in a man his father had considered powerful, talented, intrepid. Celimus shook his head.
“My father hated me, Cailech. We hated each other, in truth. He killed my mother—I’m sure of it—and were I not his only heir, no doubt he would have seen me dead too.”
“You will carve your own way for your own realm, my friend. Forget him. He is dust. Not forgotten, I grant you—you will always feel his shadow falling over you—but remember, that is all it is. A shade, no substance. He cannot hurt you now, or command you. You rule Morgravia and you have vision. Your people are fortunate.”
Celimus’s chest swelled with pride to hear his fellow sovereign speak of him with such respect, but it deflated as he pondered the last few words. “No, they don’t see it that way. They fear me.”
Cailech reached down to stroke the neck of the borrowed horse he was riding. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“Your people are in awe of you. My people are just frightened of me.”
“You have the power to change that, Celimus. And within weeks, not just your people, but the citizens of Briavel, and even my people, will see what you have achieved: peace throughout the whole region. What an extraordinary time this is—and you are the one who has brought it about. I am proud to be a part of it.”
Celimus searched the Mountain King’s face for guile, suspecting this man was simply oiling him up, but he saw nothing but the hard green gaze of a man determined to forge peace. In that moment he made a decision that went against everything that made Celimus who he was. Charged by this man’s encouragement and pride, he decided to maintain the alliance. He would not betray Cailech as planned; he would keep his promise and spare lives. He would ensure that the union worked, even though it meant compromising his grand plans of imperial domination. In one of the rarest moments of his life, Celimus smiled and meant it. “Let it be so, then,” he said, his voice almost catching with the emotion he felt.
Cailech saw the change and realized that he had just saved hundreds of lives and ensured a new peace for his kingdom. He felt invigorated by what had been achieved by a simple conversation on horseback. “Remind me to gift you a horse more often,” he said, his eyebrow arching.
Celimus threw back his head and laughed boyishly. “I’ll race you across the fields and show you how fine this stallion is.”
Wildfire sprang forward and Cailech followed. But inside he felt a tinge of regret, for the Morgravian’s words had reminded him of Galapek and his growing sorrow at what had been worked upon the poor beast.
Gueryn was permitted to walk without being shackled this time. Even his hands were free to swing at his side as he luxuriated in the warmth on his back from another beautiful morning.
“How are you today, Jos?”
“Just fine,” came the mangled reply, but Gueryn understood.
“Only one of you today?”
The big man nodded. “We trust you,” he said, offering his crooked grin.
“I won’t run away if you have more important duties to attend to,” Gueryn assured.
“You’re my most important duty. I can’t let the King down by losing you.”
“All right, I do understand. But you have my word,” Gueryn offered. It was crucial now to build a friendship and some trust. His chances at escape were increased if he could lull his captors into believing he would never make such an attempt. Descending the Razors was no easy prospect, and vivid memories of the arrow thumping into his body discouraged him from such an idea, but it was spring and there would never be an easier time, with the King and Myrt away.
“Morning,” Maegryn called, stepping back from a horse whose hooves he was inspecting.
“And what a fine one it is,” Gueryn replied.
“Did you ache from your work?”
“Yes, but it felt good,”
“A treat for you today. A ride, with Jos here and another guard.”
“Oh? How come?”
“Three of our stallions need some proper exercise.”
Gueryn could see his own pleasure reflected in the grin from the stablemaster. “A ride.” He said it as though the words were brand-new on his tongue.
“I’d come myself but one of the King’s broodmares is in labor and I have to be around for the delivery. She’s struggling a bit, so I can’t risk not being close.”
“Can we help?” Gueryn asked reflexively. He had been around horses since he was a child and had been involved in enough births to be useful.
“I appreciate it but I’m hoping the little one will be born before you lot return. And the mother’s best with fewer fussing around her.” Gueryn showed his understanding with a slight nod. “Jos, you’ll be on Charger—he’s out sunning himself over there in the paddock. He’s a fiery character but let him loose. He needs a good run. Rollo will be accompanying you. He’s on Dray, the older stallion.”
“And me, Maegryn?” Gueryn asked.
“Well now, Morgravian, I thought I’d allow you to ride something very special. You might have to prove your worth as a horseman today because you’ll be calling on all your skills.”
Gueryn grinned. “Do your worst, Maegryn. I’d ride a donkey right now just for the chance to be back in a saddle again.”
“This is no donkey, le Gant. This is the King’s most prized horse and he’s a flighty one. That’s him you hear right now making all that noise.”
Gueryn frowned. “He does sound agitated. What do you call him?”
“Galapek.”
The joy of learning he would be on horseback, however briefly, had temporarily sapped Gueryn of his wits. It had not occurred to him that one of the mounts could be the very horse he was trying to track down.
“Galapek,” he repeated, taking a moment to gather himself and ensure no recognition showed in his expression. “That’s a sorrowful name indeed for a fine stallion.”
“Oh? I’ve been told it’s from the old language. How could you know old Northernish?” Maegryn asked, intrigued.
“My ancestors on my maternal side were from a place even more north than here. The old language stayed alive in our family. I learned some of it as a child.”
“So what does it mean? We’ve all been dying to know,” Jos chimed in.
Maegryn grimaced. “I think Rashlyn said that none of us know what Galapek means.”
“It means ’traitor,’” Gueryn answered, surprised. So none of these men had an inkling about the stallion, not even the irony of the King’s choice of name.
“Traitor?” Maegryn repeated. “What sort of a name is that for a horse?”
Gueryn shrugged. “Perhaps your king has a sense of humor.”
“Stupid name, if you ask me. This is an extraordinary beast, le Gant. You Morgravians have never clapped eyes on anything so remarkable. He’s the most beautiful stallion I’ve ever seen.”
“Grenadyne?”
Maegryn’s eyes seemed to sink into his skull even further, if that were possible. “He was a present. I have no idea who sired him.”
Gueryn sensed the withdrawal. He had worked too hard to forge this precious friendship, however fragile it was, and didn’t wish to lose it. “Well, let’s see this splendid beast. You’ve made me feel envious already.”
“Here he comes now,” Maegryn replied, forthcoming again. “Admit it, le Gant. He’s the finest horse you’ve ever seen.”
Gueryn felt his breath catch in his throat. The horse was massive through the chest. He came toward them, proud and majestic in gait. He shook his head and his long mane flicked in a shiny wave of fluid movement while his black coat sparkled in the bright morning. He was beautiful, there was no denying it, but Gueryn saw the ugliness in the horse’s eyes. They were wide, as if in permanent fear, and his flesh appeared to twitch incessantly.
“Ah, here’s your other companion,” Maegryn said. “Rollo is one of the King’s most trusted men, le Gant. No tricks, eh? He’s also one of our best archers and won’t hesitate to sink another arrow into that shoulder of yours.”
Gueryn smiled at Rollo. Rollo did not smile back, and Gueryn recalled with vivid intensity his aborted escape, the arrow ripping through skin and nerves, muscle and bone. He was in no hurry to feel that sensation again, yet knew he would risk it if the opportunity for escape presented itself. “Have no fear,” he assured, lying easily.
Maegryn gave some final instructions regarding the horses and Gueryn submitted to having his hands loosely strung together.
“You can still handle the horse with ease. Just a precaution, you understand?” Rollo said.
Gueryn pulled a face to suggest it was of no consequence to him and then made use of Maegryn’s offered leg up to hoist himself into the saddle. The other men followed suit, and after a nod from Rollo, the party eased itself away from the stable compound.
20
THEY HAD TRAVELED A SHORT DISTANCE THROUGH THE NIGHT USING MAGIC. THE BOY HAD PERFORMED THE MAGICAL TRANSPORTATION AND then slept restlessly, sometimes crying out, presumably in pain. Now awake, he squatted, pale and quiet, chewing sharvan leaves.
Knave wanted to ask Fynch what he had meant the previous day when he answered the kestrel’s question so audaciously, but he did not dare. When Fynch had finally roused himself from the curious stupor he had fallen into after the bird’s departure, he had been withdrawn and Knave had sensed it was no time for talk. Movement was best and so he had suggested they walk for a time and then sleep until the early hours, which they had done. When the time came, Knave had marveled at the speed with which Fynch had conjured the spell to create what could only be described as a bridge to the Thicket. When the Thicket responded, Knave felt a pulse like a thick plume of air punched into his side. The next moment he landed, breathless, alongside Fynch on a safe ledge deeper into the Razors and closer to their prey.
“All right, Knave?” Fynch had whispered.
Yes, he had replied, and that had been the end of the conversation. Fynch had settled immediately and slept. Once again, the dog had lain down beside his companion and kept the youngster’s body warm with his own.
Now it was time to move again. Are we waiting for something? Knave risked.
“For Kestrel. I feel him.”
How is the pain?
“Not unbearable,” Fynch answered. “Thank you,” he added, and Knave knew he meant it. Then: “Kestrel speaks,” and Fynch opened his mind to share the communication with Knave. Where are you? he asked the bird across the leagues that divided them.
Just outside Sharptyn. I have found her.
Good, he replied calmly. What can you see?
She seems to be a prisoner—she walks with shackled hands and feet. There are others, all women. Men guard them. And there’s a child—a small girl belonging to one of the men, I think. The girl talks to your friend.
Is Elspyth injured?
Pretty name. There was a pause. Not injured, but she looks frightened.
What are they doing now? Fynch pressed his temples and Knave knew the pain was back.
I can’t really tell. I would guess that they are stretching their limbs because they came out of a shed a short while ago.
Fynch. You must stop, Knave urged.
Fynch nodded. Kestrel, I am so grateful to you. Can I trouble you to remain there awhile longer?
No trouble.
Thank you. I’ll talk again shortly. Fynch closed the link.
You cannot keep doing this, the dog cautioned.
“We must save her.” Fynch’s tone was stubborn.
How?
“You must go to Valentyna and get her help.” The dog’s silence made his exasperation clear. “Please, Knave.”
We have a task to complete.
“And I will finish it as promised. But I also promised that I would help Wyl’s cause. I will not forgive myself if Elspyth perishes.”
