Bridge of souls, p.25
Bridge of Souls, page 25
We are helpless.
“Not helpless. Just distant. I can fix that.”
No, Fynch.
“Yes. If you won’t go, I will.”
A difficult silence lengthened between them as the huge dog regarded the trembling yet implacable boy. Knave knew the suffocating pain Elysius had suffered, even though the sorcerer had used his magic infrequently and with utmost care. Knave could not imagine the burden Fynch was bearing right now.
You’ll send me?
“And bring you back when you’ve delivered her a note.”
That will still take days.
“Not if I send you the entire distance.”
Fynch! It will kill you.
“Trust me. I am stronger than you think.”
The dog felt helpless. He had no doubt his companion would send himself back to Werryl if he did not comply. And you will promise to continue on alone? he asked.
Fynch covered his face, pushing his fingers against his eyes. His answer was mumbled and weak. “Yes, of course.”
Rashlyn will sense the magic, Knave warned.
“I don’t care. Elspyth could die.”
So could you.
“I am already sacrificed.”
Oh, Fynch.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but you must do this for me. I will prepare a note. Valentyna can send help.”
Can you write? the dog asked, looking for a reason to prevent this madness.
“I know some letters…enough to convey the urgency.”
Knave looked at him gravely. There is a cave over there. You must rest for a while before you travel on.
“I think you’re right,” Fynch admitted. He dug into his sack for a scrap of parchment he had had the foresight to throw in, but although he had brought a quill, he had forgotten ink in his rush. “I’ll use blood,” he said matter-of-factly, and, without hesitating, dragged a small knife across his palm.
He scrawled five words only, spelled incorrectly but clearly enough: Elspyth, Sharptyn south, huts, danger. He had to dip the quill frequently into the pool of blood in his palm. Knave could not watch, disgusted with this turn of events but also feeling helpless.
“For Valentyna only, you understand?”
I understand. Knave allowed Fynch to tie the parchment around his neck with some trailing grass vines. It was fragile but would make the journey.
“Ready?”
Do it! the dog instructed, unable to conceal his dissatisfaction any longer.
“I’ll wait to hear,” Fynch said, hugging the dog briefly. Without wasting another word, he sent Knave tumbling through a magical tunnel arcing from the Razors to Werryl.
Knave landed softly on all fours, checked that the parchment was still in place, and then took his bearings. He was in the woodlands just beyond Werryl city, where the Queen liked to ride. Sighing to himself, he set off at a lope toward the palace.
Back in the Razors, Fynch retched pitifully, but there was nothing to be expelled. He curled up, exhausted, in his cold but dry cave and, chewing on his decreasing supply of sharvan leaves, drifted toward sleep—the only place where respite from his aching head was to be found.
It was late afternoon of Elspyth’s second day as prisoner. The first had passed in a blur caused by the drug and the shock of her situation. She was still too stunned to take in all that had happened to her, but she had been able to realize that she was among women only; there were no male prisoners. Released from the huts, she found the courage to speak to one of her fellow prisoners.
“What are we doing here?”
“Finally found your voice, then. Don’t worry, we’re all the same when we first arrive.”
“What is this place?”
“We’re prisoners. They trick us, trap us, and keep us here.”
“What for?”
“Who are you? You’re not Briavellian, are you?”
“My name is Elspyth. I’m from Yentro, northern Morgravia.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “You’re a long way from home, Elspyth, and you’ll certainly wish you’d never been duped by Ericson. I’m Alda, from southeastern Briavel.”
“He’s trapped us, you say?”
Alda nodded. “For his sport.”
Elspyth gaped at her companion. “Sport?” she repeated.
“Well, it’s for all of them, really. He just gets paid a lot for finding us.”
“Alda,” Elspyth said, her voice shaking now. “What do you mean?”
A bird screeched in the tall trees. Both women glanced up but neither could see the kestrel perched there.
“We fight and they bet on us. After three wins, we’re sold on. I’ve got one more win to go to get out of here.”
Elspyth opened her mouth to speak but had no words. Finally she croaked, “Sold?”
“There’s a good slave trade out of Morgravia’s south. Didn’t you know?” the woman asked, clearly surprised.
“I had no idea.”
“Oh yes. A very good trade. Ships from the Exotic Isles slip in and out of a tiny bay called Cheem, east of Ramon, west of Argorn. They pick up slaves regularly.” She shrugged at the disbelief on the newcomer’s face. “At least it’s an escape from this—but you have to survive three bouts, of course.”
It was too much for Elspyth to take in. “What sort of fighting is it? Bare hands?”
Now the woman laughed harshly and Elspyth heard a hint of despair in her voice. “Blades, you fool. To the death. You will be fighting for your life tonight, my girl, and for the right to be shipped off as a slave. Forget your former self—it doesn’t exist anymore.” Then she became wistful, the bravado shattering. “Perhaps one day I’ll see my family again, track down my son, but right now I have to make it through one more fight.”
Elspyth grabbed her companion’s arm. “Alda, I don’t know how to fight.”
“None of us know, girl! It’s pure animal instinct that has kept me alive. I suggest you find some of your own or your blood will be splashed across the main hut’s dust tonight.”
Elspyth, shocked and upset, could not help the tears that began to trickle down her cheeks.
Alda pushed Elspyth’s hands from her sleeve. “Expect nothing from me, or anyone else, for that matter. No one has friends here. We don’t know who we’ll have to kill next to survive. Two days ago I killed someone I liked. I don’t want to know you or feel sorry for you, because you might be the woman I have to kill tonight.” She paused, and her tone softened slightly. “Ericson dreamed it all up apparently. Did he use the young girl to lure you?”
Elspyth nodded blindly through her tears.
“No good blaming yourself. I fell the same way, accepting a seemingly kind offer of a lift, trying to get back from Werryl to my family more quickly than I could on foot. They’re experts at picking the perfect mark.”
“What were you doing in Werryl?” Elspyth asked, desperate to prolong any conversation that might take her mind off what was hurtling toward her. She heard the shriek of the bird again but ignored it, finding herself on her knees in the dust, clinging to Alda’s skirts.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to share anything more with you. Don’t think we’re friends. I can’t help you—won’t help you. You’d best prepare yourself. It’s either kill or be killed. Get that straight now.”
Alda ripped herself away and hurried to the other side of the compound. No one saw the tears she shed there over her own cruelty. What sort of monster had these men turned her into?
Wyl too was preparing for death, except he welcomed it. Dying again would be his salvation and he wondered who he would become. In truth he did not care; all he knew was that he could not bear to be Ylena for much longer. He knew that ultimately he would have to become Celimus, but he clung to Fynch’s quiet belief that random acts could change the course of Myrren’s Gift. He desperately wanted to believe in anything that might spare him living as Celimus. As much as he loved the idea of marrying Valentyna, the notion of walking in the body of the present King of Morgravia was repulsive. Every time he saw the vision of Celimus’s face before him, he had to draw on all his strength to force it away.
In the end, to distract himself from his downward-spiraling thoughts, he washed Ylena’s face and combed her hair. Wyl tied it back once again, not prepared to allow the soft waves of golden tresses to pool around her narrow shoulders. He also refused to change out of his riding trews. There would be no curtsying today. He did, however, dust his garments as best he could, having decided that Ylena should not die looking ragged and filthy. Wyl knew appearance and presentation had been high on his sister’s list of priorities and looking pretty was the least he could do for her considering that he was contriving to bring about her death—a second time.
He glanced at the small tarnished mirror that Jessom had provided. Not even its rusted surface could hide the ethereal radiance that shone from Ylena’s visage. She was gaunt now, but somehow that only added to her ghostly beauty; it reminded Wyl of how of their mother had looked when she was laid out following her death.
The wasting fever had shrunk his mother’s willowy figure to a skeletal state, and she had died gasping for one more lungful of air, but in her death repose Helyna of Ramon remained breathtakingly lovely. Ylena would be the same, Wyl promised himself as he stared out through eyes that were so full of sorrow that they looked even larger than usual.
Wyl threw the mirror down, shattering it across the flagstones, glad that it would never reflect that sad, haunting face again.
He turned at the sound of footsteps. It was Harken, together with the older officer from earlier in the day.
“I thought you had gone,” Wyl said, gathering his unraveling emotions.
“Our company was called back this afternoon to guard the arrival of the Mountain King.”
“You have been summoned,” the older soldier cut across them both. “The lad here seemed determined to see you again.”
“And how kind of you to let him,” Wyl said, bitterness lacing his tone. “It is a pity you don’t feel the same loyalties to General Thirsk that I would expect from a soldier of the Legion.”
“He’s dead, or hadn’t you noticed?” the man answered with a cruel grin. “Thirsk is no good to us now. We’re stuck with the nasty royal brat and the only way any of us will survive is to follow his orders.”
Wyl mustered as much contempt as he could on Ylena’s face. “You sniveling coward! The Legion could overthrow him in a blink if it would only find its spine. What has happened to all of you?”
The man did not bother to reply, simply held out the manacles to be put around Ylena’s wrists. Wyl obliged; there was no point in wasting energy on a man like this. He turned his attention to the dumbstruck Harken.
“I’m so sorry,” the young man finally stammered. “I just had to see you again.”
“And I’m happy you did. There is nothing you can do for me, but I urge you to rally your men against the Crown.”
He expected the old soldier to strike him for saying something so treacherous, but the man simply laughed. “Don’t be daft, lad. These are the ravings of a condemned woman. Follow orders—that’s the Legion’s way, isn’t it? And you have yours.”
“Harken, look at me!” Wyl commanded. “Do this, if nothing else. Throw your support behind Celimus’s bride. When he marries Valentyna of Briavel, she will be your queen. Help her. Don’t let him crush her as he has all of you. Make your men pledge their allegiance. She is your only hope against his brutality.”
Harken, stunned, could only nod. His companion gave Ylena a shove. “Come on, lass. Let me follow my orders. I’ve got just another winter to get through and then I’ll be out of the Legion and off mending fishing nets in the northwest. After that I don’t care what the young bloods do. Right now we have instructions to bring you to his majesty and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Wyl rubbed at Ylena’s burdened wrists. “Let us go then,” he said.
Elspyth stood with about sixteen other women in what was akin to a cattle pen, which Ericson and his cohorts had built inside the main stone building. She had been forced to strip herself of clothes and given a grubby length of linen to cover whatever she could. One end of the cloth was stained with blood and it was all Elspyth could do not to scream at the testimony of another’s injury, perhaps her death.
The men had been drinking for most of the afternoon. They were well and truly intoxicated now, eager for the naked women, for fighting, for killing. The volume of noise in the building rose noticeably when the women were herded into their pen, clutching at the useless fabric that barely concealed their modesty.
The smell of liquor, combined with sweat, vomit, and the unmistakable scent of congealed blood, made some of the jumpier women gag. Others began to wail. They knew what was coming and that, in the next hour or so, they could be taking their last breath. Elspyth could cope with the stench, but her rising fear would surely undo her. She had learned that the men had not found “fresh meat” for a week or more, and one kind soul had told her she would be a definite item on tonight’s menu. There were no more tears to cry and there was no one coming to save her. If she was to survive this, Shar help her, it would be because she managed to kill three of her fellow captives.
Elspyth looked around the pen and wondered who she might be partnered with tonight. She noticed all of the women were in relatively good health, no one older than around thirty-five summers. She smiled grimly. Of course they wouldn’t choose anyone much older—the naked bodies would not offer the same spectacle.
“I’ve heard they sometimes rape the winner,” a woman nearby murmured, no doubt awaiting her first bout, her eyes panic-stricken.
“They’re not here just to look, you fool,” her neighbor warned.
Elspyth gritted her teeth and turned away, her glance catching that of Alda on the opposite side of the pen. The other woman looked calm yet menacing, as if violence lay just behind that expressionless exterior. Madness and the threat of death whirled around them all, but Alda’s attention was riveted on Elspyth alone. It was unnerving. When Elspyth saw torches being lit around the central area, and a man approaching to get the first fight under way, her emotions frayed. She would not let the men see her fear, but inwardly she screamed her pain toward Lothryn, knowing he too was helpless, but needing to say farewell.
She reached Fynch instead.
The boy woke, consumed by Elspyth’s anguish. Lothryn, I love you, I’m so sorry! Shar, help me! Her scream came through a gossamer-thin link that threatened to tear away at any second. But this time Fynch was quick enough.
We’re coming. You must hold on, he reassured her, and then the link was ripped away, her terrified voice a memory. But her fear was contagious and it remained like a bad smell, festering around him. Fynch shivered. The pain was back in his head; he was not sure it had ever left or that he would ever be free of it again. He wanted to chew on more sharvan but resisted, knowing he was turning to the leaves too quickly. Knave had counseled him to fight the pain, not let it control him.
He focused on Knave now. Where are you?
At the palace gates. I believe I’ve just enraged a number of Briavellians with some ferocious barking.
Fynch smiled despite himself. Thank you for going, Knave.
How are you?
I’m all right. I’ve just woken. Elspyth reached me again. She sounds in desperate trouble.
The note is intact. Here they come now. I hope they remember me.
No one could forget you.
We’ll speak again soon. Chew some leaves—you’ll need them after this.
Fynch did not reply. He broke the bond and cast a silent prayer to Shar to guide the message into Valentyna’s hands. She alone had the power to save Elspyth.
Knave barked again, for good measure, as the guard limped toward the gate. “Shar’s mercy, look at the size of that thing,” he muttered to his younger companion. “I’ll send an arrow into its heart if it doesn’t quiet down.”
“Wait! That’s that black dog of the boy’s, isn’t it?”
“Which boy?”
“You know—that Fynch lad. One of the Queen’s favorites.”
“Shar spare us, so it is. I must be going mad not to have recognized it.”
“Do we let it in?”
“Search me. You take a message to the Captain.”
“Looks like it’s got a note tied around its neck,” the young soldier said, nodding toward the dog as he left.
“You’d better hurry,” his companion called after him.
Several minutes passed, during which Knave stalked the breadth of the gate impatiently and the older guard watched, mesmerized. Knave was convinced the man was half-asleep. He barked, just to make sure he had the fellow’s attention, and the soldier nearly leapt out of his skin.
“Bastard animal,” he murmured, then turned to see his superior approaching. “Captain Orlyd, sir,” he said, nodding stiffly.
“Barnes,” the Captain acknowledged. “Ah, the dog. Yes, I believe that’s the same one. Commander Liryk says it’s to be given entry.”
“Right-o, sir. You’re sure it’s not dangerous?”
“It’s a dog, Barnes. Haven’t you seen it playing around these very grounds with the young lad Fynch?”
“Er, once or twice, sir.”
“Then you’ll know it’s harmless. Move, man. Let’s see what the note is about.”
When the gate was raised, Knave padded in and obediently sat so that Fynch’s note could be taken from his neck. Fynch had taken the precaution of scrawling a “V” on the outside, as he had seen on some of Valentyna’s personal items.
“This is for the Queen,” Orlyd said as he patted Knave’s large head. “Good fellow. You’d better come with me.” He shook his head as Knave stood to follow him. “Smart too, eh?”
Man and dog took the quickest route toward the royal apartments, where the Captain knew Liryk had been having a meeting with the Queen and the Duke from Morgravia.
Orlyd gave a message to the man acting as the Queen’s secretary and wondered again at how sorely missed old Chancellor Krell was. If Krell had been at his desk, Orlyd would probably have been taken directly into the Queen’s chamber. The former Chancellor had had an uncanny knack of knowing when something was important enough to warrant such attention. Orlyd was sure this was one of those occasions.
