Bridge of souls, p.47
Bridge of Souls, page 47
Knave had wandered away to the woodland, where he had spent favorite times with Fynch. He found the spot where they had slept the night, where he had heralded the death of Romen Koreldy with a piercing howl into the dark. He lay there, his head on his huge paws, as the hours crawled by, and he mourned the loss of the boy he had come to love, the boy who had given his life to destroy the enemy of all that was good and natural in the world.
Knave threw back his huge head and howled in grief. It seemed the Thicket heard him, for once again he felt himself connected to its magic.
Knave? came a voice.
Rasmus. He groaned, his throat swelling from the pain of his emotion.
We promised Faith Fynch we would aid Wyl Thirsk, the bird said.
Knave waited, his head hung low. He did not want any more instructions.
Go to Argorn, Rasmus finally said. Find Felrawthy’s duke and return him to Pearlis, where he will meet Farrow.
And then?
They will know what to do. Go now. The Thicket will send you.
Knave closed the connection, too numb to care what happened now that Fynch was gone. Very soon he was hurtling through the dark toward the region of Morgravia that had produced Wyl Thirsk.
39
WYL SAT ON THE COLD FLOOR OF ONE OF STONEHEART’S DUNGEONS, HIS HEAD RESTING ON HIS KNEES. MOMENTS EARLIER HE HAD TURNED TO prayer, beseeching Shar to watch over and protect Valentyna, to heal Elspyth, to restore Lothryn, and to welcome Ylena and Alyd, Fynch and Gueryn into everlasting life. As the list of souls lengthened he had stopped, overcome by distress. How many lives had been lost or destroyed because of Celimus? Wyl’s anguish deepened as he accepted that he was helpless now. There was nothing he could do from the dungeon except wait for Myrren’s Gift to mete out its final crushing blow and hope that Aremys would keep his promise.
And so he sat in silence, wishing the guards would come for him and speed his death. A strange tingling sensation coursed through his body and then a blue shimmering light forced him to look up. He recognized the feeling—it was connected to the magic of the Thicket.
“Fynch,” he whispered as the shimmering coalesced to reveal a vision of his young friend.
Hello, Wyl, the boy said into his mind.
“Are you alive?”
Not in the way you mean.
“Then you died during the battle with Rashlyn?”
Wyl, Fynch interrupted gently, my time with you is short.
“What is it that I must do?”
Just trust me.
“To do what?”
To forge a Bridge of Souls.
Wyl remained baffled by Fynch’s visit. It had been inspiring, calming even, to see the ghostly vision of his friend and hear Fynch speak so surely. He had insisted that Wyl trust him, and Wyl did—but that was all Fynch would tell him, other than to promise that the Bridge of Souls would save his life. His instructions to Wyl were simple. When Wyl needed to be saved, all he had to do was call out Fynch’s name. But, in truth, Wyl did not believe there was any escape from this dungeon or from his fate. He appreciated Fynch’s attempt to soothe him, but he was thinking only of death now—real death. There would be no returning from the end of Aremys’s sword.
Wyl looked around the cell, touched the cold black stone that encased him. Not so long ago Stoneheart had been his home, a place that embraced him with the love of Magnus and the security of his title as General. Now it was the lair of his foe and its cold walls would witness his death twice over in the coming hours.
Wyl’s gaze roamed absently in the dim light, which filtered through from an outside cresset. It fell upon an inscription scratched into one of the bottom stones. AVENGE ME, WYL, it said. His heart pained. He had come full circle. This was surely the work of Myrren. She must have suffered in this very cell all those years ago. Her touching plea still had the ability to move him.
He hated Celimus for being the cause of so much suffering. As if on some silent signal, he heard the click of boots on flagstones. There was only one person who walked with that arrogant stride. He turned away, did not want to see the King gloating over his rival’s downfall.
Liryk had gotten a message through to Wyl from Valentyna, saying that she had found a way to explain Cailech’s presence in Briavel. Liryk had watched Cailech shake his head at the idea, but had not had the heart to relay the Mountain King’s attitude to the Queen. Wyl had no intention of making excuses.
He soon discovered this was also the reason for the King’s visit late into the night.
“Tell me, Mountain King, was there a good reason for your visiting Briavel without an invitation?” Celimus gave a soft, deprecating laugh as he flicked an invisible mote of dust from his jacket. “You see, the Queen seems to think you had very fine intentions of joining forces with her to plan some special festivities on my account.” He shook his head with mock embarrassment. “How very jolly.”
“I would not plan any festival around you, Celimus, other than your funeral,” Wyl enjoyed saying.
The King laughed in obvious delight. He clapped his hands, loving Cailech’s bitterness. “You obviously want to die, my friend. Valentyna was surely throwing you a lifeline here.”
“Thank her for her generosity,” Wyl said. “And I’ll wait to see you in Shar’s eternal fire. We’ll settle our score there, Celimus…if not sooner.”
Celimus had looked at him quizzically, not understanding his final words, but Wyl did not elaborate. Intent on having the last laugh, the King gave his dazzling smile. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?” he asked.
“Yes. Do it yourself.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. Kill me yourself.”
Celimus made a sound of disapproval. “I might miss and merely injure you—oh dear, that could be messy and painful.”
“I’ll risk it. Let me feel the touch of your blade.”
Celimus smiled and nodded. “Perhaps. We shall see what mood I’m in tomorrow. Sleep well, your highness,” he said, leaving with a chuckle.
Wyl felt even more hollow than before. Not once but thrice had he betrayed her. First as Romen, later as Ylena, and now as Cailech. She would never forgive him. He sat in the darkness, the bleak atmosphere matching his thoughts, disturbed first by the scuffling of rats and then by the sound of yet another arrival.
Once again there was no need for introductions. “King Cailech, I regret to find you here, sire,” Chancellor Jessom said. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Other than the key, you mean?” Wyl murmured, refusing to turn toward the King’s servant. He would make him speak to his back.
“A rug perhaps, sire?”
“You forget that I am of the Razors, Chancellor. We don’t feel the cold.”
“A candle, then. Let me at least light this grim space for you, my lord.”
“Do what you wish. It matters not to me.”
“I meant what I said, King Cailech. I regret to see you incarcerated here. When the rider gave the news of who was being brought here, I thought the man must have been duped, charmed by a hedgewitch.”
“Be careful talking of witches in here, Jessom. Or you’ll find yourself on this side of the bars.”
The Chancellor cleared his throat, sounding abashed, and Wyl heard the rasp of a clay plate being pushed through the bars. Shadows leapt across the bars as a soft light eased the darkness.
“There, that’s better, surely,” Jessom said.
“What are you looking for, Chancellor? Absolution?”
“What do you mean?”
“All the deaths—you must have so much blood on your hands.”
“I don’t understand you, sire.”
“Why not? I am speaking the same language you do.”
“But what could you know of me?” Jessom replied. “We are all but strangers.”
Wyl admonished himself to be careful. It was true: Cailech would hardly know the Chancellor, other than by name and sight from Tenterdyn. However, the truth was, he was not of a mind to be careful anymore. He wished Celimus would hurry up and bring about the final death in Myrren’s ghastly plan. He ignored Jessom’s question and posed his own instead. “Where is your king?”
“Asleep, I hope. He has a big day tomorrow.”
“So the wedding goes ahead as planned?”
“Yes, sire. Why would you think otherwise? I’m afraid the city will shortly degenerate into mass celebrations and drunkenness. It is but an hour to dawn.”
“The Morgravians want the marriage as badly as the Briavellians,” Wyl commented, more to himself than for the Chancellor’s hearing.
“Of course. It is a brilliant union.”
“Not for Valentyna.”
“Why do you say that, sire?”
“He will destroy her.”
“He wants her very much.”
The words fired a new anger in Wyl and he swung around to face the Chancellor. “He wants what she brings him, Jessom. He wants to own the glittering jewel of Briavel, and everything else that Briavel can give him. He doesn’t care about Valentyna. He wants her body and the sons she can provide, the peace and prosperity she brings. The people love her, and because of her they will love him, for surely they hate him right now.”
Jessom cleared his throat. “You seem to have a very deep understanding of the south, King Cailech.”
Wyl grunted. “It is my business to know these things. Mark my words, Jessom, if he destroys her—and he will—the people will rise up against him. Already I suspect there are mutterings within the Legion. The right whisper in the right ear and the army will move against the Crown. You know it is powerful enough.”
Wyl realized that the Chancellor was actually paying attention to what he was saying. Perhaps the man had not come here to bait him after all. If he could sway this powerful person, he might be able to help Valentyna from beyond the grave.
Jessom interrupted his thoughts. “The King has placed his own people in senior positions in the Legion. They would not move against him,” he said.
As far as Jessom was concerned, Celimus had played out his last vicious act. Imprisoning and executing the King of the Razors, with whom only days ago he had signed a peace treaty, was sheer madness. But Jessom’s first attempt at arguing against killing the Mountain King had failed and a second could have dire consequences. Jessom knew Celimus saw killing Cailech as a way of ridding himself of the final obstacle to becoming Emperor. But he did not agree. It was a mistake.
“When someone like Eryd Bench knows the truth of what’s been going on, his voice alone will be enough to turn the Legionnaires,” Wyl assured.
Jessom could not guess how King Cailech could know of Eryd Bench, but that did not matter now. The death and destruction had to stop. Unification and peace were at hand. But Jessom feared Celimus was not the monarch to lead the Morgravians to greatness. Whenever the King took a dislike to someone or felt in any way threatened, he turned to killing. Such a sovereign would ultimately destroy the region. “Lord Bench is dead, sire, I’m sorry to say.”
Jessom was astonished to see Cailech react as if he’d been punched. The Mountain warrior’s head rocked back, his eyes closed in agony, and he threw his body toward the bars, gripping them with white knuckles. “Dead?”
“I’m afraid so, King Cailech.”
“How?” Wyl rasped.
“How else?” Jessom replied, revealing more of his private feelings than he had intended. “Let’s just say our king took umbrage at Eryd Bench’s gentle inquiries about certain events in the north.”
Wyl groaned. His hands fell away from the bars and he slumped against the wall, slowly sliding his tall body to the ground. “His women—Lady Bench, Georgyana?”
“Do you know them?”
“Are they safe?” Wyl yelled, no longer caring how he might be confusing the Chancellor.
Stung by the Mountain King’s venom, Jessom answered truthfully. “They escaped. A servant told our men that two guests had arrived, a man and woman. The woman was injured; dark-haired, small, attractive. The man was probably Crys Donal of Felrawthy.” He surprised himself by offering so much information. There was something compelling about Cailech. He seemed entirely different to the arrogant, sharp-witted man he had met in the north.
“Elspyth,” Wyl whispered. “No sign of where they went?”
Jessom shook his head. “May I ask why this interests you, sire?”
“No. But I will tell you this, Chancellor Jessom: Your days as a powerful adviser to the Crown are numbered. Mark my words, you will be dead at the hands of your king in a matter of days…perhaps hours. You will be lucky to see out the next few days.” Wyl enjoyed the sudden insecurity that coursed across the angular planes of the Chancellor’s pale face.
“He needs me,” Jessom said.
“No, he doesn’t, Chancellor. I can sense your disgust at his actions. If I can, he already has.” Jessom heard the ring of truth in the Mountain King’s warning.
“He doesn’t know that Lord Hartley still lives,” Jessom muttered to himself, his agile mind racing.
“Lord Hartley?”
The Chancellor looked up, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Yes, Celimus ordered his death, but I let Hartley go—he’s in hiding now. I can call upon his help to rally the other nobles againt our king.”
“Not before the King kills you,” Wyl said cruelly. “But I have an idea, Jessom. It’s too late for me—and for you, I fear, unless…”
The man’s mortified expression was quickly replaced by wrath. It was not death he feared, Wyl realized. It was loss of power, wealth, and position.
“Unless what, sire?” Jessom asked. He was composed again, his tone curious.
“Unless you put your considerable knowledge and influence behind Queen Valentyna. Protect her, befriend her, put your faith in her. Someone else will deal with Celimus. Trust me on this. He will not live to see old age. He may not even live to see out the spring. But the Queen can live to a ripe age if she is given the right defenses. She can win over the Legion, she can woo the nobles. Through her, Morgravia can achieve peace with Briavel and retain the truce with the Razors.”
“The Mountain People will make war on Morgravia and Briavel if you are executed.” No more diplomatic language, Jessom decided; King Cailech knew he could not escape his fate. There was a bargain being made here. He was not sure he understood it, or why Cailech cared about peace in the region, but Jessom was a pragmatist. Cailech was right: Valentyna was the future, especially if she were to quickly become pregnant by Celimus. Then nothing but the Queen and the heir—the true Crown of the newly unified realms—would matter.
“You echo my thoughts so closely, King Cailech, it is uncanny.”
“Come closer, Jessom. I have something to tell you and I do not wish to be overheard.”
“I cannot save your life, King Cailech,” Jessom warned candidly.
“I understand,” Wyl said, extending Cailech’s blunt fingers through the bars.
Jessom smiled thinly. He was curious to hear the bargain this imprisoned, doomed King could offer. The Chancellor stepped closer but drew his blade to show the man of the mountains that he was not naive. He would shake hands cautiously.
“No need for that, Jessom. I have no intention of anything but sealing our bargain.”
Palm met palm and Cailech’s fingers closed around Jessom’s hand. The King was smiling, and Jessom suddenly realized there was something unnerving, something predatory, in that expression. The Chancellor balked, tried to release himself from Cailech’s grip, but it was too late. A shimmering blue light flowed around their hands. A seal.
40
VALENTYNA STOOD FORLORNLY IN A GRAND CHAMBER AT STONEHEART, HER HEART AS COLD AS THE DARK STONE SURROUNDING HER. MADAM ELTOR had permitted only her most senior and trusted assistant to help her dress the Queen. Valentyna sensed rather than saw the surreptitious glances between the two older women as they took in her grief-stricken expression.
“Come now, my queen,” her seamstress tried once more. “Please don’t stain your face with tears.”
“There are no more tears left within me,” Valentyna replied.
“This is your wedding day, your highness. The happiest day ever for the people of Briavel and Morgravia,” the assistant risked.
“Not for me, though,” the Queen replied, not caring that her words provoked a raising of the assistant’s eyebrows and a stern gaze from her superior.
The women had worked fast and fluidly. Valentyna was already stitched into her gown, although Madam Eltor had tuttutted, warning, “You’ve lost weight, my girl. This was perfect last week.”
Valentyna just shook her head. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That will be all, Maud,” Madam Eltor said, dismissing her assistant. “I hope I don’t need to remind you that what is discussed in our presence always remains private.”
Maud curtsied and left hurriedly, the news no doubt already spilling out of her that the Queen was going to her wedding as full of grief as when she had attended her father’s funeral. “Valentyna!” the seamstress snapped. “Stop this!”
“I don’t love him,” she said, balling her fists and closing her eyes, trying to get a grip on her spiraling emotions.
“We don’t care!” Madam Eltor replied, deciding that harshness was the only solution now. “He brings us peace. I regret that you are the currency with which we buy it, your highness, but it is too late for you to turn back.”
Valentyna was stung. “Yes. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.”
The seamstress’s voice softened. “Be stout of heart, Valentyna. You are Briavel’s jewel. The brightest jewel now in Morgravia’s crown. Imagine how proud you would make your father today.”
“Yes, by marrying the man who murdered him,” Valentyna muttered.
Her companion gave a gasp of shock and Valentyna realized too late that hurting Madam Eltor achieved nothing. The truth of Valor’s demise did not change the fact of his death or her decision to marry Celimus. She hated the way she veered between courage and weakness: One moment she felt she could make the marriage work, would bear his children, would make Briavel safe and prosperous. The next, she plunged into gloom, remembering that passionate hour in Wyl’s arms. How could she wipe that from her thoughts? How could she lie with Celimus this evening and not feel anything but revulsion?
