Bridge of souls, p.49
Bridge of Souls, page 49
“This, my lord, is for you,” she had said in the sweetest voice she could muster, knowing she had to preserve the fragile bond they had formed.
Celimus had looked puzzled as he took the small, exquisitely lacquered box. She knew he was captivated by the way his mouth opened when he saw the gift inside.
“It is a lovely ring, Valentyna,” he had whispered, and kissed her, much to the people’s joy. “Will you put it on me?”
She did so. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I will wear it always. I have something for you too,” he replied. “It’s being readied for you now.”
“Oh?”
“A special surprise,” he had promised, turning away to wave to the crowd.
And now she found herself waving from the wedding balcony to the sea of people below who had crowded into the main square before the castle.
“They are so proud of you, my lord,” she said above the din, leaning close to be heard. She hated her obsequiousness.
“And they love you. I knew they would. You are very good for me,” he replied. She knew he did not mean it as a romantic compliment. Celimus meant it literally: Valentyna made him look better; she was good for his image.
There was truly no hope for them, she thought. She would struggle her entire life to be a sugary-sweet doormat just to keep the peace between them. She could not do it. Just maintaining the delicate truce forged by her careful words on their journey into Morgravia was destroying her soul. She hated him. And tonight she was expected to respond passionately between the sheets with him. As she gazed out across the ocean of smiling faces, Valentyna felt she would rather die than have Celimus touch her intimately.
It seemed he had the same scene on his mind. “Tonight,” he began, “when all the formalities are done with and we are finally in bed, I mean to teach you something.”
Valentyna tried but failed to sound seductive or indeed even interested. “That sounds rather intriguing, my lord. What can you mean?”
“I mean to teach you that I am not someone to be trifled with.”
Valentyna felt her body chill. He meant to hurt her. “I don’t understand, my lord.” She tried for levity in her voice.
“I will teach you how the King of Morgravia expects his Queen to behave.”
“Have I disappointed you during the marriage proceedings?” she asked, all other sounds now fading to the background as she focused on his voice alone.
“You lied to me, barefaced and at a particularly poignant moment. I am hurt by this.”
She could not imagine Celimus emotionally hurt by anything, least of all words. “I don’t understand, Celimus,” Valentyna said, more firmly now, her mind racing. Which particular lie might he be referring to?
“Cailech denied your story to me in person last night. Of course I had hoped it was true, hoped I was the one who had jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Something in Valentyna died. Wyl had refused her gift of life. “I…” She struggled to form a response.
“Now,” Celimus began brightly, waving to the people and encouraging her to do the same, “I can forgive you this misdemeanor. You have behaved perfectly since our arrival at Pearlis; I believe that you did not invite Cailech to Werryl, nor did you know of his arrival there or his intention to stir up war using Briavel as an ally. My belief is that you lied to save further bloodshed; you hoped to preserve the peace between the three realms. And I am delighted by the wedding gift you have given me. So I forgive you. But you will learn an important lesson tonight.”
Valentyna began to say something, but he hushed her with his hateful hand against her mouth, replacing it quickly with his lips, much to the crowd’s delight and her disgust.
“Hush, my love. Take your medicine and be pleased it’s not more harsh. I appreciate that you are a virgin, though I cannot promise to be as gentle as I might have been a few days ago. Wave farewell to your people now and let me cheer you with my own special wedding gift as promised.”
“I—”
“Hush. I shall wait while you change. I want you to wear crimson, the color of Morgravia.”
Aremys followed Crys blindly as they made their way to the Legionnaires’ barracks. Stoneheart was like a town in itself—a maze of streets and openings, corridors and courtyards. When they finally reached their destination, the barracks were virtually deserted. Everyone was either on duty at the wedding or joining in the celebrations. Crys was able to sneak into the provisions office and take the biggest uniform he could find.
“I have no idea if this will fit,” he said, returning to the small outbuilding where he had left Aremys, “but it’s genuine Legionnaire, so it should do the trick and get you past security. Everyone’s so preoccupied anyway—they’ll see the crimson and black and no questions will be asked. Let’s face it, it’s likely none of the guards on duty around Cailech are going to be proper Legionnaires anyway—they’re probably all mercenary impostors.”
“I hope you’re right,” Aremys grumbled. “I’m sensing we have to get into the dungeon, right?” Crys nodded grimly. “Don’t you think it will be heavily guarded, no strangers permitted?”
“We’re not strangers. We’re guards.”
Aremys did not have the heart to argue. “Lead on,” he said.
At the dungeon Crys discovered that the royal prisoner had been moved.
“We’ve been sent along to make up extra numbers. King’s orders,” Crys said to the officer there, trying his best to sound as uninterested as possible. “Who is the prisoner, anyway?”
The man ignored him. “Who sent you?”
Fortunately Crys knew the senior officers and captains of the Legion. “Captain Berryn,” he said, giving the name of one of the more aggressive captains.
The man’s tone changed instantly. “All right, how many of you?”
“There’s two of us but I don’t know how many others he is sending. We were told to report to you here,” Crys lied.
“Why can’t they send a runner and inform us of what they want? I’ll tell you, it was different in the days when the Thirsks ran this outfit.”
Crys shrugged, feigning indifference.
“Get your companion and follow me. I’m on my way there now. And listen, sonny, this is no sideshow, all right? Today we execute a king and you will behave with due respect. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Crys said, straightening, glad that Wyl was at least being accorded due respect.
Crys and Aremys remained silent as they walked a few steps behind the officer. The man was so preoccupied with what was ahead that he ignored them totally anyway.
They arrived at the courtyard at almost the same time as the King and new Queen, but both had eyes only for the prisoner.
“Cover up, you know the drill,” the officer said, handing them black hoods from a small sack he carried. He left immediately to confer with one of the captains on the other side of the courtyard.
Crys explained the hood to Aremys in a low whisper. “It’s an old custom dating back to the first persecution of witches and sorcerers. It was held that empowered people had to see a person to cast a spell against them. The mask was introduced to ensure that anyone present at an execution would be impervious to their magic. The belief died out over the centuries, but soldiers are still required by tradition to cover their faces at executions.”
“Suits me,” said Aremys. “At least we won’t risk being recognized by the King or Jessom.”
Valentyna stood in the crimson gown Celimus had ordered made for her and then demanded she wear. She did not notice the trio of Legionnaires arrive in the courtyard. Anger, fear, and the hideous injustice of the position she found herself in quickly gave way to a feeling of desolation when her gaze followed the King’s pointing finger. Chained to a post like an animal, but still looking proud, was Wyl: tall and golden, fury burning in his eyes and a defiant set to his jaw. Now she felt weak, overcome by a combination of terror and an overwhelming rush of love.
Wyl’s light green gaze left her and fell on Celimus. A smirk crossed Cailech’s face and he raised a fist and turned the clenched fingers toward his Morgravian counterpart. A northerner would know that this was the sign that the tribes of the Razors gave to indicate a declaration of war.
Crys looked helplessly at his companion, not understanding.
“He’s baiting the King,” Aremys muttered.
“Why? Surely there’s enough bad feeling?” Crys whispered.
“Wyl is trying to ensure that the King will personally kill him, although I’m not sure the Quickening obeys such laws.”
Dawning had spread on the Duke’s face beneath his hood. “He will be our king, then?”
Aremys nodded as they watched Wyl being unchained from the post. But not for long, he thought in private anguish.
Valentyna felt as though she could no longer breathe. Tears were streaming down her face.
“I didn’t know you cared for him that much, my love,” Celimus cooed.
“Why must he die?”
“Because he can’t be trusted. He will always be a danger to us.”
“But killing him will merely enrage the Mountain People and encourage them to wage their own war against both our realms.”
“You have no realm now, beloved.”
“What?”
“Briavel is now part of Morgravia. I now rule both our realms—that’s my job. Your job is to swiftly become pregnant with my sons and be a smiling, loving wife. You will no longer worry about realms, politics, war, strategy—I shall take care of all that. And I am not in the slightest bit intimidated by the Razor Kingdom.”
Valentyna could not stand to be beside him for another moment. With a final glance toward Cailech’s granite expression, she feigned weariness and asked to be excused.
“Soon enough,” Celimus said. “But first let me deliver my gift to you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, fresh anxiety washing over her.
“You must bear witness, my love. I am executing King Cailech in your honor. He will never trouble you again.”
“I refuse—”
“You refuse me nothing, wife! Remember, you belong to Morgravia now…and to its king.”
42
WYL WAS LED UP ONTO A HASTILY BUILT WOODEN STAGE. DESPITE THAT TOUCH OF THEATER, IT WAS A LONELY SCENE FOR A KING’S END. THE ONLY witnesses were the two royals, a few guards, the Chancellor, and, of course, the masked executioner, who had just arrived.
Wyl was not afraid. The truth was, he could not wait to die again, and feel the Quickening release him from Myrren’s Gift and the curse she had brought over his life. He would not have to live long as Celimus. Just long enough to be with Valentyna again, to hold her once more.
And if it all went sadly awry, he would still live—this time as a burly man of enormous strength and stature. Wyl had taken the precaution of discovering the executioner’s name: Art Featherstone. He wondered briefly how, in the guise of the executioner, he would ever contrive to get close enough to Celimus for Myrren’s Gift to come into play again, but gave up the line of thought. Whoever could have thought that Wyl would become Romen, or that Faryl would claim Romen’s life, or that Ylena—he faltered on hearing her name in his thoughts—would kill Faryl and become her brother’s host. And now here he was, the King of the Razors, about to become the King of Morgravia…or the burly executioner.
He had done his best to plant the seed, without actually inviting death—surely Celimus would find the temptation to personally separate King Cailech’s head from his body irresistible? It would be another triumph for the Crown.
A huge Legionnaire came up with a cup of water. “Orders,” the man said toward the executioner, who nodded, uncaring.
Wyl’s spirits lifted at the sound of the man’s voice. “Aremys,” he whispered as the Grenadyne gave him the cup.
“I beg you, don’t make me keep the promise,” Aremys muttered beneath his breath.
“You will keep it if you care anything for me,” Wyl growled.
Aremys stared into the green eyes, then nodded sadly. “As One,” he said, walking away.
A single trumpet sounded and Wyl noticed for the first time that Valentyna was dressed in a crimson gown. The color of Morgravia. The color of blood. She was solemn-faced and looked intensely frightened. He wished he could spare her this—had hoped against hope that Celimus would come without her.
Valentyna would not look at anyone—not even at Wyl. He could not blame her. It must have felt like a shocking betrayal to hear that he had denied her fabricated story. He understood, but it did not make it any easier to see her ignoring him. Was it just two days ago they had been making love at Werryl? As the killing blow fell he would cling to that, remember what it felt like to lie naked with Valentyna and love her as she loved him.
Celimus guided his wife to a pair of thronelike seats hurriedly erected in the courtyard. He kissed her hand, winning a sickly grimace from the Queen. Her expression did not seem to matter to Celimus, who was now announcing why the King of the Mountains was to die.
Wyl looked toward Jessom as the King spoke and remembered the strange blue light entwining their hands in the dungeon, binding them to each other. He wondered if Fynch was right, if the Chancellor might somehow provide that random element that could outwit Myrren’s Gift. Turning his attention back to Celimus’s speech, Wyl heard that he was to be sacrificed as a wedding gift to Valentyna. At this, he withdrew into himself, praying to Shar that the King of Morgravia would see fit to gift Valentyna by making the killing blow himself.
Valentyna had withdrawn too. There was nothing to live for anymore. Soon she would have to witness the death of the man she loved, his head savagely removed from his neck with, hopefully, one swing of a cruel sword. It was too much for her heart to bear.
And after all of that, all that was left for her was Celimus, who had made his despicable intentions very clear. Her notion that she might be able to dupe him into believing she was true had been naive. Celimus was too sharp to fall for that ruse, although he would still expect her to treat him as she had promised, even if she was pretending every minute of every day.
He would continue to hurt her, she knew—first taking Wyl from her, then Briavel, no doubt ultimately taking away every son she bore. Her life would be utterly controlled by him. Bile rose to her throat as she imagined what he was going to do her tonight. Rape, she was sure, would be the very least of it.
Celimus had finished explaining his reasons for executing the treacherous Mountain King and the sudden silence dragged her out of her thoughts. She looked at Cailech, whose shirt was being cut away to reveal his broad torso, sculpted with muscles. She remembered that body well, riding above her in an urgent rhythm, each thrust taking her to a higher level of pleasure.
Chancellor Jessom, looking appropriately somber in black robes, gravely pronounced the Crown’s sentence on the accused. “Have you anything to say, Cailech, King of the Mountains?” he asked finally.
Wyl spoke clearly. “Legionnaires, remember who you are. Remember your oath to protect and serve Morgravians above all others. Above all others,” he stressed, “even above your king—”
“Enough!” roared Celimus, enraged.
At the King’s signal, the beefy executioner backhanded the prisoner, who stumbled but did not fall, despite his manacled ankles.
Wyl knew the guards were probably not Legionnaires—Celimus would not risk them witnessing such an unlawful execution. Nevertheless, he hoped the insult had been sufficient to provoke Celimus into swinging the death sword himself.
“Get on with it!” the King ordered the executioner. “My wife and I wish to continue our wedding festivities.”
“You accuse me of treachery, King Celimus. I’m surprised you aren’t carrying out that threat you made in the dungeon! Or are you too squeamish to risk my blood on your fine garments?” Wyl roared, hoping his lie would get lost in the alarm his words would prompt. He knew he must not try to force death, but perhaps he could needle Celimus into picking up a weapon and killing him in wrath, as Cailech had killed Ylena. “My hunch is that you have never killed anyone yourself but always get others to do it for you, you sniveling coward. A poor shadow of your father,” he added, sneering.
His challenge was greeted with stunned silence as all gathered turned to watch the young King of Morgravia.
Celimus’s voice sounded as cold as the ice from Cailech’s own mountains when it finally came. “I made no threat but you should be assured that I have never been scared to spill your blood, Cailech.”
“Is that so? I’m sure you’ll never prove such a claim,” Wyl taunted, laughing.
Valentyna could not bear it. Wyl had already severed the lifeline she had thrown him and now he wanted to make sure that Celimus chopped his head off? Why? Surely he would prefer the accurate swing of an executioner over the perhaps deliberately clumsy hacking by a man whom he’d just publicly scorned? Wyl had gone mad. He would die painfully and then Celimus would—
Valentyna caught her breath audibly as the realization hit hard. And then Celimus would become Wyl!
Oh Shar! He was doing it deliberately so that Celimus would die and Wyl would take over his body, becoming the King, and her husband. Wyl would live on because of Myrren’s Gift! Now her breath came hard and fast and her pulse began to race. She stood. “Do it for me, Celimus!” she cried, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.
The King swung around in surprise. “You want me to kill him?”
“Yes,” she demanded. “He has driven a wedge between us with his underhanded dealings. I hate him. I hate his treachery. Kill him, Celimus. Do it with your own hand so that we are free of his curse on our lives. That would be my ultimate wedding gift, sire.” She curtsied low, ensuring that her husband saw the swell of her breasts.
