Bridge of Souls (10 page)

“Let’s get out of here first,” Aremys said, his head swirling
with fantastical thoughts, every nerve tingling with terror. It could not be true, could it?

Fortunately Haz was not in attendance at the jail. Myrt thanked the young, completely disinterested guard, who was obviously posted in the dungeon as some sort of punishment, judging by his scowl. He merely nodded when Myrt reminded the lad that Gueryn was to be walked daily.

Outside, Myrt grabbed Aremys’s arm. “You got something, didn’t you?”

“Do you know what the name Galapek means, Myrt?” Aremys asked, his voice hard and low. When Myrt shook his head, Aremys closed his eyes with a mix of anger and despair. What a cruel fate. “It’s the ancient language of the north,” he said. “Cailech’s schoolchildren would probably be able to tell you. It means ‘traitor.’”

Myrt looked perplexed. “All right, a curious name for a horse and even stranger connotations, but what’s that got to do with Lothryn?”

“You fool. You poor sad fool,” Aremys said, unable to help himself. “The horse is Lothryn,” and his voice almost broke on those words. “Rashlyn has somehow worked his vile magic on Lothryn to turn him into an animal, and now your oh-so-proud King can keep his former friend as his servant until he’s no good for anything but the knacker’s yard.”

Myrt opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. No sound at all, in fact. Aremys had once seen a man suffer a heart tremor; it had come quickly and gone as fast, leaving one side of the man’s face paralyzed. That was how Myrt looked now: paralyzed. His facial muscles had gone slack and all color had drained from his cheeks, his eyes were like dull black buttons.

Finally he found some lucidity. “Cailech broke him. We all watched it. He did it in a special corral he’d had built. It took days. Days of painful, heart-wrenching breaking of this horse’s spirit until it bowed its head before him.”

Myrt began to weep. Aremys could feel tears stinging his eyes too; he could not remember the last time he had cried over anything or anyone. His sister perhaps, when he had seen her
tiny corpse laid out, the vicious gores of the forest boar covered by a beautiful silken dress. He tore himself away from the memory.

“He said he would break him using trust,” Myrt finished. “It was Lothryn all along. Lothryn who fought for days until he was too weak to resist his king anymore.”

Aremys shook his head in wonder. “And that’s why the horse made me feel so sick. The Thicket’s magic sensed the sheer power and evil of the sorcery that had been wielded to turn a man into a horse.”

Myrt’s red-rimmed eyes stared at him. “Aremys, don’t lie to me now. You said something earlier that I scoffed at—that the horse communicated something to you. Did it really say something?”

Aremys nodded miserably. “It whispered a name. Elspyth.”

Without another word, the Mountain warrior turned and walked away to deal with his pain alone.

I
T WAS THE FIRST TIME SINCE CHILDHOOD THAT
C
ELIMUS HAD SET FOOT IN HIS FATHER
’
S BELOVED WAR CHAMBER
. M
AGNUS HAD ALWAYS LOVED THE
room, even in times of peace. Its windows faced east, toward the traditional enemy, and when Celimus had paid one of his few visits here, he had believed its views went on forever. He recalled now how his father had laughed a little indulgently
when Celimus had voiced that notion. It had been a rare moment of shared enjoyment for father and son, and had passed all too quickly, Celimus forgotten the moment a messenger had arrived with a missive for General Thirsk, who always seemed to be at his king’s side. Celimus was briskly told to find his tutor—although no one appeared to care where he went, as long as he left. He had understood with a sour realization that he had no place among these men. He had been nine years old, ready to watch and learn about kingship, but Magnus had not cared enough to teach him. That much had been obvious; Celimus had not returned to the chamber until this day.

It was here that men had smoked and argued with one another, plotted and schemed against Briavel. In this place many a war had been invented, but peace had also been designed. It was a room of ancient waxed timbers and leather smoothed from years of use, where, if you concentrated, you could still smell a hint of the sweet tobacco King Magnus had favored. A once magnificent, now faded tapestry depicting a famous battle scene from centuries previous hung across one wall, and a hand-twisted rug, threadbare in places, lay across the wooden floor, whose dusty boards had recently enjoyed a polish.

King Celimus held no sentiment for this chamber so loved by his father. He hated it, in fact, equating it with the reason he and his mother had never felt Magnus’s love. But this war room of his father’s was where detailed maps of Morgravia, Briavel, and other realms were stored. And Celimus needed those maps now. He also needed to give the impression that he was preparing to declare war on his neighbor, and this was the place from which to do that.

In not appointing a general after Wyl Thirsk’s death, Celimus had effectively claimed full leadership of the Morgravian Legion. This had shocked many of the noble families, who had assumed that Jeryb Donal, with his brood of sons, was the most likely successor. But Donal had refused when such ideas had been suggested. His focus, he had assured all, was firmly on the border between Morgravia and the Razors. There was
no better defense than Felrawthy and he had no intention of moving to Pearlis. Celimus had made it equally clear he did not require a general as such. He preferred to work through the captains, leading the Legion himself.

To most Morgravians’ despair, Celimus had recently given the directive to mobilize the first few divisions of the Legion. People had prayed that war between Morgravia and Briavel was for the history books now. The coming marriage had promised so much for the two realms’ prosperous future together. Still, no one could argue with this King. He was a law unto himself.

It was Celimus’s intention that his men start departing for the Briavellian border today.

“That should give our queen something to think about,” he said to Jessom, who was standing nearby, pouring his sovereign a cup of wine.

The war room had been freshly cleaned, waxed, and aired for Celimus. Someone had even placed a bowl of fruit and vase of exquisite tannika buds in one corner. Celimus did not particularly care for either, but he liked the splash of color in this dull and dreary place. His mother, he recalled, had adored the famed buds, which only flowered for a few short weeks in spring. It afforded him an ironic amusement that his mother’s influence now held sway in Magnus’s once firmly private, men-only chamber. If he had any of her perfume, he would dab it over every surface so that Adana’s scent permeated every corner and overwhelmed any lingering essence of Magnus. He smiled grimly at the thought.

“What are their orders, sire?” the Chancellor replied, handing the goblet to the King.

“Merely a show of strength at this stage. They await further orders,” Celimus said distractedly, looking toward the flushed, dusty messenger being led into the war room by one of his aides. “Yes?”

The aide bowed, as did the messenger. “Sire,” the aide said, “a courier from the north.”

Celimus did not mask his irritation at being disturbed. “I take it this is urgent?”

“I’m assured it is, your highness, and to be given to you directly,” the aide qualified. He would never dare interrupt the King and his chancellor unless it was important, although of course he did not mention this fact. “Say as little as possible” seemed to be the new creed among the palace servants when faced with their king.

The courier bowed again, overwhelmed to be in the presence of the King. It was clear that since arriving at the gates of Stoneheart, he had not even paused for a cup of water to quench his thirst.

Celimus leaned against the huge table where he remembered his father poring over maps and looked at the newcomer expectantly. With his arms folded and legs crossed at the ankle, the King suggested this was all most inconvenient and he offered no words to allay the messenger’s obvious nervousness.

The man licked his dry lips. “Your highness, I was dispatched from the midlands checkpoint, having taken a message from another messenger, who had been sent by your captain at our northern base between Deakyn and Felrawthy.” He paused to take a breath, not noticing the flicker of irritation across the King’s face at the preamble.

The Chancellor did. “Get to the point, man, if it’s urgent,” Jessom warned, hoping to prevent Celimus from erupting. He had sensed his king’s brittle mood that morning and experience suggested it would not do to test his flexibility right now.

“I apologize, sire,” the man stammered. “The message I am asked to deliver direct to you is that King Cailech of the Razors seeks a parley.”

A stunned silence filled the war room, then evaporated as exclamations ensued from both King and Chancellor.

“A parley with Cailech!” Celimus blustered. “Preposterous! Whatever for?”

The courier reddened. “My king, I am not privy to any background to this missive, other than to report that it was
originally delivered to the Legion by a man called Aremys Farrow.” He bowed, his task concluded. Celimus ignored him, glancing angrily toward the Chancellor. Before anything further could be said, Jessom dismissed both courier and aide. He stilled the King’s coming explosion with a guarded look and both waited impatiently for the two men to leave.

As soon as the door shut, Celimus erupted. “Farrow!” he raged. “Working with Cailech?”

Jessom deliberately kept his expression clear of all emotion, although he too was startled by the news. “We don’t have all the details yet, your highness. We cannot know what has occurred here.”

“What secrets has he passed on?” Celimus demanded.

Jessom shook his head. “He knows nothing, sire. Besides, he will not share details of his paid missions with Cailech. Mercenaries of his caliber never let one hand know what the other is doing.”

“Precisely my point, you fool,” Celimus said. “How do we know that he hasn’t been working for Cailech all along?”

Experience had taught Jessom to ignore such offense. “To what end, sire? What benefit has he gained? What secrets could he have learned during a few hours at Stoneheart? Both he and Leyen were watched on my instructions. Farrow did not leave his chamber, even washing up there. He did not emerge until supper with you, and during your meeting the only matter of note discussed was Ylena Thirsk—and presumably she means nothing to the Mountain King. Farrow returned to his room and was gone within two hours. With respect, my king, I think we are jumping to conclusions.”

“Then what is Farrow up to?” Celimus roared, only mildly placated. “What is Cailech up to?”

“Well, let’s think it through,” Jessom said in a soft voice meant to calm his sovereign’s rage. “An ambush, possibly?”

“Hardly,” Celimus countered. “By all accounts, Cailech is not stupid. He’s not going to risk himself on the vague chance he could hurt me. No, there is another reason.”

“I have to wonder what he thinks the Razor Kingdom and
Morgravia have in common, sire,” Jessom said airily, about to expound further when the King cut him off.

“A mutual distrust of Briavel perhaps,” Cailech replied, his mind now working its agile way around various scenarios. “Let’s presume Aremys has no loyalty to either party—that he is working purely for personal gain. Perhaps he was captured by Cailech while he was on business for us, although that is unlikely; as you suggest, however, there could be other reasons he found himself in the company of Cailech. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for now, shall we?”

“All right, your majesty,” Jessom agreed, as if the more rational approach were all Celimus’s idea. “So?”

“So, I agree to meet with Aremys Farrow on Morgravian soil. I am intrigued as to what Cailech has in mind with this parley.”

“What do you propose, sire?”

“I shall see him somewhere that can be properly guarded. It will take too long for him to be brought to Stoneheart.” The King began to think aloud. “Perhaps halfway—Rittylworth?”

“Felrawthy, my king,” Jessom said in a tone of rich satisfaction. “What better spot?”

“Indeed,” Celimus agreed, warming instantly to the notion of personally taking over the rich estate. “Who cares if Crys Donal is alive in Briavel? He is a traitor now, and Felrawthy belongs to the Crown. Make immediate arrangements. Send a message for Aremys Farrow to be brought to Tenterdyn. We shall meet him there.”

“At once, your highness. And Briavel?”

“Can wait for now. Let Valentyna stew. Perhaps the sight of our men will soften her resolve. She would be a fool to go into battle.”

“You would still marry her, sire?”

Celimus looked at his chancellor as though he were conversing with a dullard. “I don’t want war, Jessom. I want her to capitulate. I don’t want her as my equal—which is, tragically, how she sees herself—but I do want her as my queen. I want an heir from her. I want Briavel, man. And
then I shall have the Mountain Kingdom too. I want it all!” he bellowed, storming from his war room, his energies charged.

A
remys found the company of the Legionnaires easy and comfortable. With the Razors behind him, he was relieved to be back in Morgravia—and suddenly the chance of finding Wyl again felt possible. He still felt touched by Myrt’s sorrow, Gueryn’s imprisonment, and the shock of realizing what had become of Lothryn, but there was nothing he could do about any of that right now. He had a job to carry out for the Mountain King and his freedom to win.

He liked Cailech, in spite of it all. The man had a deep intelligence and quick mind, and Aremys was impressed that the King—who he sensed was capable of arrogance and too much pride—had not been too proud or arrogant to appreciate the benefit of a parley with the southern King. That Cailech despised Celimus was obvious, but he also had the capacity for pragmatism. He had admitted to Aremys that if he could stomach a meeting with Celimus and form some sort of loose bond, the long-term benefits were immense.

They had talked over a sumptuous supper before Aremys and his escort left. Myrt had been quiet, but then Myrt was always quiet. Only Aremys seemed overly sensitive to his silence; the King was focused on the coming meeting with his southern couterpart.

“Can he be trusted?” Cailech had asked bluntly.

“I doubt it. Can you?” Aremys had inquired, which had made the King bellow with amusement.

“You’ll do well, Aremys. Go and set up this parley for me.”

“And in return, Cailech,” Aremys had risked, “what is my reward?”

“I allow you to live,” the King had answered. The gregarious mood did not fool Aremys. He knew only too well that the King still held deep suspicions about him, but no mention had
been made of Rashlyn other than to assure the two men that the barshi was well.

Aremys had not replied to the King’s flippant comment. Instead he had held his ground, refusing to flinch under the King’s scrutiny.

“All right, mercenary. I understand your need for an exchange of some kind,” Cailech said, relenting. He smiled. “What would please you that I could provide?”

Aremys had decided to risk it. “I would have Galapek.”

The King’s reaction was dramatic despite his efforts to shield it. The eyes narrowed and Aremys saw the man’s jaw tighten. His barb had hit home.

“What is your interest in my horse?” Cailech had asked, his tone bordering on anger.

“Only that I wish he were mine, sire,” Aremys had lied. “He is the most beautiful stallion I have ever encountered—and that’s saying something, coming from a Grenadyne.”

“He is still new for me. I am fond of him.”

“I see,” Aremys had observed, keeping his voice light so no offense could be taken. It was time to pull back. “King Cailech, I will attempt to set up this parley for you in good faith. I need nothing from you in payment—not even your fine stallion. All I ask is that you grant my freedom once you have had the opportunity to work out a peace agreement with Celimus.”

Cailech had instantly offered his hand, palm up. Aremys knew this was a rare show of friendship from a man who no doubt believed he had no equal, and once again he was struck by how quickly the King’s mood could change.

“I will gladly seal hands on that, Aremys,” the King had said. “I like your confidence that Celimus and I will find common ground.”

Aremys had placed his own hand on top of the King’s. “You alone will make it happen, my lord. I have complete faith in you.”

Cailech had smiled and this time there was no guile in his face, just open warmth. “I hope you will choose to stay among
us, Grenadyne. But I will grant you your independence as soon as this deal is done.”

Aremys had opted for a lighthearted response. “I must be free, your highness. My memory tells me I have a woman to find,” and he had winked, much to the King’s delighted amusement.