Bridge of Souls (12 page)

“True. It was a mistake for me to announce my real name,” Wyl admitted. “But it was the only name that was going to get me through the palace gates. I need some time to think, your highness. Perhaps I might take that rest now, if you will permit it?”

“Of course. I’m glad you’re here, Ylena,” Valentyna said, surprising herself with such naked truth. “You may not look like your brother, but your personalities are devastatingly similar. He made me feel safe, as you do, curiously enough.”

Ylena’s face shone with Wyl’s pleasure. “I am your servant, your highness. As my brother once pledged his allegiance to Briavel, so I do too.”

“I accept it with gratitude, Ylena, but what can we two
women do against that treacherous King to the west? I marry him shortly, do you know that?”

“Perhaps you must, your highness, but not without a plan,” he said reassuringly, even as his stomach clenched at the thought. “Gather up all the latest information you can—everything your people can report.”

The Queen wondered at what point in their conversation Ylena had assumed such authority, but she nodded her agreement. “My intention was to ask Crys Donal to leave Briavel,” she added.

“Yes, he cannot remain here. It will only inflame the situation now that Celimus knows he has survived. Besides, Crys may be far more help to our cause in Morgravia.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure yet, your majesty. May we talk again in a few hours?”

“Surely,” the Queen said, and then, unable to help herself, added: “It’s uncanny…”

“What is, your majesty?”

“Either I’m going mad or Shar himself is conspiring to confuse me.” She gave Wyl a long, searching gaze and he watched, discomfited, as her eyes misted. “It sounds so foolish, but not only do you echo your brother, you remind me keenly of Romen Koreldy in the way you talk to me. He and I plotted together not so long ago on how to keep Celimus and his marriage proposal at bay. I feel as if I am reliving that moment.” A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. “Oh, forgive me, Ylena. I’m know I’m making no sense.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Wyl said, reaching into a pocket and handing the Queen a handkerchief.

Valentyna gave a small, harsh laugh. “No, you don’t understand. Our mutual friend Elspyth asked me just a couple of days ago to keep an open mind on people who might pass through my life.”

“You’re right; I don’t understand,” Wyl admitted, trying to lighten the moment with a grin.

Valentyna dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief.
Something tweaked at her mind, but she paid it little attention. “I hate feeling this weak. A mention, a reminder of Romen, anything that resonates of him can undo me.”

“Then use his memory to make you strong. If he was able to make you feel safe, call upon that feeling to give you courage rather than allowing it to undo you,” Wyl urged.

The Queen sighed, handing back the beautiful square of linen. Once more she felt a tug at her thoughts, but again she dismissed it as Ylena spoke.

“What were you going to say about people passing through your life?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Valentyna pulled at a stalk of lavender, crushing the flower between her hands. Wyl had to look away; it was a painful reminder of happier times, when Valentyna had crushed a head of lavender and held up her palms to Romen for him to inhale the scent.

“Elspyth is determined that I should lock Romen away and open up my heart to others who might love me,” the Queen continued, shyly now.

Wyl heard alarms klaxoning in his head. “And what else did the wise woman Elspyth advise, your highness?”

Valentyna smiled at his gentle sarcasm, not knowing how terrifying this conversation was for her guest. “It was an odd moment—she was most intense about her words. We were in this very place actually, and she begged me that should someone ever remind me strongly of Romen to take notice of it.”

Wyl felt his stomach twist with relief. Elspyth had obviously danced around the topic. She had learned the lesson of a loose mouth in the harshest way at Tenterdyn—and his sister had died because of it. Elspyth would not make the same mistake again, although it had not stopped her from alluding to his secret.

He needed to get away before the conversation became even more dangerous.

“I am proud indeed that I remind you of someone you loved so much, your majesty,” he said, and bowed to kiss the Queen’s hand and take his leave. As he did, he inhaled the scent of
lavender as he had done not so long ago in the guise of Roman Koreldy, and felt a rush of adoration and desire through his body.

W
yl fled from the herb garden with its painfully sweet memories and was fortunate to bump into young Stewyt, the page who had looked after his needs when he was last in the palace, as Romen. He schooled his expression to show no recognition.

“Excuse me,” he said, touching the youngster on the shoulder.

“My lady?” the lad said, bowing.

He had grown in the short time Wyl had been away. “What is your name?”

“Stewyt, my lady. May I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m a guest here and—”

“Yes, the household staff has been informed, Lady Ylena, and I have been appointed to wait on you, if that pleases?”

The boy had struck Wyl as sharp on their first meeting and it seemed this intuition had not been misguided. The page had been very sure of himself then and it had occurred to Wyl that Stewyt might be a spy for Chancellor Krell.

“It does please me,” he replied now. “I was wondering where my chamber is.”

“Let me take you there, my lady. Please follow me.”

They engaged in small talk on the journey through the formal reception rooms of the palace, making their way up the beautiful marble staircase and then another flight—less ornate this time—toward the guest rooms. Stewyt was a competent guide, pointing out items of interest as they entered the western wing of the palace—a place Wyl had not been previously.

“We have arranged a suite for you, my lady. I hope you find the accommodation comfortable. Please let me know if there’s anything I can fetch for you.”

“Thank you,” Wyl said, impressed by the lad’s composure. He stepped past Stewyt into a freshly aired sitting room.

“The door over there leads into your sleeping chamber, my lady, and that other door is a dressing room where you might take your ablutions. Shall I send up a bath?”

“Please.”

“Would you like a maid to help with your toilet?”

“Er, no, thank you, Stewyt. I would prefer to be alone right now.” Wyl knew he should order some fresh clothes, but this new existence was hard enough. The riding clothes made him feel comfortable.

Stewyt nodded. “As you wish, my lady,” and he bowed formally to take his leave.

It seemed to Wyl he would never escape the fragrance of lavender. A fresh bunch had been placed in a jar by the window and a light breeze carried the scent through the room. The stalks were mingled with mint, of all things. So typically Valentyna; he sighed. She’d probably ordered the arrangement herself.

He looked out from the window across Werryl Bridge. It was a magnificent sight from this high perspective. A procession of people crossed to and fro, in and out of Werryl city, and he noticed they all paid quiet homage to the newly erected statue of King Valor, who had taken his place among the other, more ancient royals who stood guard, made welcome and bade farewell to all who traveled the bridge. The people’s love for Valor was evident in the way they paused to nod at his likeness or touch the statue’s foot. It was poignant to watch and Wyl wished a similar tradition were followed in Morgravia to honor its revered dead. Then he stifled a nervous laugh at the mental picture that sprang to mind of the folk of Pearlis spitting on a statue of Celimus.

I must not falter now,
he berated himself, knowing that being so close to Valentyna while trapped as Ylena was dangerous for him. He decided he should lie down, even if rest eluded him. Wyl was asleep in moments.

Fynch came to him in his dreams.

I cannot stay long. I am traveling with Knave into the Razors.

Fynch! Is it really you?

Wyl, sending to you is hard for me, so don’t talk, just listen. I know what troubles you. Offer to go to Pearlis on Valentyna’s behalf. Buy her more time.

Celimus will have me killed.

But you are already dead, Wyl. Farewell. I hope we shall speak again.

Fynch? Fynch!

Wyl woke trembling and disturbed.

F
YNCH SAT DOWN HARD ON THE SMALL MOUND OUTSIDE THE COTTAGE THAT HAD BEEN BUILT BY
E
LYSIUS
. “M
Y HEAD THROBS
.”

Knave prowled nearby
. It will. Each time you use the magic, the pain will become a little worse.

“I had to.”

Knave did not comment. Instead he offered some advice.
Take some sharvan leaves from the pot in the cottage. Elysius used them to alleviate the pain.

Fynch nodded and forced himself to stand, despite the lingering ache. “Do we leave immediately?”

As soon as you feel strong enough.

“I wish we didn’t have to leave this place. I feel safe here.”

I understand, Fynch.

“Why did he come, do you think?”

Knave knew to whom the boy referred.
To thank you.

“Something odd happened.”

Knave remained quiet, although the silence was filled with unspoken questions.

Fynch touched the dog on his large head as he moved toward the cottage. “Maybe I imagined it, but I felt connected to the King somehow.”

We all do.

“No, it was more than that. I felt like I belonged to him,” Fynch said softly, slightly embarrassed. “Even though I know my creature is Roark, the unicorn.”

The dog offered no explanation and Fynch sensed his friend was confused when he replied:
It cannot be a bad thing to feel connected to the King of the Beasts.

Fynch understood he would get no more insight from Knave. He knew the Warrior King had also sensed something between them. He had seen recognition flare in the creature’s dark eyes. But the King had gone now and there was no point in teasing at that problem.

Not when there was a journey to make, a man to kill, and another to save.

D
espite his sleep, Wyl did not feel rested in the slightest, and Fynch’s words had so disturbed him that he could not face putting his head back on the pillow. Soon enough, a gaggle of servants arrived to deliver the bath, hot water, fresh clothes, and a tray of welcome food and wine.

He took his time luxuriating in the steaming water and staring at the trio of gowns Valentyna had sent for him to choose from. He hated the sight of them, despised having to climb into a dress and curtsy before the woman he loved. And what was more, something terrifying was occurring in Ylena’s body. At first he had been alarmed by the creeping hurt that had begun low and deep, almost at his groin. Sharp needles of pain had stabbed regularly at him since he had woken. The heat of the bath had soothed them but not taken them away, and then a
fresh ache across his back had begun. When the dull throb of a headache gathered, he knew he was ill, but it was only as he was considering how to explain the discomfort to a physic that he understood what this was all about. He had Ylena’s monthly bleed. A new wave of sickness passed over him. How much more humiliation could he take? Did he truly have to contend with this?

He took his mind back to easier times, when life was bright and happy for Ylena. He recalled how she would withdraw each month for a day at least and rest, but he had hardly been privy to much more information than, “Your sister is indisposed. She leaves a message that you should visit tomorrow when she will be feeling better.” He smirked bitterly in the warm waters.
The first day is always the worst,
she had told him when he had dared to ask more than was polite. So he had to deal with this pain for one day—and then what? How long would the bleed last? He knew there was something about linens and regular changing, but that was a woman’s world.
His
world now. He dipped deeper into the warmth of the bath.

Fynch’s words haunted him. His friend was right: What did it matter if Ylena died at the hands of Celimus, or anyone else? Her death would buy Valentyna time. Wyl Thirsk would go on living anyway, he thought grimly. Perhaps he could persuade Celimus to do the ugly deed and end it once and for all. But just as he began to work out a plan, he remembered Elysius’s warning that if he attempted to contrive his own death, the repercussions would be savage. He could not risk another person he loved suffering and he felt sure the penalty would be leveled on someone else rather than himself.

He dropped Ylena’s head to her hands in deep frustration, but in truth his mind was made up. Fynch’s advice was wise. Wyl could represent Valentyna to Celimus. The King of Morgravia would hardly turn down the opportunity to welcome Ylena back to Stoneheart—and no doubt directly into her former cell in the dungeon…or worse. He cared not. The sooner he was rid of Ylena’s body, the better. He felt sick at heart that
he would lose her again, but he would be glad to no longer walk in her skin.

Wyl pondered a plan as he washed Ylena’s hair and readied her for dinner. A small glow of luck saw a maid arrive to clear his tray. He begged a favor and it was taken care of in minutes. She brought him strips of linen and a strange brown liquid that smelled awful and tasted worse.

The young maid smiled at him as he thanked her. “The pain will go quickly, my lady. I’ll have some more linens delivered.”

T
he Duke of Felrawthy crossed the room and swept Ylena into his arms. “Wyl,” he whispered into his prisoner’s ear, “thank Shar you’re safe.”

Wyl felt self-conscious at the show of affection and yet knew it would appear perfectly normal to the Queen, who stood regally nearby, delighting in the reunion of her Morgravian guests. She looked dazzling in a dark brown gown of the simplest design. Figure hugging, with no frills or flounces, ruches or tucks, it flattered her tall, slim frame, the deep color accentuating the brightness of her eyes against her creamy complexion and the dark hair she had twisted up behind her head with a tortoiseshell comb.

When he was placed back on the floor, Wyl took the Duke’s hand in his own and placed both their fists against his own heart. It was the gesture of a Legionnaire, and in Morgravian society would have looked not only odd but vulgar when performed by a woman. Fortunately, Valentyna had no understanding of the gesture, although Wyl knew Crys would instantly understand its intent. For Wyl, it was the only way he could show his true self and convey the depth of his feeling for what had occurred.

“I’m shattered by the news of your family,” he said softly.

Crys momentarily lost his tight grip on the sorrow he kept locked away and Wyl saw it march slowly, painfully, across the handsome Duke’s features.

“I can’t—” Crys began haltingly.

“I know,” Wyl said, fighting down the lump that was closing his own throat. “I understand. Stay strong, Crys. Their lives will not have passed in vain.”

All Crys could do was gather up his hurts quickly and hide them again. It was either that or break down completely. He nodded as he turned away.

Valentyna rescued them both. “Ylena, Crys, come, I’ve had a table set up by the fire. Let us break some bread together.”

Had the Queen deliberately chosen to entertain them in the same chamber in which Wyl had first met her father, with its secret doorway and huge tapestry covering the privy? He could not guess but it felt strangely comforting to be here again—as though he had come full circle. Nothing much had changed in the room, save a few Valentyna-esque flourishes. A jar of blooms, some fresh lavender and herbs scattered on the floor that would release their scent as they were crushed underfoot, a thick rug, and a charcoal-sketched likeness of Valor done by his daughter that hung unobtrusively in a corner. It was not a great work of art but had obviously been done with raw emotion and she had somehow captured the spirit of the man. The final brightening touch was a tiny puppy, gamboling about near the warmth of the hearth, teasing at a bone.

Valentyna saw Wyl’s amusement at the little fellow as they seated themselves and shrugged. “I miss Knave.” Then she whispered, “I hear you have the curse. Have you taken some raspberry-leaf tea?”

Wyl nodded, though he had no idea whether he had taken such tea or not. He was startled by her candidness. Did women discuss these maladies openly with one another?

Valentyna’s smile was all sympathy. “The first day is always the worst.”

Wyl wondered if his face was flushed red with the embarrassment he was feeling and was glad when Crys claimed his attention, drawing him away from the Queen’s conspiratorial gaze.

“You’ve heard that Elspyth has gone?” Crys inquired of Wyl, the young Duke fully composed again.

Wyl felt proud of him. Morgravia could recover with young men like this to lead the future. If only he could rid the realm of its present monarch, there was hope. “Yes, into the clutches of Cailech, I suspect.”

“What can we do?” Crys asked, not really expecting a response.

“I shall have to go after her.”

“What?” Valentyna cried, and Wyl could understand how strange his comment must have sounded. “What can a tiny creature like you do against Cailech and his Mountain Men?”

“Oh,” Wyl said, finding a lazy grin he was certain Romen would be proud of, “you’d be surprised, your majesty.”

“But you’ve never been there. You have no idea about this man!” Valentyna spluttered, the noblewoman’s arrogance reminding her of someone she had once loved.

“True,” Wyl lied. “But Elspyth decided to risk it,” he continued, “and we have time on our side. Presumably she is on foot?”

The Queen nodded. “She took nothing, not even the horse she rode in on.”

“She’ll be a while getting into the Razors, then. In the meantime, there’s a realm at stake.”

Valentyna found a sad smile for her new friend. “I was measured for my wedding gown this afternoon.”

“As you should be,” Wyl said, suppressing the nausea that rose in his throat at the thought. “You must be seen to be progressing with your plans for the wedding, your highness. Let the spies report that you are preparing as any imminent bride would be.”

Valentyna put down her goblet, her expression one of disgust. “And in the interim allow him to intimidate my people by setting up his arrogant Legionnaires in camps along our border?” She briefed her guests on everything she had gleaned from recent reports.

Wyl considered this information, sipping quietly from his
own wine, as a poultry course was laid before them. Valentyna’s fare was simple but delicious, as was her choice in most things. He stared now at the roasted chicken before him, the heady scents of lemon and rosemary wafting up to tantalize him.

“The Legion’s movements are purely that,” he said, looking up from his plate and sounding nothing like a pampered young noblewoman.

“Pardon me?” the Queen inquired, a fork speared with meat balanced halfway to her mouth.

“You think it’s a ruse?” Crys chimed in.

Wyl shook his head. “No ruse. Celimus would not hesitate to send in his men, if pushed, but he has a good soldier’s brain. And he’s a king now with designs on broadening his empire, not losing his subjects. No, I think this is what you might call stage one. I would do precisely the same in his shoes.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Valentyna asked, stunned by Ylena’s sudden likeness to Liryk or, indeed, her own father. The girl’s brother, Wyl Thirsk, had sounded just as straightforward in the final few moments she had known him as he had helped her escape the fate both he and her father had met that afternoon.

“Parade the might of the Legion, remind Briavel of the power that lies across the border. He knows you are aware that war with Morgravia would be insanity and that you will not permit it.”

“Won’t I?” she said, suddenly contrary. She sounded as if she would rather fight. Ylena’s presence, fragile though it appeared, seemed to have given her a new rush of hope.

“No, your majesty,” Wyl answered. Ylena’s voice was high-pitched and very feminine, but the tone he managed to hit left no room for argument. “You will send him a declaration of your affections instead. A reinforcement, if you will, of your commitment to the marriage and peace for the region.”

A hard blue gaze riveted Wyl to where he sat. He swallowed to loosen his throat, which felt suddenly tight. Oh, how he would love to take her in his arms and kiss her, declare his
love, and tell her everything, to hell with whether she believed him or not. A roll of pain in his belly reminded him that the Queen saw a woman across the table and certainly did not harbor the same sentiments. What was more, her expression demanded an explanation of his statement.

He was about to continue when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Valentyna called for one of her aides to enter and Wyl saw the irritation flicker across her face. He realized how much she would be missing Krell’s competent presence, knowing how much he had screened from her and dealt with himself.

The man bowed. “Your highness, Commander Liryk said you would want to have this information immediately.” He handed her a document.

“Thank you,” the Queen said, standing as she took the paperwork and nodding to dismiss the messenger. She moved to the fire to read it. “Excuse me,” she murmured to her guests.

Both watched her expression grow more serious as she read, then darken. She let out a harsh sound, half laughter, half despair. Wyl pushed his chair back and, despising the swish of his gown and girlish click of his heels, was at her side.

“Your highness, what is it?” He could see her pale before him.

Crys too was on his feet. “Your majesty?”

The Queen shook her head, eyes closed, jaws firmly clamped together as she gathered herself. She opened her eyes and they were filled with tears. “Our spies report that King Celimus of Morgravia is on his way north to Felrawthy, where he will meet for a parley with the Mountain King.”