Bridge of Souls (15 page)

He cast a glance at the letter in his hand. After several attempts he had finally settled on being Wyl and the words were brief
and to the point. There was nothing of Romen’s charm, Faryl’s cunning, or Ylena’s courtesies, merely a simple apology for his unforgivable behavior and a reiteration that he was making for Felrawthy. No honeyed farewell, no promise of return, no attempt at reconciling their awkward parting. He would be gone from her life once and for all. Wyl had wished her well for her upcoming marriage and encouraged her to be brave and stoic in what she faced. To never forget who she was and to remember her promise to bring forth a babe who would rule both realms with honor and love. Wyl could not save her this trial or the destiny of an unhappy life with Celimus, but he could let her know that he had listened to her soft words and wished her the joy of loving a child. He suspected that this part of the letter might make her cry, but he knew she would read the rest with only relief that he had gone. “So be it,” he muttered to himself as he strode across the room to the door.

Stewyt was sitting outside, straight-backed and wide-awake. No need to rub the sleep from those alert eyes, Wyl thought.

“Thank you, Stewyt, for waiting up,” he said.

“A pleasure, my lady. I am here to serve,” the page said, sounding mature far beyond his years. “May I take those for you?”

“Please,” Wyl said.

“I will personally deliver them immediately, my lady.”

“No, Stewyt, I would prefer if you would arrange their delivery in the early hours of the morning. I don’t wish either recipient disturbed tonight and there is nothing of such import that it cannot wait until tomorrow.”

Stewyt nodded, then hesitated, and Wyl saw him take in the change of clothes from gown to breeches. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, my lady? Perhaps I could send up some refreshment, have the fire stoked?”

Wyl cut him off with a gently raised hand. “Nothing, thank you,” he said, forcing a smile. He had no intention of letting the curious page know of his movements. “I am very tired and sleep calls.”

“I shall see you’re not disturbed again then, my lady. Good
night and sleep well.” Stewyt gave a solemn bow and moved swiftly off into the shadows of the corridor.

Wyl waited for what felt an interminable time, making sure the inquisitive page did not see his departure. Eventually, he tiptoed from his chamber and made his way quietly down the various flights of stairs. At one landing he noticed a portrait of Valentyna he did not recall having seen before. In the low light of the sconces, the tall figure seemed to be pulling away from the wall, advancing on him. Her expression struck him as accusatory, the faint smile mocking. If only she knew the truth, he thought, and regretted bitterly that he could not share it with her. He extended his hand toward the painting, hoping he could reach high enough to touch her on the lips, but Ylena’s fingers only stretched to Valentyna’s chest. It would do.

“Farewell, my love,” he whispered, and then he was sprinting down the final flight of stairs and running toward a doorway he remembered from his time as Romen. It took him through the scullery, where he saw one sleeping attendant who should have been stirring the porridge that simmered continually through the night. The young girl looked exhausted; her lips were parted and a light snore punctuated the silence as she slumped on the table. Wyl smiled. Oh, for a simple life with only a dressing-down from cook in the morning to worry about.

He slipped out of the door into one of the many vegetable gardens, disturbing two cats fighting over a struggling rat. One took off, the dying creature still in its jaws. The other shrieked at its loss of the feast. Wyl looked around to get his bearings and made for the stables and his journey north.

V
ALENTYNA BROKE HER FAST EARLY AND PRIVATELY ON THE BALCONY OF HER BEDCHAMBER
. S
HE HAD CHANGED ROOMS NOT SO LONG AGO
. A
T FIRST
,
after learning of Romen’s murder, she had wanted to cling to his memory, to remember every word, every smile, every touch they had shared together, so briefly, in her bedroom. More recently, however, with her marriage looming, she had decided she must bury those memories and put aside anything that prompted their return. Hence the move into the new quarters. Her new room had been her mother’s. It was from her mother that she had inherited a taste for simple, fine things, and this chamber and its suite of rooms used natural light and space to achieve a sense of calm. And calm was what Valentyna needed right now. She was still deeply upset from the previous night’s events, and although not hungry after her fitful sleep and fretful awakening, she had adhered to her father’s long-held advice that bad news and bad moods were best dealt with on a full belly. Nevertheless, she had ordered only the lightest of meals, consisting of a small sugared roll, a single lightly boiled egg, a sliced pear, and a pot of dark, strong tea.

She had left the letter from Ylena unopened by the side of her tray until she had picked over the fruit and egg, neither of which she tasted, and downed her first cup of tea. Valentyna suspected the letter would contain an outpouring of beautifully crafted yet cringing apologies and hated the thought of reading them, let alone facing the woman who had so misread her affections. She was sure her face still burned from the combined horror and embarrassment of Ylena’s error, although
Valentyna was uncertain whether this intense discomfort was for herself or on behalf of Wyl’s sister. Both probably, she thought glumly.

She poured a second cup of tea, this time with a slice of lemon instead of sweetening honey, and waited until she had sipped from its steaming contents before breaking the seal on the letter. It was a sharp surprise to discover that it was not even close to what she had imagined. A brief and succinct apology for what Ylena called her unforgivable behavior was followed by an equally concise confirmation that she was already on her way to Felrawthy. She specifically asked not to be followed, and urged the Queen to write immediately to Celimus with news that she was sending Wyl Thirsk’s sister as a token of her loyalty to the King of Morgravia.

The second half of the single sheet was softer in its intentions, if not in its words, and reminded Valentyna of things her father might say. Unlike her father, though, the words felt as though they had been written by someone not used to being openly affectionate, yet who cared deeply for her well-being. Frankly, Valentyna thought, drumming her fingers on her seat, Ylena simply did not know her well enough to write with such tender, albeit awkward, familiarity.

Tears stung her eyes and she hastily rubbed them away. She had not intended to cry, but weep she did, hating herself for these last days of such hysterical behavior. From Wyl’s description of his sister all that time ago, she had expected Ylena Thirsk to be a gentle, fragile sort of character. Despite hearing how she had overcome such enormous trauma, Valentyna had still been stunned by the confident and direct woman who had presented herself at the court of Briavel.

She put down the letter, picked up her cup, and let the steam from the tea warm her face, which felt chill from being outside on this still brisk spring morning. It struck Valentyna that Ylena had behaved in a fairly masculine fashion throughout her short time at Werryl. This had occurred to her well before the kiss, even before the supper; it had begun to resonate as early as their stroll in the gardens. Ylena had showed all the
poise and upbringing of a noblewoman, but she appeared to think like a man. Valentyna prided herself on being an adept judge of character, but Ylena’s disposition was not easy to explain yet unusual enough to notice. At first she had thought she was imagining it, but during supper Ylena had taken over the conversation and led the discussion to Celimus and Cailech as though they were sitting in a war room. She had heard her father conversing with his soldiers for too many years not to recognize the similarity of the situation.

That aside, she wondered about Ylena’s uncanny habit of pacing while she was thinking. That had rocked Valentyna only marginally less than the wretched kiss. The likeness to Romen was too painful to bear. Valentyna remembered how she had had to look away and how shallow her breathing had become as she watched Ylena. And then the worst part—that terrible incident in Ylena’s chamber. Valentyna blamed herself for it. Ylena had lost so much—parents, brother, husband, the family friend Gueryn le Gant. And then she had learned of the tragedy at Felrawthy. The emotions had all boiled over, presumably, and she had sought affection from someone who seemed to be offering it. Valentyna made an involuntary sound of disgust. And yet the explanation sounded too neat and tidy, as though she were contriving every excuse to explain the curiosity that was Ylena Thirsk.

Far more likely, the practical voice in Valentyna’s head suggested, the girl had a liking for women. But even that did not make sense. A woman who wanted to lie with other women surely did not have a male childhood sweetheart; nor did she marry that man as soon as they were both old enough. When Wyl Thirsk had told her and Valor about Alyd Donal’s death, he had also described the great love between Alyd and his Ylena.

Valentyna closed her eyes in frustration. And then the nagging thought, which had called from the edges of her mind almost since Ylena’s arrival, filtered to the top of her consciousness and set a new and chilling problem before her. Ylena’s handkerchief—the one she had handed Valentyna
when she had wept in the garden—was the same linen that she herself had given to Romen! How could Ylena possibly own it?

The Queen put down her cup, stood, and leaned against the balcony railing. Was she imagining things? No! It was her own handkerchief. She had even mentioned it to Elspyth at Aleda’s funeral. Elspyth had been weeping for Aleda and Valentyna had put an arm around her petite companion and handed her a beautiful square of embroidered linen. She closed her eyes to remember the words she had shared with her friend:
I gave Romen an identical kerchief,
she had whispered.
You keep this. Now both my best friends own one.

She repeated the words in her mind as she gazed down onto Werryl Bridge and its endless stream of activity. Romen had died in a brothel in Briavel, and Ylena’s only contact with him had occurred between Pearlis and Rittylworth, she calculated. Then they had parted, and as she understood it, they had not seen each other again before he died. Valentyna had given Romen the handkerchief long after he had left Morgravia and the Razors, and he had lived the rest of his numbered days in Briavel.

A new thought struck the Queen. Perhaps that hateful woman, Hildyth, had stolen it from him. But why take a square of meaningless linen? And even if she had stolen it from Romen at the Forbidden Fruit, how could Ylena now have it in her possession?

Wyl, Romen, Ylena, and Hildyth—what did they have in common? Why was she even linking them in her mind? Wyl and Ylena were related; that one was obvious. Romen and Wyl had fought together in vain to save her father and had certainly saved her. Romen had rescued Ylena, keeping a promise to her dead brother, Wyl. And Hildyth? Hildyth was connected only to the man Valentyna had loved, through death—a blade in the heart.

But no. There was another link, was there not? She shook her head in a futile attempt at denial, but it whispered through her raging thoughts. A shining, clear notion that traveled
brightly through the maelstrom of her mind and landed as sharply and painfully as an arrow. A notion that had been voiced by two separate people: Fynch subtly, and Elspyth more insistently.

Fynch had claimed that he believed Wyl and Romen were of one mind. Valentyna was immediately reminded of Knave and the talk of magic that swirled about the dog. She recalled Fynch’s confusion when Wyl’s cantankerous dog had taken so easily to Romen, and how Romen had called out the dog’s name in Stoneheart, though he had never met Knave before. Even more baffling for Fynch was how playfully Knave had greeted the stranger. The Queen remembered Fynch describing how Wyl’s eyes had changed color at the witch burning—more talk of magic she had ignored. And then along came Elspyth with similar murmurings. She had urged Valentyna to accept the notion of reincarnation, all but saying that she too believed Wyl somehow resonated within Romen, and that the Queen’s beloved might well be spiritually present in a new person—a woman, even. Wyl…Romen…Ylena.

Valentyna startled herself by being sick, turning just in time to avoid soiling her clothes. She sank to the floor of the balcony, upending the crockery on the tray, and gave way to deep, dry sobs. Nothing made sense anymore.

She remained curled on the balcony until the cold and the smell of her vomit brought her back to the present and the one stark reality she could not escape: marriage to Celimus. Today was the all-important fitting for her gown. She must attend to her toilet, and tolerate the seamstresses’ chatter and annoying pins and requests. The time between now and the night when the King of Morgravia would legally bed her could be counted on her fingers.

Valentyna collected her shattered wits, put all thoughts of reincarnation and magic to the back of her mind, and steeled herself for her regal duties in the coming days. Forging peace was all she would permit herself to focus upon. She had a war to prevent and a wedding to prepare for. She would do as Ylena Thirsk suggested and write a letter of appeasement to
King Celimus using Ylena as barter. She might as well, now that Ylena had made her sacrifice.

C
rys had risen later than Valentyna but read his letter before he dressed. Wyl suggested two options for him to consider. The first was that he try to catch up with Elspyth, who Wyl felt was on a foolhardy mission, although he did not believe she was in any immediate danger. Both he and Crys felt protective toward Elspyth and it was only right that, with so few allies, they all look out for one another. Failing this, he suggested Crys don a disguise and infiltrate Pearlis, particularly the Legion, spreading the word of Celimus’s betrayal of Jeryb and his family. Wyl listed a few names of reliable men Crys should single out in particular. He was to tell them about the treatment of Ylena and Alyd as well.
Take the head of your brother,
he urged;
give them proof.
Crys was to be patient, though. He was to avoid doing anything rash and to encourage a similar self-control in any angry Legionnaires. Wyl asked him to lie low among the Legion until Wyl himself somehow got word to him. He reinforced the point that Crys was not to even hint at the truth should the Queen ask questions about Ylena. He signed off, wishing Crys luck and hoping that they would meet again soon. He added a note to Crys to remember the password, for he could not promise he would return as Ylena.

Crys smiled grimly at the postscript. Any stranger could walk up to him in the future and claim to be Wyl.
How frightening it must be for him,
he thought as he turned his mind to departure. Frankly, he would be glad to be on the move again, doing something constructive. He would leave today—this morning, in fact—and was sure the Queen would quietly sigh with relief when he did so.

V
alentyna gritted her teeth and got through the gown fitting. As she had expected, the seamstress and her assis
tants tittered around her for almost an hour. Sadly, they did not poke her with a single pin, which might have at least given her an excuse to vent some of the frustration she was feeling. Somehow she found a smile when they stood beaming at their finished creation.

She had demanded simplicity, and simplicity she had been given. Madam Eltor was used to Valentyna’s likes and dislikes, having designed gowns for the new Queen since she was old enough to attend formal engagements, but this time the dressmaker had surpassed herself. The gown had long, clean lines in a fabric that fell so beautifully into its natural folds that it took even the designer’s breath away when she saw it hanging on Valentyna’s elegant body.

“You’re a woman now,” she had whispered to Valentyna, whose eyebrows had raised slightly when she saw the plunging neckline. It revealed not only the shapely top of her arms but displayed the flawless creamy expanse of her chest, fabric meeting flesh just before any cleavage might show.

“You will have to be sewn in, of course, my dear,” Madam Eltor warned through the pins in her mouth. Having known the Queen since childhood, the dressmaker had long ago been excused from the formality of using Valentyna’s titles. “It’s the only way we’ll get this perfect fit across your bust.”

Valentyna nodded distractedly. “Finished now?”

“No,” came the reply. “Be still, child,” and the Queen of Briavel could not hide the ghost of a grin at the reprimand Madam Eltor had been giving for so many years now they had both lost count.

The gown’s only adornment was a tiny row of pearls sewn along the neckline and around the cuffs, which ended three-quarters of the way down Valentyna’s long arms.

“I’ll wager all of Morgravia and Briavel will be wearing this new length and slim sleeve by summer’s close, your highness,” one of the assistants commented eagerly.

Valentyna and Madam Eltor shared a glance in the mirror. They had been setting new fashion trends in Briavel for years, despite Valentyna’s lack of interest in her wardrobe.

“Would you like to see it with the veil?” Madam Eltor inquired, already knowing the answer.

“Not today, Margyt,” Valentyna begged. “Next time, I promise. Right now I have some urgent things to attend to and a realm to run.” She gave the older woman a beseeching grin.