Bridge of Souls (22 page)

A
s Elspyth was privately celebrating her escape, Gueryn was arguing with Rashlyn, who, now recovered, had decided to visit the prisoner.

“Who would it hurt?” Gueryn demanded.

“No one, but I don’t understand your request,” the barshi said.

“Because I am rotting here.”

“Why is that my problem?”

“Because you’re meant to take care of me,” Gueryn said, his tone as acid as he could make it. “Either you make it possible
or, I promise you, Rashlyn, I’ll find a way to kill myself, even if it means banging my head against this wall until I knock my senses clean out!”

Gueryn knew he sounded desperate; he could hear as much in his tone, and he also knew it was highly unlikely he could fashion any genuinely expedient method to cause his own death. Still, he had made the threat and the barshi looked thoughtful. Gueryn decided to press his luck. “The King insisted that I be looked after. I refuse to sit here day after day in your stinking dungeon.”

“Isn’t that what prisoners do?”

The man’s light voice irritated Gueryn further. “Let me work, damn it! I’ll provide an honest day’s toil for the chance to breathe fresh air and work my muscles. You can keep me chained if you must.”

“Oh, I will,” Rashlyn murmured.

Gueryn felt himself losing his temper; the only thing that stopped him reaching for the barshi’s throat was the memory of the magic Rashlyn had once used on him.

He tried again, a little more humility in his tone. “The King agreed to allow me daily walks so I can remain as healthy as possible considering my situation. I am prepared to work for them, for Shar’s sake.”

“Where?”

That took Gueryn by surprise. He stopped his pacing and turned on the healer. “Where what?”

“Where would you work?”

Gueryn knew he had to negotiate carefully now. He forced himself to keep the exasperation in his voice, as if the chance to escape the loneliness and despair of the dungeon were all that mattered. No one, especially Rashlyn, must guess his true intent. “Where? Anywhere! The kitchens, the vineyards, the stables…” He ran an unsteady hand through his tangled graying hair to give himself an air of distraction.

“Your preference?”

“Does it matter?” he retaliated, wondering whether Rashlyn was testing him. “I’m good with horses; I’m not afraid to
work in an open field; and if you want me scrubbing pans, I’ll happily do that. Why don’t you choose?”

“The kitchens would not want you, Morgravian,” Rashlyn mused. “And I don’t want you around knives or any potential weapons.” He scratched at his wild beard and something fell out of it. Disheveled as Gueryn himself looked and as dirty as he felt, Rashlyn’s grubbiness revolted him.

“Then let me work in the stables,” he said. “I’ll muck out, rub down, water, exercise the animals—whatever the stablemaster wants.”

Rashlyn stared at him. The eyes were tiny and dark; no evidence of warmth flickered in that cold gaze. “I shall speak to Maegryn,” he said, after a long pause. “Remember my lesson, soldier. With the King gone, you have no protection to count on, other than what my rule deems fit.”

“I had no idea you hailed from royal blood,” Gueryn risked.

“Be very careful, le Gant,” the dark man warned, his lips twisted in a cruel sneer beneath the filthy beard.

G
ueryn emerged into a sharply bright spring morning, his eyes stinging from the sunlight but his body rejoicing in its warm caress and the chance to breathe the opposite of the stale mustiness of his cell. He stood between two guards, neither of whom he knew, and watched a man approach. Rashlyn was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m Maegryn, the stablemaster,” the man said, coming to a halt.

Gueryn nodded. “Thank you for allowing me to work in the stables. I’ll not let you down.”

Maegryn made a low sound of disdain. “You wouldn’t want to, soldier. Come with me.”

Gueryn followed as fast as the rope binding his ankles would allow.

“You’re not going to make him wear that all day, are you?” Maegryn complained to the guards.

“Rashlyn’s orders,” one said, shrugging.

“And who is he to be giving orders?” Maegryn said, adding under his breath, “Haldor spare me.”

Gueryn took a chance. “He told me he is the King’s voice when his highness is not here,” he said to Maegryn, who was now slicing through the rope with a blade.

The stablemaster stood, his deep-set eyes giving away little of the man inside. “And I’m the fucking King of the Stable, so Rashlyn had better look out when he gives orders in my domain.”

The guards laughed.

Gueryn bowed. “Your highness,” he said, and knew he had made a fragile conquest when Maegryn grinned in response. “Thank you,” Gueryn added, looking toward his unshackled feet.

“Don’t get too excited, soldier. Jos here will be hanging around to keep an eye on you.”

Gueryn eyed the huge, lumbering lad beside him. “Nice to meet you, Jos.”

The big guard nodded, a sloping grin pulling at his deformed mouth. “Don’t give me trouble now,” he warned, the words slightly mangled.

“You have my promise,” Gueryn assured, looking toward Maegryn too.

“But is it worth anything?” the stablemaster teased.

“As an officer of the Legion, most certainly.”

“I wish your king showed similar manners.”

“My king is a ruthless, lying, cowardly murderer.”

Maegryn gave a low whistle. “Well, I hope our king watches his back, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gather our people are about to make a peace alliance with your people, soldier.”

“What?” Gueryn’s eyes narrowed; surely this was a jest.

“If our Cailech has his way, then the Razor Kingdom and Morgravia are soon to be allies,” Maegryn clarified.

Gueryn was shocked. “Celimus cannot be trusted.”

Maegryn shrugged. “So long as you can, le Gant. I’m only
King of the Stables, remember? What happens for the greater good of our realm is not something I have any control over. Now, I think you need exercise as much as my horses do—follow me.”

Jos stayed with Gueryn all afternoon and the Morgravian noted that Jos followed his orders dutifully, taking his responsibility of watching over his prisoner seriously. The deformity was a pity—it gave the impression that Jos was a dullard when he was anything but. It also gave the other guards reason to tease him, as Gueryn learned from the lad’s shy admission. He found the youngster pleasant, courteous, and charming. Jos laughed at Gueryn’s small jests and even made a few of his own. Gueryn made a promise to himself to make a special effort with Jos. Confidence was all the lad needed. The harelip would fade to invisible if Jos’s personality were allowed to shine through.

Gueryn had to admit he was enjoying himself after so many weeks of despair. He had walked, rubbed down, and watered six horses now and was pleased with himself, despite the twinge from aching muscles and tired limbs. He had not counted on being as weak as he felt.

“A good afternoon’s work, soldier,” Maegryn said, offering him a linen rag. “That’s good honest sweat there.”

“Call me Gueryn,” the soldier offered. When the man nodded, he added, “Can I come again?”

“Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll be glad to see you. Perhaps Jos can bring you this time.”

“What about Rashlyn? Will you speak with him?”

“The man’s insane. No one follows his rules. We won’t say anything—he probably won’t even come looking.”

Gueryn’s relief showed. “Until tomorrow, then.”

He nodded at Jos to let the guard know he was ready to be returned to the dungeon and gave him a grin. He was building tenuous friendships here, and was a big step closer to Galapek. That made the aches all the more satisfying. Tomorrow he might see the horse the stranger, Aremys, had claimed was Lothryn. It still seemed too incredible to con
template, but Gueryn could not forget the touch of Rashlyn’s evil magic on his own body or the murder of a woman made to look like Elspyth. There was no knowing the limits of Rashlyn’s power.

Until tomorrow, then,
he said privately as he fell into step with Jos.

C
RYS ADMIRED THE WAY THE
B
RIAVELLIAN
C
OMMANDER
,
DESPITE HIS BUSY DUTIES
,
OFFERED HIS HELP
. I
F
L
IRYK MINDED
,
HE DID NOT SHOW IT
.

“Forgive me for dragging you away from important affairs, Commander Liryk,” Crys said. “I’m just a little worried about Elspyth, as is your queen.”

“And rightly so, your grace,” Liryk said sharply. “She is a young woman abroad alone. No matter how I tighten the net around bandits and cutthroats, they still exist, and she makes the softest of targets.”

“Too true. Where should we start?”

“Let’s find out who was on duty first during our absence in Brackstead.”

“How many gates are there?”

“Five main ones, but as you rightly point out, she was leaving as anonymously as possible, so I imagine she would have used the busiest outlets—Werryl Bridge or the northern gate.”

It took them an hour to find and question the relevant men,
drawing a blank until one young man was hurried back from a meal. He wiped his mouth in haste, concern on his face. His superior introduced him. “This is Peet. He was one of three guards on the northern gate for the morning watch.”

Liryk and Crys had already questioned the other two from the morning and all from the afternoon rotation. Crys was sure this man would offer no further insight and had resigned himself to a fruitless search following a trail that was already stone cold.

“Sir,” Peet said to his commander, nervously nodding at Crys. “My lord.”

Liryk cleared his throat. “Relax, man, you’re not in any trouble here. We’re seeking your help.”

“Oh?” the guard replied, none of the anxiety leaving his tone or expression.

“We’re hoping you might remember a young woman who left Werryl yesterday. We think she might have departed via the northern gate and we’re pretty certain it would have been on your watch, the early-morning guard.”

Peet nodded, relieved, looking between both men. “I’ll try, sir. Can you describe her?”

Liryk looked at Crys, who obliged. “Well, she’s petite. She has dark hair and is comely. Very pretty, in fact.” He grinned at the young man. “She stands about yea high to me”—he measured a point halfway between his elbow and shoulder—“and I’m guessing now but I think she might have been wearing a soft brown skirt, pinkish sort of blouse, black boots. I really can’t be sure, but that was what she was wearing when she arrived in Werryl.” He knew Elspyth had not taken any of the items Valentyna had given her to wear.

Peet’s expression became forlorn and he sounded embarrassed. “Hundreds of people pass through that gate each day, my lord. That description could be any of a dozen women from yesterday.” He held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “So many people, you don’t really scrutinize anyone unless you’ve been ordered to.”

Crys nodded, understanding. “I know, it was a long shot.”

Liryk sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord.” He was genuine in his commiseration; he did not like the antagonism the woman of Yentro had stirred up, but he certainly was not happy at her going off alone into the mountains. He thought Crys had been far too flippant about her disappearance when it had been first discovered; obviously the Duke had had a change of heart, but a little too late, he thought privately. “Thank you, Peet, you can return to your meal,” he told the guard.

“Oh,” Crys said suddenly, “she did have a cloak with her. The morning was cold, so presumably she had that on. It’s blue, if that helps.”

Peet, who had been turning away, swung around. “Blue cloak?”

Crys nodded. “Does it jog anything?” he asked, noticing the man’s keen attention.

“Why yes, my lord, it does. I do remember a woman in a blue cloak. Her hair was dark, I think, though she had it covered though with the hood, so I can’t be sure.”

Liryk stepped forward. “Well, tell us, man. Hurry now.”

The soldier bit his lip in thought. “I wished her Shar’s speed, my lord,” he said, looking toward Crys. “I added something along the lines that she should hurry back to Werryl because I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I saw her pretty face again.” He shrugged. “It was harmless really—I was just passing the time of day with a lovely girl.”

Crys smiled. “That’s all right, Peet. Was she alone?”

“No, as I recall she was with a family. I thought it was hers.”

“Come on now, son. What do you remember?” prompted Liryk. “Bring the scene back. Remember all those exercises we’ve been doing about how to recall a moment in detail?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Peet said. “I can remember it well now. She was traveling with a little girl and a man who was driving the cart they were in. They—the woman and the girl—were laughing. It was a cart with one horse.”

“Did she say anything?” Crys asked.

“No. Seemed happy, though.”

“The man—what do you remember about him?” Liryk added.

“Not much, sir. He said he was going to Coneham. His cart had brewery barrels on it, which, come to think of it, strikes me as a little odd.”

“Why is that odd?” Crys asked.

Liryk turned to him. “Because our brewery is situated northeast of the city. There would be no need to pass through Werryl itself, let alone the northern gate, for deliveries to Coneham. It does sound suspicious.” Liryk addressed the officer. “Find out whatever you can on this fellow—if there’s any information among the men. Get Peet here to give as detailed a description of him as possible. Anything at all he remembers, record.”

“Is the lady in trouble, sir?”

“No, lad. But we need to find her and your information can help us track her down.”

Peet nodded and took his leave, following his superior officer.

“Not much to go on, I’m afraid,” Liryk admitted to Crys.

“It’s something, though. I’ll wait around a little longer—Peet’s information might jog someone else’s memory.”

“Let’s give it another hour.”

“And then I’m heading for Coneham, come what may,” Crys promised.

T
he cart slowed to a stop and Elspyth was roused from the snooze she had fallen into. She presumed they were breaking for something to eat and felt embarrassed that she had no food to share with her hosts. She did, however, have some coin Crys had insisted she keep during their journey to Werryl. “You may need it if we get separated,” he had cautioned, and she was grateful now for his generosity. At least she could offer to pay for her keep while traveling with Ericson and his little girl.

Elspyth noted a hut not far away. She knew they had taken a route off the main road, which Ericson had said was a shorter route with less traffic. “How long have I been dozing?” she said, stretching. She didn’t recall feeling tired, or falling asleep, but apparently she had needed rest more than she thought.

“Oh, hours,” Jen said in a singsong voice. “The tea always makes the women drowsy.”

Elspyth smiled at the youngster without understanding. They had shared some tea at the roadside not far out of Werryl. She had thought it odd, because they had only just left the city, but Jen had insisted she was thirsty and hungry and Ericson had said tea and a hunk of cheese would satisfy his daughter, who rarely ate breakfast. Elspyth had been happy to go along with them and had enjoyed the curious-tasting brew. “Where are we?” she asked, imagining they might be a couple of hours north of the city.

“Just outside Sharptyn,” Ericson replied, jumping down. Jen followed.

Elspyth was taken aback. “Sharptyn! No, wait,” she said, frowning. “That can’t be right.” Her mind raced across her imaginary map of Briavel. Sharptyn was to the west, almost into Morgravia, and many hours from Werryl. She shook her head free of the befuddlement of sleep. Perhaps she was mistaken in her mapping. “Are you sure?”

He grinned and there was something unpleasant in it. “Oh yes, very.”

“But Sharptyn is far west. You said you were heading north,” she said, a pang of fear tingling through her body.

His nasty smile remained. “Did I? Well, we’re here now, Elspyth.”

Ericson no longer looked tired or kind. He looked predatory and smug. “Jen?” Elspyth looked toward the child, bewildered and frightened.

Again the singsong voice. “Sorry, Elspyth. So, so, sorry,” Jen chanted, not even looking at the woman. “Ericson chose you. I didn’t want to. I liked you.”

“Ericson!” Elspyth shrieked as men appeared out of the hut. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s not personal,” he said, acknowledging the new arrivals with a nod. “Just business. Get her, lads,” he added.

Elspyth had no time to think; she lifted her skirt and ran. She forced her legs to move faster than they ever had before, and she screamed, unleashing every ounce of her strength and spirit. Even escaping from Cailech’s fortress had not been as terrifying as this. She could hear the shouts and taunts of the men chasing her. They were laughing at her.

She thought of Lothryn. Her pathetic attempt to rescue him had achieved nothing more than getting herself trapped, and probably killed. He would never know that she had tried to reach him. She screamed one last time as she sensed a man about to launch himself at her. He crashed from out of the bushes, knocking her sideways and crushing the breath out of her. The others arrived panting, some laughing still. And then Ericson forced her to swallow more of the tea she had drunk earlier. It all made sense now: She had been drugged. Elspyth tried to spit out the liquid, shaking her head from side to side, deliberately gagging. Ericson hit her, which shocked her into opening her mouth, giving her attacker the chance to pour the drug down her throat.

The men let her go. She just had time to count six of them, including Ericson, before the sky began to reel. She sensed something reaching toward her, something powerful trying to connect with her—or so she imagined—but it was too late. Elspyth lost consciousness again. There would be no more screaming now.

F
ynch had felt Elspyth’s fear as she fled from the men, sensed it when she fell. He had never met this woman of Yentro, and yet somehow her terror and helplessness assaulted him. He reached toward her and could see her now: prone, presumably unconscious, with men standing around her.

Knave looked back to where Fynch stood rigid on the small ledge. The wind was whipping around them and Knave wondered whether he and the boy should be harnessed together somehow. Fynch was so slight, Knave feared that a stiff, rogue gust of wind would blow him off the ledge.

Bewildered by the boy’s closed eyes and fixed stance, the dog returned to him.
Fynch! What happens now?
he asked. When Fynch did not respond, he nudged the boy, suddenly disturbed that he could not lock on to whatever was troubling his companion.

Fynch staggered and finally opened his eyes. “It’s Wyl’s friend Elspyth. She’s in trouble,” he said, holding his head.

Knave knew it hurt to use the magic. Elysius had been very careful about the power. His channeling to Myrren had near enough killed him, for she had needed his company and strength for a sustained period. But Fynch was so small and inexperienced and seemed to be opening himself fully to the magic. He did not know yet how to shield himself from it. He must have accidentally latched on to this woman’s plea for help. Well, she was not Fynch’s problem. He had a task to fulfill.

We must press on, Fynch,
Knave began.

“No. She’s hurt, in trouble. Elspyth is the woman who escaped with Wyl from the Razors. She helped him. I cannot forsake her,” Fynch murmured through his pain.

Chew some sharvan,
Knave suggested, determined not to show his annoyance at this new setback.

Fynch poked into his sack and retrieved a handful of the dried leaves he had taken from Elysius’s stock. He sat down and quietly chewed as suggested.

How do you know this?
Knave asked.

“I have seen her,” the boy answered.

I’m not sure I understand. Is Elspyth empowered? How can she reach you otherwise?

Fynch shook his aching head. “I don’t think she’s empowered. Wyl did not mention her having any sentient ability. I’m not sure, to tell the truth, whether she even knew I was there.”

What do you mean?

“She did not call to me, exactly. I felt her fear and then I heard her scream. I followed her trace.” Fynch looked at Knave with large, serious eyes that were full of pain and the dog felt grief for the small boy. “I think it’s the Thicket.”

Sending you her message, you mean?

Fynch nodded once, carefully. With the pain slowly clearing, he did not want to reawaken it. “You said something earlier about Wyl being touched by the Thicket and therefore sensitive to magic, even though he cannot wield it?”

I remember.

“Well, Elspyth is the niece of the Widow Ilyk—the seer Elysius knew and used once. Do you recall that?”

Yes.

“So perhaps Elspyth, though not empowered herself, has a vague awareness of magic’s touch. Wyl mentioned that she once dreamed of Lothryn calling to her.”

And?

Fynch shrugged. His head felt better, the dizziness gone, with just a reminder of the pain lurking. He spat out the pulp of the sharvan. “I’m guessing that she cast out her fears without realizing she could, and it just so happened that the Thicket was listening. The Thicket has connected us all, you might say.”

It was plausible, Knave thought.
So what are you thinking now, Faith Fynch?

“I have to find out more about what’s happening to her.”