Bridge of Souls (23 page)

We cannot be diverted from our journey,
Knave warned gravely, hoping to impress on Fynch once again that nothing mattered but what the Dragon King had asked of them: to destroy Rashlyn and rid the world of his evil.

“I know. I’m going to send a spy,” Fynch said, and chanced a grin at his black friend.

Then use a fast one. We must get on.

Fynch looked out across the hazy landscape. He knew what he was searching for and sure enough he found the kestrel, high on the wing and hovering, staring down toward the
ground. He closed his eyes and drew on his magic to summon the bird of prey.

Knave saw the bird tilt its wing and knew that was the moment Fynch had connected with it. The kestrel swooped and banked high again, turning in their direction, and then dived toward them fast, no doubt curious. When it arrived it perched itself on Fynch’s outstretched arm and even permitted the boy to stroke it, in thanks for answering the summoning. Knave was impressed. He had been told that Elysius had achieved something similar once before, but not as easily; according to the creatures of the Thicket, he had cajoled and beseeched them when he needed help. But the answer to Fynch’s call had been immediate.

Knave would not normally be privy to what passed between boy and bird, but Fynch generously opened his mind so the dog could listen in as well.

I need you to find someone for me,
Fynch asked.

Who?
the bird replied casually. Knave wondered if the kestrel knew who Fynch was.

It is a woman—this is what she looks like
, and Knave saw the mental image Fynch gave to the kestrel.

Where?

Two miles east of Sharptyn.
Another picture was given: an aerial map of Briavel. Knave was spellbound; was the Thicket supplying Fynch with this practical information?

And when I find her?

Let me know what you see. I will send help.

With your powers, can you not look for yourself?
the bird asked cheekily.

I could, my friend, but I lose strength and a portion of my life each time I draw on my powers. You can save me some of this loss if you will make that journey and be my eyes.

I shall do what you ask if you will give me your name and tell me who you are.

Gladly. My name is Fynch. I am from Morgravia and was a cleaner at the castle of Stoneheart.

Oh, but you are much more than that, surely,
the kestrel said,
scorn lacing its voice at the boy’s humility.
I must know the truth before I make this journey.

All that I have said is true,
Fynch replied evenly.

But there is a secret,
the bird encouraged. Its inquisitiveness was infectious and Knave realized he too was holding his breath. Fynch said nothing. The silence hung between the three of them, heavy with the knowledge that one of them was reluctant to share.

You must tell me,
the kestrel urged.
I am like you, Fynch. I need facts…and I need the truth.

The boy hesitated, and then,
I am Fynch,
he replied, his voice filled with a power Knave had never heard before.
And I am the King of the Creatures.

At the last word, he passed out, crumpling to the ground. The kestrel lifted from the boy’s arm just in time to avoid falling with him and launched itself into the air and away from the mountains. Knave was too stunned by Fynch’s words to move. He gazed after the bird until it was no more than a tiny speck on the horizon. Then, as it disappeared from his far-reaching sight, he roused himself from his disquiet and lay down, curling around Fynch to keep his friend warm until he regained consciousness.

C
AILECH WAS FLANKED BY ONLY TWO OF HIS OWN MEN AS HE SLOWED HIS HORSE AT THE GATES OF THE
T
ENTERDYN
E
STATE OF
F
ELRAWTHY
. O
N ONE
side of his rode his loyal warrior Myrt, and on the other a man he now called friend: Aremys Farrow.

Despite certain misgivings, the King had decided to trust Farrow. Cailech considered himself an able judge of character and his instincts about people had rarely let him down. Lothryn had been his only error—but it had taken almost forty years of friendship to discover his mistake. His mouth twisted at the thought of Lothryn’s betrayal.

“Sire?” Aremys said, noting the expression on Cailech’s face.

“I’m all right,” the King replied. “Just wishing Lothryn were here.” He expected Myrt to agree and was surprised by the grim silence at his right. He did not miss the sly glance his warrior gave the Grenadyne. What did that look mean?

“You don’t need him for this, my lord,” Aremys assured him. “Only you can achieve what we’re setting out to do today.”

“He had a way of making me feel calm.”

His companions remained silent. What was there to say? Aremys believed Cailech had no right to feel sorry for himself after what had been perpetrated on Lothryn, but he was hardly in a position to comment.

Myrt saw the Morgravian guard approaching. “Are you ready, sire?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Cailech replied, glancing toward his new friend, who nodded encouragement.

“Lothryn would be proud of you for this,” Aremys said.

“He would, wouldn’t he, Farrow. This is something he would applaud.”

“Then you honor him by it.”

Cailech smiled. There was gratitude in his expression and something unreadable in his eyes—sorrow perhaps? Aremys hoped so.

The guard arrived and the mercenary addressed him. “I am Aremys Farrow. You’re expecting our party, I gather?”

The guard nodded. “We are. Wait here, please.” He whistled to the gatehouse and gave a hand signal.

“You might care to bow in the presence of a king,” Aremys suggested while they waited for the gates to open

He was relieved to see the man looked abashed, had worried for a moment that due respect was not going to be accorded to Cailech.

“Forgive me, sire,” the man stammered, and bowed low. Cailech and his companions exchanged satisfied glances.

An officer met them. “Welcome, your highness,” he said with appropriate respect. Then he looked toward Aremys and nodded. “Farrow,” he acknowledged.

Aremys gave his reins to the men who had arrived to take care of the horses. “Captain Bukanan, sir. Good to see you again. This is Myrt, Second Warrior of the Mountain People.”

C
elimus was watching as the King of the Mountains arrived at the gate, exchanged a look with Farrow, and then jumped gracefully from his magnificent stallion. The Morgravian sovereign was surprised. For some reason he had imagined that the Razor King would be dark, stocky, and bearded, with hooded eyes and a secretive countenance. He had not expected this golden-haired warrior, tall, clean-shaven, and artless of dress. The man wore no jewelry to proclaim his royal status, and his clothes were simple and yet frustratingly elegant. Celimus would have liked to own the
cloak that hung so magnificently across the broad shoulders and seemed to shimmer in the daylight. And yet for all the understatement in his presentation, the Mountain King oozed confidence. Celimus suddenly felt like a strutting peacock in his bright courtly clothes. He pulled angrily at the circlet around his head.

“I don’t think I need this,” he muttered to Jessom, who, as ever, was nearby.

“I’ll take it, sire,” the man replied, nothing in his tone to suggest that he was inwardly smirking at the insecurity one glimpse of the Mountain King had provoked in his king. “It is time,” he added.

Celimus remained silent, distracted by his thoughts. He turned from the window and strode past the Chancellor toward the main steps of Tenterdyn, where he had intended to arrange himself so the Mountain King might come cringing toward him. But there was absolutely nothing in Cailech’s demeanor to suggest he would comply with that idea. In fact, if anything, he seemed utterly assured. It was the opposite of what the Morgravian had expected, and baffling.

Celimus forced away his puzzlement, replacing it with a beautifully contrived bright expression, as he emerged to meet his fellow sovereign.

S
o far so good,
Aremys thought as he looked toward the movement at the front of the large house, which not so long ago had been filled with the Donal family. He felt a sudden flurry of fear as he saw the King, flanked by his chancellor and various other military people, emerge from the huge main doors.

“Your majesty, King Celimus is here to greet you. May I accompany you?” Captain Bukanan offered.

Aremys thanked Shar that Celimus was playing this out according to strict protocol. It was a heartening sign that the King of Morgravia was treating his sworn enemy with cour
tesy and equality, although Jessom no doubt had been a guiding hand.

“Thank you, Captain,” Cailech said. He threw a final glance toward Aremys, who noted the glint in the King’s eye and read it as a combination of pleasure and mischief. He truly admired this man who walked so boldly into his enemy’s camp, unarmed and with nothing to offer but promises.

Aremys closed the gap between himself and Myrt to fall into step behind the King. He admired the superb cloak that the King had donned for this most formal of occasions. It was a pewter color, made from the softest of wool, spun repeatedly until it shone, from the coats of the shaggy polders—a rare cross between goat and sheep, found only in the mountains. Cailech’s people took good care of the two large flocks they had gathered. The animals’ long hair was impervious to moisture and felt like silk to the touch. The women of the Razors had done their king proud with this beautiful garment, which kept the natural silvery gray of the polder as its background while yarn dyed crimson and black had been woven into an eye-catching, intricate pattern along its entire length. Aremys marveled at how the clever design made the already tall man look even larger. Cailech was certainly a match for Celimus in height and looks, although the Razor King was older and more rugged than the vain southern monarch.

Myrt nudged Aremys out of his thoughts and they stepped forward for the party from the mountains to be introduced to King Celimus.

The dance of Kings had begun.

“King Cailech, welcome to Tenterdyn, our summer retreat,” Celimus said, his tone full of largesse. He noted a twisted expression flicker across Farrow’s face and wondered what it meant.

“King Celimus, it is a true honor to meet you.” To the Morgravian’s astonishment—and indeed to all who were privy to this historic meeting—Cailech bowed his head and shoulders toward his southern foe. “Thank you for this parley.”

For once in his life Celimus was at a loss for words. He had
not anticipated such graciousness from his northern foe. He was irritated further by the man’s surprisingly deep voice, which made him feel like a boy greeting his father. His stomach clenched.

Everyone waited for Celimus’s response. Finally it came. “I am intrigued, King Cailech,” he said, reaching for the right words, “by this opportunity for Morgravia. Come, we are here to talk.” He gestured for Cailech to enter the Donal estate.

Captain Bukanan, already briefed on the format for the day, returned to where Myrt stood. “I believe I must accompany you; is that correct?”

Myrt nodded. “We will return on horseback to a spot of my king’s choosing and await word of his safe return. There are others coming with us, of course.” He stopped himself from using the word “hostages.”

It made little difference. Bukanan knew he was a hostage. The Captain nodded his understanding and took his leave from his king, as did Myrt from Cailech.

Inside, the party was led by their regal host to a huge chamber Aremys had not seen on his previous visit to Tenterdyn. At each end of the large space was a glorious stone fireplace and a long table stood in its center. Tapestries softened the walls, as did huge windows with bench seats and elegant shutters, each one crafted with the Donal sigil. Aremys realized that the room’s simplicity deliberately allowed the dazzling scenery of the distant Razors to do all the work of impressing visitors with the beauty of the chamber.

“I thought you would be most comfortable seeing your home from here,” Celimus said, his charm more evident now that he had taken a minute to gather his thoughts.

Cailech smiled in return. “Having never witnessed its beauty from this vantage point, I thank you for such a treat.”

The response pleased Celimus. He indicated the thin man at his side. “I took the liberty, King Cailech, of retaining only my chancellor, Maris Jessom…”

“Your majesty,” Jessom said on cue, bowing his head to the Mountain King.

“…to match your Aremys Farrow. I believed we would be most comfortable with the fewest ears.”

“I am grateful for the consideration, your highness.”

“Please, be seated,” Celimus continued. “Let us offer you some southern refreshment.”

Jessom nodded toward a waiting servant, who brought drinks and wafers to the large table. Celimus gestured for Cailech to be seated at his right so the Mountain King could see the Razors through the magnificent picture windows. Aremys was offered a seat at his left.

“I will bear witness alongside the Chancellor,” Aremys said, as deferentially as he could manage, and moved to stand beside Jessom.

“As you wish, Grenadyne,” Celimus said, unfazed.

“Smart move, Farrow,” the Chancellor murmured under his breath. “You would fare well in court.”

“I don’t belong here, Jessom, and you know it,” Aremys shot back, relieved to be out of Celimus’s gaze.

“Shall we dispense with our regal titles, Cailech?” Celimus said brightly, raising his goblet.

“I thought you’d never suggest it,” the Mountain King replied, grinning and raising his own cup.

“To us, then,” Celimus said with a flourish, tapping his goblet against his guest’s and noticing the glint of humor in Cailech’s light green eyes.

“To Morgravia and the land of the Razors!” Cailech responded, and both men drained their goblets.

“Again!” Celimus called to the servant. His cheeks were suddenly flushed with the gravity of this historic moment.

“Would your father be proud of this parley?” Cailech asked as their goblets were refilled.

The Morgravian was unprepared for such a disconcerting question. “My father?” he repeated, angry at himself for doing so.

Cailech nodded and again Celimus saw amusement sparkling in the man’s eyes, although his facial expression gave nothing away.

“Er…I’m sure he would.”

“I think he would be shocked,” Cailech said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I believe he did not see such a vision of peace as you have, Celimus.”

Aremys silently congratulated the King of the Mountains. With a neat twist of words, he had given Celimus credit for bringing together two enemy nations.

Celimus searched for a hint of guile behind the words but saw nothing except openness on Cailech’s rugged face. Again he was not ready for the man; such praise from the enemy was something to be savored. “I would like to think that I can bring together our realms, Cailech,” he began, warming to the vision of himself as peacemaker, “as well as Briavel.”

“Indeed. In the space of a just few days, you could achieve such an amazing feat that your jongleurs will recite great tales about it, bards will sing stirring songs of homage, and I have no doubt your artists will record the events so that future generations will understand this momentous time in Morgravia’s history.”

Aremys felt Jessom shoot a warning glance his way. Cailech’s praise was honeyed, but it was in danger of sounding insincere. So far, however, Celimus was lapping it up, Aremys noticed, certain that the Morgravian King would personally commission the songs, plays, and artworks should they not arise unprompted. Wyl had told him that the man was vain, but Aremys also recalled Wyl’s warning that Celimus was clever, that behind his charm and looks was a stunningly sharp mind. Yes, Aremys thought, Cailech would have to be a bit wary.

The servant had been dismissed now. It was just the four of them.

“And tell me how you fit into all of this, Cailech,” Celimus said, leaning back in his chair.

“Quite simply, I wish us to stop being enemies. I see no reason for it other than our own stubbornness and I am offering you the hand of friendship and alliance from hereon if you wish to take it. My people will respect your boundaries utterly.
There will be no further threat of raids, no incursion into your lands without your permission.”

Celimus nodded. “And what will your people gain from that?”

“Freedom of movement without harassment or threat of injury. We wish to have permission to trade freely with the people of Morgravia and Briavel. I would also suggest you sanction a delegation of your people to visit the Razor Kingdom in order to gain a greater understanding of our people, our culture, and our living standards. Perhaps you will allow a similar delegation from the Razors into Morgravia? I firmly believe that the more we can appreciate each other’s culture, the more peacefully we all will live.”

“Interesting. I am not averse to anything you have suggested, Cailech. There would have to be a governing body made up of delegates from both realms to supervise the…”—Celimus searched for the right word—“the melding of our kingdoms.”

“Of course. My thoughts entirely. But I don’t believe we could ever live as one, King Celimus,” Cailech cautioned, addressing his counterpart with highest courtesy. “Our ways are too different from yours. By the same token, there are many areas in which we are similar. I want the same things for my people as you want for yours. I want our young to be educated and literate; I want free trade so commerce can flourish between our realms; I want my people to eat and sleep well, secure in the knowledge that their own are safe no matter which borders they are moving across.”