Bridge of Souls (32 page)

“Am I dying?” she asked Crys.

He mustered the crooked grin she loved. “No, but we’ve got to get those wounds closed up. Drink this,” he said, helping her to sit up slightly. “It’s warm, sweetened tea. Good for shock, my mother always says.” He sighed. “Said.”

“Crys, take me home.” It was a plea. She squeezed his hand. “I know you’ve probably got better things to do than travel to Yentro, but I just want to get back to the north.”

“To Lothryn?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Both. I can get well more quickly at home and I feel closer to him with the Razors in sight. I’ve had enough of roaming the land. The last time I slept in my own bed, ate in my own cottage, did something simple like go to the market, seems like a lifetime ago. I need to see if by chance my aunt is still alive, and I need to return to my life. Wyl doesn’t need me now.”

“Will you promise me that you won’t go off into Cailech’s lands if I do take you home?” Her pause was telling. “I won’t let you waste yourself, Elspyth. You know how I feel about you—”

“Don’t, Crys,” she begged softly.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he urged. “I know where your heart lies. But I care too much about you to let you risk yourself, and Wyl would kill me anyway if I did.”

She found a smile for him. “He’d be wrathful, for sure. You saw him in Werryl?”

He nodded and then laughed. “Supremely cranky too. He’d got the flux and he made an inappropriate move on the Queen.”

Elspyth spluttered into painful laughter and then groaned
at the way it tore at her wounds. “Oh, I mustn’t laugh at him,” she said, “but I can’t help it. I wish I’d known Wyl before Myrren’s Gift.”

“It’s true what they say—he was no painting,” Crys commented, determined to see her smile again. His timing, as always, was perfect and she found herself giggling once more.

They were interrupted by Liryk. “Well, this is heartening.”

Crys cleared his throat. “Anything to keep her conscious and her mind off her woes,” he said to the soldier, winking at Elspyth.

Liryk nodded. “Elspyth, I am so sorry for all you have been through.”

“Please, Commander Liryk, the fault is all mine. It was stupid of me to leave as I did and even more naive to fall for that man’s cruel trap. Did you find his daughter, by the way?”

“We did. We’ll take her back to Werryl and see if we can find the rest of her family.”

“Good. She was part of the scheme, I know, but she’s so young. Her father used her as much as he used the women.”

“Well, he’s gone to Shar to answer for his sins now. Now, on another note, we need to get you stitched up, my girl. Those wounds risk infection and that could be life threatening even if the injuries aren’t.”

“Do you have a physic in the company?” Crys asked.

Liryk gave a nervous smile. “No, but as it happens a Master Rilk passed through an hour ago. One of my men recognized him and hailed him.”

Elspyth nodded. “Physic Rilk?”

The Commander looked sheepish. “Well, not exactly. He’s a tailor.” At Crys’s exclamation of protest, he held up a hand. “Hear me out. Next to Madam Eltor, there isn’t a more adept person with a needle and thread in the whole of Briavel. Rilk crafts for the top nobility in Morgravia too.”

“A master tailor to sew me up?” Elspyth queried.

“He has the finest silken thread and a light touch, Elspyth. It’s the best we can do. Those wounds need to be sutured, and
rather than let one of my men do a hack job, I’d far prefer a talented craftsmen to work on your skin.”

Crys was frowning. “I suppose, under the circumstances, this is the best option.”

Liryk nodded; he had already motioned to the soldier behind him to bring the tailor forward. “This is Master Rilk,” he said, and looked at the craftsman. “This is Crys Donal, Duke of Felrawthy, and our patient, Elspyth.”

Crys shook the tailor’s hand. “She’s got four major cuts.” The little man was already perspiring, even though it was a cool night, and Crys had to wonder if he was up to such a grisly task. “Can you stomach it, sir?” he added.

“Oh yes. I’ve done something similar for my son’s beloved pet. I’m sure Miss Elspyth will have far finer skin.” He chanced a grin but no one returned it. Rilk’s tone became brisk and businesslike. “Can we have her gently moved to a table, please? I’ll need lots of light and clean linens and hot water. I presume you have some antiseptic?” Liryk nodded. “Good, I’ll need plenty of it. Do you have any shorrock or liquor with you?”

“We’ll find some,” Liryk said.

“Do it quickly, please, and get some down Miss Elspyth’s throat to dull the pain. Not too much, mind, just enough to help her drift off a bit.”

Elspyth had already drifted, frightened yet too exhausted to keep her attention on what was about to happen.

K
nave was back at Fynch’s side. The boy was pale and trembling from his efforts to return the dog to the Razors.

This is exactly what I was afraid of,
Knave growled.

“I’ll be all right soon. I just need to sleep.”

Have you taken some sharvan?

“No. Just let me be.”

Knave looked around, quietly exasperated. Fynch had
made no progress since they had parted. He was obviously too weak to send himself anywhere.

“How was Valentyna?” the boy mumbled.

Worried about you. Liryk and company left immediately.

“Good…ah, wait, here is Kestrel.” It took Fynch some pain to open up his mind, but he wanted Knave to share this.

Kestrel’s thin voice entered their heads.
Elspyth is safe. Quite badly injured from what I can tell, but alive and talking to some of the men who arrived.

What are they doing?
Fynch asked.

Perhaps I can show you?
Kestrel replied.

Yes, let’s try,
the boy said, a new excitement cutting through his pain.

Knave sighed. If Fynch did not stop exerting himself unnecessarily, he would die before they even left this plateau.

Fynch concentrated. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
That’s right, Kestrel. Open your mind completely to me. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just want to see through your eyes, if I may.
There was a pause and suddenly a picture appeared in Knave’s mind.

I see it,
he admitted grudgingly to Fynch.

An awning of sorts had been set up. Torches burned brightly around it and some men held candles as others bent over a prone figure. Kestrel must have perched himself on a low branch nearby; his sight was keen and they could clearly see all that they needed to.

“They seem to be sewing her,” the boy said. “There’s Commander Liryk. And…oh, wait, is that Master Rilk?”

You’re right,
Knave said.
It’s the tailor.

“He’s mending her,” Fynch said in wonderment. They watched Rilk snip a thread and then step away and arch his back.
She’s pretty, isn’t she?
Fynch said absently.
I’m glad we were able to help. She’s going to be all right.

Is that enough, Fynch?
Kestrel asked.

Enough,
Knave answered, determined now that his charge would rest.

Perhaps I’ll follow the pretty lady,
the bird added.
I’ve got nothing better to do.

Thank you, Kestrel,
Fynch replied weakly, his head pounding.

We’ll speak again soon,
the bird said, taking to the air.

Knave bristled.
I can feel the echoes of your pain, Fynch. You’ve got to stop using magic for a while.

“I can’t,” the boy moaned, retching helplessly into the bushes.

We have no choice. You must recover your strength before we proceed. We’ll make camp here. I’m going to find you some food. You may not feel like eating, but your body is mortal, Fynch. It needs nourishment.

The boy did not reply. He had fallen asleep, collapsed into a small, curled shape like a tiny animal.

V
ALENTYNA LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR AND GLUMLY PERMITTED A BRIEF
,
SILENT ADMISSION THAT THE DRESS WAS EXQUISITE
.

“Oh, my queen, you make the most glorious bride,” Madam Eltor said. “The fit is perfect.” She looked at the breathtaking woman before her and sighed. “A smile would help.”

“I’m sorry, Margyt.”

“I have to ask you to try on the veil now, my dear,” the woman continued, affixing the confection of cream gauze and seed pearls to Valentyna’s dark hair. She stood back and looked at her finished creation with satisfaction and pride.

“Thank you, it’s lovely,” was all the Queen could force out.

“You know, Valentyna, perhaps it’s not my place to speak,
but we would all like to think that you enter this union with some joy.”

The Queen and her seamstress had known each other too long for lies. “I’m sorry that I cannot,” Valentyna said. “I bring it about for Briavel, Margyt, because I know it brings us peace and, I hope, new prosperity, but I cannot love him.”

“Because of another?” the woman risked.

Valentyna shook her head gently. “No. Simply because I don’t love him. We can’t help our feelings, can we?”

“No, child. In that you’re right. My husband and I could never claim to have loved each other as I know other couples do.”

“But you have a good partnership,” Valentyna said.

“More than that, to be honest. We are the closest of friends. But yes, we also have a great partnership—as you will with King Celimus. You will make it so. You will give us heirs and make us proud.”

A smile ghosted across Valentyna’s mouth. “That is my fervent wish.”

Margyt Eltor patted her queen’s hand. “Let me snip those threads now and release you.”

“Are all the preparations in hand?”

“Yes, your majesty,” Madam Eltor said, back to her formal role. “I shall be taking two dressers and a couple of other girls for errands and any other needs we might have. The various gowns we spoke of are also ready.”

“And the new riding clothes?”

“Completed. You didn’t want new boots too, did you?” the seamstress asked, frowning, her mind already racing toward how quickly the cobbler might work.

“No, I like my comfortable old ones,” Valentyna replied.

“As I understand it from our earlier discussion, your highness, we depart for Morgravia in ten days?”

“Yes. The wedding was supposed to be at the close of spring, but I see no point in holding off and will send a message today to King Celimus. It should please him. I’ll have one of my assistants confirm everything with you shortly. We’ll take it slowly with a view to four days’ journeying. I can visit
some of the towns and villages along the way to pay my respects to our people.”

“I imagine the party will be quite large,” Margyt commented as she sliced through the threads that had ensured the gown’s perfect fit.

“I suppose so,” Valentyna said, not really caring. “Perhaps Commander Liryk will split it into smaller groups and send them by different routes.”

“Yes, that would be sensible,” the seamstress agreed. Then: “Are you giving the King a ring, your highness?”

The Queen nodded. “Studded with jewels in the colors of Briavel.”

“Lovely,” Margyt said, helping her sovereign to lift the gown over her head.

“Why are you alone this time?” Valentyna’s voice was muffled from beneath the garment.

“Because I don’t want my girls twittering that our queen goes to her marriage as if to a funeral,” Madam Eltor admonished. “I sensed from our last fitting that you were not getting any pleasure from the preparations. I thought privacy was best, your highness.”

“Thank you again, Margyt. Your sensitivity always makes you my favorite,” Valentyna said, finding a playful tone.

The seamstress responded, glad of it. “Oh? I hear Master Rilk gets plenty of your business, your highness,” she said archly.

“He wanted the wedding gown,” Valentyna replied, tugging her more casual day gown over her head.

“The cheek of the man!”

The Queen laughed. Madam Eltor and Master Rilk had been married for as long as she could remember. And between them they crafted everything Valentyna wore.

“I will take my leave, your highness. There’s still plenty for me and my girls to do.”

“You’re a treasure. I promise to be smiling next time we see each other.”

“Make sure of it, child. You will be preparing to take holy
vows in the grand Pearlis Cathedral the next time I stitch you into this gown.”

Madam Eltor’s words remained with Valentyna long after she had departed, reminding the Queen that there was no way off the path she was now on.

Nothing and no one was going to save her from Celimus. She wasted no further time in sitting down at her desk and crafting, with her own hand, a message to her groom to set a final date for their wedding ceremony.

W
yl recognized Myrt and several of the Mountain warriors, all of whom treated Ylena courteously. He was not sure what to think of this new situation. It felt dangerous—all his senses told him so—but at the same time it was reassuring to be back with Aremys.

Someone handed him a bowl of broth. “My lady.” It was Myrt, Wyl realized, when he lifted Ylena’s chin to glance at the owner of the soft voice. “The King tells us you have been treated inhospitably in Morgravia.”

“He speaks true,” Wyl admitted.

“I’m sorry there is still a long journey ahead, but he hopes you will eat something before we leave.”

“We leave tonight?”

“Yes, my lady. We wish to be deep into the Razors by midnight.”

“So you travel comfortably in the dark?” Wyl wondered.

“We need no light but the moon,” Myrt said, with a polite nod, then left.

The broth was surprisingly good, hearty and rich with the flavor of meat. As Wyl finished the bowl, glad for the warming nourishment, Aremys arrived in the cave, holding a candle. He looked distracted and hesitant; Wyl figured it could not be easy for the mercenary to find time alone with the Mountain King’s new captive.

“We’re breaking camp now, leaving immediately. How are you?”

“Fed,” Wyl said. “Myrt brought me food.”

“Does he know you recognize him?” Aremys asked, alarmed.

“No, I’ve been careful about it.”

“Good. He’s sharp.”

“How much aren’t you telling me about this turn of events?”

Aremys hesitated. “Cailech insists on knowing why I have aided you.”

Wyl nodded and Aremys paused, embarrassed. “I was cornered and had to come up with something.”

“So you told him…?”

“That I loved you.” He watched uncomfortably as Ylena’s face transformed into a look of incredulity. Fortunately, whatever Wyl was going to say was cut off by the arrival of a messenger announcing the party’s imminent departure. Aremys asked the man if scouts had checked that Celimus had sent no tracking party. The man confirmed that they had done so and there were no spies trailing them.

During this exchange, Wyl had composed himself. “So, are you going to tell me the rest?” he asked. “We don’t seem to have much time.”

Aremys scratched his head. It was best to give it to Wyl straight, he decided. “Cailech’s taken a fancy to you.”

“Oh, Shar save me!” Wyl groaned. “You’re serious, aren’t you,” he said, and it was no question.

“It gets worse,” the big man continued.

“How can it?” Wyl asked, letting Ylena’s head drop between her knees.

“During your absence from the hall, Cailech declared to Celimus that he would make you his wife.” Wyl looked up sharply. His horror was reflected in the Grenadyne’s despondent expression. “It took everyone by surprise. There was nothing I could do.”

“I understand, Aremys,” Wyl admitted, bile rising in his
throat. “You were helpless back there. But we’re not helpless now,” he declared, standing to Ylena’s full height, which barely reached halfway up the mercenary’s chest.

“Please, Wyl,” Aremys said, cautiously glancing around. “Go along with this for the time being.”

“Go deeper into the Razors, back to that fortress?” Wyl hissed. “Are you mad? I’ve escaped it once. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again.”

There was nothing for it but to tell Wyl all that he knew. “I’ve found Gueryn,” Aremys said firmly, knowing it would stop Wyl’s tirade.

It did. Wyl grabbed his shirtfront angrily. “You’re sure it’s him?”

Aremys nodded. “We spoke briefly. I said I’d come back for him. He’s in the dungeon and, considering his situation, looks quite good for it, but now that Cailech knows Romen Koreldy is dead, I fear for his life. And then there’s Rashlyn, the most unpredictable factor in all of this. Apparently he’s used magic on Gueryn a few times now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too long in the telling now. Suffice to say it’s been used for good in healing the arrow wound, but bad too, and it’s rattled your old mentor.”

Wyl paced, pulling at his ear, thoughts racing as to what would be the best course of action. He did not want to go with Cailech—the Mountain King’s intentions for him were just too revolting to contemplate. But Gueryn’s needs called strongly. He could not desert his dearest, oldest friend, not after the sad way they had parted.

Aremys sensed that Wyl needed a final push and gave it. “I’ve also found Lothryn.”

Ylena’s eyes blazed in the soft light. “He’s alive? I knew it!”

“But not how you remember him, Wyl,” Aremys cautioned.

“How so?” Wyl asked. His frightening dream at Felrawthy, of the man’s voice screaming from behind a barn door, returned to haunt him.

Before Aremys could reply, Cailech appeared at the mouth of the cave. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I can’t imagine it would matter if you were,” Wyl replied, flustered by his friend’s various revelations and the discomfort of seeing his captor—his husband-to-be—smiling so disarmingly at him.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Cailech agreed, his smile broadening. “I hope my men have treated you deferentially, my lady?”

“Thank you, sire,” Wyl replied, remembering Ylena’s manners, but aiming a glare toward Aremys.

Cailech did not miss the glance between them. “Ah, I suppose Aremys has explained why you’re here.”

“He has, King Cailech.” Wyl was at a loss for words. He understood his friend’s reasons for wanting him to return to the fortress, but this was a perilous situation for him now.

“Don’t be frightened, my lady. In the south you know us as barbarians, but we may surprise you.”

“Romen Koreldy spoke highly of you, my lord. He told me much about the ways of the Mountain People and I have an appreciation for your sophistication,” Wyl said, believing it best to reveal now that he knew something of the culture. Any misjudgments he made in seeming too familiar with the Razor Kingdom he might now be able to hide behind Romen’s teachings.

“Did he now?”

“He liked you,” Wyl offered.

“I hope you will too, Ylena. Come now, we must journey.”

There was nothing for Wyl to do but follow the King’s guiding hand. “You will ride with me, my lady,” Cailech added, and it was fortunate indeed that the King did not see the look of despair that swept across Ylena’s face.

Wyl gritted his teeth and allowed Cailech’s strong hands to help him into the saddle, tensing uncomfortably as the King climbed up behind him. Cailech’s arms passed around Ylena’s tiny waist and took the reins from her.

“Allow me,” he said graciously.

Wyl grimaced toward Aremys, who looked away in embarrassment.

“Comfortable, Ylena?” the King inquired.

“May I not ride a horse of my own, sire?” Wyl risked.

He sensed the King’s wry grin. “It is good for my men to see me take ownership of you, my lady. It is critical they understand how highly I regard you. Life in Morgravia is no longer possible, Ylena, you surely agree?”

“I do, my lord,” came the grudging reply.

“And it seems your life is now worthless in Briavel too, where a queen must bow to the whims of her powerful neighbor and soon-to-be husband. So the only realm where your life can be protected—and, might I add, revered, my lady, is the Razor Kingdom. My men are surprised by your presence, I’ll not lie.” Cailech’s mouth was so close to Ylena’s ear that Wyl felt sickened. “But in seeing us together like this, they will now offer you the highest respect, my lady, as befitting a noblewoman and my future wife.”

G
ueryn was still smiling from the thrill of riding Galapek. Not even the sound of his cell door hammering closed or the key turning in the lock could tarnish the day’s experience.

He, Jos, and Rollo had taken the horses around the lake and beyond for several hours, returning late in the afternoon. Gueryn had felt exhilarated. He had not had a chance to confirm his suspicions about Galapek, unfortunately, but the joy of being in the open and on a horse again was exquisite. He had wept as they neared the stables at the close of the ride, embarrassing himself.

Jos had given him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry you are our prisoner, Gueryn,” the young man had offered.

“I too am sorry,” Gueryn had replied, “but thank you for this wonderful escape, however brief it has been.”

“What do you think of our fine stallion?” Maegryn had asked on their return.

“That I wish he were mine,” Gueryn had answered truthfully.

The stablemaster had laughed. “Everyone does.”

“Can I rub him down?”

“Most certainly,” Maegryn had said, but sadly for Gueryn, who had hoped to be left alone with the horse, the head of the stable had remained.

Despite Maegryn’s presence, Gueryn had managed to whisper once to the horse, begging the animal to give him a sign that he was Lothryn, but nothing had occurred. And yet he could not doubt the sincerity of the stranger, Aremys. As the incredible words had tumbled from the big man’s mouth, horror lacing each one, Gueryn had believed them. His brief but terrible experiences with Rashlyn were all he needed to draw upon to believe that the mercenary had hit on the truth.