Bridge of Souls (43 page)

Still following the compulsion, Lothryn pushed deeper into the wood until he came to a clearing. He stood at its fringe and looked in wonderment at the sight that confronted him—a huge dragon coated in a shimmering armor of scales. Its serpentlike neck was twisted and the great head was thrown back, but there was no sound. The great beast was silent as wave after wave of sickening magical power pounded its body. The deathly magic was a sickly brown color, impenetrable by light. And Rashlyn was dealing the blows, his face a twisted mask of hate.

Lothryn was tempted to rush forward and pummel the barshi with every last ounce of strength he could muster from Galapek’s powerful body, and yet something stopped him. He stared at Rashlyn and knew that if hate, madness, and despair could be embodied, they would look exactly like the sorcerer before him. Although Rashlyn looked exhausted, he was standing and seemed to be in control of his powers. He muttered a stream of unintelligible words; the dragon faltered.

Looking around, Lothryn became aware of other creatures—dozens, no scores of them—clustered among the trees and dotted around the nearby foothills. He even saw zerkons, and flinched in fear, before he realized they were paralyzed by the same awe that he was experiencing.

A dragon! Who would have thought they truly existed? Lothryn had always considered them creatures of myth.

Fight back!
Lothryn begged.

He won’t,
replied a voice, startling him.

He twisted to see who it was. A bird on a nearby branch stretched its wings.
Who are you?
the horse asked.

I am Kestrel.

And who is that?
Lothryn tossed his head toward the dragon.

That is the King. The King of us all. And he is sacrificing himself to save us. He was once Fynch.

I gathered Fynch was a child.

He is so much more.

But I see him as a dragon,
Lothryn persisted.
There’s no boy there.

He is still a child physically, but the dragon reflects who he truly is.

Kestrel’s explanation served only to confuse Lothryn. He looked back at the dragon, which staggered slightly.
Why doesn’t he use his powers? Surely he can topple a man!

Oh yes, he could overcome the sorcerer with ease, but he refuses to kill. That is the child in our king. He made a pact with himself, I think. I sensed it when he first spoke to me. There is no violence in Fynch. He agreed to destroy Rashlyn but in his own way.

Lothryn felt his spirit lurch with grief. Wyl’s friend, now—like all of them—somehow changed by enchantment.
So how can he beat the barshi?

Kestrel’s sorrow was immediate and apparent.
By taking everything that is Rashlyn. He will absorb the storm of magic, consume the pain, devour the evil. Already his glow lessens. When they began, the King of the Creatures burned golden bright. See how the murky evil has dimmed him.

But then he will die himself,
Lothryn said, aghast.

I suspect so,
Kestrel agreed, bitterness in his voice.
But not before Rashlyn burns through his power until there is none left.

Lothryn needed to ask no more. Both creatures fell silent, keeping vigil with the other animals of the mountains, still gathering to pay homage to their king.

W
YL AND
A
REMYS SET OFF FROM THE FORTRESS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
, K
NAVE TROTTING AT THEIR SIDE
. T
HE
G
RENADYNE CHANCED AIRING HIS
concern to the grim-faced King at his side. “We cannot travel the Razors successfully at night, Wyl. Surely you know that the way down is treacherous?”

“I do. We won’t be going far,” came the reply.

“If you’re intent on this mad journey into Briavel, why not leave at first light? We would easily make up the poor advantage of departing now.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t explained myself,” Wyl said, turning to look directly at his anxious friend. “Leaving by horse was purely for appearances.”

“What?”

“I have another method, much faster—though horribly unpleasant.”

“Has becoming a king gone to your head?” Aremys began to sound truculent. The night’s proceedings had worn down his emotional reserves. He was tired, angry at losing Cailech, furious at failing Lothryn and Gueryn, sad for Wyl, and altogether sick to the back teeth of magic. He must have murmured the last thought aloud because Wyl answered him.

“Well, just a little more magic to go. It was you who gave me the idea.”

“Me! Whatever are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the Thicket, Aremys. We will use the Thicket to travel.”

That won the Grenadyne’s attention. He felt his belly clench and could not speak for a few moments. Finally he said, “How?”

“Knave. It’s why I insisted he come.”

“He looks none too happy about it.”

“He isn’t, believe me. I’ve never known him to be this aloof.”

“Because he had to leave behind Fynch?”

“Correct. The two of them are inextricably linked.”

“But you told me he was your dog.”

Wyl sighed. “It’s complicated,” he said, smiling sadly. “Knave loves us all and has protected all of us. Now he is having to suffer each of us dying, and me so many times over.”

Aremys was eager to get away from the painful subject. “So how can the dog help us?”

“He is of the Thicket. He is our connection to it.”

“And?” Aremys was still baffled.

“Remember how you suddenly found yourself between the fringe of Timpkenny and the Razors…?”

Aremys frowned, then understanding dawned. “Oh, no. You jest, surely?”

He saw Cailech’s eyes—now settled back to their pale green—sparkle in the light of the flaming torch he carried. “Not this time, my friend.”

Aremys began to stutter, words falling out on top of one another. “But how do you summon it, command it, control it?”

Cailech’s shoulders shrugged and a twitch of a grin at his mouth disappeared as rapidly as it arrived. “We just have to trust the Thicket.”

“That place is no friend of mine, Wyl. It cast me out, remember? What if it hurts me this time?”

“It won’t.”

“You sound so confident,” Aremys blustered.

“I am. The Thicket will not hurt either of us—first, because we travel with Knave, and second, because of our connection to Fynch. The boy means everything to the Thicket, I believe.”

“How do we know it can do this?”

“It threw me all the way to Briavel in seconds,” Wyl said.

Aremys gasped. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is so much you don’t know,” Wyl said, his voice laced with regret. “Such as the fact that Fynch will die this night, doing what he has done since I first met him.”

“Which is?”

“Acting out of sacrifice, loyalty, love. He has always put others before himself.” Wyl sighed, then added, “You also don’t know that Valentyna will marry Celimus, come what may.”

Aremys felt utterly baffled. “What? But I thought we were going to Briavel to try to prevent it.”

He saw Cailech shrug. “I can’t read the future,” Wyl said. “Elysius told me that she will marry the King of Morgravia.”

“Why do we go, then?”

“Because Fynch told me that Myrren’s Gift is still subject to randomness.”

Aremys looked quizzically at the King of the Mountains. They were moving slowly, often raising an arm to acknowledge scouts and guides on higher ridges who were recognizable only by the flicker of their small fires. A special flame burning on top of the fortress told these guards that their king was passing through the mountains, so the two men had no fear of being attacked or stopped. “I don’t understand any of this, Wyl.”

“I hardly understand it myself,” Wyl admitted. “Fynch believes that random acts can still affect the outcome of Myrren’s Gift.”

“And so you will try to do something to prevent the Queen marrying Celimus, is that right?”

“In truth I don’t see how I can. I think I am going simply so that I may see her before I die again.”

Aremys reined in his horse and Wyl followed suit, knowing his statement was too provocative to be ignored. “Why?” his friend demanded. “Stay as Cailech. Just think of all you can achieve. Let’s turn back. You say yourself that you cannot affect the outcome of the marriage. We have friends here, loyal people. You are a king. You can live. Stop the gift now!”

“Only one thing will stop it, Aremys,” Wyl said, weariness in his tone.

“What?” the Grenadyne asked.

Wyl raised Cailech’s head and looked his friend directly in the eye. “When I become the sovereign of Morgravia.”

“Celimus?” It came out as a choked exclamation.

Wyl nodded, deadly serious. Aremys was shocked to the core. “Is that what this is all about? Myrren’s Gift is to make sure that you become him?”

Cailech’s face twisted into a snarl. “It’s about revenge. Myrren suffered at Celimus’s hands, so she and her father worked out a way to make him suffer in return.”

“But why involve you? You did nothing but offer her pity.”

“I am nothing but a pawn in this complex game,” Wyl said softly. “She has used me to avenge her torture, which Celimus so enjoyed.”

The big man’s horror was written on his face. Wyl recalled his own despair at the discovery of the truth of Myrren’s Gift. Perhaps it was even worse for the mercenary, Wyl thought. Often watching those you love suffer was more intolerable than living through the suffering yourself.

“Wyl,” Aremys began, recovering himself. “This is worse than I could ever have imagined, I’ll agree, but can you not think of it in the more positive light that you will be King of Morgravia and your queen will be Valentyna? Can the knowledge that you will be together soften the damage that has been done? You cannot bring back those you have lost, but perhaps you can make their lives count by making Morgravia great again. Sire heirs with Valentyna and establish a new dynasty. Imagine it—Morgravia ruled by you, not Celimus. One more death, my friend, that’s all it will take.” There was a new brightness in the Grenadyne’s voice, as if suddenly he felt everything could be righted.

Wyl looked down at his new large hands with their prominent knuckles and long, blunt fingers. He had thought of the same scenario many times since learning of his destiny. And every time he tried to convince himself that this terrible episode of his life could end happily, he hit a wall. The wall was called Celimus. “Aremys,” he said softly into the chill spring night. “I don’t want to be him.”

Aremys had not considered that. “You have no choice.”

“I will not live as Celimus,” Wyl said slowly, defiantly. “I would sooner die.”

“But you will have everything—”

Wyl cut him off. “I will have nothing but hate and despair. You don’t understand. When I become someone new, much of who they are remains with me. I have their memories, their dreams. I have their ways and mannerisms. I have their darkness, Aremys. I will not live as the person I hate most in this world, who in turn has hated the Thirsks for two decades.”

“So what are you going to do—die again?” Aremys’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. Wyl remained silent and continued staring at Cailech’s hands.

The Grenadyne shook his head slowly with disbelief. “Tell me you’re not planning to die once you’re him, Wyl?” he urged, a fresh wave of fear washing across him. He realized that once Wyl became Celimus, he would no longer have Myrren’s protection. He would be as vulnerable to death as anyone.

Wyl spoke in a grave tone. “When it happens—and it will, for my destiny is to become the sovereign of Morgravia—you will end my life once and for all.”

Aremys was rocked by Wyl’s words. “I won’t,” he shouted. “I won’t do it.”

“You will! You will do it because I demand it. I will be King of Morgravia, don’t forget, and I will command you.”

“Command me?! Upon the threat of what—pain of death?” Aremys yelled.

Wyl ignored him, kept speaking. “We shall set it up as an accident. It doesn’t have to be by your hand as such, if that revolts you too much. We can manipulate it through others. But you will help me to achieve my death. I think I would like an arrow, clean and swift, to the heart. I would prefer it to be you, Aremys, as I know you shoot accurately. This is about friendship, love, loyalty.”

“No, Wyl. What about Valentyna?”

“I can’t think about what might happen after my death.
That will be beyond my control. But Valentyna will be released from her sentence of being married to Celimus, free to return to Briavel and begin her life afresh.”

“But it’s not
him
. It’s you.”

“Valentyna will not know that. She will look at me with disgust; she will detest my touch and speak my name with loathing. No, Aremys,” Wyl said sadly, “I would rather be dead, truly. Elysius said I cannot contrive for others to kill me, but I am counting on the fact that once I have become Celimus, as Elysius and Myrren intended, the gift will have run its course and will no longer be able to hurt me or those I care about.”

Aremys shook his head; it was too painful. They had battled against so much, but for what? “Don’t make this decision yet,” he beseeched. “Fynch warned of the randomness—let’s wait and see how it all turns out.”

Wyl recalled Fynch begging him to tell Valentyna the truth, and was reminded once again that the boy had never led him astray. Fynch had always been true. “Fair enough,” he said. “We will not discuss it again until I become Celimus, after which I will give you one night’s grace, which I shall spend with Valentyna, and the next day I will expect you to take my life. Agreed?”

Aremys was cornered. “Agreed,” he said, deeply unhappy.

“Good,” Wyl replied, feeling suddenly brighter for airing the decision he had been brooding on for so long. Now it was time to ask for the Thicket’s help.

“Come, we’ll try from here,” he said, pointing to a small outcrop of rocks.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Aremys asked, leading his horse in the direction of the rocks.

“Not really, but the journey will take too long by conventional means. I have to try.”

Aremys sighed audibly. “So what do we do? Turn the horses loose or remain on them?”

Cailech shrugged his broad shoulders. “I haven’t even brought anything for her,” he said, his mind elsewhere.

Aremys lifted his eyes to the heavens and asked Shar to help them. “Come on, Wyl, what do we do?”

Wyl collected his thoughts. “Knave,” he said, “please, would you call on the Thicket? I need it to send us to Werryl Palace, like it did for me before.”

Knave could not explain to his friend that he no longer enjoyed the same contact with the Thicket as he had in the past. There was nothing for it now, he realized; he would have to contact Fynch…if the boy was still alive.

Letting his mind flood with the trace that was Fynch, Knave cast out to him, begging him to be alive, to answer him…not because he needed his help but because he wanted to hear his sweet voice again.

Knave
. It sounded more of a groan.

Always here,
the dog answered, keeping his voice steady even though he was frightened by the pain communicated in the single syllable of Fynch’s response.

Is Wyl safe?

Yes.
Knave knew not to waste time on small talk. Fynch was fighting for his life.
We need to use the Thicket to travel quickly to Briavel. I’m sorry to—

Wait.
There was a silence and then Fynch was back; his voice sounded even more fractured and filled with pain than just moments earlier.
I’ve set up a bridge. Use it, but hurry—I can’t hold it together for long.

Fynch, what’s happening?

Hurry, Knave. Please.

Knave closed his eyes in grief. It sounded as though Fynch were near to death. He reached toward the Thicket, feeling guilty at drawing on Fynch’s waning reserves. He could not understand it. Fynch was strong in his power. Surely he could easily overcome Rashlyn?

It was Rasmus who answered the unspoken question.
Fynch is following his destiny, Knave. You must do what he has commanded. The Thicket will allow this request.

There are horses too,
Knave replied, disguising his rising fear for Fynch.

The owl made a sound of disgust.
Wyl Thirsk never makes it easy
, the bird said testily.
We’ll have to be careful how they land. Tell the two men to sit on horseback. Then we only have to control three “parcels.”

Just two. I plan to return to Fynch.

No. You have been commanded. You must do as he wishes. Now make ready.

Knave cut the link angrily, unused to feeling such emotion. He felt a keen loyalty to Wyl and would give his life for him if asked, but with Fynch it ran much deeper. It was love. Not something you turned your back on.

Thank you, Fynch,
he sent, filled with sorrow.

He could barely hear the reply, but he felt it.
I love you, Knave. Farewell.

And then the boy cut their link. Knave whined softly, feeling a deep and irreplaceable loss, then turned to Wyl and gave a low growl.