Bridge of Souls (44 page)

Aremys shook his head. “Do you understand him?”

Wyl nodded. “Sort of. I’ve been around him long enough to grasp what kind of message is being communicated.”

“And that one meant…?”

“We wait.” He turned to Knave. “I know you’re hurting, boy, but I need you to come with us.”

Wyl’s comment was timely. Knave realized, as much as he hated to admit it, that he was not of much use to Fynch right now. But Wyl needed him for to this trip to Briavel. That settled it. He would go.

The men began to dismount, but Knave barked.

Aremys frowned. “What now?”

“Wants us to remain on horseback, I think,” Wyl said. “Is that right, Knave?”

The dog gave a familiar growl and Wyl nodded to his friend. “Yes. I guess we’re taking the horses.”

“This will take some explaining at the other end,” Aremys said as the air around them began to thicken.

“Here we go,” Wyl cautioned. “It’s not pleasant, I warn you.”

“I think I remember that much,” was all Aremys had time to
say before he felt a huge pressure on his body and all went dark.

T
he blinding golden light that had initially shimmered around the dragon had gradually dimmed to a soft glow, taking on a dirty bronze color. The dragon’s wings hung limply and each breath was labored, but still it stood upright, absorbing the magic slamming into its body.

“Die, beast,” the barshi screamed, clearly confused as to why the creature would not retaliate. “You came here to destroy me,” he yelled. “Yet you can’t even shield yourself against my magic.”

He blasted the dragon again with a powerful spell and saw the beautiful beast stagger for the first time, its head drooping.

Fynch!
Lothryn screamed.

He can’t hear you,
Kestrel warned.
He won’t listen anyway. He is dying, wants to die…has to die, I think.

We must do something,
Lothryn cried. He was feeling much stronger, and was restless, frantic to help Fynch.

We are. We bear witness to his sacrifice.

We stand by and let him die? But we could save him! We could all rush at Rashlyn together and destroy him,
Lothryn tried.

Kestrel tutted.
He is already being destroyed.

What do you mean?

With every spell the sorcerer weakens. He cannot feel it yet, but we can see it. His magic is a filthy brown, tainted and ugly, not bright and golden like that of the Dragon King. The man has been careless—he has used most of it up.

And?

Fynch will absorb the evil magic until there is no more left in the sorcerer. And in doing so, he sacrifices himself.

A collective groan echoed around the forest and up to the mountain ridges as the animals saw the dragon slump to one side, its golden light no more than a slight wash of color.

Rashlyn was laughing maniacally. “It is you who dies, you fool. Am I so strong? Can you not fight me? I am the King of the Creatures, not you. I will rule them. I can change them and bend them to my will.” He shook his bony fist toward the animals who watched. “You will all hail me as your king. Look at the dragon now. He dies. I have vanquished him and I shall take all of his power and wield it as I will.”

It was true. The King of the Creatures had rolled onto his side and was breathing so shallowly that death was surely imminent.

If Lothryn had not been mesmerized and moved by the boy’s courage, he would have closed Galapek’s eyes. But he could not do that. Instead he focused on Rashlyn, and because he was helplessly linked to him through the evil man’s filthy magic, he could feel the barshi summoning everything he had within. Curiously, Lothryn felt himself grow even stronger. The pain had diminished; his flesh no longer twitched and trembled. He sensed Rashlyn gathering all his power to hurl at the dying dragon.

“Finish it!” the animals heard their king whisper. Fynch’s words were met by a hysterical cackle from Rashlyn.

The barshi unleashed a primeval howl and launched every ounce of magic he possessed toward the dragon. The animals who had gathered to pay homage bore witness as Fynch, King of the Creatures, rolled back onto his clawed feet again in a last defiant show of strength and will. He too loosed a roar—a death roar—which every creature felt rattle through its chest, and he accepted the powerful killing spell, absorbing the twisted magic. And then, with a mighty effort, he went on sucking hard at the barshi, whose twisted face of triumph turned to surprise. He was no longer giving his magic; it was being stolen from him, pulled in a great and dirty arc into his opponent.

I will take it all from you, Rashlyn,
the dragon vowed.

Lothryn and Kestrel watched in awed silence as Fynch, howling with anger, dragged the very essence of the barshi’s
being into himself and consumed it in golden fire. The brilliant light pulsed brightly around the dragon before extinguishing itself.

The King of the Creatures fell, reducing in size and stature until, where the mighty dragon had stood so proudly just hours earlier, the tiny shape of a boy lay curled tightly into himself on the forest floor.

Each creature present cried out in sympathy and then, as if on a given signal, all but the zerkons began to move toward the child, who looked as though he were sleeping. One by one they nuzzled or sniffed the tiny body, each softly giving thanks for the sacrifice that had been given to preserve their lives and their ways.

In Briavel, Knave threw back his head and howled a sound to chill the souls who stood nearby. He did it again and again and Wyl knew the black dog was grieving for Fynch.

He lowered King Cailech’s head in grief. “Fynch is dead,” he said to Aremys, and the mercenary knew better than to offer hollow words of comfort.

A
man staggered between the trees, his body burned and shriveled, his hair flaming. His tangled beard was a blackened mass and patches of charred flesh ate at his face. His eyes were unseeing, scorched black, and he moaned, arms outstretched as he blindly felt his way. He began to scream and his empty cries echoed off the mountain peaks and returned to taunt him.

“Yes, scream, you evil bastard,” a voice said.

“Who speaks?” shrieked Rashlyn, swinging around in the direction of the voice.

“It is Gueryn le Gant.”

“The dog?” Rashlyn whispered.

“The man,” Gueryn said, and it sounded like a threat. “You have no more magic, Rashlyn. You cannot bind me and so I
have been freed.” He looked at the horse next to him, sorrow knifing through him. “I see his magic was not used with such sophistication on you, my friend. You remain entrapped.”

Having felt his spirit soar with untold joy at seeing Gueryn whole, Lothryn experienced the sickening fall of disappointment at realizing that he, of course, remained as Galapek. He turned his great head toward the man but could no longer communicate with him by sending thoughts.

Gueryn lifted his finger to his lips to calm Lothryn. “We will find a way,” he whispered to the horse, knowing the man inside could hear.

“How did this happen?” yelled Rashlyn, his voice trembling. “You were stabbed, dead.”

“The other dog, Knave, healed me. He licked each of my wounds, sealing them with his own magic. He sensed I would be returned if you lost your power.”

“Lost my power?” the barshi echoed.

Gueryn advanced on the wild man. He could smell the charred flesh and took great pleasure in noticing injuries that would normally turn his gut. “Try your magic now,” he taunted. “If you can.”

Rashlyn reached inside himself and, discovering his loss, screamed in despair.

Gueryn laughed. “Fynch may not have had the desire to kill, but I do, Rashlyn,” Gueryn said. “I do.” He moved toward the staggering man, who was now walking in circles, arms outstretched. But then, looking up, Gueryn had a far better idea. Most of the animals had scattered at the demise of their king, but one type of creature remained. They were gradually closing in on the three that remained in the clearing, but Gueryn could see that their attention was focused on the charred man.

“Ah, a better idea,” he said gleefully. “A fitting one, Rashlyn.”

Spinning toward his voice, Rashlyn began to weep. “What?”

“Do you know what zerkons look like?”

The barshi fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. Gueryn
laughed, amazed at the man’s audacity. “Go to your god, Rashlyn, and I hope he burns you in eternal fire.”

Gueryn bent down to the boy, not wasting time to check for a pulse. He lifted the tiny mass of limbs and cradled the child in his arms. Fynch’s head rolled against the soldier’s chest. Gueryn called to Galapek and rapidly hefted himself onto the stallion’s broad back, Fynch all but weightless in his arms. “Lothryn, if you wouldn’t mind taking us out of here…?” he asked.

Galapek’s powerful frame carried them swiftly from the clearing as two massive zerkons descended on the screaming man, who understood all too well, blind or not, that death had finally arrived. Only one creature remained to witness the barshi’s bloody end—a kestrel, perched high in a tree’s branches.

A
REMYS THOUGHT THAT COMING TO
W
ERRYL WAS A STUPID IDEA
. I
T WAS CLEAR FROM WHAT
W
YL HAD SAID THAT
K
NAVE WOULD PREFER TO BE
back in the Razors, and even Wyl’s good sense must have warned him against reentering Briavel. And yet here they were, taking deep breaths to recover from the magical travel and preparing to waltz up to the Queen of Briavel and present King Cailech, sworn enemy of the southern realms and newly agreed partner-in-crime with the treacherous Morgravian monarch.

“Do you think the Queen will start screaming like a banshee or do you imagine she’ll keep her composure and offer the Mountain King high tea?” Aremys said sarcastically. “That is, if we make it past the hail of arrows.”

“We’ll send Knave,” Wyl said, smoothing back Cailech’s long golden hair. “How do I look?”

Aremys laughed, harsh and brief. “Like the fucking King of the Razors.”

“I meant,” Wyl replied calmly, “am I untidy?”

Aremys shook his head. “What does it matter? Let’s go, Wyl, and get this done with.”

“Trust me, my friend. She will see us.”

“And kill us,” the mercenary growled.

“Not with Knave leading us, she won’t. She trusts the dog more than she trusts me.”

“Who is ‘me,’ Wyl?” Aremys asked angrily.

“Romen,” Wyl corrected. “You’re welcome to remain here,” he offered, tiring of the Grenadyne’s bitterness even though he understood.

“No, it’s always fun watching you die,” Aremys cut back swiftly. He regretted the words instantly as he saw pain sweep across Cailech’s face, the eyes darkening with barely contained sorrow. “Forgive me, Wyl.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t,” his friend said softly. “I just have to see her once more, Aremys, before I become Celimus and am forced to see her through his cruel eyes.”

“How will it happen, do you think? The Queen will turn you over to him…again?”

“Probably,” Wyl said, resigned to his fate. “Come, I hope she has not already left for Pearlis.”

V
alentyna was taking a late supper with Liryk. Conversation was hard won with her this night, just a day before their departure to Pearlis. She was trying, of that the commander was certain, but gradually her gaze had clouded and
now she had withdrawn into her private, no doubt grim, imaginings of life as Celimus’s queen.

Liryk wished he could spare her the sorrow she was feeling, but he thought of her father and imagined how proud Valor would be of his only child. She was giving Briavel a brilliant gift—the gift of peace.

He watched her pushing food around her plate, her fork never once lifting any of it toward her mouth. The only sound in the room was the clink of cutlery against porcelain. She lifted her beautiful face, aware of his gaze.

“Forgive me, Liryk.”

“Nothing to forgive, you highness.”

Valentyna smiled wanly. “My thoughts are elsewhere this eve—a bride’s prerogative, I think.” She tried to widen the smile but failed. Tears welled instead.

They both started at the sound of a knock at the door.

“Let me, your majesty,” Liryk offered, rising to answer the messenger. He returned tight-lipped and frowning.

“Important?” she asked, presuming it was for him. “Don’t fret, you’re excused from my dazzling repartee this evening.” He gazed at her, wishing he did not have to tell her anything, wishing they could leave for Pearlis tonight. “What is it? Not bad news, please…unless”—she laughed harshly—“it’s to tell me that Celimus has unexpectedly and tragically died.”

“Far more intriguing, your highness. Knave is on the bridge.”

She stood. “Knave’s back! Is Fynch with him?”

“No, your majesty.” Liryk’s hesitant tone snapped her to attention.

“He’s not alone, though, is he?”

“He brings with him two men. One is Aremys Farrow.”

Valentyna’s mouth dropped open. “The man Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy spoke of—the one brokering the peace treaty with the Mountain King?”

Liryk nodded.

“And who accompanies him?” Valentyna asked, then
frowned at Liryk’s silence. “Come on, Commander, the suspense is irritating.”

Liryk wiped away the perspiration coating his forehead. “King Cailech of the Mountains, your majesty.”

The silence that met his words felt as heavy as the dread in his own heart. He watched the Queen’s hand fly to her throat; to her credit, she gave away nothing more than the initial shock. Visibly gathering her composure, she turned toward the double windows, unlatched and threw them open, then stepped out onto the balcony.

He joined her in looking down upon the famous Werryl Bridge to where three figures stood, surrounded by soldiers. One was familiar; as if on cue, the dog raised his great dark head and looked directly at Valentyna. Valentyna felt that penetrating gaze cross the substantial distance between them and pierce her heart. She had to stop herself from clutching her breast, where an old ache, barely buried, resurfaced to taunt and frighten her.

“He has brought him back to me,” she whispered to herself.

“Beg your pardon, your majesty?” Liryk said.

Valentyna closed her eyes momentarily then calmly replied, “Bring them to my study.”

“Your majesty, I don’t—”

“Now, Liryk, please. Search them and remove their weapons.”

“Yes, your highness.”

She disappeared from the balcony, leaving Liryk to look down upon the strange trio once more.

“Now what have you sent us, Shar, to disrupt her peace?” he muttered.

V
alentyna splashed icy water on her face and took several deep, steadying breaths as she held the drying linen to her cheeks. She groaned. What was happening to her?

She raced through the questions that were alarming her. How could Knave know the Mountain King? Why bring him here? How could they have come so far without encountering the Briavellian Guard? It was impossible, she realized. Unless they materialized out of thin air, two riders and a huge dog would not escape notice.

Knave’s return inevitably reminded her of Fynch and she recalled his last conversation with her, when he had implied that the man she loved was not decaying in a tomb within the palace crypt.
If I suggested this was simply a dead body and not really the Romen Koreldy you loved, what would you say?
he had asked, shocking her. And she had replied that it was cruel to ask such a thing. Still, he had tried, dear Fynch, to make her understand something which she could not believe, and yet now felt so deep in her heart.
Although Romen’s corpse lies here before us, that the man you knew—the man you loved, your highness—is not dead.

Looking down at the trio on Werryl Bridge, she had felt as much, even though neither of the two men looked remotely like Romen. She hesitated even to say the word, but it hovered nevertheless on the tip of her tongue. Magic.

“Magic,” she said aloud, recalling Elspyth’s warning about being open to different ways of understanding. She had spoken of reincarnation and told her that love might return in the shape of another. Elspyth had been trying to convey a message; Valentyna had heard it in the urgency of her tone, her desperation to imply something important while not actually saying it. Elspyth had said that love might even present itself as a woman and Valentyna had laughed. Yet Ylena Thirsk had tried to give her love. Valentyna had rejected it, disgusted and upset that a woman would make such an approach to her.
But that was no ordinary woman, was it?
she thought to herself now, throwing down the linen and staring at her reflection in the mirror.
If you were truthful to yourself, you would admit there was an attraction there. You could not explain it if you were asked to, but if your life depended on it, you might whisper
that Ylena behaved with you as a man would…as a particular man would.

Helpless tears rolled down her face as she permitted the truth of her thoughts to be unleashed for the first time. Ylena Thirsk had walked and talked like a woman but acted like a man. She had even had that curious habit of pulling at her ear and pacing when deep in thought.

Say it!
she urged herself.

“Like Romen,” she whispered to the mirror. “She kissed me like Romen did.”

Thoughts clamored and clashed in her head until she could no longer bear it. She heard a gentle tap at the door and gave herself one last look in the mirror. She looked tousled and unsure of herself.

Fynch had connected Romen with Wyl Thirsk too. The boy had told her a long time ago that he believed Romen embodied General Wyl Thirsk, the redheaded, shy, and courageous emissary from Morgravia who had saved her life and given his own in an attempt to save her father. Both her father and Wyl had died, but somehow Romen had survived. Romen, a mercenary in the pay of King Celimus…a mercenary who, upon his return to Pearlis, had searched out and rescued Ylena Thirsk.

Valentyna thought about the men on the bridge. Fynch had told her that Knave responded to no one but those Wyl Thirsk loved. Wyl hardly cared for Romen Koreldy or King Cailech or indeed Aremys Farrow, another stranger. And yet the dog had brought all three of these men to her. Why…if they weren’t connected to Wyl?

The tap at the door came again. Valentyna dug deep and found enough strength to call out, “Enter.” Even so, she was not ready emotionally for the two strapping men who stepped into the room behind Commander Liryk, both towering over him. Knave pushed around their legs and bounded toward her.

Tears came to her eyes at the sight of King Cailech, along with the unshakable, inexplicable feeling that she was once
again in the presence of Romen Koreldy. She pretended her tears were for the dog and bent to pat his head and then hugged him fiercely, whispering “Thank you,” although she was not sure why.

The rattle of guards’ weapons as the door closed behind her visitors reminded her who and where she was. Valentyna straightened, ignoring her wet cheeks, and raised her eyes to meet the warm, dark eyes of Aremys Farrow and the cool yet burning gaze of the Mountain King, who was staring at her hungrily.

“Gentlemen, forgive me. As you can see, I am overwhelmed to see my friend Knave again,” she said, amazed that her voice sounded so steady.

“Your majesty,” King Cailech said, bowing low, “the apology is all ours for disturbing you at this hour.”

Valentyna felt a thrill tingle through her body at the warmth in his tone. His voice was as deep as she had expected, yet also layered with humor and something else…affection, she thought fancifully. She curtsied, paying due respect to a king. “You must be Aremys Farrow,” she continued, turning to the bear of a man who stood awkwardly beside the king. She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I have heard about you from Lady Ylena Thirsk and the Duke of Felrawthy.”

Aremys took her hand and kissed it. “Your highness,” he said.

“Come,” she said, “are you hungry?” Both men shook their heads. “A drink, then, of my father’s finest wine. I cannot imagine the tale I am about to hear about how two men of the Razors—one a king, no less—covered hundreds of leagues of my realm without a single guard spotting them.”

“Indeed,” Farrow muttered.

“Valentyna.”

Something in the way Cailech said her name made her heart leap in her breast.

“Yes, Cailech?” she responded, and they both smiled at the sudden lack of formality.

“May we speak as sovereigns…in private?”

She noted how Aremys Farrow glared at the King. It was an odd reaction, unless theirs was a friendship that extended beyond that of monarch and bodyguard.

“Of course,” she offered, glancing toward Liryk, who looked astounded at the suggestion.

“Your highness,” he began.

Valentyna held a hand in the air to stop her commander, knowing precisely his concerns but somehow not at all daunted by them. “Can we trust you, King Cailech?” she said.

“Far more than you can your husband-to-be, Queen Valentyna,” he responded, and Valentyna saw Liryk close his eyes with despair at the King’s inflammatory words.

A
remys was fuming as Commander Liryk escorted him from the room. Nevertheless, he could not blame his friend. Ever since a treacherous king had sent him on a mission of death, Wyl had known nothing but violence and despair, frustration and sorrow—save a few days in Briavel, as Romen, when he had wooed a queen.

And here he is doing it again,
Aremys thought, not realizing he had voiced that thought.

“I beg your pardon,” Liryk said. He looked as angry as Aremys felt.

“I’m sorry, Commander. It’s been a long journey,” the mercenary said. He noticed the man’s eyes widen in further wrath.

“Yes, I’d like to talk to you about that, Master Farrow.”

Aremys sighed. He had no idea how to explain their mysterious arrival. “Actually, first I need to relieve my bowels,” he said, knowing this remark would throw off even the most persistent pursuer. “Also, I am famished and I need to bathe and rest. Then I shall attempt to answer all of your questions, I promise. But please remember, I am only a bodyguard to my king. A foot soldier, if you will. It would be best if you saved your wrath for him.”

And with that, Aremys Farrow took himself off in the direction Commander Liryk, filled with surprise at the rebuttal, pointed. Aremys just hoped Wyl had some plan to get them out of Werryl as easily.

V
alentyna, self-conscious and uncharacteristically blushing, showed the tall Mountain King toward the comfortable sofas in her study. “Are you cold, sire?” she asked, then her face fell as he smirked. “Ah yes, how silly of me, I hear your people don’t feel the cold.”