Bridge of Souls (5 page)

It is done,
Rasmus said.
Be at rest, Faith Fynch.

W
hy do they refer to me as Faith?” Fynch whispered to Knave, who sat tall and imposing beside him in a special sunlit divide. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Fynch would never have believed such a clearing existed in the Thicket. Curiously, the small light-drenched space added no particular cheer to the dense, dark, and brooding atmosphere, but Fynch was nonetheless glad for the brief respite from the chill.

It is how we think of you.

“What do you mean?”

We have faith in you.

Fynch wanted to ask more, but the words stilled in his mouth as creatures—many known to him only from folklore—began to gather at the fringe of the clearing.

“These are your friends?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

They are the creatures of the Thicket.

Fynch’s attention was caught by a magnificent lion that watched him from the shadows. The animal shook itself and Fynch gasped to see wings extending from the proud cat’s shoulders.

“Knave, that’s the winged lion of legend.”

No legend as you can see, son. He exists.

“I only know of him from the old tales and the carvings at Stoneheart. He…he is Wyl’s mythical animal, who protects him.”

And yours?

“Mine?” the boy said, awed as he caught sight of the equally legendary great bear. “My creature is…” He hesitated as a different animal invaded his mind, demanding to be named. He felt treacherous and pushed the thought away. “My animal is the unicorn.”

He comes to you now,
Knave said.

The other creatures fell silent as the beautiful animal emerged into the light. Its coat had a hue of the palest of blues, but the overall impression was of a pure, dazzling white; even its famed horn was a silvery white. It walked slowly and with such grace that Fynch held his breath, utterly captivated.

Tall and broad, the unicorn towered over the boy and his companion.
Child,
it said in a deep, musical voice.
It is my privilege to welcome you among us.

Fynch was so overwhelmed that he began to weep. The unicorn bent its great head, careful not to touch the boy with its lethal horn, and nuzzled Fynch, who put his small arms around the creature’s neck in worship.
My name is Roark,
it added, for his hearing alone.

“The privilege is mine, great Roark,” Fynch whispered.

Be bright, Faith Fynch. You are our hope,
the animal returned into his mind.

Fynch gathered his composure and dried his eyes. He looked about him uncertainly, registering the expectancy that hung in the air, and tried not to gawp at the amazing troupe of creatures gathered around him.

As one, they bowed, including Knave and the graceful Roark.

You must acknowledge them,
Knave whispered into Fynch’s startled mind.
Put your awe aside, son. You are to whom we give our loyalty. Assume your birthright.

Fynch did not understand. He was a gong boy. A child of
low birth and even lower rank. How could he acknowledge homage from these majestic creatures of legend? Who was he to assume such a role?

It was as if Roark could hear his thoughts.
Fynch, will you accept our obeisance and loyalty?

Elysius’s words echoed in Fynch’s memory:
Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a Gate.

He could not escape his destiny, he knew this. His life was no longer his own to direct or to make decisions about. Choices had already been made and promises given.

Fynch steadied himself and found his voice. “Creatures of the Thicket,” he called, “I will make myself worthy of your faith.”

He bowed, low and long. When he stood upright again, he felt a new strength pulsing through him, from his toes through to the tips of his fingers. He realized that it must be the Thicket communicating with him, sending him nourishing power. He felt charged with it, and could not help the radiant smile that broke out onto his face.

“Tell me what it is I must do,” he asked the creatures. “I am your servant.”

It was Rasmus who spoke on behalf of the creatures and of the Thicket itself.
Be seated, Fynch,
he offered from his perch.

Fynch lowered himself to the ground. Knave and Roark remained standing, flanking Fynch on either side.

Child, you already know what it is we ask of you,
the owl said.

“I do?”

Elysius shared the same desire.

“Rashlyn,” Fynch murmured.

The creatures and trees all shuddered their shared hatred for the man.

Yes,
Rasmus concurred.
You must destroy him.

“What is it that frightens you so about this man?”

He is tainted, and he wants to use his power to corrupt all that is natural about the world. His evil is born of his jealously at being unable to manipulate Nature. More than anything, he passionately desires the power to control all creatures. With this at his disposal, he would rule
all realms. Imagine him being able to call upon eagle or zerkon alike? Imagine him commanding them to do evil, the other animals powerless to refuse him? You must destroy him!

“I don’t think I am capable,” Fynch protested.

The Thicket and its creatures will help you.

Strengthened by the thrum of power that bristled through him from the ground of the Thicket, and emboldened by the love and loyalty that surrounded him, Fynch took a deep breath. “Then I ask for nothing more than your faith in me.”

It was the right thing to say. Knave confirmed as much with a gently uttered
Bravo, child
into his mind while the creatures showed their trust and delight, some leaping into the air, others rearing to stand on two legs, still others squawking or braying.

Fynch laughed. He was filled with a joy he had never known before. He suddenly felt he belonged to all of them. He reached for Knave and touched the great dog’s head.

I don’t believe it,
Knave said, his tone humble.
The King comes.

“King?” Fynch repeated, puzzled. Since they had begun communicating via this special mindtalk, Fynch had found Knave’s manner to be mostly serious, like himself. The dog was not one for jests or shallow thoughts. He spoke only when there was something to say, and during most of their conversations it had been his role to counsel Fynch. The boy knew of Knave’s graveness, and the dignity that emanated from his solid, dependable presence, but never had he seen the dog show humility. And this was no small humility: Knave sounded filled with reverence for whatever it was that was arriving. “Knave—”

Hush,
said the dog, and a powerful beating sound made Fynch raise his head and squint into the light above. Something plunged toward them—a suggestion of a shadow at first, that darkened until it cut out the light entirely and Fynch no longer squinted but was wide-eyed with both fear and awe.

“The warrior dragon,” he breathed.

Our king,
Roark said softly, veneration in his voice, as the mighty creature alighted in the clearing.

The creatures bent low to exalt the hallowed creature that stood before them, its famed, darkly shimmering colors gloriously filling the clearing.

Fynch needed no prompting. He fell to his knees immediately, then prostrated himself. Closing his eyes, he cast a prayer to Shar in thanks for the blessing of this day and what it had brought him.

Fynch,
said a voice, as rich and mellow as treacle.

“Your majesty,” Fynch replied, not daring to raise his head.

Come stand before me,
the voice commanded. Fynch summoned his courage. With Knave and Roark’s whispered encouragement, he opened his eyes and looked upon the King of all the beasts. There was no doubting that royalty stood before him, no wondering if this glorious creature was worthy of such exaltation. Fynch held his breath as every fiber of his being suddenly felt newly alive, restored somehow in the presence of such grandeur.

Like everyone else who looked upon the dragon pillar in the Pearlis Cathedral with awe, Fynch had believed the warrior dragon to be just legend. Associated with the Morgravian sovereign, it was the most impressive of all the mythical creatures but no more real than the winged lion. But now the King of Kings stood in all his glory before him, as real as Fynch himself.

Faith Fynch,
the King said.
Be welcome.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Fynch stammered, bowing. “I am proud to serve you.”

And we are indebted for that service, child, which is given so bravely by one so young.

Fynch said nothing. He had no response to such generous praise.

The warrior dragon continued:
And still we ask more of you.

“I will give my life if it is so required.”

The King regarded him through dark, wise eyes.
We shall do everything in our power to prevent you relinquishing something so precious.

“Please tell me, my king”—
my true king,
Fynch thought to himself—“what it is that you ask of me.”

The beast wasted no further time.
The King of Morgravia brings shame to his kind. He is of the warrior clan—of my blood, you could say—but he disgusts me.

“Celimus is indeed shameful,” Fynch agreed quietly.

That said, there have been Kings before who have disappointed and we have ignored them. The Thicket and its creatures do not meddle in the affairs of men, child. We have watched you kill one another for centuries and we have not involved ourselves. But on this occasion we have been drawn into the struggles of mankind because of the misuse of magic.

“You speak of Myrren’s Gift, your majesty.”

The King hesitated briefly.
That included, yes. It was wrong of Elysius to channel his power through his daughter to such a vengeful end. His power, once we granted him access to the Wild, was to be used only for the good of the natural world.

Fynch felt compelled to defend Elysius. “I don’t think he fully realized what the repercussions would be, your majesty.”

Magic is always dangerous, Fynch, even when used with the best of intentions. There are always repercussions, although sometimes we are unable to see what they are until it is too late. That is why the Thicket and its magic have been deliberately shielded from men. Myrren’s Gift has already claimed four lives. Wyl Thirsk should have died; instead he is abroad and carrying a deadly enchantment. None of us knows where it could end.

“Wyl didn’t ask for Myrren’s Gift, your majesty,” Fynch mumbled, trying not to sound petulant.

I know, my son
, the King replied gently.
I feel great sorrow for Wyl, who is one of the best among men—as was his father. It is the magic that troubles me, and how it will reverberate through the world of men. I mean to end it here.

“You don’t mean to destroy Wyl?” Fynch exclaimed.

In a way he is already dead,
the creature answered.

Fynch did not like the resignation in the Dragon King’s voice. He grasped for placation, desperate to prevent this powerful being from hurting Wyl. “The Thicket and its creatures have asked me to kill Rashlyn, your majesty, and with their help I will endeavor to rid the land of the destroyer. Both brothers will be no more. The magic will end.”

Not really, child, for now you possess it. Rashlyn wishes to control the natural world. He is a corrupter of natural things. He wants power over the beasts. But Celimus is just as dangerous. He too wants power, although of a different kind. I fear that if we do not destroy Rashlyn, these two ambitious men might join together. I know how the minds of greedy men work, and should they claim the Razors and Briavel, they will almost certainly turn their attention toward the Wild. With Celimus’s help, Rashlyn will try to destroy the Thicket.
The King sighed.
We do not wish to engage in such a confrontation.

“What can I do to help, your majesty?” Fynch asked, desperation seeping into his voice.

I grant you permission to use the magic of the Thicket to aid Wyl Thirsk in his bid to rid Morgravia of its king, for without Celimus I do not believe Rashlyn’s madness can be fully unleashed.

Fynch nodded thoughtfully, relief flooding his small body to learn that the Warrior King did not mean to attack Wyl directly. He recognized that the dragon warrior had not offered his own mighty strength or powers, only that of the Thicket. Fynch also knew that the creatures of the Thicket would insist on keeping their secrets. He already felt a part of this mysterious community and knew he would do everything in his power to protect them and their magic.

“Celimus has no heir,” Fynch cautioned, even though he presumed the royal creature knew as much.

Morgravia will survive. Do what you must. Knave is your guide—use his wisdom well, child, and your own powers sparingly. I presume Elysius explained the price you may be required to pay?

Fynch nodded. “He did.”

The King waited, wondering whether the child would expand on his brief answer. A plea for mercy perhaps, a query as to whether his life could somehow be spared. But no further words came. The King beat his wings in appreciation of the boy’s humility; he was prepared to give everything of himself for those he loved and asked for nothing in return.