Bridge of Souls (53 page)

T
HERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
. “C
HANCELLOR
J
ESSOM
?”
A VOICE CALLED
.

“I
T
’
S
A
REMYS AND
C
RYS
,” W
YL SAID
,
CLOSING
the eyes of the dead King. He had hoped to have a few minutes alone with the Queen, but the Grenadyne had obviously done his duty quickly. He strode to the door and pulled it open. Instantly the color in the two familiar faces before him drained as they gazed upon the ghost of a man they had watched die just moments before.

“What in Shar’s name—” Aremys began.

“Hush, come in quickly,” Wyl said. He felt sorry for their shock, but there was no time to spare for niceties. “Shut the door behind you. Hello, Crys. Oh, I think I should say ‘carving knife.’” He grinned.

The newcomers entered the chamber tentatively. At the same moment, they spotted the familiar figure slumped in a chair.

“Celimus is dead?” Crys whispered, his gaze moving to Valentyna and then returning with fresh fear to Wyl.

Wyl nodded.

“Wait!” Aremys demanded. “What’s going on? Cailech is dead! I watched it happen. I waited for the Quickening but saw no evidence of it. I feared you had died for good.”

“As you see, I’m very much alive,” Wyl replied, taking a grim pleasure in his friend’s shock. “It was Fynch. He worked out a way to channel his own magic to save me without disturbing Myrren’s Gift.”

“How?” the two men asked at once, awe in their voices.
Then Crys nudged Aremys and both bowed to their queen. “Your majesty,” they said, embarrassed at their lack of courtesy.

Valentyna smiled and shook her head. “I’m too unsettled to even notice any lapses in protocol.”

“Tell us,” Aremys said, turning back to Wyl. “What did Fynch contrive?”

“He swapped me with Jessom.”

“So Jessom was executed?” Aremys said, his wonder obvious.

“Fynch called it a Bridge of Souls,” Wyl answered. “He came to me in the dungeon. He begged me to trust him and mentioned the Bridge of Souls, but he did not explain it and I didn’t ask him to elaborate. My mood was grim, and much as I treasured seeing him once more, I didn’t think anything could change the course I was on.”

“I thought you’d become the Queen,” Crys finally said, his relief evident. “No disrespect, your majesty,” he said to Valentyna.

And then suddenly Aremys had Wyl in a bearlike hug. Wyl reached out a long arm to encompass Crys in the embrace. Valentyna had to look away, the rush of emotion she felt at witnessing their relief echoing her own. She wished she could join them, but sensed this was a special moment between the three men. There would be time ahead for her and Wyl to share their feelings.

Finally the men pulled apart. The newcomers examined for themselves the cooling corpse of King Celimus.

“What happened?” Aremys asked, delight obvious in his voice.

“Jessom poisoned him—I mean, I did. As soon as the King was as good as dead, I was released from the glamour and could reveal the truth to him.”

Aremys scratched his head, unsure of what to say or do. He followed his gut instinct and knelt before the two royals. “Your majesties, my sword is yours to command. Although do not ask me to use it on you now, Wyl.”

The King laid a hand on the warrior’s bowed head. “I won’t,
Aremys, my great friend. Only we four know of what has truly occurred today. No one else need ever find out.”

“So you will remain as Cailech, is that it?” Aremys asked carefully as he stood. “But Myrren’s Gift demands that you become sovereign of Morgravia!”

Valentyna spoke up. “We shall marry as soon as it is feasible. It must be with the nobles’ permission, but most blessed my strategic marriage to Celimus. Why not a second union in the name of peace?”

Crys Donal nodded. “That’s true. And there are rumblings among the true Legionnaires about a civil uprising backed by key nobles. It doesn’t seem to be idle gossip any longer. I just have one question: How will you explain the King’s death?”

Wyl began to pace the room. Shocked and overwrought as she was, Valentyna could not help but smile to see Cailech’s large hand tug at his earlobe in a gesture unique to Wyl Thirsk.

“Jessom poisoned the King and then fled,” Wyl said. “The only other person in the chamber was Valentyna, but she had retired to her dressing room to change into her gown for the wedding banquet. She saw the Chancellor pour the wine for the King before she left the room—and we still have the wine in the decanter to prove that it was poisoned. When Valentyna returned, ready to attend her wedding feast, she found the King in his death throes and raised the alarm. You and I, Aremys, had come to pay our respects to the newly married couple, and so were on hand to hear the Queen’s cries. We hunted down the Chancellor and dispatched him quickly and without honor, as befitting a traitor. That will also explain his corpse’s headless state, should news of it get out.”

Wyl paused and looked at his friend. “Is this all right with you?”

“My pleasure to be responsible for his death,” the big man replied. “I’ll ensure the body is disposed of carefully too.”

“What about the executioner?” Valentyna asked. “He will know that it was Cailech I executed, not Jessom. And there were a few guards in the courtyard too.”

“Apparently they were all mercenaries, your majesty,” Crys offered, “not true Legionnaires, and I have a list here of their names, as Jessom—I mean, Wyl—ordered. We can easily track them down and either pay them to keep their silence, or use other means. Same for the executioner.”

“The executioner need not die. He is a good man,” Wyl said, remembering how Featherstone had asked him not to make Valentyna’s task any harder. “When you find him, bring him to me. I shall explain.” He offered no further explanation and no one pushed him for one.

“What reason do we hazard for Jessom’s betrayal of the King?” Crys asked.

Wyl tugged at his ear again. “I can say I had a discussion with Jessom the night before the wedding and shared with him my understanding that Celimus intended to lay the blame for so many deaths at the Chancellor’s feet. The King would have needed to explain to the nobles somehow, and that would be an ideal solution. And so they will assume that Jessom killed Celimus out of revenge. Let’s be honest, few of the nobles are going to grieve at the news of the King’s death.”

“They’ll probably have to grit their teeth to prevent themselves from cheering, if truth be known,” Aremys commented.

“Then we have the perfect opportunity at the wedding feast to explain our position,” Wyl continued. “We should be as honest as we can. Celimus is dead—we cannot escape this.”

“I shall throw Felrawthy’s support behind Valentyna as the new sovereign of Morgravia,” Crys Donal offered. “Hopefully others will follow the Donal lead.”

“That’s generous of you, Crys,” Valentyna said, “but I worry about Morgravia accepting me. Surely there is another family they would argue is more suitable?”

“They might,” Crys said, “but that family is my own; we are distantly related to the Crown. And I would not accept—believe me, it’s the last thing I wish for. I belong in the north and you, Valentyna, already have one crown on your head. In marrying Celimus, you accepted the second.”

“He’s right,” Wyl said. “And I think they will accept you if the right voices are behind you. We must speak with Lord Hartley too—he is a powerful voice and will probably be the most pleased among the lords to hear of Celimus’s death, as he only just escaped being killed himself. We can thank Jessom for that mercy.” Wyl turned to Crys. “You can’t be seen here. The nobles have been told that Cailech slaughtered your family, so it’s unthinkable you would even be in the same room as him. In fact, you should change into your formal wear, get your hair color back to normal, and join the nobles to hear what is said at the wedding feast.”

Crys nodded. “So I know nothing of this, right?”

“Correct,” Wyl said. “But we shall be revealing the fact of Celimus’s death at the banquet, so you can have your say then.”

Valentyna said aloud what they were all thinking. “I know this is all a lie, but Celimus and Jessom deserve no better.”

Aremys had one last question. “What about the Quickening?”

Wyl smiled and turned to Valentyna. “I believe the magic will be satisfied if I become sovereign of Morgravia through marriage, instead of through Celimus,” he said. “That is, if Queen Valentyna will have me?”

C
rys and Aremys had left them, and Wyl and Valentyna were finally alone. Wyl took Valentyna’s hand, ready to pour out all that was in his heart, when there came a knock at the door. He smiled sadly and nodded at her to answer it. “We have a lifetime ahead of us, my love,” he said, kissing her fingers.

The Queen took a moment to compose herself, then called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Renton, your majesty.”

My page,
Valentyna mouthed to Wyl. She went to the door
and opened it a crack, to hide the interior of the chamber from curious eyes. “Yes?” she said.

“The nobles are gathered in the banquet hall, your highness. They await their king and queen.”

A
TALL MAN CLUTCHING A CHILD WALKED INTO A SUNLIT CLEARING
,
EMERGING FROM THE TANGLED MASS OF THE CURIOSITY KNOWN AS THE
T
HICKET
.
he was followed by a magnificent black horse.

Gueryn looked at the boy in his arms, pale and lifeless, and wanted to cry. To him, the death of young Fynch was the embodiment of all of his sorrows. The passing of the courageous child echoed the bravery of so many who had died since that terrible day the witch Myrren had died, bequeathing Wyl Thirsk a strange and painful gift. Gueryn had no idea what he was doing in this strange place that reeked of magic, but he had been drawn here, with Fynch and Galapek, as if he no longer controlled the direction in which he moved. What must he do next?

His wonderings were answered, somewhat disturbingly, by an oversized owl, who pierced him with a grave yellow gaze and said into his mind,
Put him on the ground, please. The Thicket wishes to feel him.

Gueryn obeyed. He had seen so much—felt so much—
that was strange, not even a huge talking bird could shock him now.

We of the Thicket are pleased to see you are restored, Gueryn le Gant.

Gueryn bowed to the bird. “It was Knave, I believe, who saved my life.”

He is here. You can thank him yourself,
Rasmus said, turning his head toward a massive black dog who was bounding out from the shadow of the yews.

“Knave!” Gueryn called, kneeling to greet the dog. “I owe you my life,” he whispered to his savior, hugging him close.

The dog barked and then, as he looked at the child on the ground, whined sadly, sniffing every inch of the boy’s body.

“Can you help Lothryn?” Gueryn asked, the plea evident in his voice.

A great evil has been wrought upon this beast
, Rasmus replied.
I cannot undo it.

Gueryn laid his hand on Galapek’s strong neck. Had this journey been for nothing, then? As he mourned the tragic fate of the Mountain Man, the sun-drenched patch where they stood was suddenly darkened by a great shadow. Gueryn looked up and was astounded to see a huge figure descending upon them.

The King comes,
Rasmus said reverently.

Now Gueryn could make out the shape looming above them. “A dragon?” he whispered, overcome by awe.

The massive creature landed, shaking the ground. Its scales shimmered with dark, seemingly ever-changing colors.

Gueryn was on his knees in veneration in a second. He lifted his head a fraction and dared to stare, goggle-eyed, at the fantastic creature before him.

Welcome, Gueryn le Gant,
it said.
We owe you our thanks for returning Faith Fynch to us.

“Can you help him, sire?” Gueryn pleaded.

Not in the way you would like,
the dragon’s deep voice answered gently.
But although Fynch’s life among your kind is over, he will live on in a new form.

The dragon turned its attention to the trembling horse.
Come to me, poor Galapek.

The stallion moved to stand before the King of the Creatures and effected a gracious bow of sorts. Gueryn instinctively stepped back from the horse and the dragon as he sensed the thrum of a powerful magic gathering. The clearing exploded into a dazzling golden light, which burned for several moments. It blazed like a huge fire; he could feel its warmth and hear its crackle as it flamed around them, then suddenly disappeared. The rays of sunlight seemed dull by comparison.

Standing where Galapek had been was a huge man. His body was shaking and his head was thrown back, mouth open in silent prayer.

“Lothryn!” Gueryn called, tears flowing freely down his face and into his straggly beard. He ran toward the Mountain Man and grabbed him just as he toppled, taking them both heavily to the ground.

Let him recover for a few moments,
the dragon advised.
He is weak now and will remain so for some time.

Gueryn nodded. “When I was bringing Fynch here, I thought I heard the boy call Wyl’s name. It was the only word he uttered. Did I imagine it?”

Fynch did not die at Rashlyn’s hands, as you suspected. He died because he chose to relinquish his spirit and his power.

“What do you mean, your majesty?” Gueryn asked.

Fynch was a sacrifice,
the Dragon King said, and Gueryn heard genuine sorrow in the creature’s tone.
We demanded so much and he accepted all that we asked of him, giving his life freely. His one request was that he use his power to aid your Wyl Thirsk. Rashlyn did not kill the boy. Fynch was far stronger than even we had anticipated.

“But I thought—”

You heard true; Fynch did call Thirsk’s name. He needed to send himself a long way to reach Wyl, and he was so weakened by the fight with Rashlyn that he had to make a decision. He could not maintain life in his body and also send himself to Wyl.

“He chose Wyl?” Gueryn was shocked. He had assumed that Wyl was dead, but perhaps not all hope was lost.

Fynch made the ultimate sacrifice for his friend. He gave his life.

Gueryn bowed his head. He grieved for the child but badly wanted to know that Wyl lived. “And Wyl Thirsk?” he asked, frightened to hear the reply.

Wyl Thirsk lives, le Gant, as the Mountain King. And Celimus is dead.

Gueryn’s mouth dropped open in shock, but no words came. Finally: “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. He could tell that the dragon, along with the strange creatures he now noticed gathering around the fringe of the clearing, was hurting at the loss of Fynch. Even the Thicket itself seemed to be pulsating with a sense of sorrow.

We shall provide horses to take you and Lothryn from here,
was all the dragon replied.

Lothryn spoke as a man for the first time in a long time. It hurt, just as it hurt to breathe, even to think. “Elspyth?” was all he could manage. The dragon turned to regard him with huge black eyes.
She clings to life, Mountain Man. Go to Argorn in Morgravia, and hurry.

Both men paid homage once again to the King of the Creatures. But there was still one thing left to ask.

Gueryn cleared his throat and looked at the tiny bundle on the ground beside him. “The boy? Should I take him back to his family or…”

We are Fynch’s family now,
the dragon replied gently.
He is one with me and my flesh.

“I don’t understand, sire,” Gueryn said, helping Lothryn to his feet.

Fynch was no ordinary gong boy. He was sired by Magnus, King of Morgravia.

Gueryn paled. “Did Magnus know?” he asked, astonished he could sound so composed.

No.

“What are you telling us, your majesty?”

That Fynch is the true Dragon King. As you know, the Kings of
Morgravia have always been bonded exclusively to the dragon. No one else but they are permitted to claim union with me.

Gueryn shook his head with wonder. “Do you mean, your majesty, that Fynch was a prince of Morgravia?”

Now Celimus is dead, he becomes a king.

“There must be something you can do, great one,” Gueryn said, looking around wildly. “Surely Fynch can be saved?”

There is something I can do, Gueryn,
the dragon said patiently.
Watch.
The two men looked on incredulously as the creature of legend tenderly lifted the tiny boy in its huge claws. A blaze of golden light surrounded Fynch the instant the dragon touched him, and the gold in turn was fringed by a riot of dark iridescent colors that echoed the creature’s ever-changing hues.

We are one—dragon and King united.
The dragon’s voice boomed deep in their minds as he wrapped his vast wings about the tiny body, cocooning it. Then he threw back his head and roared in triumph. As he did so, his scales turned to gold, dazzling and sparkling in the drench of sunlight. He opened his wings to their full breadth and both men inhaled sharply. Fynch’s body was gone.

And then a new voice spoke to them.
Thank you, Gueryn, Lothryn. Courageous Knave. I shall never forget you.
It was Fynch.

Knave leapt up and let loose with a howl that even the men could tell was one of victory. They clung to each other, tears and laughter mingling as they shared in the creatures’ triumph that Fynch lived on.

Farewell
, Fynch called.
This will be our secret. I trust you will honor it.

The dragon beat its powerful wings and the resulting wind drove the two men backward. They held on to each other as the great beast lifted effortlessly into the sky, disappearing toward the east, into the Wild.

Rasmus broke the awed silence.
It is time for you to leave us,
he said, looking to where two horses emerged from the yews.
They are yours now.

Gueryn nodded, still tongue-tied from all the emotions surging through him: sorrow and joy, elation and awe.

Elspyth is in Argorn, as you have been told, Lothryn,
Rasmus continued matter-of-factly.
Wyl is in Stoneheart, Gueryn. We shall not meet again, although Knave has agreed to accompany you. Brace yourselves, the Thicket is sending you…

They arrived moments later beneath the cover of a small stand of trees. The air was sweet-smelling and Gueryn instantly recognized their surroundings as the region of Argorn. He knew precisely where they were: in a small copse barely an eighth of a mile from the Thirsk family estate.

He looked at his companion. “How do you feel?”

“I’m not sure. Weak enough to lie down here and never get up again, yet so energized by the thought that Elspyth is close that I could run all the way to her.”

“Then do that, my friend. And when you reach her, hold her tight and never let go. Bring her to Stoneheart as soon as she is well. She may be in a position to bear witness to some events, and I’m sure you will have things to work out for your people in the Razors.”

Lothryn smiled. It felt strange to be happy, to know pleasure again. “Thank you, Gueryn. May our realms never be enemies again.”

“Between you and Wyl, I’m sure you’ll see to it.”

“I shall raise Aydrech as a proud ally.”

“Hurry to the capital,” Gueryn reminded him. “I’ll let Wyl know you are coming.”

The two men embraced and then parted to follow separate paths. The Mountain Man rode toward the grand manor, where an ailing woman waited for him. The Morgravian, with a huge black dog coursing beside him, galloped off toward Pearlis.