Bridge of Souls (7 page)

She thought about Ylena Thirsk and the terrible things the young woman had experienced. Crys had explained to Valentyna what Ylena had been through just to get herself to Felrawthy. It had made the Queen shudder to imagine how Wyl’s sister had coped with yet more terror after what she had already suffered at Stoneheart. Ylena was younger than she and had shown such courage. She would have to find similar courage now and face her destiny. Her father had fought to keep Briavel safe. She must do the same, just in a different manner. She would buy its peace with her body. Give it over to that hateful man, let him parade it before his minions and use her for his pleasures. But he would not have her love—ever. That belonged to one alone, and he was now dead. In giving her body to Celimus, however, she might still attain something untainted, something good. They might produce a child. And into that child she would pour all of her love, everything she denied Celimus and had hoped to give to Romen Koreldy. She would raise a proud sovereign to take the joint throne of Morgravia and Briavel one day.

Valentyna sighed as the soft breeze tousled her already messy hair. “Give me a sign, Shar,” she said to the gentle wind,
hoping it would carry her plea to the god. “Show me that marrying Celimus is the right decision.”

She felt like weeping at her pathetic words. Instead she wiped away the single tear that had fallen, rubbed at her other eye just in case, and willed herself to be strong. She would live up to the woman her father believed she had become. She strode back toward the soldiers. They had already spotted her movement and busied themselves with preparing the horses to ride again.

Squinting into the sun, Valentyna did not see the bird at first. It was its gentle song that attracted her attention and she looked around for the music maker. It was perched on a low branch of the great elm she was about to walk beneath. She recognized its family immediately; King Valor had been a keen bird spotter and had gone to some pains to school his only child into recognizing various species. This bird was a beautiful little chaffinch and its pretty music made her smile. She whistled back at it as she passed by, and heard it continue to sing as she departed the copse.

It was only as Valentyna guided her horse onto Werryl Bridge some half hour later that she realized she had been humming a tune to herself on the journey back. The birdsong had reminded her of a traditional Briavellian ballad: “Wait for Me, My Love.” Valentyna had always loved its melody and its lyrics were beautiful; in fact, her fondness for the song was well known throughout the kingdom and the court minstrel had serenaded her with it on her nineteenth nameday. She began to sing it now privately in her mind and the words stayed with her as she ascended into the palace proper.

Ranald, a stableboy, bowed and reached for the Queen’s reins.

“Thank you, Ranald,” Valentyna said, and found a smile for the eager boy.

“Your highness.” He beamed, unable to mask his pleasure at serving the Queen so directly.

“It was a lovely ride,” she said to him, enjoying his enthusiasm, wishing she could be a child again, without a care in the world.

“I’m glad, your highness. Bonny’s a beautiful girl. My favorite,” he chirped, ignoring the scowl from the stablemaster, who had come out to watch his young charge receive the horses correctly and no doubt thought him far too chatty.

“Mine too,” Valentyna said, winking at Ranald. As she turned away from the boy the refrain of the ballad filled her mind again—and its resonance struck her.

Valentyna froze in the courtyard as the words played over in her mind. Men walked around her and horses neighed. Dogs growled over a bone and busy servants crisscrossed the yard on various errands, calling to one another. Among the activity, their queen stood still and silent, deep in her own thoughts. What had sounded so poignant and charming when sung on her nameday now sounded like a message from the dead. A warning.

“Romen!” she whispered fearfully, her breath catching in her throat.

“Your majesty, are you unwell?” she heard someone inquire.

“I’m fine,” she stammered, coming back to the present and almost running from the courtyard. She flew into the palace and up the beautiful staircase, and up the next flight and the next. Servants watched, perplexed, as their sovereign ignored their salutations and curtsies, rushing past them toward her study on the topmost level, her boots clicking loudly on the flagstones. Finally she came to her father’s former chamber and slammed the door behind her.

Leaning against its solid wood panels, she held her head as her breath came in great sad wrenchings.
Wait for me, my love.
Was this Shar’s sign? Was this a message? What had prompted the song and its lyrics to come into her head? The bird! A chaffinch! Was this a warning from Fynch? Was he
asking her to wait? For whom? Romen was dead! Cold, lifeless, bloodless…gone.

She realized she was sobbing and felt ashamed of herself for losing control. What was happening to her? Storming out of meetings, crying violently, listening to birds, believing in magic. She was going mad.

But she had asked for a sign. Perhaps this was it. She could be imagining it, of course, clutching at anything to save herself from Celimus, but it felt so right to believe it.

“But who am I waiting for?” she asked the quiet of her room.

She was startled by a knock at the door. “A moment, please,” she called, instantly embarrassed at being found in such a discomposed state. She quickly splashed water over her face from a basin in a tiny closet and dried herself with a linen cloth, then smoothed back her hair as best she could.

She touched her fingers to her father’s desk and drew strength from the solid wood, then took a steadying breath. Her mind was racing in all directions, but she had duties to perform. She needed to be steadfast. Briavel still looked to her for leadership, even as it collectively cast her to the wolves—or wolf, she thought bitterly.

Valentyna cleared her throat. “Come.”

One of the older pages opened the door and bowed. “Your majesty, forgive my disturbance.”

“That’s all right, Justen. Who has sent you?”

“Commander Liryk, your majesty. He asked me to find you the moment you returned from your ride. He says it is urgent.”

“Oh? A problem?”

“A visitor, your majesty.”

Valentyna frowned. “Another one? Can’t Liryk handle it?” she said irritably.

The page blinked, uncomfortable, and she felt immediately contrite. “Did Commander Liryk give you the name of this visitor, Justen?” she asked, more gently now.

“Yes, your majesty. It is a woman by the name of Ylena Thirsk.”

M
AEGRYN MET THE RIDERS AND WAS ALARMED TO SEE THE STATE
R
ASHLYN WAS IN
.

“H
E
’
LL BE ALL RIGHT
,” A
REMYS ASSURED THE
anxious stablemaster as he handed him the reins of Galapek and Rashlyn’s horse.

“I couldn’t care less about him,” Maegryn said, and the vehemence in his voice surprised Aremys. “But the King will be alarmed and that makes us all uneasy. Did you have any problems with the horses?”

“Galapek got himself a little rattled over something, but he calmed quickly. Just skittish,” Aremys answered, skirting the truth. The fewer lies he told the better. “He’s more incredible to ride than I could have imagined. Thank you, Maegryn.”

The man could not help himself; he smiled widely at the praise. “Yes, he’s a beauty, this one. A real find.”

“Where did he come from?” Aremys put the question casually.

“The barshi gave him as a present to the King. Had the horse sent in secretly from somewhere, apparently. He won’t tell anyone from where.”

“That’s a little odd, isn’t it? You’d think that if there were more like this one, the King would be keen to know.”

Maegryn shrugged. “We’re not allowed to ask too much about Galapek, sir.” He looked embarrassed. “I’ll be off, then, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed the ride.”

Aremys knew there would be little further information to be won from Maegryn today. “Thank you. I hope you won’t mind if I look in on him again?”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, sir. You’re one of the very few he permits near him. I think he’s taken a shine to you.” The stablemaster smiled.

Aremys stroked Galapek’s twitching withers as the horse was led away. He was hoping for another sign from the animal but got nothing.

Myrt was barking orders for Rashlyn—who was lying on the ground still mumbling his strange nonsense—to be taken to his private quarters and attended by a physic. Then the Mountain Man turned to Aremys. “Come on,” he said. “The worst is still before us.”

Aremys sighed, needing no confirmation. Cailech.

T
hey tracked the King down to his wine cellar, catacomb-like chambers dug into the ground beneath a separate stone building. Descending the flagged stairs into the musty darkness, Aremys smelled earth and spice; mixed with the aroma of yeast and the oak of the barrels, it was a comforting blend. It was cool down here but not cold; the temperature would remain much the same year round, he guessed, and the vaulted ceilings combined with the peace and stillness to give the cellar a chapellike quality.

“We’re sorry to interrupt you, your majesty,” Myrt began.

The King turned from his discussion with the cellarmaster and grinned at the newcomers.
He’s in a good mood,
Aremys thought.
What a pity we’re about to ruin it.

“Farrow, you have to try this!” Cailech called over the barrels. “It’s to be our best vintage yet.” The King slapped his cellarmaster on the back in praise, then lifted the long-handled tasting cup to his lips and drained it. “Ah, nectar,” he said, delighted.

“Sire,” Myrt bowed. When he straightened, his expression in the diffused light of the beeswax candles was sufficiently somber to win Cailech’s attention. The King’s smile faded.

“You look like you’ve swallowed bad meat, Myrt. What’s wrong?”

“It’s the barshi, sire,” the warrior began. Cailech handed the tasting cup back to the cellarmaster, who stepped aside. “He’s unwell,” Myrt added.

“Oh?” Cailech looked toward Aremys. “Farrow, what’s this all about?”

Aremys was surprised to be brought into the conversation. He wanted to clear his throat but knew this might make him appear nervous, so he just began talking, sticking as closely to the truth as he could. “We were resting, my lord, after a ride around the lake.”

“We were at the Ring, sire,” Myrt interjected.

Cailech nodded. “Go on.” Again he looked to Aremys.

“I was drinking at the stream and Myrt and Rashlyn were leaning against the boulders. Rashlyn was eating, and was seemingly in good health. We had been discussing my headaches and he had just approached me at the water’s edge to hand me a small bottle of a concoction he said would ease my discomfort—when the horses distracted us.” Aremys had decided that the plain truth, rather than a version of it, was the only course with Cailech.

“It was Galapek, sire,” Myrt said. “Something startled him; we don’t know what. We couldn’t see anything near him.”

“And?” Cailech said, the hard green gaze impaling Aremys where he stood.

“Well, as I recall, I rushed over to help Myrt calm the stallion. It was over as quickly as it began—perhaps he was stung by a bee or something irritated him. When we turned back to Rashlyn, he was lying on the ground, seemingly having some sort of attack.”

“Attack?”

“Like a fit, sire,” Myrt qualified.

“He lost control of his body for a few moments,” Aremys said, “and then he became rigid. I checked immediately for a pulse—it was strong—but by then he was unconscious.”

The King’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking. “How long did this episode last?”

“It was over almost as soon as it began,” Myrt said. “We laid him on his horse and got him back here as fast as we could.” He dared not look at Aremys as he said this. Hurrying back to the fortress had been the last thing on their minds.

“And where is Rashlyn now?”

“He has regained his wits, sire, so I had him carried to his room and ordered that a physic attend him,” Myrt reported.

“You have no idea what this is about?” The King looked between the two men.

Myrt shrugged and shook his head. Aremys figured the King needed more than sheepish shrugs. “I thought it might have been the cheese sticking in this throat, but his passage was clear,” he fabricated. “And Myrt tells me the food was fresh, so we know he has not been poisoned. Does he suffer from fits, my lord?” he added innocently.

“It seems he does now,” Cailech growled, the breezy mood blown through and replaced with what felt like a gathering storm. “I shall go and see him. How was Galapek, Farrow?”

The King switched subjects and moods so adroitly that Aremys was sure he would never learn to prepare himself for it.

“Even more magnificent than I’d hoped, thank you, sire. A truly beautiful creature. I hope you will let me ride him again sometime.” He sensed, rather than saw, the glance Cailech and Myrt exchanged.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the King replied. “Myrt, you can accompany me to the barshi’s chambers. Farrow—”

“Sire?”

“I’ll see you later. You will be leaving in the early hours of tomorrow for Morgravia.”

B
ack in chamber with the familiar guard outside, Aremys sighed in frustration. He was not going to attempt an escape and felt sure Cailech knew this. But it seemed the King
was keen to remind him that he was a prisoner and under the control of the monarch; hence the armed guard.

“Not for long,” Aremys muttered under his breath as he flung his water flask into a corner. He would gladly leave for Morgravia in a few hours, and from there he would win his freedom. He liked the Mountain People. He did not even mind living here in the fortress among them, could almost see a pleasant life in the Razors stretching out before him, but he was beholden to no man, not even a king, and certainly not one who stopped just short of shackling him.

It irritated him that Cailech could be so friendly one moment and so domineering the next. Surely the King knew that Aremys would far rather give his help to him than Celimus? In truth, though, he could not blame Cailech entirely for remaining suspicious. One didn’t become—or remain—a king if one trusted everyone, especially strangers who appeared out of the blue with no tangible explanation for how they had arrived. Especially strangers who reacted strongly to the King’s own enchanted horse.

Aremys replayed the afternoon’s events in his mind. Rashlyn’s collapse had definitely coincided with the animal’s shriek, he was sure of it, which meant something had disturbed them both. There had been nothing in the vicinity to alarm them or it would have created a similar reaction in himself and Myrt. No, this was something else. More like a disturbance in the strange magic that riddled the horse. Could it be that the wild-looking healer was bound to the stallion in some way? What if Rashlyn himself had cast some sort of spell upon the horse? Why, though? Why would he interfere with the animal?

Because Cailech had asked him to?

But why would the King ask something like that? Aremys thought it unlikely that Cailech possessed the cruelty that would prompt the idea of hurting an animal the way Galapek had so obviously been injured.

But what if the idea had come from Rashlyn? “Because Rashlyn could and Cailech allowed him to,” Aremys said quietly into the silence of his chamber.

The notion took a firm place among his thoughts. He nodded. Yes, that made more sense. Aremys thought back to Wyl’s account of Cailech’s horrific actions during the feast, when he had presented the Morgravian prisoners as a dish to his people. Wyl had been sure Rashlyn had been behind that hideous episode, but that suggested the barshi was capable of persuading the King to do things not of his own volition. How could Cailech, usually so dominant, be so weak in the company of Rashlyn?

Aremys had no answer for that. He returned to his original puzzle. Something had disturbed the magic linking the barshi and the horse. It couldn’t have been the Thicket or he too would have felt the effects, but perhaps it had resonated through the Thicket, thereby explaining his more subtle reaction. Had Wyl done something to disturb the balance? Unlikely, or the Thicket would probably have protested more strongly.

Aremys put his head in his hands, frustrated by his swirling thoughts that took him nowhere.
Think!
he commanded himself. Could it have something to do with Elysius? Had Wyl made it through and met the manwitch? Was that it? “Possibly,” he muttered, but that did not help him get any closer to the riddle that was Galapek.

And then he remembered the most chilling moment of the whole sorry afternoon. How could he have forgotten it? The horse had somehow communicated a name to him: Elspyth. He began to pace now. It could be a coincidence, of course, but an unlikely one. The horse must have belonged to Lothryn, or somehow held the secret of what had happened to Lothryn.

Frustrated, Aremys punched the wall. If Cailech wanted to punish Lothryn, why hurt his horse? And how would a horse know about Elspyth, for Shar’s sake!?

You’re going mad, Farrow,
he told himself.
Now you’ve contrived a magical talking horse.

He decided to clean up and go in search of Myrt and more answers. Something else had begun to niggle at him and he wanted to find out if it had any basis in fact. Discovering he
was right might not advance his cause, but it might provide some leverage if and when required.

Aremys opened his chamber door and explained to the guard, a nice young fellow with an unfortunate harelip, that he needed to find Myrt. The guard nodded, a shy smile emerging on his deformed mouth, when Aremys said, “After you.” It was a joke they shared from the time when the guard, Jos, had first been assigned to Aremys; he had made the wry comment that if he proceeded first, the mercenary might bash him on the head and escape.

This, of course, had made Aremys laugh. “Look at you, lad,” he had replied, grinning. “I’d need an ax just to dent you. You’re built like an ox.” He could see that Jos had taken the remark as a rare compliment coming from the bear-sized man. They had never spoken at length, but Aremys had been sure to keep the words they did share lighthearted and friendly and Jos always responded, albeit cautiously. The guard was only just into manhood and still establishing a reserve of confidence to draw upon, a process probably made more difficult by taunts about his affliction, Aremys figured. When they walked shoulder to shoulder, as now, the mercenary was careful always to defer to his guard in the hope that the young man might take some self-assurance from it.

They found Myrt at the main stables. The Mountain Man nodded when he saw them. “Go get your meal, Jos. Leave him with me. I’m getting our stuff ready anyway. We leave soon.”

Aremys grinned at his young keeper. “Don’t forget what I said about that young lady,” he said, referring back to an earlier exchange. “You should tell her, for I sense from what you say that she doesn’t trouble herself over your mouth—it only matters how you use it,” and he winked.

Jos chuckled, a hand flying up to cover his crooked smile.

“What have you been filling that lad’s head with?” Myrt asked.

“Nothing that didn’t fill yours when you were his age, Myrt,” Aremys replied, helping him to lift a heavy crate into a cart. “Why aren’t you with a woman, Myrt?”

“Who says I’m not?” the man countered, somewhat sharply.

Aremys shrugged. “You haven’t mentioned a wife…”

Myrt reached for another crate. “I have no wife.”

“I see.”

“Oh? And what do you see?”

“Nothing, my friend. What’s wrong with you?”

The warrior flicked away what sounded like an apology. “Cailech’s furious about what happened. Kept asking me what you were doing when Rashlyn passed out.”

“Mmm, I thought he might. I told you he suspects me of knowing something.”

“He’s not so suspicious that he’s not pressing ahead with the journey. In fact he’s brought our departure forward—we leave at sundown. You, me, Byl, and two others.”

“So what’s all this stuff?”

“Gifts for the Morgravian King.”

“Ah, goodwill.”

Myrt grunted. “Help me load the rest of it.”

They worked quietly and quickly for the next few minutes.