Bridge of Souls (9 page)

The Mountain Man reacted as if burned. He stood up, pushing his chair away, eyes blazing with sudden hatred. “Fuck you, Aremys.”

Aremys kept silent and did not so much as flinch when Myrt threw his cup and its contents into a corner and then kicked at his chair, smashing one of its legs. The big man turned to glare at the Grenadyne, daring him to make a move so he could punch him as well. But Aremys remained calm.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “I want to find him for you.”

Despite the warning, he was prepared for a fight: a black eye perhaps, maybe broken fingers. So he was ill-prepared for tears, and when they came he hated himself for shattering the barriers that had kept Myrt strong. He sat there a moment bewildered, then did the only thing one person can do for another who is hurting: He put his arms around the Mountain Man’s big shoulders and held him.

Eventually he spoke. “He’s alive, Myrt, I know it. From all that you’ve told me, I don’t believe Cailech would have killed him. That’s why his reply to you was so cryptic. Lothryn lives and our only clue is Galapek. Help me and we’ll find him together.”

The tears were brief, dried away almost as soon as they had dared to arrive. They were replaced by wrath. “I can’t!” the man roared.

“You can. We’re all he’s got. If you love Lothryn—as I know you do—then fight for him. Let’s at least find out if he’s alive and what state he’s in.”

Myrt stomped around his small cottage, a new battle raging within him now. Aremys had noticed that the dwelling showed a woman’s touch—a jar of fresh hill flowers on the humble sideboard, dishes neatly stacked, floors swept, and surfaces dusted. It was as neat as a pin. He wondered where the sister was and asked Myrt.

“Due back shortly,” the Mountain Man answered, dis
tracted. “Listen to me, Aremys. I’ll help you because of Lothryn, not because I’m threatened by what you’ve learned about me. If you ever repeat what has occurred here or been mentioned between us, I’ll kill you. I might be in love with a man, but it doesn’t stop me being capable of killing one. I want you to understand that.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Whether you prefer men or women is of no consequence to me. I’ve trusted you with my life—I shall go on doing so. I’m only sorry that you have to be so unhappy.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve lived with it all my life,” the Mountain Man said gruffly. “More to the point, what can we do? We leave in a few hours and I don’t think Cailech plans for you to return here.” Myrt’s anger had dissipated, to be replaced with despondency.

“Well, that does change things. It might be that you must track Lothryn down without me.” Aremys looked toward the ceiling, racking his brain for the best step. “Can you take me to see the horse again? I think it was trying to communicate something to me on our ride.”

“You’re jesting, aren’t you?” When Aremys returned his gaze evenly, Myrt scoffed. “You expect me to believe the horse tried to tell you something?”

“Weren’t you listening when I told you about the Thicket’s magic? No, I’m not saying it talked, exactly,” he lied, “but I felt something, and if there is more to learn, this is my last chance. I also want to see le Gant.”

“No.”

“Yes! He is not loyal to Celimus. He’s like Koreldy and all the others that bastard has coerced and tricked, double-crossed and had killed. What do you think a soldier of that caliber was doing blundering about in the Razors anyway? Did you really think he wanted to be here with a gang of farmers who wouldn’t know a sword from a threshing fork?” Myrt bit his lip. “Come on, man. This was set up by the Morgravian King. He wanted Cailech to kill Gueryn, but I have to see him to find out why.”

“Because it might help in your mission?”

“Of course, why else would I want to see him?” Aremys lied again, and hated himself for deceiving this good man. “Keep the secret of Koreldy, I beg you—just a little longer. The King will learn of his death anyway once he enters Morgravia, or if you insist, I’ll tell him myself.”

“I do insist,” Myrt said, staring hard at Aremys.

“All right. Just keep it quiet for now until I can learn some more.”

Myrt nodded. “Where to now?”

“The dungeon,” Aremys replied grimly. “Then Galapek.”

G
UERYN FELT FORGOTTEN
. I
T HAD BEEN DAYS SINCE
M
YRT AND HIS FRIEND HAD WALKED WITH HIM AND HE HAD BEGUN TO THINK HE WOULD
never smell sweet air again. Food and fresh water were being delivered daily, however, so he knew he had not dropped entirely from the Moutain People’s consciousness. The jailer, Haz, offered no news or even conversation and Gueryn had given up trying to elicit any. In truth it was his own fault. Haz had made the effort to talk in the early days, but Gueryn’s refusal to eat had brought the King’s wrath down on his head. Now he ignored the prisoner, taking care of only the bare necessities.

Rashlyn had looked in on him twice since Gueryn had been returned to the dungeon, and was satisfied that his health was
being maintained. The Morgravian had greeted the soft-spoken healer with only an icy silence on each occasion.

Having decided that he was fighting a losing battle in trying to kill himself, and realizing that he could do more good by regaining his health and learning as much as he could about the Razor King and his intentions, Gueryn had tried to keep himself fit. Once he felt strong enough, he had begun doing push-ups; now he was up to three hundred daily. As a result, his upper body was muscled again. And he walked. His cell was relatively narrow but quite long and he had used this length to pace relentlessly up and down. He lost count of the times he met each wall at either end because he had given up keeping track after a thousand. And with his physical health restored, he had begun to speculate on his situation.

The hated Rashlyn knew something about Lothryn, that much was clear. And he was smug about it. This suggested to Gueryn that perhaps the brave Mountain Man might not have perished as they had all assumed. Gueryn also knew the King was keeping him alive so that Koreldy would return to save him, but he had no idea why Cailech should believe there was any attachment between them. Gueryn had never met Koreldy until that time in the fortress. The odd thing was that until Gueryn’s sewn-up eyes had been released of their stitching, he had believed Koreldy to be Wyl Thirsk! He had gone over it time and again in his mind, realizing that he had just wanted to believe it was Wyl. Nevertheless, something deep down told him there was more to the puzzle than what his eyes had confirmed. Even when he saw the unfamiliar face, he had still believed Wyl was somehow present. And how could Koreldy know the family battle cry? Or speak to him in the way Wyl would? Nothing added up, and the King’s belief that Koreldy would return to rescue him further muddied the waters of his thoughts.

Gueryn was sitting in the corner of his cell, once again remembering Elspyth’s death, for which he could never forgive himself, when he heard the key turning in the lock.

“You’re early, Haz,” he mumbled. He had no real knowl
edge of time, but his body and its regular functions gave him reasonable clues. And his body was not yet hungry.

A huge man stepped into the cell, a man he had never seen before. “Gueryn le Gant?”

Gueryn nodded, searching for a pithy rejoinder—any attack on his keepers felt good. “Who else did you expect?”

The man grinned, which confused him, and turned to nod to another person outside. Gueryn was sure he heard Myrt’s voice saying that he would keep watch.

“What’s going on?” he asked, alarm bells suddenly klaxoning in his mind.

“I have very little time, so you must listen as I explain something quickly. And you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Why would I trust you?”

“I’m a Grenadyne, not one of the Razor People. And there’s a single word I can say that I believe will make you trust me.”

“Oh yes? What’s that, Grenadyne?”

“Thirsk,” Aremys replied abruptly. “Now hear me out. No interruptions. I am friend, not foe.”

The name Thirsk was like a slap in the face. The big man had Gueryn’s full attention.

“My name is Aremys Farrow. I am a mercenary and was employed by your king to hunt down and kill Ylena Thirsk.”

“What?” roared Gueryn, pushing himself to his feet.

“I said, don’t interrupt, soldier,” Aremys warned. “I found Ylena, but instead of killing her, I took her to safety into the north of Briavel, where we parted company. I hope she has made it south to Queen Valentyna. I won’t go into how I got to be here, but rest assured, although I might look like a free man, I’m as much a captive as you are. Cailech plans to use me to negotiate a parley with King Celimus. If I’m successful I might win my freedom, in which case I’ll go looking for Ylena again and offer my protection. There is another woman—someone you know—who holds strong affection for a man called Lothryn. I understand that Lothryn betrayed the Mountain People in helping you, Koreldy, and this woman, Elspyth, to escape. Now that I’ve found you, as I promised Ylena
I would,” Aremys lied, “I’m determined to find Lothryn as well. My instincts tell me the King has kept him alive in order to make the punishment—whatever it is—of aiding your attempted escape the sweeter. You should know that Koreldy is dead.” Gueryn closed his eyes as he heard this. “And that somehow I am going to get you out of here.”

Aremys stopped. It was obvious he was sharing too much information; the prisoner looked too shocked to respond.

Then the Morgravian began to laugh. It was not the reaction Aremys had expected, and he gritted his teeth in annoyance. “A word of thanks might be more appropriate,” he suggested.

“Thank you for coming, Grenadyne. Thank you for what you’re trying to do, but I’m as good as dead, man. If Koreldy is no longer alive, that’s my death warrant,” Gueryn said, painful resignation in his tired voice.

“No one knows about Koreldy but myself and Myrt,” Aremys assured.

“Myrt is a good man, but he is a loyal Mountain warrior. The King will already know.”

“The King does not know. He doesn’t even know we’re here now. Myrt is outside keeping watch. He is protecting you.”

“Why?” Gueryn demanded.

“It doesn’t matter why.”

“It matters to me. It doesn’t make sense. Myrt has no reason to betray his king.”

“Let’s just say I have something on him that encourages him to help me.”

Gueryn shrugged, suddenly tired. “Fine. Really, there’s no reason for me to care. Everyone I have ever cared about is dead except Ylena, and it sounds to me like Celimus will kill her too.”

“No chance.”

“If you’ve met Ylena, as you claim you have, then you’ll know she is a pretty, indulged, and fragile creature. She will not outwit Celimus—not without her brother’s protection or mine.”

“She has the protection of a queen…and mine.”

“Oh, that’s right, the protection of a new, inexperienced queen—by now under siege from King Celimus, I imagine—and a Grenadyne mercenary who is a captive of King Cailech. Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”

“I don’t know why I bothered,” Aremys muttered, stung by le Gant’s ungracious manner.

“Neither do I. Save yourself if you can. I watched Cailech kill Elspyth with his own hands and enjoy it. He will do the same to me, and to you if he so chooses.”

Aremys frowned. “Elspyth isn’t dead.”

“Yes, she is, mercenary. I’m sorry to upset you further. See this on my boots? That is her blood. Her life became forfeit when I refused to capitulate to Cailech’s interrogation. I might as well have stuck the knife in her myself,” he finished bitterly.

Aremys moved for the first time since entering the cell. He crouched by Gueryn and dared even to place his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. Hardly daring to breathe, he asked, “When did this happen?”

Gueryn shook his head. “I’ve lost track of time here. It was weeks ago, I’m sure.”

“Gueryn, look at me. I saw Elspyth so few days ago I could count them on both hands and probably have a finger to spare. She, Ylena, and I were all together in Felrawthy.”

“You lie! Why are you lying to me, you bastard?”

It was Aremys’s turn to shake his head, but with compassion. “I’m not. We drank tea together, for Shar’s sake! Elspyth is alive and determined to return here to discover Lothryn’s fate. She was on her way to Briavel the last time I saw her. She’ll be there right now, I’d wager.”

A barrage of emotions raged openly across Gueryn’s face as he considered what he was hearing. Aremys watched him take a deep breath. “Farrow, I watched Elspyth of Yentro die horribly. Now, one of us has been taken for a sap. I know your time is short, but I want you to tell me everything you know.”

So Aremys did, as quickly as he could, while leaving out everything relating to Wyl’s magical metamorphosis. The gruff
old soldier would never trust him if he began to talk that sort of nonsense.

When Aremys had finished his story, Gueryn struggled to his feet and began to pace, deeply shocked by what he had heard. “The Duke of Felrawthy is dead?” he said, so disbelieving that he repeated it. “Dead? Jeryb?”

Aremys nodded. “I only discovered this piece of savagery myself a day ago from Myrt, when the news filtered into the Razors. It seems Celimus is making Cailech’s people the scapegoats, but it was his men, his killing rampage—I presume punishment for the family’s harboring Ylena. And no doubt it quashed any thoughts of an uprising from the northern duchy.”

It did make horrible sense. “All of them?” Gueryn asked.

“So I’m told. Crys was seeing Elspyth to the border, so I’m not sure about him, but the Mountain People said the whole family perished.”

“This is monstrous. That poor girl. Her husband, Alyd…” Gueryn closed his eyes in despair, then his courage rallied and he opened them again. This time they were flinty. “And you’re now going to negotiate a parley between these two Kings?”

“To buy my freedom, yes. What about Elspyth? Do you believe me?”

“How can I disbelieve what I saw with my own eyes?”

“Because I’m guessing Rashlyn was involved, wasn’t he?”

“He was, in fact.”

“You do know he’s a man of dark magic?”

“I’ve been on the receiving end of it,” Gueryn replied bitterly, remembering the hideous sensation of being suspended in midair.

“Isn’t that enough evidence?”

The Morgravian turned on the big Grenadyne, eyed him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Gueryn, he fooled you. Whether it was Cailech’s idea—or, most likely, Rashlyn’s—they duped you into thinking you were watching Elspyth die.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Gueryn roared. “It was her, I tell you.”

Aremys bit his lip in thought. He had not realized just how powerful Rashlyn was. “Yes, to all intents and purposes it was Elspyth. Have you ever heard of a glamour?”

“No. What is it—some kind of magic?”

“Yes, and I’m guessing that’s what Rashlyn used against you. We northerners are more accepting of magic than you folks in the south and growing up we tend to hear about spells and sorcery of days gone by. My grandfather once told me about a powerful enchantment that can make one person look like someone else—a glamour. Only the most gifted can wield such power.”

Gueryn wondered how many more shocks his heart could take in one day. He stared at Aremys in a stunned silence.

“Elspyth was alive and well when I left her,” the mercenary went on. “I hugged her goodbye. I bet you didn’t touch her.”

Gueryn shook his head numbly. “I could only watch her die.”

“It was another woman, le Gant. They took some poor woman and placed a glamour on her. You said they were trying to get information from you. What was so important that they would murder a woman in front of you?”

“Cailech wanted to know about my connection to Koreldy. I have none, but it appears Koreldy had some connection to me.” Gueryn barked a harsh laugh. “They stitched together my eyelids as part of my torture and I was blind when I met Koreldy. But do you know something, Farrow, I thought he was Wyl Thirsk.” Gueryn began to weep, all his pent-up emotion spilling over. “I failed the boy. I failed the Thirsks.”

“No, you didn’t,” Aremys countered helplessly, feeling the depth of Gueryn’s emotion. “There’s so much I’d like to tell you, but there’s no time,” he whispered. “Look, I have to go. You’re safest here until I can work out how we’re going to rescue you. You must hang on. Give nothing away of what we’ve shared.”

He reached out and grabbed the man’s hand, putting it against his own heart in the way of the Morgravian Legion. It was the highest form of commitment one soldier could make to another.

Gueryn was astounded by the action. There were only two men he had ever given such a signal to. Both were named Thirsk; father and son. Both were now dead.

“Wait!” he said, suddenly remembering. “Lothryn—you think he’s alive?”

“I do.”

“That horse has something to do with it, the horse called Galapek,” Gueryn murmured, almost to himself, disgusted that he had not yet worked out an answer.

“What?” Aremys whispered, almost raising Gueryn’s feet from the floor as he lifted him to standing.

Gueryn shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just have a feeling that the horse Galapek, Cailech’s new stallion, has something to do with Lothryn.”

“Why? What exactly do you know?” Aremys asked urgently.

Gueryn frowned. He had no idea why the Grenadyne was so excited. “Rashlyn knows the truth of what’s happened to Lothryn. I overheard him jesting smugly to Myrt and Byl that Lothryn was closer than they knew. And he went on to make some joke about the meaning of the word ‘Galapek.’”

Aremys looked blank. “I don’t know the word. Sounds like the old language,” he mused.

“It is. And I do know it. ‘Galapek’ means ‘traitor.’ Cailech has named his new stallion Traitor, which, in my opinion, is just about the worst name you could give a horse.”

Aremys looked stunned. Then he spun on his heels and called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back, le Gant. Say nothing of this!”

The huge man all but ran from the cell, slamming the door behind him. Gueryn heard the lock turn. He had nothing but his sorrowful thoughts for company now.

W
ell?” Myrt asked, startled by Aremys’s rapid exit from the cell.