Bridge of Souls (2 page)

It felt like an eternity to Fynch.

There was brightness, unbearably sharp, and combined with a hammering pain. He squeezed his lids tightly but the dazzling gold light hurt his eyes all the same as he helplessly relinquished control of his small body to the vast agony exploding through it. He believed he felt his body writhing uncontrollably, but in truth he was rigidly still, his teeth bared in a grimace as the force of magic gifted from Elysius radiated painfully into him.

At one point he thought he glimpsed the sorcerer passing through him to his death, like a distant memory he could not quite bring into focus. Elysius appeared whole again and he was smiling. Fynch vaguely sensed him offering thanks but was unable to lock on to it as the pain claimed all of his attention.

The sickening throb of power began to pulse through his body in time with his escalating heartbeat, each push harder, each more breathless in its intensity, until he lost all sense of himself. He no longer knew who he was or where he lay; he had to relinquish all to the excruciating pain until, finally, he glimpsed its end. The agony ebbed gradually but steadily until he realized he was bearing it. His pulse was fast but his heart no longer felt as though it might explode through his chest. The blinding light had dimmed to flashes of gold, as if he had been staring at the sun too long, and his breath was no longer panicked and shallow but came in deep, rhythmic drafts.

His wits returned. He had survived.

Trembling from the chill that now gripped him, Fynch opened his eyes to slits. He registered a new layer of pain and closed them again; this time it was a headache that prompted instant
nausea. He felt like crying. But where other youngsters might have had the comfort of a mother’s voice and love, there was no such consolation for Fynch. He was alone. Wyl had gone.

Fynch hated the way they had parted. He knew Wyl had wanted him to leave the Wild immediately and he had watched his friend battle his inclination to say as much. Ylena’s face was too expressive to mask what her brother was thinking. And yet Wyl had said nothing, had permitted Fynch to make his own decision and remain a little longer. Fynch felt a profound sadness for his friend who had suffered so much loss already and would suffer more yet, he sensed. He wished he knew of a way to spare Wyl more pain, or at least to share some of it with him.

He sighed. The nausea had passed. His eyes were still closed and he realized the pain had dimmed considerably. But the loneliness remained. There would not even be Elysius to offer solace. No. The boy suspected he was alone in the Wild, save for the four-legged beast who was his constant companion.

Full consciousness sifted through his shattered nerves and Fynch became aware of a pressing warmth at his side. Having sensed he was alert again, the source of warmth moved and growled.

“Knave,” Fynch croaked through a parched throat.

Never far,
a voice replied in his head. The unexpected sound made him flinch.

The boy turned toward the great black dog. “Did you speak to me?” he asked, tears welling. “Can I finally hear you?”

Depthless eyes regarded him and again he heard Knave’s reply in his mind.
I did. You can.

The friendly voice—one he had never thought to hear—was too overwhelming. Fynch managed to command his reluctant arms to obey him. Slowly, painfully, he wrapped them around the big animal’s neck and wept deeply and without shame.

Elysius?
Fynch asked after a long time, testing his newly acquired power.

The dog’s response was instant.
Dead. It was quick. And he was glad to go.

Where is his body?

Everywhere. He became dust. The massive transfer of power disintegrated his physical being and then dispersed him.

Did he say anything before…before he passed on?

That you are the bravest of souls. He agonized that he might be wrong to force this burden upon you,
the dog admitted.
He regretted the pain you would experience and the journey ahead, but he believed there is no one else who can walk the path but you.
The dog leaned closer and spoke very gently.
In this I know he is right.

Fynch pulled away from his friend, eyes still wet. There was so much yet to learn.
Knave, I don’t know how to use this power. I have no—

Hush,
the dog soothed.
That is why I am here.

The boy took the beast’s huge head between his tiny hands.
Who are you?

I am your guide. You must trust me.

I do.

The dog said no more, but Fynch sensed that he was glad, even relieved.

But there is something I must know,
he went on, his tone almost begging.

Ask it.
Knave’s mental voice was so deep that Fynch suspected that if the dog could speak aloud, he, Fynch, would feel the sound rumble through his own tiny chest.

Who is your true master? Where do you belong?

Fynch sensed Knave’s smile.
I have no master as such. But I do belong.

Where? Please tell me.

I am of the Thicket.

Ah. Fynch’s tensed muscles relaxed as understanding flooded through him. The neatness of the dog’s answer pleased him.
Are there others like you?

I am unique, although there are other enchantments within the Thicket.

So Elysius didn’t send you to Myrren?

Elysius did not know me by flesh until we both came here, although he knew of me. And Myrren was not the person I sought.

This was a revelation. Fynch pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to ease their soreness and clear his swirling thoughts.
Then why didn’t you just search out Wyl?

Because Wyl was not the one I sought either.

Fynch looked up sharply.
Who, then? Who must we now search for?

The search is over. It was always you, Fynch.

What?
The dog’s unerring gaze told Fynch Knave would never lie.
But why?

You are the Progeny and I am the Guide.

I thought I was the Wielder,
Fynch asked, confused.

That, and so much more
, Knave said reverently.
You are many things.

The Thicket sent you to find me?

The Thicket sent me to find the next Gate Wielder. It did not know that would be you.

But it must have known Elysius was dying in order to send you in search of his replacement?

Yes.

So your role has never been about Wyl or Myrren…or protecting Valentyna?
Fynch sent wonderingly.

Knave’s response was measured.
My task is to protect you. When the magic of the Quickening entered Wyl, the Thicket believed he was the next Wielder. Elysius wondered the same.

Are you saying that it was pure coincidence you came into Myrren’s life?
Fynch asked, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together.

Not exactly. She was Elysius’s daughter. Magic was part of her even though it was not strong in her. It was she whom the Thicket decided to keep a watch over. When Myrren made such connection with Wyl, we thought he might be the one. It was only when I met you that I realized it was you we searched for.

How can you tell?

There is an aura about you, Fynch. Unmistakable, and invisible to all but those of the Thicket.

Fynch sighed.
I was born with this aura?

Yes. Your destiny was set.

Elysius never mentioned it.

Elysius didn’t know. The Thicket told him who you are only as he died.

It talks!?

Communicates,
the dog corrected.

Fynch held his head and groaned. These revelations were causing fresh gusts of pain to surge through his already aching mind.
It hurts, Knave. Will it always be so?

You must control the pain. Don’t allow yourself to become its slave. Master it, Fynch.

Is this how it will kill me?

The dog held a difficult silence between them.

I would know the truth
, Fynch insisted.
If you are my friend—my Guide, as you say—then tell me honestly.

He sensed the dog’s discomfort as he began to explain.
This is the beginning. You must use your powers sparingly. Talk to me aloud whenever you can, although hearing my response in your mind will not sap your energies. The pain and other weakenings will only occur if you send the magic yourself.

How long have I got, Knave?

The dog raised his head to look Fynch directly in the eye.
I don’t know. It depends how strong you are, how sparingly you use this power.

If Knave expected despair it did not come. Fynch wiped his eyes and, using his companion as support, raised himself wearily on unsteady legs.
I must rest,
the little boy said gravely.

And then we must go to the Thicket,
Knave said, equally somber.
It awaits you.

T
HE VINEYARD SPRAWLED BEFORE THEM
,
THE LAND SUDDENLY SLOPING DOWN IN THE DISTANCE TO A SMALL SHINGLE BEACH AND THE
channel of sea. The tang of salt in the air was invigorating and the bright day with its cloudless sky and sharp light reminded Aremys of how much he had missed the north all these years. He inhaled the air now and smiled. It felt good to be alive, despite the new and sudden complexities in his life.

With his memory now blessedly returned, Aremys felt much better equipped to accept the King’s invitation to “walk the rows” of vines at Racklaryon. The mercenary learned that it was one of Cailech’s great pleasures to see his vineyard bursting with new life each spring, showing the spectacular results of the savage pruning his vignerons insisted upon.

King and mercenary looked out now across the neat rows and Aremys could almost taste the wine this field would produce at summer’s end. Bright green leaves, like the protective wings of a mother hen, shaded their yet-to-mature babies, bunches of fruit that hung like tiny green jewels, fattening and ripening daily as the plants sent out fresh tendrils to weave and curl their way along the special lines that supported the vines.
The Mountain People had pioneered this method of support. In the south, the vines were left to themselves, to grow tall at first, stooping over when heavy with fruit. It made for a ragged, untidy vineyard but, in truth, did not affect the quality of the wine. In the north, however, vine support lines had been developed to air the fruit, as some months were humid and damp. It also looked more spectacular.

Cailech’s people took pride in the ordered appearance of their vineyards. Not only were the rows straight but each vine was sung to as it was planted—a small prayer to Haldor that each new beginning might yield life of its own. At each row’s end, the Mountain People planted a flower called a trineal. It was beautiful but fragile, very susceptible to lack of water or other natural attacks. Cailech’s vignerons maintained that if the trineal foundered, they would have but a few weeks to find the solution to prevent the vines from following suit. It was an ancient tradition but one still faithfully adhered to. The bright rainbow colors of the trineal bushes were an attractive feature in this, Cailech’s favorite vineyard, and they stood proud, colorful, and healthy at the heads of the rows. It would be a bountiful harvest, the men murmured.

The King was rarely alone; today he was flanked by Myrt and Byl. Aremys had come to know these particular fellows well since his curious arrival in the Razors. He felt comfortable in their presence and over the past few days had started to view them as companions as much as captors. Nevertheless, he had chosen not to reveal that his memory was fully restored. It suited him that these Mountain Dwellers knew only as much as he was prepared to share, until he could learn more about their intentions for him.

The small company had ridden to the vineyard beyond the lake and Aremys was sorry to see that the King had not chosen to bring the intriguing black horse that had caused him such fright on their previous ride. He mentioned his disappointment to Cailech.

“Ah yes, Galapek,” the King replied softly, and Aremys felt the weight of the green gaze upon him. “I had the im
pression that he disturbed you somehow the last time we rode together.”

It was said without accusation but Aremys felt the scrutiny couched within. Wyl Thirsk’s warning burned in his mind: Only a fool took any comment by Cailech at face value.
Everything he says has a purpose,
Wyl had impressed upon Aremys during their journey together from Felrawthy.
He misses nothing.

The mercenary thought back to the moment of disturbance the King spoke of. It had occurred only a few days ago. Aremys had initially admired the King’s mount but, on casually touching the horse’s strong neck, had felt a blast of dark, tainted magic surge through his hands. It had been an intense shock for Aremys—not only that the creature was alive with magic, but also that he could sense it—and he had jerked back in distress. Worse, he had been unable to regain his composure and had been forced to excuse himself from the party of riders. The entire scene had been embarrassing to Aremys, but, more important, no doubt had also appeared suspicious to his keepers at a time when he was striving to convince them that he was not a Morgravian spy or a threat to any of the Mountain Dwellers.

The only positive outcome was that the shock seemed to have caused his amnesia to dissipate and he had been able to piece together what he was doing in the Razors. He remembered following Wyl Thirsk, who now walked in the guise of his sister, Ylena, courtesy of the powerful gift, the Quickening. Together they had entered the mysterious region in the far northeast known as the Thicket. Aremys recalled Wyl asking him to whistle so they would not lose each other among the tangle of this dense landmark. He had obliged, could even remember the tune he had chosen, but then all had gone black and he had woken, disoriented and without his memory, on the frozen rocks of the northern mountain range. Cailech’s men had discovered him there, and aided by his genuine confusion, he had managed to muddle his way through those early and dangerous stages. He felt convinced now that he had carefully
won not only the trust of the Mountain warriors but that of their king as well. Wyl had warned Aremys that the Mountain King was changeable, capricious even, and had recounted the terrible night of the feast when Cailech had threatened to roast alive the Morgravian prisoners his men had captured and feed them to his people. This was definitely not a man to second-guess and so Aremys had been as honest as he could with the Mountain King, even disclosing his identity when it finally returned to him.

He had not, however, told Cailech anything about his connection to Wyl Thirsk, the former General of Morgravia, or that Wyl was possessed by a magic that had already taken the lives of three people—one of them Romen Koreldy, in whom Cailech had shown a keen interest. Aremys vowed that if the Mountain Kingdom held its own secrets, he would learn them and at least be useful in some small way to Wyl, who had promised to return to the Razors someday in search of his friends Gueryn and Lothryn, both of whom had offered their lives to save his.

Nor had he been honest with Cailech about his arrival in the Razors. It had taken Aremys hours of musing to accept that the Thicket must have somehow repelled him. It was a difficult notion for him to get his mind around. Until recently he had neither particularly believed nor disbelieved in magic, but growing up in the far north, on the Isles of Grenadyn, meant he held a loose acceptance that such a power might exist and was not necessarily something to fear.

Loose acceptance and indisputable proof were entirely different matters, however, and now—since he’d met Wyl and shared the sorrow of his plight—the legend of the Thicket had taken on a sinister character. Acknowledging that this enchanted place had purposefully separated him from the very person he had sworn to protect was disturbing enough, but accepting that the Thicket had also affected him in such a way that he now possessed the ability to sense magic was terrifying.

The horse itself couched a darker mystery. Just touching the animal had made him feel ill. It reeked of evil—and yet also
of despair. Aremys needed to see the horse again, reach toward it once more. Perhaps his captors had no idea of the darkness in Galapek? But how else could Cailech know the horse was the reason for his disturbance?

Aremys realized Cailech was still watching him carefully. The mercenary, practiced at subterfuge, stretched a lazy smile across his generous mouth. “It had nothing to do with the beast, my lord. I felt very off-color that morning and I slept for many hours after that event.”

“Probably out of your discomfort at almost spewing on the King’s boots!” Myrt added, safe in the knowledge that Cailech encouraged a more casual atmosphere when he was away from the fortress and the formalities of being their ruler.

Myrt’s jest gave Aremys the opportunity he needed to navigate himself from the King’s scrutiny. It suddenly occurred to him that Cailech knew more than he was giving away. His instincts had rarely let him down, so he listened to them now.

“It reminded me of the time,” he said, seizing the opening, “when a very aged and strict aunt of mine came to visit the family.” His companions, sensing a tale in the making, came closer. “She was a cantankerous woman who despised social gatherings, yet insisted on everyone celebrating her nameday each spring. Oh, how we hated that day and her arrival with all of its pomp and ceremony. But our family was obliged to her, for the rich crone had gifted much money to the town, and I would be lying if I said we had not benefited from her gold.”

Aremys saw with relief the loose, expectant grin on the King’s face as he bent to inspect a vine of juvenile grapes. He continued with his tale: a dare by his brothers that went horribly wrong and culminated in his tossing the contents of a chamber pot over the head of the town’s special guest.

The men roared with laughter. Aremys noted that Cailech was less responsive but nonetheless amused; a wry smile crinkled the weathered face and sparkled in his eyes. “I would never repeat such a tale if that had been me,” he said.

“Nor will I again,” Aremys admitted, rather impressed him
self by his telling of the story, which was wholly fabricated. “But I am trying to impress upon you, my lord, the level of my dismay. This sorry tale has now been relegated to the second most embarrassing moment of my life. I hope you can guess the first.”

“You are forgiven, Farrow, and it’s forgotten,” the King said as the other two men began to wander away through the rows.

Aremys did not believe him. “Thank you, sire.”

“Perhaps you would like to ride Galapek?”

Aremys had not expected this and he knew his hesitation was telling. The King was testing him and both of them knew it. The mercenary quickly gathered his wits. “It would be a privilege, my lord.”

“Good,” the King replied, his steady gaze unfathomable. “I will arrange it.”

He looked beyond the mercenary. “Ah, here comes Baryn. He is head of the vineyard.” The previous topic seemingly forgotten, he strode toward the man, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t you love the Thaw, Aremys? Spring unfurling her fronds, pushing through her shoots, warming the ground, and melting the ice?” Cailech pointed as Aremys caught up. “Just look at these vines, fairly bursting with joy as tiny green buds and tendrils begin their life journey.”

“You should write poetry, sire.”

The King smiled at the compliment. “I have a proposition to put to you, Farrow.”

Cailech’s sudden twist took Aremys by surprise. He would have to be careful; Wyl had warned him of this. “Sire?”

“I have been thinking about our conversation.”

“Oh?” Aremys thought back over the past few days; he and Cailech had had many discussions.

“Regarding Celimus,” Cailech clarified.

Aremys nodded. “I recall suggesting a parley.”

“There is wisdom in what you advise and I have decided to act upon it.”

Aremys raised his eyebrows but managed to keep the surprise from his voice. “Really?”

Cailech nodded. “Yes. I am going to Morgravia, and not under cover of disguise or stealth. Actually, let me correct that.
We
are going to Morgravia.”

“You and your chosen men, sire?”

“Me and you, Farrow.”

Aremys searched the King’s face for any signs of guile, then realized that he would not be able to tell if Cailech was bluffing. The man was a master at hiding behind a granite expression—although on this occasion Aremys thought he detected the barest hint of amusement.

“Then I am honored, King Cailech,” Aremys said diplomatically.

Cailech simply nodded. “You will set up the meeting, as you know Celimus. You will act as my emissary.”

And with that the King strode away, leaving the newly appointed envoy for the Mountain Kingdom openmouthed.

“Close it, friend,” Myrt said, returning to Aremys’s side.

“He can’t be serious,” Aremys murmured, watching as the King’s broad figure joined the vineyard manager among an ocean of green leaves.

“He never jests about such things. Take it as a compliment, Farrow. He must trust you.”

“Do you know when we leave?”

“As soon as the streams run with the Thaw, he told me.”

“But that’s now!” Aremys turned to look at Myrt.

The man grinned. “True. Come on, we’d better head back—apparently you are to ride his prize stallion this afternoon.”

A
remys’s stomach had clenched when he caught sight of the magnificent horse being led out of its stall by Maegryn, the stablemaster. The stallion flicked its tail constantly, as though angry. A weak sensation of nausea rippled through the mercenary. He forced himself to relax, for he had been holding his breath and was ashamed at himself for allowing this animal to have such a dramatic effect on him.

It’s only a horse, damn it!
he berated himself, but to no avail; the sinister feeling intensified.

“He’s a beauty, this one,” Myrt commented by his side.

Aremys fought the swirling dizziness. Did no one else feel it? “Is Cailech not joining us?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“No. Rashlyn will be riding out, though.”

“Who is he?” Aremys asked innocently. He recalled Wyl’s description of the man who seemed to have an unnatural influence over the Mountain King.

“The King’s barshi—a detestable creature,” Myrt said. “But if you ever claim I said that, I’ll deny it first and kill you later.”

Aremys grinned. “A man of magic, then?” he asked, watching as Maegryn saddled Galapek.

His companion nodded and Aremys felt his stomach twist again. “Can he sense other empowered people?” He hoped Myrt would not hear the anxiety in his voice.