Bridge of Souls (20 page)

“Ho, who comes?” The gatekeeper’s voice ripped through the tension of their whispered conversation.

“Tell the truth,” Wyl encouraged. “You cannot save me.”

Harken spared an anguished glance toward the woman beside him. Wyl felt sorry for the youngster. He clearly sensed that he was involved in something deeply wrong by escorting Ylena Thirsk into Celimus’s clutches.

“Come on, boy, we haven’t got all day!” the soldier urged, irritated. “Who do you bring here?”

Wyl cleared his throat. “I am the Lady Ylena Thirsk, sir. I wish to speak to King Celimus.”

The gatekeeper laughed. “Yes, and I’m the Lady Twinkle and plan to marry him. What is this?” he roared at Harken.

“Watch your manners!” Harken commanded, and the soldier glanced toward the badge on the youngster’s uniform. This was an officer in the making and Wyl quietly smirked at the older man’s error.

“This
is
the Lady Ylena Thirsk,” Harken said, firm of voice now. “She has already been searched, but you may do so again if you are required.”

The gatekeeper, far less chirpy now, signaled to another guard, who asked Wyl to alight from his horse. He was searched and Harken’s papers were checked for authenticity. They were permitted to enter the gate by the now slightly sheepish keeper. Another, more senior soldier arrived to ask questions and his eyebrows arched immediately at the name of the woman standing before him.

“Call the Chancellor,” he said to his second. Then to Wyl, politely: “We wait, my lady.”

He turned to the Legionnaire. “Thank you, Harken. We will take it from here. You may return to your men.”

Wyl offered his hand to the young man. “Thank you for your escort,” he said, although he hoped his gaze communicated far more. “Again, I am sorry to hear about your father,” he added.

Harken looked distracted and anxious. “Sir, has a missive arrived from Briavel concerning the Lady Ylena?”

The man shook his head. “Nothing has arrived from Briavel. I am the first point of contact for all deliveries.”

“Perhaps I should wait—” the young man began.

“No, Harken. A company of men without their leader stands at the Briavellian border. Return to your post,” the senior man said, this time firmly enough that it brooked no further argument.

Harken bowed. When he straightened, Wyl alone saw the anger and concern in his eyes before the youngster saluted and departed the compound.

“Ah, here we are,” the older soldier muttered, and Wyl
turned to see Chancellor Jessom emerging from the the main house, a look of pleasure on his face. He swiftly adjusted it to a thin smile, but Wyl saw the satisfaction all the same. The Chancellor’s reaction confused him. Surely astonishment, or at the very least irritation, would be more fitting, considering Jessom and Celimus must have hoped Ylena was dead by now?

Jessom’s stride was confident and he covered the ground between the main dwelling and the gatehouse with surprising swiftness. “Ylena Thirsk. Almost perfect timing.”

What?
Wyl kept his expression deliberately blank as his mind raced to understand this new development. Jessom continued, “Our king was wondering when you would be delivered. This will be a special name-day present for him and no doubt he will reward Aremys royally for the gift of your life into his hands.”

They were expecting Ylena’s arrival? How could this be if no message from Valentyna had arrived—and what did he mean about Aremys? Wyl played for time. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Jessom’s smile thinned even further. “My apologies, we have never been introduced. I am Jessom, Chancellor and King’s Counsel of Morgravia.”

“Since when did King Celimus take advice from anyone?” Wyl replied as acidly as he could, watching the crease across Jessom’s face, which passed for his smile, fade entirely.

“Thank you, Bern. I will take the Lady Ylena from here,” Jessom said to the officer nearby. The man nodded and left their company, happy to pass on responsibility, but not before both Jessom and Wyl saw his raised eyebrows at Ylena’s cutting comment. Wyl unhappily allowed Jessom to guide him away from the gates, but he noted that they were not heading toward the main house. The Morgravians must have other plans for Lady Ylena.

Jessom’s voice was biting when it came. “You are in a perilous situation, Ylena Thirsk. I suggest you not make it worse on yourself,” he advised.

Wyl made Ylena’s beautiful face smirk. “How much worse could it possibly get, Jessom? The snake that sits upon the Morgravian throne is hardly going to show me mercy. I do not fear him.”

“Nevertheless, I recommend you don’t openly insult King Celimus. It could go very badly for you.”

“You don’t understand, Chancellor. I am not afraid of dying. I am not afraid of Celimus and his savage tortures. Any opportunity I get, sir, I will openly insult him and the bitch Queen who spawned him.”

Jessom was normally in control of his emotions, but he drew back in surprise at the young woman’s words. “When Aremys said he could deliver you, Ylena, I’m not sure our king understood how heroic you have become. It seems your struggles to survive have toughened you. That only means he will enjoy hurting you all the more. I am not a cruel man and I certainly do not condone the torture of women. Let me suggest again that you make this easier on yourself.”

Wyl was happy he had managed to sting the man into losing his composure, even slightly. But more important to him was the second mention of his friend.
Aremys said he could deliver me? What is going on?

“I am glad I have impressed you, Chancellor, but, frankly, that was not my intention. I will not plead for the King’s mercy. He can do with me as he wishes.”

“Then I wonder, what is your intention? What can you possibly gain through your defiance?”

“All will be explained, I am sure,” Wyl answered cryptically. Valentyna’s letter had definitely not arrived, then.

The Chancellor’s face betrayed his bafflement. Wyl smirked internally. Jessom was used to knowing everything about everyone. Ylena’s inexplicable behavior must be unsettling.

“The King will see you in good time,” Jessom said, businesslike now. “But for the meantime, you will remain in here.” They had arrived at an outbuilding: a storage hut built in the shade of a huge oak where Aleda had kept her cool pantry.
“I’m afraid you have timed your arrival a little prematurely, Ylena. King Cailech is due any minute.”

Wyl made a sound of disdain.

Jessom pointed to bucket of water. “May I suggest you clean yourself up. I can have a gown found for you, if it pleases.”

“It does not please. I will see the King exactly as I stand before you, Chancellor. And by the way, your new status as servant to the King”—Wyl emphasized the word “servant” and was pleased to see that it struck home—“does not permit you to address a noble by anything but a correct title, sir. You will refer to me as Lady Ylena Thirsk or Lady Ylena Donal—take your pick—but you will accord me the small measure of respect I am due, prisoner or not.”

The Chancellor was taken aback by the attack but composed himself smoothly and was quick to retaliate.

“Morgravia has forgotten you, young lady, and your family’s name is being dragged through the mire at every opportunity. Climb off your pedestal, Ylena. I am not intimidated by your noble line. I’m wondering how long they will respect you when your head is rotting on a spike outside Pearlis. In fact, I’ll do you a kindness—I’ll hunt down Alyd Donal’s head for you so you can both rot together. Romantic, eh?” he said, uncharacteristically cruel, as he finished tying her ankle to a huge timber post in the hut. “Now clean yourself up, woman, and make ready to meet your sovereign.”

For the first time in his life Wyl spat at someone. It was the only comeback he could think of to show his hatred for this servile creature of the King’s. He half hoped Jessom would kill him in a blood rush of anger. The Chancellor’s body would accord him serious power.

But Jessom was not a man of violence; he was far more subtle in his methods. Instead he made a clicking sound of reproach, as a parent might do to a naughty child. “And you want to be treated like a lady?” He laughed; the sound was
harsh and filled with hate. “I have been spat on all my life, Ylena,” he said, wiping her spittle from his robe, “and I have always beaten my enemies.”

He turned at the sound of the bell from the gatehouse, signaling that King Cailech’s party had arrived.

“Farewell, Ylena. We shall summon you in due course.”

F
YNCH AND
K
NAVE STOOD AT THE FOOT OF THE
R
AZORS
,
ABOUT TO STEP ONTO THE TINY
,
UNGUARDED TRACK THAT WOULD GUIDE THEIR ASCENT
into the mountains. They had seen no soldiers and their journey from the Wild had been uneventful, and enjoyable for Fynch, who had needed time to think. Knave was not a companion who made conversation—he replied to questions, and prompted them if he considered them important, but otherwise he was silent.

“Why are we walking? Surely the Thicket could send us?” Fynch wondered.

You can send us,
Knave said, a rare tone of amusement in his voice.
Too dangerous, though. We cannot take the chance of Rashlyn sensing a powerful spelling. Sending Aremys might have registered with him, but he would not have known what the magic was and we can only hope he dismissed it. However, since then we have had the transfer of Wyl to Briavel, the death of Elysius, the arrival of the Dragon King, and you coming into your power. So many surges of magic are not easily dismissed.

Fynch nodded seriously. “Do you think he knows Elysius has died?”

I suspect he might have felt something. More important, I am wary that he would have felt the transference of power.

“How would he sense it? Would it be like a pain?”

The dog led them onto the narrow track. Neither of them looked behind, even though they were now officially leaving Briavel.

Possibly. More likely he would feel it as you might a seizure. Not pain so much, but loss of physical control and perhaps consciousness. It would bewilder more than hurt.

“But would he know what it was?” Fynch persisted as he pushed aside the branches of overhanging trees.

Who knows, Fynch? It would shock him to learn that his brother has been alive all this time, if indeed he did work out that the disturbance was Elysius dying, but I can’t imagine he could begin to consider that his sibling’s magic had been passed on.

“You are guessing, though.”

Of course. But remember, your sensitivity to magic and your ability to embrace it and use it are known only to those of the Thicket. Rashlyn may be a sorcerer, but he is not sensitive to the natural world.

The track rose sharply ahead of them and they began to climb in silence, Fynch concentrating on the challenging, slightly slippery surface of decaying leaves. Many hours later they reached a plateau of rock, the trees below them now. It was cold in the open and a breeze had whipped up. Fynch shivered through his breathlessness. He did not like the cold; he felt it before most others because of his thinly fleshed body and he was glad of the thick fleece jacket Knave had found in Elysius’s home and insisted he carry.

We must be wary, now that we have no cover for a while,
Knave cautioned.

Fynch squatted on his haunches to take some deep breaths and rest for a few moments. He put on the jacket, relishing its instant warmth, then took a sip from his water skin.

“Are you hungry, Knave?” he asked, wondering if the dog should be allowed to hunt.

I don’t need food, Fynch. I ate when with Wyl to maintain a pretense of normality.

“No food at all?” Fynch was incredulous.

None. I am of the Thicket.

“You are real, though, aren’t you, Knave?” There was a plaintiveness in the boy’s voice.

Real enough; fret not.

Fynch sighed and confessed, “I rarely feel hungry either. I eat because I know I should, never because I want to.”

That is because of who you are, what you belong to. The powers you have.

“How can that be? I didn’t possess magic until the day Elysius died.”

Fynch, you have always had the capacity to wield a certain magic. You just didn’t know it until now.

Fynch shook his head, too distracted and surprised by Knave’s assured claim to argue the matter. He took another draft of water to calm himself. “How long will it take us to get to the fortress?” he finally asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Yes, the fortress. I’ve been thinking about that,
the dog replied.
It occurs to me that if we do our resting by afternoon, we might cover more ground at night.

“Using magic, you mean?”

The dog did not answer immediately. Instead, he sniffed the air and Fynch kept the silence, knowing Knave was pondering the most difficult of decisions.

Yes,
the dog said at last.
I am hoping that if Rashlyn follows a normal pattern, he may not sense small bursts of power as he sleeps. In truth I don’t believe he will know what it is even if he does feel it, but I have been reluctant to take any chances.

“But you’ve changed your mind now?”

Knave’s voice was gentle.
I think I overlooked how slight you are, Fynch. I don’t believe we will be able to cover as much ground as I had hoped. It is a long way from Briavel’s side of the Razors to Cailech’s fortress on their western rim—I realize now it would take us too long. We shall have to take the risk.
He said the last few words with regret.

“But keep the distances small,” Fynch added with trepidation.

The dog’s dark eyes regarded him sorrowfully.
I am sorry to ask it of you. You will need to chew on the sharvan leaves regularly now.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s my burden,” Fynch replied, wishing he felt more brave than he sounded. He attempted a brighter tone. “This is how we traveled before, isn’t it…from Baelup to the Thicket?”

Except then I had to rely on the Thicket and Elysius. This time we travel with all the power we need.

“Are you sure?” Fynch had no idea how he was supposed to effect such a magic. He had thought that after the transfer from Elysius he would feel a reservoir of power gurgling within, a well of magic at his beck and call. But he could detect no change within himself. He mentioned this to his friend.

Knave considered the question. Again Fynch waited patiently. The dog sighed.
It is different for me. I am of the Thicket, therefore I rely on it to feed me its magic when it needs to use me, and I feel an energy buzzing within. Anyone touched by the Thicket would feel it, I’m sure. I imagine Wyl might sense it echoing within him somehow and Aremys too. They have both been touched by the magic of the Thicket.

“Then why not me?”

I think, Fynch, because you are more than us
, the dog said gravely.

“More than you?” the boy repeated, not understanding.

Knave tried again.
I belong to the Thicket. Wyl, Aremys—and others, no doubt—have been touched by it, not empowered by it but affected somehow. But Elysius, and now you, are connected to it in ways I can’t explain. We have no magic without the Thicket to feed it. You do.

“Oh,” Fynch replied, still feeling baffled.

But I think, my friend, there is far more to you.

“What you you mean?” Fynch frowned.

Knave gave a low growl of frustration, as if he could not put into words what he was trying to say.
It’s as if you and the Thicket are one. While Elysius was merely passing through—for want of a better way of describing it—you belong to the Thicket and it to you. And
the King of the Creatures never visited Elysius. I have never seen him before—most of us haven’t.

The gravity of Knave’s explanation hit Fynch like a blow. The words and their intent terrified him. There was a finality to what Knave was suggesting; it was as if the Thicket had a hold on him that he would never escape. He did not want to think about it any further. Neither was he ready to consider the implication of the Dragon King’s visit. That knowing in his eyes—it was all too bewildering and frightening.

“So what is your plan again?” he said, deliberating forcing the fear away by changing the topic.

Knave must have sensed Fynch’s terror, for he switched smoothly from their previous discussion.
We travel on foot by day, then sleep from late afternoon for as long as you wish. We cannot travel by sending until the early hours of the morning, by which time I’m counting on Rashlyn being asleep.

“But what if he’s not?”

Knave shook his head in a doglike shrug.
If he can sense your magic, there’s not much we can do about that. We will keep the sendings short so he never feels it quite long enough to tease at it. He cannot see you, Fynch. Not even with his own magic.

“But he might feel me coming, is that what you mean?”

Perhaps; I don’t know. But he won’t know who or what it is, I believe.

“All right,” Fynch said, giving up the train of conversation. To be honest, he had never been one for farseeing plans. He had taken each day as it presented itself and enjoyed all that life gave him during those days. He had been a sunny child and his mother had said often enough that he was destined for something special. He thought of his mother now. She had often disappeared for days, but she would always return, and when she did, she would be withdrawn, a little moody. One evening, returning late from from his toil at Stoneheart, Fynch had overheard his parents arguing. His father had called his mother a slut. Fynch did not know what the word meant, but the vehemence behind it had shocked him. His mother had laughed in her tinkling manner and given some retort which had enraged his father further. A year or so later Fynch had
learned the meaning of the insult and asked his sister about it. She had looked embarrassed and even pained by his query, but was a truthful person like her brother, so she had explained to him that their mother was a free spirit. “A sort of madness overcomes her,” he remembered his sister saying.

“And what happens?” Fynch had asked, not really comprehending.

“Well, it takes her away from us,” his sister had replied gently, ruffling his hair. “Sometimes she needs space and freedom.”

Fynch was a child who needed clarity in all things and so he persisted. “What does she do when she goes away?”

He recalled now how his sister had sighed. “She allows men to take her, Fynch. It means nothing. Dad says it is a madness and best we leave it like that.”

The little boy had finally understood. He knew his mother was fey—she saw things in her dreams and heard voices whispering to her. Most of the folk around their way thought she was bordering on insane, but in truth he could not imagine his mother any other way. He loved her just as she was, with all her curious ways, and although deeply troubled to hear of this new side of her life, he said no more about it. But he thought on it, wondering which men had taken their pleasures with his mother. She was pretty, there was no doubting it, with her petite frame and elfin looks. And when she let her golden hair down, and bathed and put on a fresh dress, she still took his father’s breath away. He loved her so, which made her inclinations all the more hurtful. His father would drink himself into a stupor each time she disappeared, no doubt hoping the liquor would take away the grief.

Soon after learning his mother’s secret, Fynch had become troubled by thoughts that perhaps he had not been sired by his father. Fynch did not resemble any of his siblings closely—they were all dark and solid like his father, while he was fair, golden in fact, with the same elfin qualities as his mother. Though he had worked hard at convincing himself that he simply took after his mother, the thought still troubled him. He
had never shared this anxiety with anyone. Well, not with any person. The Dragon King had seen it in him, though—Fynch was sure of it. The dragon’s eyes had flared as they penetrated the boy’s soul—had seen the truth of Fynch’s secret fear.

As he climbed farther into the Razors, Fynch thought about what the King of the Creatures had asked of him. Perhaps, in his heart, he had always known that his life would be brief and so had given his energy to enjoying the moment he lived in. So be it. He was not scared of dying anymore, but he would make his death count. As much as the Dragon King saw destroying Rashlyn as his priority, Fynch knew that his own loyalty lay with Wyl. Somehow he had to help Wyl defeat Celimus. It was why he had risked more headaches in sending Wyl to Werryl. And, against Knave’s counsel, he had sent Valentyna the chaffinch to whistle a tune he hoped would prompt her to wait for Ylena. He had even risked more pain to send dream thoughts to Wyl, urging him to face Celimus and to die again, if necessary.

Fynch was utterly committed to the cause of ridding Morgravia of its present king while also protecting Valentyna and Wyl. Deep down he believed Valentyna would have to marry Celimus—she could not both prevent such a union and secure peace for her realm. He wondered whether she could survive such a marriage, for he knew the cruelty of Celimus. But far worse was his deeply held belief that Wyl would fail in his bid to become Celimus. When he tried to interpret this chilling thought, the only explanation he could come up with for his fear was that Wyl hated Celimus so much he would never be able to live with himself in that guise. If Wyl could not achieve the end of the Quickening by becoming Celimus, however, it could mean an infinite lifetime of changing bodies. Or perhaps the opposite, he reasoned. Perhaps Wyl would die in the body of some lonely guard, an arrow through his back. Fynch grasped—perhaps more than Wyl did—that in any of his guises Wyl could be killed through an accident or natural causes. The Quickening, as Fynch intuitively understood it, only worked if the killer was still connected to Wyl via a
weapon or touch, which was why Myrren could not have used the magic to save herself. She had died at the stake; the flames had taken her life.