Bridge of Souls (28 page)

Valentyna stepped back, aghast that he could think otherwise. Liryk continued, ignoring her shock. “If you love Briavel and its people,” he repeated, more gently this time, “you will hurry up and marry the King of Morgravia.”

He bowed, refusing to react to the telltale glisten in the Queen’s eyes. “I shall prepare to leave for Sharptyn, your highness, and I shall bring back the woman of Yentro for you. I give you my word that I will achieve this for you or die trying.”

Valentyna was unable to speak. She watched Liryk’s broad back go down the corridor and she felt hollow.

E
LSPYTH WATCHED THROUGH HER TEARS AS THE BODY OF THE WOMAN WHO HAD BEEN WAILING EARLIER GUSHED ITS LIFEBLOOD STEADILY INTO
the sawdust. The killer, an older woman, stood bowed above, bleeding from several wounds and no doubt in shock. The victor had struck a lucky blow at the top of the wailing woman’s thigh, which had hit a major artery in her groin. Death had followed not long afterward. The men did not even give the woman the grace of a peaceful death; instead they cheered hysterically while the winners gleefully collected on their bets.

The women in the pen watched in silent horror as another
soul was collected by Shar’s Gatherers. Most did not know the dead woman’s name. As Alda had cautioned Elspyth, there was no point in getting to know one another; it only made the killing harder. The corpse was dragged away by the hair, to be burned later with the rest of the dead, their bodies piled up from the evening’s entertainment. The victor, still frozen, her eyes glazed over, was led roughly out of the arena.

“It’s her first kill,” a voice said close by.

Elspyth started, unaware that Alda had sidled up beside her during the fight. “And the dead woman?”

“She was on her third fight. If she’d won tonight, she’d be on her way to the boat. Stupid fool—she could have won easily. Still, one less for me to kill.”

Elspyth looked up at the taller woman. She felt sorrow that a mother had become so hardened. And yet it was because of her child that this woman plotted to win at all costs. Elspyth shuddered in disgust. “Get away from me.”

The Briavellian made a sound of disgust. “I hope you’re next!” she said, nodding her head toward the man approaching. “Time you found out what it’s like out there.”

Elspyth ignored her, her gaze fixed on the obese fellow waddling toward them with his hated parchment of names.

“Next up, ladies, is Olivya,” he said in a jovial voice.

No one moved. Terrified gazes met the more resolute ones of those succumbing to a sense of fate.

“Come on, now. Small, pretty, dark. Ah, there you are, my dear. Cast off that sheet now,” he said to Elspyth. “It’s your turn.”

Elspyth had forgotten she had given a false name. Her legs felt too weak to hold her body up, let alone carry her across the pen and into the arena. She began to weep.

“Come on, lass. Haven’t got all night,” the man urged, scowling now.

Alda pushed Elspyth forward viciously. “Who’s she fighting?”

“Ginny. Where are you, Ginny?”

“Let me fight her instead.”

“You’re not down to fight tonight, Alda,” the fat man replied. “We’re going to make you lose some sleep over your third.” He smiled without kindness, sweat running down his oily face.

“I’ll make it a real spectacle,” Alda said desperately.

Elspyth felt her chest constrict, trapping her breath. What was Alda thinking? She could see the bloodlust in her face, and knew the Briavellian was looking forward to an easy kill.

The idea that she was considered a pushover dragged Elspyth from her stupor. She sucked in air with a huge angry gasp and suddenly the noise, the smell, the woman’s blood still wet and gleaming on the floor, and now, the fat man and Alda bargaining over her death, galvanized her. Elspyth felt the fear leave her in a tingling, angry rush. It pushed upward through her throat and exploded in a cry of fury, and something she had never felt before oozed from every fiber of her being. It was rage, bubbling through her as a white-cold flame, torching her thoughts, sparking her emotions, scorching her with its devouring wrath. The fear that had left a puddle of urine around her feet only minutes earlier fled.

Elspyth stepped away from her own mess, cast aside the flimsy linen, and addressed the man in a voice that was animalistic and predatory. “Let me fight Alda!”

The fat man looked at her. This was new. Normally the women fought one another under protest, all but helping their opponents into the ring, apologizing for having to hurt one another, then weeping over each death. But these two women were eager for the fight; with those sorts of emotions, the spectacle was sure to be especially entertaining for the men.

His thick tongue flicked out to wet his rubbery lips as he considered this option. “My, my,” he said, unpleasant smells wafting toward Elspyth as he moved closer to her. “You must be confident.”

“Just announce it,” she answered, eager to get the fight done. If she was going to die, she’d rather do so now than spend further hours agonizing.

Alda clapped her hands with pleasure. The Morgravian had
admitted she did not know how to fight. It was going to be easy.

“All right, then,” the man replied. “Don’t say I never give you girls what you want,” he added with a lecherous chuckle. “Off with your linen, then, Alda. Both of you oil up. I’ll make the announcement.”

W
yl walked between the two men, his arms in front of his body and tied at the wrist. He did not feel scared. This was the death he wanted; he just wished he could somehow spare Ylena’s body from being mistreated in the process. He spent the time during the frigidly silent walk toward the main hall contemplating what would be the kindest death for Ylena and decided a blade into her heart was ideal—just as Faryl had killed Koreldy. That way, when her body was cleaned, covered, and laid out in Argorn, as he fully intended it to be, no one would have to see the ugly wound that had felled her. She could remain beautiful for eternity in their minds.

But it nagged at Wyl that Celimus was unlikely to have in mind something as straightforward as a knife. He would draw this out as if it were a game; in the same way that he had taunted Wyl—forcing him to witness Alyd’s death and Ylena’s suffering—he would now mock Wyl’s sister in front of his honored guests. Except he was in for a surprise. This Ylena walked to her death with a light heart.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Harken whispered.

“I am fine. Remember all I have told you. If you think well of the Thirsk family, be assured they would have sworn their allegiance to Valentyna the moment she became Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel. Do the same, for all of us.”

Wyl sensed Harken’s fear but also his pride at being singled out. “I will do it for you, my lady.”

“Then I am glad to have met you.”

“Be quiet,” the older soldier warned. “We’re here now.”

Dusk had fallen so quietly Wyl had not noticed. The north
draped itself with evening’s calm without the south’s cacophony of noisy birds telling the world it was time to roost. There was still sufficient light, however, that Wyl had no doubt as to the identity of the man waiting at the grand doorway of Tenterdyn.

“Good evening, Ylena,” Jessom said, all politeness. Wyl did not reply. “As you will,” the Chancellor replied, not at all offended.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Wyl forced out of Ylena’s lips. It was meant only for the young soldier and he qualified his words with a brief glance toward him. He was careful not to name Harken. Jessom was far too sharp to let the soldier leave if he thought any sort of alliance—no matter how tenuous—had been formed.

“We’ll take her from here,” Jessom said to Ylena’s escort. Two burly guards stepped out from behind the Chancellor and took position on either side of Ylena. “Follow me.”

Wyl was led past familiar rooms toward a part of Tenterdyn he had not seen on his former visit. He heard the murmur of voices and small explosions of laughter, which grew louder as they approached a wing that he recalled had been shut off by doors. They were wide open now, the corridor lit by torches and guarded by yet more soldiers. Two kings were present; it was little wonder that the level of security was so high.

“Wait here,” Jessom commanded, touching Ylena’s arm. Wyl shook off his hand and the man’s thin smile returned. “I must let the King know his lamb has arrived.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. If Ylena’s mouth had not been so dry with tension, Wyl might have tried spitting again at the Chancellor, for the amusement of soiling his robes, if nothing else.

Jessom disappeared around a corner. The sounds of men eating and entertaining themselves filled the frigid silence between Wyl and his guards. The aroma of food wafted toward them and one man’s belly acknowledged it with a growl. Wyl turned toward the sound and met the culprit’s abashed expression.

“Do you know that I’m being brought here to be killed for sport in front of your king?”

The guard shrugged, although Wyl sensed there was embarrassment hidden behind it.

“We just follow orders, my lady.” It was the man on his other side who answered.

Wyl looked at him. “And as a Legionnaire, you are comfortable with the notion of slaughtering an innocent woman—a noble no less—from a fine family that has given its life to the Legion? You are old enough to have known my father.”

The man did not respond, but the pity in his eyes betrayed him.

Jessom rescued him. “Come, Ylena Thirsk. Your king awaits you.”

E
lspyth stood at the fringe of the rough circle mapped out with string tied around small stakes in the earth. She was naked but no longer cared, ignoring the sounds of appreciation from men enjoying the sight of a lovely body. All that mattered right now was the person on the opposite side of the ring, also naked, also breathing hard, and no doubt hoping that her cold stare would be enough to intimidate her opponent into submission without a blow.

The fat man was stirring up the excited crowd, but Elspyth ignored him too. She knew where Ericson was sitting and briefly entertained the idea of flinging her knife, Koreldy-style, at his bulk. She had a vision of him flailing in shock as the blade hit him squarely in the throat. She sighed, knowing she could never throw true. The blade would probably make it only half the distance and then clatter pathetically on the ground, undoubtedly to wild applause, leaving her defenseless, to be slaughtered by Alda. A bell sounded and dragged her back to the insanity before her. She knew her knuckles were white as she clutched the single small blade that was her weapon.

She heard the fat man remind her that this fight was to the death, then his explanation that Alda was fighting for her third win and her right to be given over to slavery. The men cheered, no doubt imagining profit from her sale as well as her win. Elspyth forced herself to withdraw completely into her mind. She recalled the long night journey to Deakyn with Wyl—he walked as Koreldy then—and how he had told her that a warrior preparing for battle must draw every ounce of his conscious self into a closed section of his mind that no one could penetrate. She had smiled a little indulgently at his description at the time; now she understood completely what he had meant.

The bell sounded again and Alda began moving, circling.
This is it,
Elspyth thought.
Kill or be killed.

“To you, Lothryn, my love,” she murmured, remembering how he had given his own life in order to save others. She suddenly felt sure that Lothryn’s feelings at that moment of decision—the knowledge of certain death, the grief of losing his new son, the sorrow that their love had remained unspoken—were identical to her own. It was a tearing free of all ties, a casting loose of all fears in the pursuit of one thing: kill or be killed.

Alda lunged and Elspyth’s mind went blank.

W
yl stepped into a large chamber that was warmed by fires at either end. A few men milled around, holding goblets of wine. He recognized none of them, which meant there was no one who might object to Ylena’s mistreatment. His boots crunched on the floor and he realized he was walking over the remains of Aleda’s fine cranberry-colored glassware. Like the loyal family of the north, it was now shattered, forgotten.

And then he laid eyes on the man responsible for it all. Celimus, brimming with self-importance, sat at the head of Jeryb’s oak table, goblet in hand, making some toast, his
cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the general joviality. To his right sat Cailech; the Mountain King looked less comfortable and there was less debris about him, as though he had been more cautious in his enjoyment of the repast. Wyl knew the man well enough to recognize that the smile fixed on his face was fake. Cailech raised his glass in answer to whatever Celimus had said but did not drink; meanwhile his penetrating gaze soaked up all around him as effectively as a sponge. He was bare-armed; the muscles sculpted and tensed, as if he was ready to leap to his feet and charge, like an animal disturbed. No, Cailech was not happy here, but he was pretending well enough. Next to him sat Aremys, unsmiling and rigid, no sign of wine or food about him.

The three men noticed Ylena’s arrival at the same time. Celimus looked savagely delighted, his eyes darkening with pleasure at what he knew was coming. Cailech, however, looked taken aback. His roving gaze settled intently on Ylena and the contrived smile faded. Her beauty had taken him by surprise, Wyl realized. Poor Aremys looked like a chained dog; one that knew it was about to take a hiding. He paled, his already unhappy expression settling into a blank mask, as if he was steeling himself. He could hardly make eye contact with Wyl, such was his despair.

The room quieted as people noticed their presence, but Jessom allowed the hush to settle fully before he spoke. “Gentlemen, may I present Lady Ylena Thirsk, daughter of the late General Fergys Thirsk and sister to the much loved General Wyl Thirsk, may Shar bless their souls.”

Some repeated the last few words and Wyl took bitter delight in seeing the Morgravian King’s mouth tighten. The smile turned acid and Wyl knew he would pay for that loyalty to his family with blood.

“Ylena Thirsk, how enchanting to have you back among your fellow Morgravians,” Celimus said, flashing a bright smile toward his honored guest. “Come, Cailech, you must meet the woman who escaped my punishment through the aid of a mercenary who goes by the name of Koreldy.”