Bridge of Souls (29 page)

Cailech turned a cold green gaze onto his fellow king. “Koreldy?”

“You know him?”

“I will flay the skin from his bones when I find him again.”

Celimus, fired by the excellent wine from Jeryb’s cellars and feeling very pleased at being about to do away with the final member of the hated Thirsk dynasty, threw back his head and laughed with delight. “Then I have done you a service, my friend. Koreldy is dead.”

The Mountain King did not react. His face was set in stone, his eyes unreadable.

“Well, actually,” Celimus continued, noticing the lack of reaction and pleased by it, “I think we have my bride-to-be to thank for his death.”

“How so?” Cailech asked tightly.

Celimus drained his goblet of wine and slammed it down. Droplets of red launched from his mouth like blood as he shook his head. It was fitting, Wyl thought, for blood would flow tonight. “Koreldy fled to the safety of Briavel, pretending to be a champion to my queen.” He made a gesture of nonchalance. “She was unaware of his identity, of course, until I revealed it to her.”

“Why don’t you admit it was the only way you could escape death from Koreldy’s sword, you sniveling coward,” Wyl shouted.

Exclamations rang out in the hall and Celimus’s eyes shone with hatred. He walked toward Ylena until he towered above her. “The Thirsk bitch lies. She wasn’t there; how could she know? Where were you, Ylena? At Rittylworth, wasn’t it? Cringing in the cellar of a monastery before your flight to Felrawthy. It is fitting that your journey ends here. No one can save you now.”

“Nor do I want them to, you son of a whore. Thank goodness your father killed your mother. The only pity is that he did not do it before she birthed you—”

He got no further with his insult. The punch to Ylena’s face was expertly leveled and the room went dark for Wyl.
Everyone else was frozen in shocked silence. Jessom was the first to gather his wits; he nodded toward one of the guards to pick up the woman sprawled across the flagstones, her head bleeding from where she had gashed it on the table.

Cailech glanced toward Aremys and saw his stricken expression. He didn’t know what was going on here, but he didn’t like it one bit. There was clearly a connection between Aremys and the woman. More than that, and perhaps more disturbingly, it seemed that Celimus was putting on this whole charade for his benefit. If Celimus thought his northern neighbor would get pleasure from watching a noblewoman humiliated and injured in this fashion, however, he had entirely misjudged. Cailech was the first to admit that he was no softhearted monarch; he had not flinched at having the Morgravian woman staked out for roasting, or killing her later to trick Gueryn. But she had been a prisoner of battle. This Thirsk woman struck him as a pawn in whatever game was being played out between Celimus and the Thirsk family, and Cailech wanted no part of it. He raised an eyebrow in silent question to Aremys, who glared back at him, as if demanding that he do something.

Celimus turned to his guests and rubbed his knuckles. “Don’t worry, she has a head as hard as stone—like all the Thirsk trolls.” Nervous laughter sounded in the room. “Get her ready!” he ordered Jessom, who escorted the guard holding the prone woman out a side door.

Cailech wanted to bring the evening to a rapid close. It was time to get away from here. But the sight of the golden-haired beauty and her magnificent defiance of the man everyone in Morgravia feared compelled him to learn more. He knew Celimus was watching him and so he said smoothly, “You were telling me about Koreldy,” as if the interruption had been of little consequence.

Celimus continued with similar aplomb, seating himself and bidding everyone do the same. “Yes, forgive the disturbance. I revealed Koreldy’s true identity to Queen Valentyna, who was
mortified—as you might imagine—for the mercenary had killed her father, King Valor.”

“I see. And?”

“Well, she banished him, which made it possible for one of my assassins to deal with him. I had no intention of allowing Koreldy to roam the land after he had betrayed me.”

Cailech sucked in a breath. “You have proof of Koreldy’s death?”

“A finger, still wearing a signet ring with a deep bloodred stone and marked with the family insignia.”

“I know the ring,” Cailech replied, feeling suddenly empty. He had been looking forward to dealing with Romen Koreldy himself, it was true, but he had not expected the acute sense of sorrow that pervaded him. In spite of their differences, not to mention the bad blood, he had respected the man, and felt sure Koreldy would have preferred to be felled by a Mountain warrior’s sword than a Morgravian assassin’s blade. “I always thought the man had lives to spare,” he commented, trying to hide the bitterness in his tone.

“Well, he used them all up once he crossed me, my friend,” Celimus boasted, and urged more wine to be poured.

Cailech had tired of being referred to as friend by the Morgravian King. He gave a subtle nod toward Aremys, who understood its meaning but made no move; instead he glanced again toward the door beyond which the woman had been taken. Cailech frowned. What was it between those two?

“That woman—what is to happen to her?” he asked, twirling his half-empty goblet.

“She will be executed in your honor, sir,” Celimus answered.

Cailech spilled some of the wine in his surprise. “Certainly not in my honor!”

The King of Morgravia shrugged. “Well, she is to die anyway—I’d like her to be my gift to you. You’re not squeamish, are you?” It was a challenge.

Cailech had had enough. He liked neither the sound of the gift nor the suggestion of his gutlessness. “Celimus, we have
enjoyed your hospitality long enough. You will forgive me if I take my leave now.”

“I could not forgive you if you did, my friend.”

“Why is that?” Cailech asked, gritting his teeth.

“We still have time before the appointed rendezvous and I would like you to partake of the evening’s entertainment.”

“Which is?”

Celimus’s voice was sly. “Tell Jessom we are ready,” he said to a waiting servant.

I
t was terrifying. Elspyth had never fought in any sort of hand-to-hand combat in her life, not even as a child, enacting pretend sword fights and mock battles with other children in the pursuit of laughter and competition. Now she found herself facing a woman who seemed utterly determined to kill her. Elspyth had no tricks to draw upon, no skills that might help her protect herself.

Alda’s lips was drawn back in a tight snarl. There was no doubt in Elspyth’s mind that Alda saw herself as the predator and her opponent as the cornered, helpless prey. The older woman laughed, springing forward and feinting toward her right. Elspyth fell for the bluff and tried to dart in the opposite direction, but found that path cut off, a blade slashing toward her. She shrieked and twisted away, feeling the knife cut cruelly down her back.

The men roared; more bets were exchanged in Alda’s favor. The cheering and jeering continued without respite as the audience insulted Elspyth, shouting that Shar’s Gatherers were running toward her so fast, she might as well give up now.

Again Alda pounced, this time trying to slash her opponent’s face—which was all the prettier, many men in the audience conceded, for its pleading expression. Elspyth reacted instinctively and put both her arms up, which won her a nasty gash on the arm, where bright blood bloomed instantly. The
arm she held her blade in began to go numb almost immediately. She cried out in despair.

Alda was enjoying herself. Elspyth realized the woman was simply playing with her. She had promised the fat man a spectacle in exchange for being allowed to kill the opponent of her choice, and she was delivering on that promise. How many more slashes would she make before the killing blow came? Elspyth wondered through her tears as Alda leapt again, missing so slightly that Elspyth heard the whistle of the blade through the air. Alda laughed again. Elspyth’s exertions were making her blood flow more freely. She could feel it was running down her back, and her front was splashed with blood from her arm wound.

The numbness made it hard to feel her hand gripping the blade. That was probably Alda’s intention, she realized, impressed. Not all for show, then. Her would-be killer was making strategic wounds, designed for disabling as much as for exhibition. No wonder Alda had made it to her third fight. No doubt she would make it to the slave boat.

Elspyth felt the sadistic bite of the blade again, this time expertly delivered across one breast, and rapidly followed by the wet sensation of blood spouting forth in concert with the vicious pain. Elspyth staggered, hardly daring to look down at the ruin of her body. When she did she saw only red, running freely and draining her of strength and the will to remain standing. Opposite her swaggered Alda, free of cuts or injuries but covered in blood nonetheless…Elspyth’s blood.

And then Alda did something she had no idea would awaken the primeval instinct in her opponent. Responding to the chanting of the male audience, now calling for an end to the ragged young woman, Alda slowly licked at the blood that spattered her mouth. The men, driven into a frenzy of lust and greed, shouted all the more fiercely for the killing blow.

But Elspyth, watching that theatrical gesture, as if Alda thought Elspyth was hers to consume, felt the searing white flame of anger once more. She straightened, threw back her greasy hair, and screamed. And her fury traveled and hit its
mark, cutting through the shields of sorcery, streaming loudly into the consciousness of a man trapped in the body of a horse.

It was as if, for just a moment, he saw it all.

Kill her, Elspyth,
he cried.
Survive!
And then he was gone, slipping away from her mind like sand through fingers.

“Lothryn!” she shrieked, but silence was all she heard. Thick, dark silence and Alda’s sinister presence.

“It’s time, Olivya,” the woman called sweetly, like a mother to her child. Except the sweetness was tainted and false.

“Do it, then, bitch! End it!” Elspyth screamed back over the excited clamor of the audience, who knew the blade would fall only once more.

Alda was not prepared for this. She had anticipated begging and weeping, but not aggression. Then she frowned; Elspyth was crouching as if in disabling pain, placing her blade in the sawdust.

“I have no more to give,” Elspyth whispered, “no more.”

Her opponent became angry. “You gave nothing! You didn’t even try to defend yourself, you weak fool. At least now I have my escape from here. Thank you, Olivya—your life has bought something precious.” She sneered as she quickly covered the ground between them.

“Make it swift,” Elspyth pleaded.

“I will,” the woman said, wiping blood from her mouth, hardly able to see flesh through the red liquid covering her opponent’s body. “Bare your throat!”

Elspyth turned her head slightly sideways, knowing she looked like a lamb with its neck exposed for a quick killing slash.

In her excitement, all Alda saw was the girl giving herself willingly to death. She did not notice Elspyth’s hand reaching slowly for the blade by her side. Some of the men did, and began screaming for Alda to beware, but she could not hear them in the cacophony. She had eyes now only for Olivya’s creamy throat and raised her blade high into the air.

Elspyth watched the weapon reach the zenith of its arc…Now! She moved faster than she ever had before. It was a
once-only effort and it had to be accurate. Wyl had told her that in battle, when you sense the opening in someone’s defenses, you have to strike as fast as your body allows and put your full strength behind it, as a cat does when it pounces. Elspyth was that cat now. She felt her legs push up hard as she poured every ounce of her courage and love for Lothryn into one savage leap. Propelling herself upward, she thrust the blade before her and, unbelievably, saw it embed itself in the center of Alda’s throat.

Elspyth felt pain as Alda’s knife, intended for her neck, missed its mark and sank deep into her shoulder. It hurt, more than she cared to think about, but it would not take her life…unlike her blow. Alda’s spluttering surprise was cut short by a horrible gurgle, and she fell to the sand.

Elspyth, trembling with shock, knelt beside Alda’s slumped figure and took her hand. She did not want her to go to her god amid hate. The woman tried to speak, but her eyes were already glazing over. Did she feel regret that she had lost her chance for the slave boat or sorrow for the cold-blooded actions that had brought her this far? Elspyth would never know, but she felt the slightest squeeze of her hand as the dying woman struggled not to release her soul to the Gatherers.

A hush blanketed the audience in eerie silence. Much money had been lost this evening; the underdog had won against the odds.

Alda’s blood mixed with Elspyth’s, forming a pool between them. “I’m sorry,” Elspyth whispered, unable to control her tears. “May Shar guide you to his peace.” Alda died with a crooked smile, as if in thanks for Elspyth’s blessing.

The strangled silence of disbelief was broken by the angry shouts of soldiers bursting into the building. One of them was Commander Liryk, roaring orders, but it was Crys who saw Elspyth first.

The sight of the two bloodied figures in the middle of the makeshift arena horrified him, stopping him in his tracks. One woman was obviously dying, perhaps already dead, and the other was sobbing.

“Elspyth,” he called into the rabble. She did not hear him. “Elspyth!” he yelled, fury overtaking him as images of his own dead family scorched a path to the front of his mind.

She looked up, her body trembling. “Crys?” He saw her mouth move hesitantly, as if she was unsure she could believe what she was seeing.

He was at her side in a few angry strides and scooped her into his arms, the blood that covered her body wet against him. Unable to force out another word, all Crys could do was bury his face in her lank, bloodied hair and weep with her.

Kind arms finally loosened his grip on Elspyth and a blanket was thrown around her shivering body. Liryk squeezed Crys’s arms. “Steady now,” he said, and Crys was grateful for the reminder that he must hold his strength in front of the men. He nodded, communicating his thanks silently to the senior soldier. “She’s hurt,” he said, at which point Elspyth sank to her knees.