Bridge of Souls (40 page)

“Hold him, Rollo!” the King commanded, pointing at a startled Aremys, who had remained frozen, unsure whether to run toward Ylena or out the door. Either way he left his decision until it was too late and Wyl closed Ylena’s eyes with despair. He moved her bleeding, broken body into a sitting position and prayed the King would not hurt her further. He could handle the physical pain, but the battering of Ylena both at Tenterdyn and now here was more than Wyl could bear emotionally.

“Be still, Farrow!” Cailech commanded. “There is no escape.”

Aremys obeyed. “What is this about, your highness? I thought I was a free man.”

“You were,” Cailech said, advancing on his new victim, Ylena forgotten. “Until Borc brought me some dark news.”

Aremys wore a confused expression. “What news, sire?”

“You snake!” Cailech spat. “Am I that gullible, Farrow? Perhaps I am,” he said, answering his own questions with a weariness in his voice. He smiled suddenly, ruefully. “I trusted you. I thought you were on our side.”

“King Cailech—” Aremys began.

“Don’t, Grenadyne,” the King warned. “Don’t begin to spin any lies. Rollo, is everything secured?”

The man nodded. “Borc and some others are seeing to it, sire.”

“Myrt?”

Rollo looked uncomfortable at the mention of the senior warrior’s name. “He is being followed to the barshi’s quarters, sire, as you ordered.”

As soon as Aremys heard Myrt’s name, he lowered his chin and his body slumped slightly in the grip of the men. They were all as good as dead now. He looked over at Wyl, equally helpless at the other end of the room, and felt something inside him break.

R
ashlyn had been experiencing an inexplicable sense of doom for the past few hours. The Stones, which he had cast for himself, kept showing him the coming of a dragon. It made no sense. Dragons were creatures of myth, as were winged lions, unicorns, and other strange beasts worshiped through the ages—and still revered in Morgravia. The Stones had never given him such a picture before and yet they insisted, time and again. Considering that he had cast the Stones only a few times in his life on his own behalf—and had always found them accurate—this was wildly unsettling.

He had been pondering this curiosity for many hours, wondering at what it could mean for Cailech and, more to the point, himself. Now he felt a light was dawning: Perhaps the vision pointed toward the changing of a sovereign in Morgravia. It had come to him that the King of Morgravia sat upon the dragon throne, and that the King’s emblem—and mythical creature of the Crown of Morgravia—had always been the dragon. So did the coming of the dragon shown by the Stones mean a new king for the southern realm?

That made little sense, however, for the present King was
young, virile, and seemingly in excellent health, according to Cailech. Perhaps they were suggesting that the marriage of Celimus to Valentyna would change the Crown somewhat, bringing a new queen to the throne. Except the Stones were specific; they spoke only of the dragon and a new coming. Valentyna was not in any way connected to the dragon throne; nor, to Rashlyn’s knowledge, did the Briavellians have any link to the mythical creatures in the manner of Morgravia.

No, he pondered, pulling at his tangled beard, this was specifically about the Dragon King. There it was again: change. Before Cailech had left for Morgravia, the Stones had spoken change and Rashlyn had thought they referred to something sinister. As it turned out, Cailech had returned triumphant, not only with a new truce and a peaceful neighbor but with a bride as well. Rashlyn nodded to himself, congratulating the Stones on their accuracy. Change had indeed occurred for the King of the Razors. Everything had changed for the better.

But now this…this time it felt sinister, threatening. The Stones pointed toward the coming of the dragon, but he had done this casting purely for himself, not on behalf of Cailech. This foretelling was about him. Was the dragon coming for him?

Deep in his thoughts, he jumped in alarm as the door of his chamber crashed open and Myrt’s huge body filled the doorway.

“Good evening, barshi,” Myrt said. The words were polite, but the tone and the expression on the big man’s face belied them.

“What are you doing here?” the small man stammered, immediately summoning a spell of protection.

“I’ve come for the truth about Lothryn—or should I say Galapek?”

Rashlyn was intrigued by the big man’s discovery; he held back the magic he had prepared to hurl. “What do you know?” he asked, his voice light and taunting.

“Where is the Morgravian prisoner?” Myrt responded.

The barshi gave a mad cackle. “I’ll be happy to show you,” he said, and pointed to the corner, where a large gray dog was sitting, chained and quivering.

Myrt, aghast, was unsure whether to take the deranged barshi seriously, yet somehow knew he was being shown the truth. “Gueryn?” he asked the dog tentatively.

The dog whined. It was in obvious pain, but it pawed the ground in frustration and strained against its chain.

“Like my work, Myrt? It’s so much better than Lothryn, whom I’m afraid I must have killed in the process. As you can see, le Gant is alive within the beast and fully aware of his new status.”

“You fucking—”

Myrt got no further. Pain exploded in his head and his nose and ears began to leak blood.

“Shut up!” the barshi screamed. “Or I won’t even give you a choice of what I turn you into, you stupid fool.” Myrt was moaning unintelligibly and clutching his head. “I guess that hurts, eh?” Rashlyn continued. “Well, listen to me now, big man. I’m going to take away the pain and then you are going to tell me who else knows my secret.”

Myrt shook his head vigorously and blood spattered the barshi. Rashlyn seemed not to notice; instead he stepped up the punishment and the warrior’s eyes bulged as a fresh wave of pain hit.

“Do just as I say, Myrt,” Rashlyn warned. His fingers moved slightly and the warrior was pushed back and held against the wall. “Better?” he asked, dispelling the pain.

Myrt shook his head, refusing to cooperate even as his body was released from its agony.

“Who else knows?” Rashlyn asked, moving toward the warrior.

“Just me and, I presume, the King,” Myrt spluttered. Although the pain had lifted, the toll on his body was significant enough to make him gasp still.

“Oh yes, the King knows. It was his choice to punish
Lothryn that way, you see. I think it’s beautifully subtle. And Galapek is so magnificent—”

Rashlyn suddenly stopped and cocked his head, as if listening to something. He turned slowly, fear coursing through every fiber of his being.

“What?” Myrt asked.

“Shh!” Rashlyn cautioned, swiveling his body from the window to the door, then back again. “It’s coming,” he murmured.

Myrt, connected to the barshi through the madman’s magic, also sensed the approach of something. Stunned by the immensity of power that was being communicated, he whispered, “What is it?”

“The dragon,” Rashlyn replied, suddenly releasing his magic hold on Myrt as his own fears got the better of him.

Myrt fell to the floor, hitting his knees hard and yelling in protest. He was forgotten as the barshi began to spin around in the chamber, a look of terror on his face. Myrt took advantage of Rashlyn’s confusion to drag himself across the floor to the dog, which cocked its head toward a key on the table. Myrt nodded, reached for the key, and unlocked the chain that secured the dog. It barked once and stretched itself on unsteady, gangly legs.

Blood was running freely from Myrt’s nose; he only noticed it now. He tried to wipe it away, but more replaced it. He was thinking he should ignore the weakness imposed by the barshi’s magic and somehow make his way to the door, crawling if necessary, when the doorway was filled by a large figure.

“Hello, Borc,” he said, disdain lacing his tone. He did not like this young man, whom he blamed for Lothryn’s capture and torture.

The warrior looked over at Rashlyn, who seemed to be in a trance, mumbling to himself. “What have you done?” he demanded of Myrt.

“Nothing. He’s off in his own world, muttering about the coming of a dragon or something. Why are you here?”

“Why are you on the floor…bleeding?” Borc continued angrily, dismissing the question leveled at him.

“The last time I checked,” Myrt began, working hard to ignore the weakening sensations in his body, “I was your superior, Borc. Do I need to remind you of how to speak to a superior?”

“And the last time I checked, Myrt”—Borc sneered—“you were busy murdering someone.”

“Ah,” Myrt replied, hiding his shock. He would not give this sniveling youngster the satisfaction he surely craved of watching the most senior of the warriors groveling to him.

“I told the King,” Borc added triumphantly.

“Yes, I’m sure you have, you arse-licking fuck!”

Borc’s reply was cut off as a boy appeared to step through the granite blocks of the high tower’s wall. He was surrounded by a shimmering light that momentarily blinded the three men in the chamber before it dissipated. The boy looked around at them and Myrt realized this was no vision; the boy was flesh and blood—scrawny and small but terrifyingly real.

Rashlyn’s wildness intensified. “Who are you?” he screeched.

“I am your destroyer, Rashlyn,” the boy said.

Then everything happened very fast. Rashlyn leapt through an open window. The drop meant certain death, yet Myrt was certain he glimpsed the barshi hovering in the open air before he disappeared from view. The boy smiled before seeming to dissolve back through the wall. Borc watched him too, openmouthed and filled with disbelief. It was his slowness to recover that gave the gray dog a chance to leap, bringing the man down.

Myrt watched in horror as the dog, its limbs still trembling, struck for Borc’s throat. Myrt reached for his dagger, but so did Borc. The younger man was strong and he struck at the dog with the blade, wounding it many times in its side. But the creature refused to let go. It had the warrior by the throat at last, seemingly experiencing the blood madness that comes over a beast when defending its life or those it loves just as it comes over a man.

Myrt raised himself painfully, still suffering the effects of the magic, and all but fell onto Borc and the dog. The animal
was growling fiercely now, its huge jaws locked around the man’s neck, tearing at his throat. Borc made one final valiant effort and managed to sink his blade into the animal’s chest. The dog screamed and rolled away, but Myrt moved quickly. He would mete out death on behalf of the dog who had saved his, Myrt’s, life. Raising his dagger, he struck deep into Borc’s lacerated throat and hit the artery he was looking for. The younger man stared with dismay at the plume of blood that erupted, and grabbed his neck in a sad attempt to retain the precious liquid. He even managed to drag himself to his knees before Haldor claimed him and Borc of the Mountain People fell heavily across the prone dog, dead.

C
RYS
D
ONAL RODE
E
RYD
B
ENCH
’
S CHESTNUT MARE THROUGH THE
P
EARLIS TOWN GATES
,
NODDING TO THE WATCHMEN AS HE PASSED
.

“Shar guide you,” they called to the lone rider, who raised his hand in friendly salute but said nothing in return.

Not long afterward a black carriage, like any other public carriage that plied its trade on the streets of Pearlis, also left the gates.

“How long, Gordy?” one of the watchmen cried as the driver paid his toll, recognizing him from the pool of men who entered and exited the city many times a day with paying passengers. The man shrugged and the gatekeepers caught sight
of two women in the carriage whom they recognized as Lady Bench and her daughter. “Evening, Lady Bench,” one said, showing the right courtesies.

Helyn Bench smiled back, the men never knowing how much courage that gesture took. The younger woman did not look at them at all. “Onward, driver,” Lady Bench called.

It was at least another fifteen minutes before a petite figure, cloaked in blue, walked a horse out of the city gates to whistles of approval from the men. It was not dark yet, so they could see her pretty features set in a pale face. Fortunately for Elspyth, they could not see the dark bloodstain on her cloak or the fierce effort it required for her to urge the horse to carry her gently beyond the reach of King Celimus. She forced a smile and said, “See you soon, lads,” as if she were only going to be away for a few hours, then she too disappeared down the road. She knew she had two bends to get past before the third one would remove her fully from the watchtower’s view. It felt like a lifetime and she wondered if the guards were wondering why she was riding so slowly down the road.

Finally she caught sight of Crys Donal. He rushed toward her, and as much as she wanted to be composed and not show how sick she was, Elspyth all but fell from the horse as she leaned toward him. As they had done before, the strong arms of the Duke of Felrawthy cushioned her and carried her gently to a patch of soft grass. “I’m sorry you had to do that, but—” he began.

“Hush, Crys,” she replied. “There was no other way. It would have looked too odd for Georgyana to ride out after her mother’s carriage, especially alone.”

“We can only hope those guards make no connections. Two of us were strangers and easily forgotten,” Crys reassured. Elspyth noticed how his gaze softened when it fell upon the Benchs’ golden-haired daughter. She felt another pang and reminded herself that Crys did not belong to her. She had pushed his gentle advances away too often. She was spoken for…if, perhaps, only by a dead man, she thought sadly.

Crys glanced toward Lady Bench, who sat on a milestone staring straight out before her, clearly dwelling on thoughts of her beloved Eryd. He walked over and put his arms around her. She was a friend of his mother’s, who was about the same age. He tried to imagine how Aleda must have felt watching Jeryb Donal die. Crys was sure Eryd was dead by now too, and knew the effect of his death on Lady Bench would be no less painful than if she had witnessed it.

“I’m so sorry, Helyn,” he said softly.

“Are you sure it’s useless, Crys? I mean—”

He cut off her teary words; they were too painful to listen to again. “We cannot risk Georgyana, Lady Bench. You must see to her safety first. I promise you I will return to Pearlis, but first I insist on ensuring that you three ladies are out of danger.” He hugged her again, suspecting that her inclination was to send Georgyana on with him and take her chances back in Pearlis. “Please, Lady Bench. Celimus showed no mercy to my parents, or my brothers, the youngest of whom had barely reached your daughter’s tender years. He will have no qualms about killing you, Lord Bench, Georgyana, and anyone else who looks to be getting in his way.”

“In the way of what?” she said.

“Of whatever it is that he wants,” Crys replied. “He is mad, Lady Bench. He dreams of empire. The upcoming wedding is a sham. He will destroy Valentyna and Briavel one way or another—it just appears more respectable if he can do it diplomatically. Listen to me,” he said, taking the liberty of turning her face toward his earnest one. “If he was prepared to murder my father, who was the most loyal of Morgravians, then he will respect none of his senior counselors’ lives. Please trust me.”

“So you think Eryd is already dead,” she said, her voice flat.

There was no point in attempting to placate this woman with empty words after making her and her daughter flee for their lives. “I do.”

She did not break down into sobs as he had expected; she
did not even shed another tear. Instead she echoed the words of his mother. “Avenge him,” she said, “for our sakes.”

“Celimus has many deaths to answer for, my lady. I intend to make him accountable for each of them, rest assured.”

She squeezed his arm, unable to speak for her tumbling emotions.

“Come, we will ride in pairs now,” he continued. Elspyth was breathing hard, and Crys reached for her hand. “Can you go a bit farther?”

“Yes, let’s go,” she said, enjoying, despite herself, his touch in front of Georgyana.

“You and Lady Bench ride together, Elspyth. Georgyana can come with me,” Crys said, instantly putting to rest any delusion that he was not utterly infatuated with the young noblewoman. It was fitting that he should align himself with his own kind; they would make the most handsome of couples, Elspyth thought. She scowled privately but convinced herself that her acid mood was caused by the throb at her shoulder.

“Where are we going?” Georgyana asked, unaware of the sour emotions the pretty woman by her side was feeling.

“They will expect us to go north,” Crys said, “as we all have homes and links there.”

“So we go south?” Georgyna finished for him. He smiled indulgently.

“Yes, my lady. South to Argorn.”

J
essom stared at the sputtering candle. Its erratic flame held his attention in the otherwise darkened room. His thoughts were distracted, roaming. A light perfume wafted up from the soap leaf he had used to wash his hands after touching Eryd Bench’s body. He had killed twice himself, and had had many deaths carried out at his order, but none had ever felt like this one. Lord Bench’s death had been as unpleasant as it was unnecessary. Unpleasant because Jessom had been forced to ad
minister the poison personally and very much against his own will, and unnecessary because it had achieved nothing but another dirty secret to keep hidden.

He linked his newly washed fingers as he contemplated the afternoon’s pointless proceedings. To the King, the report of another killing, no matter how high ranking the victim, was akin to hearing that a kitten from the kitchen cat’s latest litter had died.
He just kills on a whim,
Jessom thought bitterly. Bench and his fellow lord could have been so easily diverted, sent on some special mission even, but left alive, retaining their importance in the fabric of Morgravian life. “Shar knows, that fabric is wearing very thin,” the Chancellor muttered.

If even Lord Bench had been questioning the King and his motives, then this was surely the end of the road, for Eryd Bench would never have considered making his concerns public without much soul-searching. How many others had doubts? Jessom wondered. How many others disapproved of the King’s actions?

“Civil unrest is next.” Jessom finished the thought aloud.

It would only take someone like Crys Donal, now the Duke of Felrawthy, to stir up sufficient emotion and the civil unrest could turn into an uprising. Jessom was not so naive as to believe that the famous Legion would not follow its instincts, which would be screaming in favor of Lord Donal after what had happened in the north. The Legion had suffered several blows recently—enough to provoke the men into turning against the King they hated.

Jessom listed them in his mind: Alyd Donal, Wyl Thirsk, Ylena Thirsk, most of the Donal family, Rittylworth’s holy community. Even the death of King Valor of Briavel was beginning to be viewed suspiciously, particularly given that Wyl Thirsk had been in Werryl on the King’s business when he had lost his life alongside Valor. Jessom had heard mutterings that the circumstances of the two deaths were not as cut-and-dried as they were said to be. Then there was Jorn, a popular lad around Stoneheart—his torture and death had hit hard, and for what result? The Legion had not recovered from the
deaths of its own men either—all in the pursuit of missing taxes. Too many had been impaled and left to die long, horrible deaths. Celimus was too cruel, too quick to punish without consideration of the repercussions. As for all the mercenaries who had lost their lives—well, few cared, but Jessom was tired of killing for no good reason. Almost all could have been spared; they had been on the Crown’s side anyway.

He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. And now Lord Bench was dead and Hartley was languishing in the dungeon. Jessom had finally rebelled against Celimus. He would find a way to spare Hartley yet; he refused to kill pointlessly again.

Jessom lit a fresh candle and extinguished the sputtering one with a pinch, hardly feeling its warmth on his fingertips. He was too deep in thought about his own future. He assessed his options. They were few and mostly unpalatable. He could remain with Celimus and stay loyal to his belief that the King of Morgravia was too strong to be challenged. He could raise the Legion himself by telling its officers the truth, but then what? They could unseat Celimus but there was no heir, which potentially meant some distant relative from Parrgamyn perhaps laying claim to the throne. Jessom’s experience of the Parrgamyse told him that this was not a wise path. Alternately, he could argue that a new dynasty be created from within—with someone like the new Duke of Felrawthy, perhaps—but such a transfer of power would be messy, full of internal strife, and not guaranteed to be successful or bloodless. Third, he could leave. Disappear tonight and begin a new life elsewhere. But where? And if Celimus survived as King, he would have Jessom hunted down. The Chancellor could not bear to dwell on what the King would do with him when he was caught…and he was sure he would be caught, even if it took Celimus years

That left one last option. And as he reflected on its merits, he realized it was, without question, not only the best of the alternatives but was perhaps his most inspired idea ever. If it
worked, he would never have to worry again. If he failed, it meant an horrific death. He must take precautions.

He would need the help of an expert in fashioning a fail-safe capsule of the juice of the Deathbloom, a plant so rare most people had never heard of it. If he was caught in this last and desperate measure, then he would not hesitate to bite down on the capsule, which would deliver death so swiftly that no one would even realize what had occurred. By then, his body would be stiff in the rigor the plant’s poison so effectively provoked.

He smiled thinly. “Not that I intend ever to take that capsule,” he whispered.

W
yl stared at Aremys through Ylena’s glazed vision. He must have passed out momentarily, he realized; he had slumped to one side and must appear dead. It looked as though the fight had gone out of the Grenadyne. The King was pacing before him, poking his finger into his chest, sneering at him with cutting words. The two guards on either side of Aremys looked uncomfortable. Wyl fought the pain back as Gueryn had taught him and righted Ylena’s frame against the hearth. No one saw his movement; everyone was intent on Cailech.

Wyl had to move, broken leg and dislocated shoulder aside. Go down fighting—was that not the Legion’s way? He rallied his spirit and called upon everything left within him to find the strength to move toward Aremys.

“So you don’t deny Maegryn’s murder?” Cailech demanded of the mercenary, his anger back under icy control.

“No, sire. It was a mistake.”

“Mistake!”

Aremys blinked. There was no way out of this, no possible explanation—except the truth, of course—for the death of the stablemaster. Aremys no longer cared about Cailech and the peace treaty or about the Mountain People. In truth, if he boiled it down, he cared about the man trapped in the broken
woman’s body in the corner, he cared about a man driven mad with pain and anguish by being transformed into a horse, and he cared about bringing about the death of a southern king.

Nothing much else mattered—not even his own life, it seemed, because it had not occurred to him to include it in his list. He stole a glance at Wyl and realized he had moved. Not dead, then; brave Wyl was forcing his broken body toward him. What could the two of them achieve against two huge warriors and an enraged king who was now reaching for his blade?

“Lost for words, Farrow? Perhaps this will loosen your tongue,” Cailech said, swiping his knife across the Grenadyne’s face.

Aremys saw the red splashes spatter Rollo’s face. The man blinked but said nothing. To his own credit, Aremys hardly flinched. Perhaps it had been too fast. How he found the strength he would never know, but he enjoyed it. “Haldor be praised that your blade is kept so keen, Cailech. I didn’t feel a thing.”

The King’s gaze narrowed as he watched the bright blood drench the face of the man he had called friend, the man he had thought might fill the yearning gap that had been caused by the loss of Lothryn. But this man was now facing death
because
of Lothryn.

“Why, Aremys? You could have had it all with me,” Cailech said, a touch of sadness creeping into his tone.

“Because you are a puppet king,” Aremys replied, defiance rising in him as he accepted death. He could see the pulse at Cailech’s temple beginning to throb.