Bridge of Souls (49 page)

“No need for that, Jessom. I have no intention of anything but sealing our bargain.”

Palm met palm and Cailech’s fingers closed around Jessom’s hand. The King was smiling, and Jessom suddenly real
ized there was something unnerving, something predatory, in that expression. The Chancellor balked, tried to release himself from Cailech’s grip, but it was too late. A shimmering blue light flowed around their hands. A seal.

V
ALENTYNA STOOD FORLORNLY IN A GRAND CHAMBER AT
S
TONEHEART
,
HER HEART AS COLD AS THE DARK STONE SURROUNDING HER
. M
ADAM
E
LTOR
had permitted only her most senior and trusted assistant to help her dress the Queen. Valentyna sensed rather than saw the surreptitious glances between the two older women as they took in her grief-stricken expression.

“Come now, my queen,” her seamstress tried once more. “Please don’t stain your face with tears.”

“There are no more tears left within me,” Valentyna replied.

“This is your wedding day, your highness. The happiest day ever for the people of Briavel and Morgravia,” the assistant risked.

“Not for me, though,” the Queen replied, not caring that her words provoked a raising of the assistant’s eyebrows and a stern gaze from her superior.

The women had worked fast and fluidly. Valentyna was already stitched into her gown, although Madam Eltor had tuttutted, warning, “You’ve lost weight, my girl. This was perfect last week.”

Valentyna just shook her head. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That will be all, Maud,” Madam Eltor said, dismissing her assistant. “I hope I don’t need to remind you that what is discussed in our presence always remains private.”

Maud curtsied and left hurriedly, the news no doubt already spilling out of her that the Queen was going to her wedding as full of grief as when she had attended her father’s funeral. “Valentyna!” the seamstress snapped. “Stop this!”

“I don’t love him,” she said, balling her fists and closing her eyes, trying to get a grip on her spiraling emotions.

“We don’t care!” Madam Eltor replied, deciding that harshness was the only solution now. “He brings us peace. I regret that you are the currency with which we buy it, your highness, but it is too late for you to turn back.”

Valentyna was stung. “Yes. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.”

The seamstress’s voice softened. “Be stout of heart, Valentyna. You are Briavel’s jewel. The brightest jewel now in Morgravia’s crown. Imagine how proud you would make your father today.”

“Yes, by marrying the man who murdered him,” Valentyna muttered.

Her companion gave a gasp of shock and Valentyna realized too late that hurting Madam Eltor achieved nothing. The truth of Valor’s demise did not change the fact of his death or her decision to marry Celimus. She hated the way she veered between courage and weakness: One moment she felt she could make the marriage work, would bear his children, would make Briavel safe and prosperous. The next, she plunged into gloom, remembering that passionate hour in Wyl’s arms. How could she wipe that from her thoughts? How could she lie with Celimus this evening and not feel anything but revulsion?

Because you must,
she told herself in a small, urgent voice.
Because Briavel’s future rests upon it.

“I’m all right,” she reassured her seamstress. “My nerves are jangling. I’ll be fine once we leave for the cathedral, I promise. Put the veil on.”

Madam Eltor did not believe her, but she obediently draped
the exquisite veil over Valentyna’s head and face, then stepped back to admire her work. “You are breathtaking, your majesty. The Morgravians will fall in love with you instantly.”

Valentyna found a small smile for her lifelong friend. “I’m ready,” she said.

C
elimus had had ordered a glistening white carriage to convey his bride to the cathedral. It sported the new device linking Morgravia and Briavel: the intertwined initials of the King and Queen painted in their national colors. Four stunning white horses, imported from Grenadyne, pulled the carriage. Accompanying the Queen were members of the Briavellian Guard, beautifully outfitted in emerald and violet. A proud Commander Liryk waited, as did all the crowd, for the first glimpse of the Queen.

As if Shar himself had ordained it, the sun appeared from behind a cloud and bathed the main square of Stoneheart in a dazzling golden light. The people screamed their delight as the Queen appeared on the steps of Stoneheart’s main entrance in that same moment. Trumpets sounded above the din, and without a male family member to do the honors, it was left to Commander Liryk to walk stiff and proud up those stairs to escort her. He bowed low before her, as did all gathered.

Valentyna was moved. A lump formed in her throat and she recalled the similar tumultuous welcome she had been given on her arrival into Pearlis. She and Celimus had had a deafening, exhausting couple of hours making their way through the cheering city. Everyone had seemed to be waving squares of linen in the colors crimson, black, emerald, and violet, creating a sea of moving color that mingled the two realms more effectively than any device she and Celimus could have arranged.

She curtsied low and long to the people. The gracious acknowledgment drove them into even wilder applause. Liryk smiled at her action. “You are already their queen,” he said, his breath catching.

Valentyna thought she might cry again. “I hope my father is watching,” she managed to say.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “He will be cheering alongside your beautiful mother, both of them so proud.”

“Thank you, Liryk, for all you have done for me. I’m sorry I have been difficult in recent times.”

“Your highness,” he said with genuine reverence. “I am your servant.”

Valentyna was warmed by the sentiment of her commander and the pride his words evoked within her. She vowed once again to somehow exist alongside Celimus without fracturing the peace their two realms considered so very precious.

“Come, Liryk. Lead me to my husband.”

W
yl could hear delirious cheering as he was led out of the dungeons into a courtyard he had never seen before.

“Has the Queen left the palace?” he asked one of the senior soldiers, a man he recognized.

“I think so,” the man answered, embarrassed by his task. This was a king, after all, and they had been led to believe a peace agreement had been made with the Mountain dwellers.

“And where do you take me now?”

The man hesitated and checked that the manacles were secure on their prisoner. “We have orders to move you, King Cailech.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, soldier,” Wyl insisted. “I asked where.”

To his credit, the soldier looked directly into the hard gaze of the Mountain King. “To the block, sire.”

Wyl sighed. “I see.” Celimus was wasting no time in executing his northern rival. He wondered if the cruel sovereign would force Valentyna to witness the death. He knew that Celimus would revel in the grisly notion. And she would have no choice. Executions were something royalty had to face whether or not they had a stomach for it. And Valentyna
would not be watching a stranger die, as Celimus assumed; she would be watching the head of the man she loved be severed and lifted in triumph above his slumped corpse. He hated to think about how this would hurt her very soul, and did not want to ponder how she would respond to his transference into Celimus.

Wyl heard the crowd cheer again and imagined the Queen of Briavel’s procession to the cathedral. She would be serene, he decided; she would rise above her sorrow and do her realm justice. Her gown would be simple, with little if any adornment, as was her way. He imagined she would wear her raven hair loose, and smiled sadly to think how the bridal veil would be a welcome sheath between herself and the reality of her situation, a barrier between herself and Celimus. But not for long. Once their vows were exchanged, the King would claim a kiss to seal the holy pact made before Shar, raising the veil and tearing away Valentyna’s last protection.

Wyl could not help but recall how he had fallen in love with Valentyna at first sight. Dusty and dressed in riding breeches, she had had smudges on her cheeks and her hair had been falling about her face. She had reeked of horse and leather. Yet it had been his pleasure to kiss her hand and his heart’s desire to ask for it in marriage, even on behalf of another. A smile had broken across her face like new sunlight; he had bathed in its warmth and his heart had become instantly hers.

But that was over now. It had all gone so terribly wrong. Above the roar of the crowd he could hear the cathedral bells pealing, heralding the impending marriage. Soon she would be the Morgravian Queen, married to his enemy, and he himself would be past caring about.

Wyl felt sick. He stumbled slightly and the soldier walking by his side instinctively threw out a steadying hand. “I’m not used to being in chains,” Wyl lamented. The man nodded, clearly awkward.

And so I move between Kings today,
Wyl thought,
and then I die.
He had not lived out the great Thirsk tradition of death on a battlefield; instead he would succumb to death enmeshed in a
battle of magic he could not win. He was nothing more than an unwilling puppet.

“Wait.” Wyl stopped, suddenly anxious. “The King will be present, I take it?”

“Yes, sire.”

Relief flooded him. “Good. I want him to share my death,” he said, surprising the Legionnaires around him by smiling fiercely.

A
remys had arrived only hours before the wedding procession, exhausted and dirty but relieved that he had made it to Pearlis in time. He used his strength to bully his way to the front of the crowd, earning disgruntled grumbles. One man risked hurling his displeasure at the bear, who simply turned and scowled at him through dark, hooded eyes. “Shut up!” was his reply, and all within earshot did just that.

V
alentyna caught her breath at the first sight of the famed cathedral of Pearlis. Bells were pealing and heralds trumpeted her arrival into its grounds. She tried to imagine what Celimus was feeling inside the cathedral. Satisfaction, she decided. He had won. It seemed he always did where she was concerned.

Meanwhile, inside the hushed cathedral, King Celimus took the nod from Jessom that the Queen’s carriage was pulling into the compound. The man looked thinner and more vulturelike than ever. Celimus had heard the whispered jokes about his chancellor’s likeness to a carrion bird. It was actually a very good description, particularly today, he thought, wondering what was passing through Jessom’s sharp and slippery mind. He did not trust him as he once had. There was defiance lurking behind that well-guarded facade. The King was not fooled: Jessom would switch allegiance in a blink if he thought
the cards were going to fall the wrong way. And Celimus had begun to believe that the Chancellor might be considering his future quite carefully.

Jessom’s fierce disagreement with the King’s latest idea regarding King Cailech’s execution had further fueled Celimus’s mistrust. Where did the Chancellor’s interest lie that he would advise so strongly against taking the Razor King’s life?

“Is everything ready?” he whispered.

“Her majesty arrives, sire, yes,” Jessom confirmed.

“Not her, you fool. Cailech?”

Jessom nodded in that slow, reptilian manner of his. “As you ordered, sire.”

“Good. Now get out of my way. You’re blocking the view of my latest conquest. This is a good day, Jessom. A very good day. Two monarchs will be brought to their knees before me.” He laughed quietly, straightening the front of his black jacket. He knew he was resplendent in dashing crimson and noir with flashes of gold and a cape of the blackest yarn lined with the fiery red of Morgravia. He was looking forward to claiming Valentyna’s maidenhood tonight and did not plan on being gentle about it. A husband must impress on his wife that he was in charge.

A
remys watched with a heavy heart as Valentyna alighted from the carriage, aided by Commander Liryk. He had mixed feelings about the Briavellian who had helped him escape while at the same time aiding in the capture and imprisonment of King Cailech.

The Grenadyne assumed that Wyl was already cooling his heels in Stoneheart’s dungeons. During the frenzied dash from Werryl to Pearlis, he had focused only on getting to the capital and finding a way to help Wyl. The promise he had made to Wyl burned brightly in his mind now. Would he be able to do it? Could he murder his closest friend? He had watched Wyl’s strange journey through three lives and had come to love
him in the way that King Cailech had once described his feelings for Lothryn: brotherhood, friendship, loyalty. Aremys felt an intense sorrow for Wyl’s suffering, but he was not sure he could find the courage to kill the man he loved as a brother, even out of kindness.

Aremys pulled himself out of his dark thoughts as Valentyna approached. She looked more beautiful than he could ever have imagined, gliding alongside Commander Liryk, smiling softly to the crowd and carrying herself proud and erect. As she passed, and the cheering around him increased to its highest volume, he roared her name, not really expecting her to hear. Amazingly, she did, swinging around toward his voice.

When she saw him she faltered. “Aremys,” she mouthed as she passed, and he lifted a hand in greeting. They were both thinking the same thing:
Wyl
. When she cast a last glance over her shoulder, looking at him through her veil, he nodded his encouragement to her.

And then she was gone in a fanfare of trumpets, through the massive double doors of the cathedral, swallowed into its dark depths and an uncertain future.

C
rys Donal had seen the bride too, but had not been able to make eye contact with her—not that she would have recognized him if he had. His yellow hair was now a deep brown and he sported a beard and mustache, also darkened. Gone were the fine clothes, replaced with the uniform of a Legionnaire. He blended into the crowd perfectly, and as neither King Celimus nor those he kept close knew Crys Donal by sight, he felt relatively secure.