Bridge of Souls (51 page)

W
YL WAS LED UP ONTO A HASTILY BUILT WOODEN STAGE
. D
ESPITE THAT TOUCH OF THEATER
,
IT WAS A LONELY SCENE FOR A KING
’
S END
. T
HE ONLY
witnesses were the two royals, a few guards, the Chancellor, and, of course, the masked executioner, who had just arrived.

Wyl was not afraid. The truth was, he could not wait to die again, and feel the Quickening release him from Myrren’s Gift and the curse she had brought over his life. He would not have to live long as Celimus. Just long enough to be with Valentyna again, to hold her once more.

And if it all went sadly awry, he would still live—this time as a burly man of enormous strength and stature. Wyl had taken the precaution of discovering the executioner’s name: Art Featherstone. He wondered briefly how, in the guise of the executioner, he would ever contrive to get close enough to Celimus for Myrren’s Gift to come into play again, but gave up the line of thought. Whoever could have thought that Wyl would become Romen, or that Faryl would claim Romen’s life, or that Ylena—he faltered on hearing her name in his thoughts—would kill Faryl and become her brother’s host. And now here he was, the King of the Razors, about to become the King of Morgravia…or the burly executioner.

He had done his best to plant the seed, without actually inviting death—surely Celimus would find the temptation to personally separate King Cailech’s head from his body irresistible? It would be another triumph for the Crown.

A huge Legionnaire came up with a cup of water. “Orders,” the man said toward the executioner, who nodded, uncaring.

Wyl’s spirits lifted at the sound of the man’s voice. “Aremys,” he whispered as the Grenadyne gave him the cup.

“I beg you, don’t make me keep the promise,” Aremys muttered beneath his breath.

“You will keep it if you care anything for me,” Wyl growled.

Aremys stared into the green eyes, then nodded sadly. “As One,” he said, walking away.

A single trumpet sounded and Wyl noticed for the first time that Valentyna was dressed in a crimson gown. The color of Morgravia. The color of blood. She was solemn-faced and looked intensely frightened. He wished he could spare her this—had hoped against hope that Celimus would come without her.

Valentyna would not look at anyone—not even at Wyl. He could not blame her. It must have felt like a shocking betrayal to hear that he had denied her fabricated story. He understood, but it did not make it any easier to see her ignoring him. Was it just two days ago they had been making love at Werryl? As the killing blow fell he would cling to that, remember what it felt like to lie naked with Valentyna and love her as she loved him.

Celimus guided his wife to a pair of thronelike seats hurriedly erected in the courtyard. He kissed her hand, winning a sickly grimace from the Queen. Her expression did not seem to matter to Celimus, who was now announcing why the King of the Mountains was to die.

Wyl looked toward Jessom as the King spoke and remembered the strange blue light entwining their hands in the dungeon, binding them to each other. He wondered if Fynch was right, if the Chancellor might somehow provide that random element that could outwit Myrren’s Gift. Turning his attention back to Celimus’s speech, Wyl heard that he was to be sacrificed as a wedding gift to Valentyna. At this, he withdrew into himself, praying to Shar that the King of Morgravia
would see fit to gift Valentyna by making the killing blow himself.

V
alentyna had withdrawn too. There was nothing to live for anymore. Soon she would have to witness the death of the man she loved, his head savagely removed from his neck with, hopefully, one swing of a cruel sword. It was too much for her heart to bear.

And after all of that, all that was left for her was Celimus, who had made his despicable intentions very clear. Her notion that she might be able to dupe him into believing she was true had been naive. Celimus was too sharp to fall for that ruse, although he would still expect her to treat him as she had promised, even if she was pretending every minute of every day.

He would continue to hurt her, she knew—first taking Wyl from her, then Briavel, no doubt ultimately taking away every son she bore. Her life would be utterly controlled by him. Bile rose to her throat as she imagined what he was going to do her tonight. Rape, she was sure, would be the very least of it.

Celimus had finished explaining his reasons for executing the treacherous Mountain King and the sudden silence dragged her out of her thoughts. She looked at Cailech, whose shirt was being cut away to reveal his broad torso, sculpted with muscles. She remembered that body well, riding above her in an urgent rhythm, each thrust taking her to a higher level of pleasure.

Chancellor Jessom, looking appropriately somber in black robes, gravely pronounced the Crown’s sentence on the accused. “Have you anything to say, Cailech, King of the Mountains?” he asked finally.

Wyl spoke clearly. “Legionnaires, remember who you are. Remember your oath to protect and serve Morgravians above all others. Above all others,” he stressed, “even above your king—”

“Enough!” roared Celimus, enraged.

At the King’s signal, the beefy executioner backhanded the prisoner, who stumbled but did not fall, despite his manacled ankles.

Wyl knew the guards were probably not Legionnaires—Celimus would not risk them witnessing such an unlawful execution. Nevertheless, he hoped the insult had been sufficient to provoke Celimus into swinging the death sword himself.

“Get on with it!” the King ordered the executioner. “My wife and I wish to continue our wedding festivities.”

“You accuse me of treachery, King Celimus. I’m surprised you aren’t carrying out that threat you made in the dungeon! Or are you too squeamish to risk my blood on your fine garments?” Wyl roared, hoping his lie would get lost in the alarm his words would prompt. He knew he must not try to force death, but perhaps he could needle Celimus into picking up a weapon and killing him in wrath, as Cailech had killed Ylena. “My hunch is that you have never killed anyone yourself but always get others to do it for you, you sniveling coward. A poor shadow of your father,” he added, sneering.

His challenge was greeted with stunned silence as all gathered turned to watch the young King of Morgravia.

Celimus’s voice sounded as cold as the ice from Cailech’s own mountains when it finally came. “I made no threat but you should be assured that I have never been scared to spill your blood, Cailech.”

“Is that so? I’m sure you’ll never prove such a claim,” Wyl taunted, laughing.

Valentyna could not bear it. Wyl had already severed the lifeline she had thrown him and now he wanted to make sure that Celimus chopped his head off? Why? Surely he would prefer the accurate swing of an executioner over the perhaps deliberately clumsy hacking by a man whom he’d just publicly scorned? Wyl had gone mad. He would die painfully and then Celimus would—

Valentyna caught her breath audibly as the realization hit hard. And then Celimus would become Wyl!

Oh Shar! He was doing it deliberately so that Celimus
would die and Wyl would take over his body, becoming the King, and her husband. Wyl would live on because of Myrren’s Gift! Now her breath came hard and fast and her pulse began to race. She stood. “Do it for me, Celimus!” she cried, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.

The King swung around in surprise. “You want me to kill him?”

“Yes,” she demanded. “He has driven a wedge between us with his underhanded dealings. I hate him. I hate his treachery. Kill him, Celimus. Do it with your own hand so that we are free of his curse on our lives. That would be my ultimate wedding gift, sire.” She curtsied low, ensuring that her husband saw the swell of her breasts.

Celimus grinned ferociously. He looked like a wolf closing in on its prey as he peeled off his cloak, the crimson lining reminding everyone of the blood he would shortly spill.

Valentyna could hardly believe it. Her spirits were soaring with the hammering of her heart. She would have Wyl. She would have Romen. She would have Cailech. He would be Celimus, but the real Celimus would be dead.
Thank you, Myrren,
she whispered.
Thank you, Shar
.

“Come, stand closer, my love,” Celimus called to her. “You must share in this, my wedding gift to you.”

Cailech was forced to his knees. Valentyna, no longer afraid, glided confidently toward the husband she despised, her eyes locked on the man who would soon be her one love. She leaned forward and kissed Celimus, making it as tender as she could. She wanted him to know how much this meant to her.

Wyl felt sickened by the kiss and closed his eyes. He knew Valentyna had guessed what was going to happen; he had seen it reflected in the blaze of her eyes and the hungry expression she suddenly wore. But he did not believe she could live alongside him once he was in the body of the Morgravian King. Celimus had damaged them both too much.
Hurry, Shar damn you,
he thought, opening his eyes and silently urging the King on. He lowered his head to the block and bared his thick neck.

But Celimus hesitated. He too had noted the change in his wife’s demeanor. The kiss was a surprise, especially after his threat on the balcony barely an hour ago. He thought about her behavior since: one moment despairing, the next filled with a fervor he did not know she possessed. She looked rejuvenated, excited…she looked hungry. What could possibly have had that effect on her? Surely not the mention of blood. Even the little he knew of her confirmed that she was far from bloodthirsty—she was marrying him simply to prevent bloodshed. No, it was not that. Yet her whole manner had changed at the suggestion that he kill Cailech himself, galvanizing her into this lustful creature. Her eyes blazed with a passion he had not seen since that night in Briavel when they had danced together. And even then he had felt sure the fervor had not been for him.

Celimus’s sharp mind worked across every possible scenario but came up wanting. He could find no logical explanation for this odd change of heart. Valentyna had lied to save this man’s life, had wept at the thought of him dying just moments earlier, yet now she was begging for his execution at the King’s own hand. His instincts screamed that there was duplicity here, but he could not get to the truth. He would test her.

“No!” he roared. “The King of Morgravia will not tarnish his wedding day by dirtying his hands with blood.”

“But, my lord,” Valentyna cried, “this is for me. I want his head.”

“And you shall have it, I promise.” Celimus turned back to the executioner. “Do your job: Behead the treacherous sovereign on behalf of Morgravia and Briavel,” he ordered.

Celimus took Valentyna’s hand and led her back to their thrones. She felt breathless with panic. The King had thwarted them. If Myrren’s Gift continued, Wyl would become the bald-headed executioner. What a terrible irony, she thought. Only weeks ago she had scorned Fynch for believing in magic, and now here she was pinning everything on the hope of an enchantment. If that hope failed, Valentyna knew in her heart
that she would not lie with Celimus tonight…or any night. She would take her own life if need be.

She shook her mind clear as the executioner lined up for his single killing blow. The least she could do for Wyl was bear witness to his brave death. She watched the big man raise his sword slowly, carefully, smoothly. It reached the apex of his swing and was about to fall with its severing blow when she heard herself shriek, “Wait!” The man teetered and then stopped, looking angrily toward King Celimus for guidance.

“What is it, Valentyna?” Celimus asked smoothly. Perhaps now the truth of her strange behavior would reveal itself.

“Let me do it, sire,” she begged, for his hearing only. It was the only way out for her.

For the first time since she’d known him, Valentyna saw hesitancy and alarm on his face. “You would kill this man?”

“For you, Celimus. It is the only way I can resolve the difficulties between us.”

“Through his death?” he queried, wondering if she had gone mad.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He will release us. You will know I am true to you if I do this.”

Celimus shook his head, baffled. Nevertheless, the shock of her suggestion titillated his sadistic streak. He rather liked the idea of her executing Cailech. Such an act would haunt her forever, offering further opportunity for exploitation. She would be even more easily controlled when her demons rose to remind her of this ugly spectacle. It would also, of course, show her to be a strong person, either terrifying or inspiring the onlookers—either way suited him.

He studied her and she stared back at him hungrily. There was no doubting she meant her words.

“It is not a pleasant thing you request, Valentyna. You will have to live with this memory all of your life.”

“You have no idea how important that notion is to me, sire.”

He shook his head, as if washing his hands of her. “As you wish.”

He turned to the executioner. “Bind the prisoner’s mouth,”
he ordered, knowing Cailech was likely to make a fuss when he learned of this new and exciting turn of events. The idea of his queen killing a man made Celimus feel like rutting. His mind slithered toward the bedchamber. An heir would be made tonight, he was sure of it. He would have his first son before next spring.

Wyl looked around, confused. He watched Celimus stand once again, hoping against hope that the King had had a change of heart and would deliver the killing blow. But it was Valentyna who walked toward him.

“No!” he shouted from beneath the bindings, but it came out as a strangled cry. His eyes were wide with horror at her decision.

Valentyna glided toward him in her bloodred gown and Wyl was suddenly reminded of his dream at Tenterdyn. This was it. No dream, but a premonition. She bent toward him, tears streaming down her face. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and he roared his anguish, not caring that it appeared he was about to die cringing like a coward.