Bridge of Souls (17 page)

A
FTER LEAVING
W
ERRYL
, W
YL MADE STRAIGHT FOR A HIDE OF
F
ARYL
’
S IN
C
ROWYLL AND DUG UP A POUCH OF MONEY
. H
E WAS PLEASED HE COULD
still remember some of the locations of her stashed coin, and although he did not care for using blood money, he was in dire need of it.

He galloped his horse as far and hard as the beast would permit, then traveled on through the night more slowly and spent most of his coin on a new horse the following morning. Although he had not slept, he was determined to press on and the replacement animal was fresh and happy to be given its head. His plan was to follow the border as closely as he could, entering Morgravia only when he believed he was far enough north to cross directly into Felrawthy. He could not risk stumbling upon any Legionnaires and being recognized.

At around midday the next day it was his good fortune to ride into the village of Derryn at a time when he not only had to rest his horse but needed food and sleep himself, and, most important, a chance to bathe. The pain had gone and he felt as well as could be expected, considering his fatigue, but it seemed that the bleeding would continue for a few days yet. How inconvenient and messy it all was.

Wyl hoped he would never be a woman again. The grooming, the curtsying, the requirement to be elegant and gracious at all times—these were merely a few of its annoying aspects. He pitied Valentyna, and yet he admired her too. Somehow she managed to balance the demands of being a woman with a strength of her own. Ylena, much as he had loved her, had de
lighted almost exclusively in her femininity—but then that was all that had been expected of her since the day of her birth. A daughter born into a wealthy noble family, particularly one as distinguished as the Thirsks, had one main task: to marry well. To achieve this she was educated in every possible pastime that could enhance her opportunities, from the effective running of a household to the art of embroidery. King Magnus had employed a small army of women to teach Ylena such niceties from her arrival at Pearlis at a tender age. And his sister had proved herself to be an adept student.

Fresh sorrow overcame Wyl as he pondered yet again how little Ylena deserved what had befallen her. She had always been ready with a kind word for everyone and her smile could banish even the gloomiest of moods. She had truly been a beauty in every sense of the word. That her mind had been empty of the thoughts and ambitions that drove Valentyna was not Ylena’s fault. She was merely following form, whereas Valentyna was one of a kind. Yet Ylena’s life had unraveled over a matter of weeks; what should have been the happiest time of her life had instead been the most cruel. Wyl felt a familiar nausea grip him and he knew he must stop grieving like this over his sister. Ylena was dead and no amount of soul-searching or tears would restore her.

Wyl knew his exhaustion and the monthly flux was contributing to his morbid feelings and was convinced that a decent meal and some rest would help to lift his spirits. As he walked the horse through the main street, he found there was no inn but discovered by asking a young woman passing by that a widow by the name of Mona Dey ran a guesthouse in the village. After stabling the horse, paying for its care, and making sure he could retrieve it with ease whenever he wanted, Wyl headed for the widow’s place.

He paid Mona in advance, much to her delight, and was shown to a small, neat room at the back of her large dwelling. He learned from the chatty widow that her husband had been a wealthy though miserly trader with a wandering eye for other women, especially whores. According to Mona, her
husband had died between the legs of a buxom twenty-year-old, a blade driven into his back up to the hilt. She told the chilling tale with a sly relish and it brought back hideous memories for Wyl.

“A pocketful of silver—that’s all the slut got for her trouble,” Mona said smugly. “I got the rest.” And she beamed. From then on she had lived her life to the full, deliberately spending her dead husband’s money with abandon in revenge for his meanness, until there was virtually nothing left. “I held back just enough to keep me off the streets,” she told Wyl, with no trace of bitterness, “and now I take paying guests and live a quiet life.”

“I can’t imagine it gets much quieter than Derryn,” Wyl commented, surprised at the widow’s candor.

“You’re right there, my lady,” Mona cried, and laughed as if he had cracked some great jest.

As open as Mona Dey was about her own background, Wyl appreciated that she showed not the slightest interest in his. Either she was entirely self-centered or she was very canny, knowing that most strangers preferred not to discuss their business. Wyl thanked the widow and paid her some extra coin for her discretion, for she had not even inquired why Ylena was traveling alone.

The evening meal, Mona told her guest, was served at sunset and no later. Wyl grimaced and politely asked whether there was any possible chance of a tray in his room now. He explained how tired he was and that his flux had fair drained him of all energy. A look of deep sympathy had come his way—definitely a special sorrow only women could share, he realized—and no doubt the generous coin rattling in her skirt pocket had encouraged Mona Dey to look kindly on the young noblewoman.

“I’ll see what I can rustle up for you, dear,” she said. “Oh my, I used to suffer it something awful at your age. And my Garth, he had no sympathy at all, still claiming his marital rights.” Wyl quailed inwardly at the turn the discussion was taking but adopted the right expression and paid attention. “And pain! Shar save me, I thought I was fit to die,” the widow
continued. “My mother had no sympathy. She said I should get used to it, for it would curse me for most of my life—my mother was a bitter woman, you see. My father died on her young and left her with a brood of children and no money. Her bleed was bad too and left her in poor shape one week of each moon, and it meant she couldn’t work during some of those days and we went hungry.”

The widow looked set to carry on discussing her mother’s moon cycles, but Wyl feigned a swoon, which effectively stopped the monologue and had Mona rushing for cold flannels and smelling salts. When he seemed recovered, the widow suggested the young lady take a soak. There was a room in the house already set up for bathing. “I have some herbs that will ease the pain, dear,” she offered kindly.

Wyl was grateful to her and said as much, winning a wide smile from the widow. “And I’ll fetch you some raspberry leaf,” she added. “Chew straight on it, my lady. Tastes like hell but is far more effective for your condition than a weak brew.”

Wyl stammered his thanks and allowed her to guide him to the bathing room, which had a huge old tub that more than swallowed up Ylena’s exhausted body. He would have been happy to wash in cold water, but Mona wouldn’t hear of it. “Heat is what you need, dear, for the ache.”

Wyl did not want to start explaining that the ache was done; he just wanted peace and privacy now. So he let her fuss and organize for steaming jugs to be brought up by a small army of lads she paid to run to the smithy’s where a huge cauldron of water was kept on the fire permanently. The joy of finally closing the door on Mona’s chatter and climbing into the tub was second in Wyl’s mind only to kissing Valentyna for the first time.

Afterward, he ate a meal of cold roast meat, potatoes simmered with cream, and some cheese, before slipping between the well-worn but fresh sheets on Mona’s guest bed and drifting almost instantly into sleep.

When he awoke he was disoriented. It was black outside and as quiet as a tomb. Mona had kindly left a candle in his room, but it had burned down to a sputtering nub. He had
been asleep for at least twelve hours, he estimated. Careful to make no sound to disturb the household, he relieved himself in the chamber pot and hurriedly dressed in his dusty but comfortable riding clothes. Wyl did not like to sneak away without thanking Mona but had no means to scrawl a note; the only way he could show his appreciation for her care was with money, which he left on the remade bed. He thought it unlikely she would think further on the young woman who had passed through her house, but if she did, she would remember Ylena kindly for her generosity.

He could not risk making his way through the house, so, thanking his lucky stars that he was on the first level, he climbed out of the window and dropped silently to the ground, rolling as he had been taught when he was a lad. He must have startled a badger or some night creature on the fringe of the small wood that skirted the town, for he heard the animal blundering disgruntledly back into the trees. He remained still, listening for any other sounds, but it seemed there was no one about. Nevertheless, he took the precaution of making his way to the stable via the back lanes. As he had anticipated, there was a sleeping stableboy in one corner who could barely rouse himself from his slumber at the young woman’s oddly timed arrival. When he did, he recognized the noblewoman, pointed toward a stall, and mumbled something incoherent. Wyl was just glad to find his horse, saddle her, and be off as quickly and quietly as he could.

He ignored the fresh hunger pangs that gnawed at his belly and was out onto the open road again, Derryn behind him, moments later. One more day’s riding, he guessed, and he would be able to cut into Morgravia and enter Felrawthy, back into the lair of Celimus, and perhaps have a chance to get into a new, more suitable body.

C
ailech sat in a secret cave in Haldor’s Tooth, pondering the situation that was about to unfold. The Grenadyne’s
suggestion to forge an alliance with Morgravia had touched the very core of everything the Mountain King believed. He was privately miffed that such an obvious idea had not occurred to him in the past, for treating with Magnus and his general, Thirsk, would surely have been easier than dealing with Morgravia’s current monarch. But he had always derided any suggestion of forging links with Morgravia—wait, no, not always. In his early days as King, he had had notions of living as neighbors alongside the bordering realm, but had put them aside in more recent years. Rashlyn had always said the stones did not auger well for negotiating attempts, and eventually Cailech had stopped asking.

Nevertheless, when Aremys returned to the cave and reported on the meeting with Celimus, Cailech felt a surge of anxiety. “You’re sure there is no trap?” he asked Aremys.

“No, sire. But I have made our way as safe as I can under the circumstances. Celimus is organizing for the hostages to be delivered as required, and I have taken out some additional insurance.”

The mercenary explained that his bargaining tool was one Ylena Thirsk, daughter and sister of Morgravia’s two previous Generals. The name carried weight with Cailech, and he had no qualms about using a Morgravian noblewoman to barter for their safety. He just had one question: “Well, where is she?”

Aremys startled the King by laughing and shrugging. “I have no idea, sire. But that is a worry for another day. You will be back on your own soil before I have to consider what to do.”

Cailech smiled. He liked the way the large Grenadyne thought. Farrow had impressed him from their first meeting, and even though the mercenary clearly knew more than he was telling and had an uncanny interest in Galapek, Cailech privately considered the man a friend. He had never said as much, but they both knew it; there was mutual respect and admiration between them. Perhaps it was simply that, with his clear thinking and dry humor, Aremys reminded him of
Lothryn. He missed Lothryn so deeply it actually pained him to dwell upon it.

It had been the most agonizing of discoveries to realize that his closest friend and confidant had betrayed him. How could Loth have chosen the Morgravians over his own people, over his own king? Cailech had ranted as much to Myrt, who had kept a dull silence throughout, but whose lack of words said much. Cailech quietly admired the man for his loyalty to his friend. Loth could have learned much from Myrt about brotherhood, honor, and trust. Cailech’s pride would not permit him to show any mercy to his childhood friend, no matter how in love with the woman of Yentro he might have been. It made no difference why Lothryn had made his choice; it mattered only that he had made it, and made it incorrectly.

When news came that they were bringing Lothryn back alive, Cailech had wanted to slay him on the frosted stones of the fortress’s threshold. He could not bear to see his lifelong companion—now a traitor—step even one foot across it. But then Rashlyn had persuaded him to exact a higher penance.

Somehow the King had been persuaded down the path of magic. Burning with a feverish anger, he had listened with fascinated horror to Rashlyn’s suggestion that there was a far more subtle operation than an easy death by the sword. The barshi’s repetition of the words “traitor” and “treachery” had fired the King’s anguish into a white heat of vengeance. He had agreed to Rashlyn’s plan, believing that by owning Loth, by breaking his spirit and forcing his subservience with Rashlyn’s dark magic, he would somehow win his respect. His former friend and comrade would suffer the humiliation of knowing he would forever carry the King on his back, ever be subservient to Cailech, never forgetting who ruled whom.

Now, thinking about it, Cailech saw how distorted and poisonous such punishment had been. If he could reverse the magic he would do so, especially now that Aremys seemed to have such a dogged interest in the stallion. The truth was, his victory over Loth felt hollow. Painful, in fact. As with the
threat to make cannibals of his own people, it had shown him to be base, led by anger rather than by his clever mind. How had he permitted Rashlyn to guide his hand toward inflicting such horrors? He shook his head.

“A silver for your thoughts, sire,” Aremys said, approaching Cailech where he sat on a rock ledge with a clear view into Felrawthy. He brought with him a clay flask of wine and poured a cup for the King and one for himself. Myrt and the rest of the Mountain warriors were sharpening blades and checking the supplies of weapons, which everyone prayed would not be required.