Bridge of Souls (18 page)

“I was just thinking of Lothryn and how much you remind me of him.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, sire. I have heard people speak highly of your second, despite his final actions.”

“As they should,” Cailech said, unable to hide the sorrow that had him in its grip.

“No one can tell me what happened to him, sire. I presume you executed him?”

Aremys heard the hesitation. “Yes, he is dead,” the King replied flatly.

“Doesn’t stop you missing him, though, I see.”

Cailech nodded. “I miss him every day. We grew up together. We understood each other, we protected each other. That was what made his betrayal so shocking. We loved each other, Farrow. We were brothers in all but blood.”

“With such love between you, could you not find a way to spare him?” Aremys prompted, hoping to lead the King into revealing more about Galapek.

“Only the barest thread separates the most passionate of opposites, Grenadyne.”

“What do you mean, sire?”

“I mean that because I loved Loth so much, his betrayal stirred in me intense hatred.”

“I understand.” Aremys knew he would not get the admission he had hoped for. Instead, the silence stretched between them, before Cailech roused himself from his private thoughts
and addressed the question that was no doubt troubling his men too.

“Is this a wise undertaking, Farrow?”

“Many would consider it foolhardy, given the Morgravian sovereign’s reputation,” Aremys replied. “However, I do believe that once he meets you, you, more than anyone, have the ability to convince him that an alliance is preferable to these regular skirmishes that could so easily escalate to war.”

Cailech nodded, reassured by the Grenadyne’s faith. “And his marriage?”

“Is still planned to go ahead shortly, which is why timing is of the essence. With Briavel’s army at his beck and call, who knows what delusions might suddenly cross his mind?”

“I am told the Legion has been deployed to the Briavellian border. Hardly a loving wedding gift.”

“Scare tactics,” Aremys guessed. “There is no benefit to Celimus starting a fresh war with Briavel when he can conquer the realm through marriage.”

“Intimidating the bride is a grand way to start a historic treaty between the two realms,” Cailech replied.

“It seems Celimus knows no other way. From what I can gather, he has been a bully all his young life. Why should he change now that he is King?”

“Mmm—my thoughts exactly,” Cailech mused.

Aremys could not work out what the King meant. Dismissing it, he reassured Cailech. “Nothing will go wrong, sire. Just don’t tarry. Say what you have to say and plan to use emissaries to do the rest. The main thing is that you and Celimus meet and like what you see in each other.”

Cailech nodded. “When are we expected?”

“Tomorrow. He is planning a feast in your honor. I suggest that only Myrt, Byl, and I accompany you, sire.”

Cailech’s green gaze narrowed. “A lean force.”

“It shows trust.”

“Even if I don’t trust him.”

“Exactly.”

The Mountain King laughed again. “I hope, for your sake,
Grenadyne, that you do not leave this meeting with my blood on your hands—or you will have hundreds of my warriors baying for yours.”

Cailech raised his glass to Aremys, who followed suit. “To unions, sire.”

“And friendship, Farrow. Thank you for your help.”

“Does that mean I am a free man now?”

Cailech drained his cup. “It does, but I hope you will return to the fortress with us.”

“If we are all still alive after this adventure, your highness, I would be honored to.”

C
elimus was riding on the moors that surrounded Tenterdyn and surveying what he now considered Crown land.

“It is beautiful, your majesty,” Jessom said from his own horse, echoing the King’s thoughts.

“I was thinking I would make Tenterdyn my summer palace and Argorn could become the royal winter retreat,” Celimus replied with a smug smile, looking toward the majestic Razors, which reared up a hazy purple in the distance.

“Crys Donal and Ylena Thirsk might have something to say about that, your highness,” the Chancellor cautioned, careful to hit a tone that did not suggest either reprimand or contradiction.

“Not from the grave they won’t,” his king snapped testily.

The notion had crept up on the Chancellor so quietly he had not realized it existed until this moment, but now it dawned on him that he had tired of the King’s waspish manner and complete disregard for those who strove to accommodate his whims. Jessom’s commitment to Celimus stretched to killing—and for no extra reward, certainly no thanks. Jessom was no fragile soul who shirked the meting out of death, but Celimus’s settling-in period of brutality was, in Jessom’s estimation, prolonged. The bloodshed seemed to be escalating, not diminishing, with the King’s expanding power.

Celimus was young and brash, and his eagerness to stamp his own mark on his kingdom—and indeed beyond—was understandable. But since Jessom had first arrived in Celimus’s life, he had hoped he might mold this brilliantly sharp young man into one who could be relied on to be subtle. Jessom had put all of his life experience and extensive range of talents at the King’s disposal so that Celimus might learn from him.

Maris Jessom was the seventh son of a rich man, a moneylender who was involved in a number of ventures from bridge building to breweries. But even with such wealth, a son so far down the family’s hierarchy was never going to be favored highly in the shareholding. His eldest three brothers were carving up the empire among them, and everyone else, including his three sisters, had to find their own way. In the case of his sisters, they had used their status to marry well. But Maris, thin and hook-nosed, had long ago accepted that he would never be a handsome man and so had decided from an early age to use his only real asset—his incredible intelligence—to get on in life. If the combined wits of his siblings were distilled into one, they still would not hold a candle to the speed, agility, and vision of their youngest brother. Although Maris kept this weapon a secret, it was obvious to him that his father should have chosen his seventh son to run his financial empire; it seemed that he alone had inherited the shrewdness, perceptiveness, and cunning that had helped his father to become one of the wealthiest men in all of Tallinor. But Jessom senior had never taken much notice of his gangly youngest son, and as soon as Maris was old enough, he had been encouraged to leave the family home to seek his own fortune. His mother, who loved him well, had given him a heavy pouch of gold. “Use it wisely, Maris,” she had said, her eyes beginning to tear as she hugged her youngest farewell.

And he had, roaming the towns and villages of Tallinor from north to south and east to west as a traveling moneylender: an innovative and supremely lucrative scheme, and convenient for borrowers, who were surprised and pleased to have money coming to them. Perhaps people thought he would never col
lect on his lendings. But collect he did. Borrowers learned the hard way that Maris Jessom did not extend his loans. And because he never called in his loans early or was so greedy as to make the terms so cumbersome that they might be considered cruel, he always had the law on his side. The young Jessom was also ruthless, a characteristic that contributed to his rapid success.

It was not long before he had to travel with a bodyguard, and then two, for fear of being set upon by the new breed of bandits who seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to steal from the rich, as they could afford to lose the money. This made Jessom’s anger, normally slow to stoke, boil and he was soon traveling with a small company of his own paid mercenaries, who killed bandits for a hobby and kept all the spoils.

Jessom enjoyed two decades of this life, during which time he built a network of contacts and knowledge from all over the region, before deciding to settle down in Tal, not far from his original family home. Here he planned to establish his own permanent moneylending empire, using mercenaries to do the dirtier work of collection around the realm. By this time both of his parents had died and his less fortunate siblings were scattered across the realm.

It was around this time that King Sorryn of Tallinor declared moneylenders—whose number seemed to have tripled in Jessom’s lifetime—to be “a pus-filled carbuncle on society that needed to be lanced” and systematically set about dismantling their terrible grip on the poor. Jessom saw the crackdown coming and fled Tallinor well in advance of the Purge, as it came to be known.

He fled to Morgravia, a wealthy man but homeless as well as landless and without the ties of family. Disillusioned, Maris Jessom decided on a change of career. He was too old to find the energy to establish a new empire and so he watched and waited. Garnering information, observing trends, and identifying needs were Jessom’s talent. He saw an opportunity within the Morgravian royal family long before it occurred to anyone
else that a king might need more than his general to be his closest counsel.

The position of Chancellor did not even exist during Magnus’s reign, for he was a King who preferred the companionship and advice of his military strategist in all matters. But it was obvious to Jessom that the new King would not accept the guidance of Wyl Thirsk upon Magnus’s death. Maris Jessom fancied himself a kingmaker; he had a network of messengers, mercenaries, informers, and spies who could help shape a kingdom, plus he had years of experience in finance as well as a shrewd understanding of human nature.

He watched Celimus for long enough before he became King to know the young man was problem-riddled and it would take years of smoothing and guidance to educate him on how to run an effective realm. Jessom saw the charm too, though; he sensed that Celimus could easily turn that talent toward his kingdom and use the energy he squandered in despising people into making them loyal to him. Jessom had to admit the proposal of marriage to Valentyna of Briavel was a masterstroke, but the killing of her father, Valor, had been plain stupidity. It was the act of an arrogant man, too inexperienced to realize that a suggestion of his power was more than enough. Jessom knew King Valor would have supported a union between Celimus and his daughter, which made his death pointless.

The murder of Thirsk had been another senseless move, although Jessom realized that there was a history there that affected the King’s judgment and prevented him from being objective. Jessom had watched Thirsk too, long enough to realize the young General was loyal to Morgravia. Celimus could have molded that loyalty to his will—and the execution of the youngest Donal, the razing of Rittylworth, and the slaughter at Tenterdyn, not to mention various other deaths, including that of young helpless Jorn, need never have occurred.

Murder was dangerous. It had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt the perpetrator and Jessom could not help but think that there were too many corpses at the King’s feet—with the
Chancellor’s involvement—for either of them to escape the outcry that was surely coming. All it would take was one voice of dissension. One voice that counted—be it that of Ylena Thirsk or Crys Donal or even Aleda Donal, wherever the hell she was. A few rumblings from Lord Bench could set off a catastrophic series of questions for the King to answer…and Jessom knew who would shoulder the blame. It would not be Celimus.

And yet, if only he would listen to Jessom, Celimus could still be a strong, powerful king who ruled prosperous realms. Not one or two, but three—the very empire the King dreamed of. All was not lost yet. Perhaps they could use Ylena Thirsk to their advantage—there was always a way—instead of simply murdering her.

He realized he was shaking his head and that Celimus, wearing a quizzical expression, had turned his horse to face his chancellor.

“Your majesty, may I speak candidly?”

“Of course.”

“Well, sire, with the alliance you may well forge with the Mountain King, and what could only be described as the fairy-tale union with Briavel that is about to occur, you will have achieved what most sovereigns do not dare dream of, let alone attempt.”

“And your point is?”

“My point, your majesty, is that you are now in the enviable position of essentially controlling three realms without resistance, without bloodshed, without the other two sovereigns realizing how powerful you actually are.”

“Why is that a good thing, Jessom?”

“Your highness, there is a saying that holds good in almost every facet of life: Never allow one hand to know what the other is doing.”

“Don’t give me riddles, you fool. Speak plainly.”

Jessom drew a deep breath to stop his disdain from showing. “Once married, Valentyna is beholden to you as wife, so she will be unable to rally any forces against you, which ef
fectively leaves the Mountain King in the cold, should he suddenly decide the alliance is not working for him. I suspect he is much too canny for that, though—he will maintain the peace and enjoy the benefits of trade and free movement as well as increased prosperity. My lord, it is obvious to me that, handled with care, you will have the empire you have always dreamed of.”

“Did you think, Jessom,” Celimus replied, “that I could not work that out for myself? Is it your belief that I need you to spell out every scenario for me because I am too dim-witted to see beyond what is in front of my nose?” The tone was sarcastic and menacing.

“Not at all, sire,” Jessom replied, will equal calmness but also with courtesy. “But with such an alliance so close to completion, I just think that killing Ylena Thirsk or Crys Donal might be…well, shall we say hasty, for want of a better word.”

“So you would have me leave two dangerous mouths on the loose?”

“All I suggest, sire, is that you wait. You will have Ylena Thirsk in captivity shortly. Don’t do anything too soon. Think on the various situations that will inevitably present themselves. I imagine that Ylena Thirsk is feeling extraordinarily isolated these days. She has no parents, she has lost her guardian, and her beloved brother is dead. Her new husband and his family—her only allies—are fodder for the worms. Apart from Crys Donal, she has no one to turn to. She is a beautiful, vulnerable young woman who no doubt craves the security of being pampered again: her own private chambers, servants to wait on her, fancy gowns on her body, and money at her disposal. Think about it, sire. You could be her savior. You could put all this behind you and lavish your care and riches on the lonely girl—until she becomes your supporter.”