Bridge of Souls (21 page)

Knave interrupted his thoughts.
We had best keep moving. We are too exposed here.

Fynch stood, adjusted the sack across his shoulder, and buttoning his fleece, followed the dog.

What were you thinking about?
Knave asked.

Fynch was surprised. The dog rarely asked questions on such a conversational level. “Myrren,” he replied.

Oh?

“She must have known that the Quickening could not save her, that she would be consumed by the flames. So she took revenge instead. If only she hadn’t,” he finished, more bitterly than he had intended.

It wouldn’t have changed Wyl’s fate,
Knave said softly.
Celimus would still have sent him on the journey of treachery into Briavel. Wyl would have died by Romen’s sword; Ylena would have wasted away in the dungeon; and Gueryn would have died in the Razors.

Fynch nodded wearily. “Yes, you’re right.”

I don’t approve of what Myrren and Elysius did, Fynch, but Wyl’s life was forfeit from the moment Celimus took the throne. It might be worth your looking upon the Quickening as a gift rather than a curse.

Fynch rubbed Knave’s great head to acknowledge the kindness in the dog’s voice. No one could approve of the Quickening, but perhaps some good might yet come of it. He thought about the zerkon that could so easily have killed Wyl in the Razors. If the beast had succeeded, that would have been the end for Wyl, for Elysius had told him the magic worked only between humans. They had a lot to thank Lothryn for, if he still lived. The fate of a kingdom had shifted on that one man’s bravery.

Fynch was not aware that he had voiced this thought aloud in his mind. It was only when the dog responded that he realized he needed to learn how to control his new abilities more thoroughly.

Fynch, do you not realize yet that the destiny of all three realms rests
with you?
the dog said.
It is your actions—not Lothryn’s or Cailech’s, not those of Celimus or Valentyna, not even what Wyl might achieve—that will save the land. You will decide the destiny.

Tears rolled helplessly down the small boy’s face.
I am the sacrifice,
he thought privately, hauling himself up another small ledge.
So be it.

R
ASHLYN AWOKE FROM HIS STUPOR
,
ANGRY AT FEELING HANDS AT HIS BROW
,
WIPING AWAY THE SWEAT OF HIS RAGINGS
. H
E SWUNG AT THE PERSON
tending him, hitting her in the face and drawing blood at her mouth. “Begone, woman!” he roared, searching his wits to identify his location. He was in a strange chamber; it was dark outside.

“Wait!” he called to the woman, who had turned her back on him.

She looked at him then, a line of red trailing from the corner of her lip to beneath her chin. Rashlyn could see the hate in her eyes and dismissed it, used to such a reaction.

“Where am I?” he demanded. “Why am I not in my own chambers?”

“The King said we were to watch over you here until you fully recovered,” the woman replied sullenly, touching her mouth and bringing away bloodstained fingers. “He said you would not like anyone in your rooms.”

He ignored her injury. “How long have I been here?”

“Two days.”

That shocked him. “Where is the King?”

“Gone.” She spoke the word as a threat. “He left with the Grenadyne the night of your seizure.”

She called to someone and a man entered the chamber. He took one look at the woman and glanced darkly toward Rashlyn.

“I suspect I am no longer welcome,” Rashlyn said to the man, hoping to unnerve him.

“You have never been welcome, barshi,” the Mountain Man replied, not at all intimidated. “We permitted you in our house only because our king asked it. My wife has taken good care of you.”

“And I regret my odd form of thanks, Rollo,” Rashlyn answered, recognizing the pair now. She was a midwife, a capable nurse, and the husband, Rollo, was a senior and trusted warrior of Cailech’s. It would not be wise to insult them further.

“My apology, Kaylan,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. The dizziness was still there. “I must have been dreaming. I am sorry for your wound.”

“Leave, scum,” Rollo growled.

Rashlyn was not surprised. Without Cailech around, the people of the mountains did not maintain the deference they attempted to show him in the King’s presence.

“Be careful, Rollo. I understand your daughter is with child. We wouldn’t want anything untoward to occur to the infant, now, would we?” Rashlyn said conversationally as he pushed by the couple.

The man roared, lunging toward the barshi, but his wife held him back. “Don’t, Rollo. Who knows what he is capable of,” she said, terrified now, her bleeding lip forgotten, her pride tattered as her pleading eyes beseeched Rashlyn to leave the family be.

That’s better,
Rashlyn thought, smirking at the cowed Rollo, pleased by the fear in Kaylan’s tone. One day he would make them all pay for their disdain. He left the stuffy dwelling and gulped deeply the fresh air of the mountain night. Limping
across to the nearby well, he drank two long refreshing cups of the clear water. It revived him sufficiently that he could make his way, without staggering, to his lonely chambers.

Once inside, he bolted the doors, double-checking the locks. Only then did he begin to relax; only then, in the safety of his isolation, did he permit himself to release his fright at losing two full days of his life. What had happened? He was aware that his periods of darkness, when he spiraled into his other self, were extending, but had no idea they could stretch so long. Until now, the longest he had lost himself to such madness was half a day, and that had frightened him enough. But two days! Usually during these black periods he functioned reasonably well, but it was as though he was someone else. Rashlyn did not dislike that other self; at such times he was confident, flamboyant, certainly creative. His mind was at its most sharp and great innovations often came to him. He felt invincible in this state. No drug he knew of could induce such a constant euphoric sense of power. But when he was able to think clearly, Rashlyn understood that the euphoric moods were dangerous too. During these times he was unpredictable, capable of anything. The surge of power forced him to relinquish control over his actions. It was a madness, he knew. It had been creeping up on him for years. His brother had seen it in him first and his father not long after. Curse their souls!

And yet this time it did not feel quite the same. His body was still trembling from the seizure. Normally he would emerge out of the darkness, realize he had lost himself, and discover what had occurred in his “absence”—there was no better way to describe it. But this occasion was different. It sounded as though he had simply collapsed. Cailech must have seen him in a considerably weakened state to have ordered his care. Who else had seen him, apart from the King and the two who cared for him? Where had he been when the seizure overcame him?

Rashlyn was famished but ignored the growling plea of his belly. Using a spell to summon a flame, he lit a fire and brought
some water to boil. He added verrun bark and a handful of arkad petals and tried not to think about anything but the brewing and cooling of the infusion. As soon as he tasted the first bitter sip of the brew, he felt his mind begin to clear.

He sat at the window, inhaled deeply of the numbing air, which also helped to freshen his thoughts, and continued sipping. The tea began to work; the blurriness cleared and he was able to move backward through the past days.

It came to him. He had been riding with the Grenadyne and Myrt. His suspicions about the stranger had not lessened for knowing him; Rashlyn was convinced there was a mystery attached to the foreign mercenary. If he could make physical contact with the man, he was sure he could find out more. It had unnerved Rashlyn to hear from the King that Farrow had reacted strongly when he had stroked Galapek. Clearly he had felt the magic in the stallion, which could only mean the mercenary owned power himself or had been touched by it somehow. Cailech had wanted to dismiss the incident, but Rashlyn was not convinced such a reaction could be passed off as coincidence. And so the King had agreed to force Farrow into riding Galapek with the proviso that Rashlyn accompany him to observe him.

The barshi recalled now how the mercenary had not reacted in the manner described by the King on his first meeting with the enchanted horse. Either the Grenadyne had wrestled his emotions back under his control, or the King had been mistaken and the man’s claim of being fatigued from his adventure in the mountains was true. And yet Rashlyn was sure Farrow was hiding something. The stranger seemed too confident, too aware that he was being tested. He had parried Rashlyn’s questions smoothly and then, just when Rashlyn had gotten close enough to touch him…something had touched Rashlyn instead.

The barshi closed his eyes and took himself back to the moment. The shrieking of the horse had echoed his own instinctive reaction to the immense pressure he had felt throughout his body. There had been no pain, but the experience had been
followed by intense nausea…then darkness. The woman, Kaylan, had called it a seizure, so presumably he had thrashed about in his unconscious state.

“It was not my madness that caused this,” he murmured. “So what did?”

“Magic,” he answered himself, and laughed briefly. “Powerful magic,” he whispered, remembering it more clearly now.

Galapek had felt it and had screamed. The barshi wondered if the horse had experienced a similar weakness. But there was more to the strange event than his physical reaction…there was also a sense of dread. The ominous notion that something was coming toward him was strong indeed. For the first time in a long time Rashlyn felt very fearful.

E
lspyth had decided to slip away from Werryl Palace when everyone’s attention was diverted toward Brackstead and Lady Donal. She felt bad about leaving without a farewell to both Crys and the Queen. Valentyna had welcomed them warmly when they were in need, had sheltered and protected them without hesitation. Elspyth’s secret departure would surely be considered a slight and this bothered the woman of Yentro. But she wanted to leave with no fuss, no teary farewells, and definitely no one trying to talk her out of it—which the Queen most certainly would attempt. It seemed right to go quietly, taking nothing, not even the horse she had ridden into Briavel.

What she regretted most was the seemingly sly departure, which might be construed the wrong way, and not leaving a note for Wyl. She owed him that much. Why could she not have taken a few extra minutes and scribbled a second note for the Lady Ylena Thirsk? Elspyth was sure Wyl would find his way to Werryl, and she could have given him an assurance she would not do anything rash, along with a promise of her return. But her head had been filled with Lothryn and seizing her chance to leave without creating a commotion. She knew
Liryk would be glad to see the back of her; his and Krell’s surreptitious glances and grimaces had left her in no doubt of their displeasure at her presence. She knew they did not appreciate her speaking her mind about Celimus. There were moments Elspyth had been sure either one of them would have gladly silenced her with something more painful than stares.

So, as soon as she saw the royal party depart across Werryl Bridge, she grabbed her small sack of goods and fled via a small, barely known courtyard gate which Valentyna had admitted making good use of as a child. She stepped out of the palace grounds and walked through the town of Werryl rather than across its beautiful bridge. The main township was walled and Elspyth intended to make her escape by blending in easily with the traffic that drifted into and out of Werryl daily through its most northern gate. She felt confident she would find someone to hitch a ride with into Crowyll, and perhaps from there she could buy a nag and use four legs instead of two to get to Banktown in the far north, before turning west and crossing the border into Felrawthy.

It was the brewery driver’s child who spotted her first. The cart rolled level with Elspyth as the big horse’s ponderous tread caught up with the slow-moving crowd passing through the gate. The guards did not seem to be paying close attention to those leaving town and Elspyth was confident she was unlikely to be stopped or questioned. It wasn’t as if anyone would be looking out for her at this early stage of her journey. Nevertheless, her previous adventures had taught her to take precautions. She needed an innocent cover—just like this family here, she thought, eyeing the little girl, who smiled tentatively.

“Where are you going?” the child asked.

Elspyth smiled brightly. “I’m going north,” she replied.

“And what will you do when you get there?” the child said.

“Well, I’m going home actually,” Elspyth lied, and cast a gentle rescue-me expression toward the driver, who shrugged his apology for the youngster’s inquisition.

“Do you have a family?”

“No,” Elspyth said, surprised at the question. “I have no one
in my life who worries about me, but north is where I come from and where I feel comfortable.”

“The north of Briavel?”

“The north of Morgravia,” she said theatrically.

“And where’s that?”

Elspyth laughed. “A long way away. I come from a town called Yentro.”

“And you have to walk all that long way?” the little girl exclaimed.

“Hush, Jen. Let the lady be,” the man said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, miss,” he added, looking at Elspyth shyly. “She gets bored easily on these trips and we’ve hardly begun.”

“It’s all right, really,” she replied, making a swift decision. This was her ride. She looked toward the girl again. “I once knew a pretty lady called Jen and she had beautiful red hair like yours.” It was a lie, but Elpsyth needed any leverage she could create and quickly

Jen’s eyes grew wide with pleasure. “Am I pretty?”

“I think you are. I’m sure your father does too.”

“Would you like to ride next to me?” Jen asked.

Elspyth swallowed her delight. It was the invitation she had hoped for. She looked deliberately toward the man. “Oh, I don’t think your father would…”

He reacted precisely as she had intended. “You’re most welcome to ride with us, miss,” he offered kindly. “We’re going as far as Coneham, if that helps?”

“Oh, I’m sure it will.” She smiled. “Where is that, exactly?”

“North of Brackstead. Hop up.”

Elspyth climbed into the back of the cart, near the little girl. “Thank you,” she said, with relief. “Will we be stopping in Brackstead?” she added as innocently as she could, not liking the idea of running into Valentyna and Crys.

“No. We don’t stay in inns or the like, miss,” the driver said. “We just curl up in the back. We carry everything with us.”

Elspyth smiled. It was perfect. “That sounds wonderful. I’m sure I can help to keep your Jen amused on our journey.”

“My name is Ericson,” the man said, an expression of grat
itude sweeping across his tired face. Elspyth felt a tiny pang of guilt at how adroitly she had manipulated the kind fellow.

The cart rumbled through the northern gate, Jen chattering incessantly about anything that came into her head and Elspyth doing her best to agree where necessary and answer when required. She pulled her blue cloak more tightly around herself, for the morning was chill. As they passed the soldiers at the gate, she tried not to catch anyone’s eye, but she had never quite grasped how attractive she was and her dark hair and pert features could not help but win attention.

“Shar guide you,” the guard said to her. It was a common blessing used by Morgravians and Briavellians alike to bid others a good journey, but it was the wink that came with it that made her grin. “Don’t stay away too long, now,” the guard added, encouraged by her smile. “I won’t sleep until I see your pretty face again.”

Elspyth made a gesture of admonishment, as if to say it was improper of him to talk like that in front of her family, but the cart had already rolled on and the young man missed her mock annoyance.

It had been a long time since Elsypth had felt as lighthearted as she did at that moment.
I’m coming, Lothryn,
she silently cast. She hoped Shar would take pity on her and she might soon be reunited with her beloved.