Bridge of Souls (33 page)

Being Morgravian, Gueryn had always been scornful of magic—frightened of it too. Along with most Morgravians, he had accepted the persecution that had not so long ago been visited on anyone perceived as a witch or warlock. But now, after hearing Aremys’s story and feeling the effects of Rashlyn’s power for himself, Gueryn was forced to accept that magic must be at the heart of the mystery surrounding the horse Galapek, and indeed Wyl himself.

Myrren of Baelup came to mind and, inevitably, Wyl’s attempts to protect her from further suffering. The memory surfaced fresh and clear now. At the moment of the witch’s death Wyl’s eyes had changed color, reflecting the exact strange hues of Myrren’s eyes. The very reason for her persecution was mirrored in Gueryn’s own beloved Wyl Thirsk. And he was not the only person who had seen it. The tiny gong boy, Fynch, had shared the experience. They had not both imagined the presence of some magic.

Gueryn’s good mood evaporated as the sour thoughts overtook his mind. If he could accept that Wyl had been somehow touched by the magic of the witch, then surely it was possible that Lothryn could be so remarkably changed by sorcery, es
pecially when wielded by one so deeply wicked and heartless as Rashlyn. But what about Wyl? How had Myrren’s magic affected him?

He was still wrestling with the question, haunted by the memory of how Romen had tricked him into believing he was Wyl, when the key turned again in the lock. Gueryn was startled. He moved back into the shadows, away from the nub of candle and its light which was now permitted him as a small kindness.

He instantly recognized the figure that appeared in the doorway and his stomach clenched in fear.

“Le Gant,” Rashlyn said, in his light, irritating voice. “You can’t hide from me in this dungeon.”

“Have you come to share my ration of water, Rashlyn?” Gueryn asked, forcing himself to fight back his fear.

The small man laughed. “After tonight’s proceedings, I imagine conversation will be the furthest thing from your mind. Take him,” he commanded to the two men who now pushed through the doorway. Gueryn recognized neither. His heart lurched with new terror.

“There will be a reckoning with your king over this, Rashlyn,” he warned in desperation, all bravado gone now. If he were to die at this man’s hand, who would back up Aremys’s claim?

“But it was the King who gave me permission, le Gant. He agreed that I could use you for my own…interests, shall we say. Come now. I’m sure we’ll both find it interesting.”

Gueryn did the only thing left to him. He struggled with the guards and bellowed his protestations as loudly as his lungs could manage, in the faint hope that someone might hear and bear testimony to his disappearance at the hands of the barshi.

F
YNCH LAY STILL ENOUGH TO BE DEAD
,
CURLED ON THE FLOOR OF THE SMALL CAVE HE AND
K
NAVE HAD COME TO CALL HOME THESE PAST
few days. Knave had worried about the boy’s weakness, but Fynch had grown stronger through long healing sleeps and the dog had to assume that this was the way of the magic. No doubt Elysius had done the same. He regretted they had not asked the manwitch more questions about the sickness.

Kestrel had communicated that Elspyth was also healing through long rest periods after her surgery with Master Rilk. Knowing that Elspyth lived and would recover from her injuries had helped Fynch to let go of Wyl’s friend and become more focused on the trial ahead and his own health.

Knave understood that the boy had no idea of what they were up against. Not even he could imagine it, to tell the truth, but he had heard the gravity in Elysius’s voice when speaking of his brother and had seen how the manwitch had fretted at the thought of passing the magic, and the responsibility that came with it, to such a youngster. But all of that had paled in comparison to the arrival of the Dragon King. His presence alone had impressed upon Knave the dire task they faced. For the King of the Creatures to come to them from his abode high in the mountains of the Wild, where no man or possibly no other animal had ventured, made it clear that Fynch’s trial was more important than any of them could know.

The youngster stirred, his eyelids fluttering as consciousness arrived. Then his eyes opened and he regarded the dog. “You make me feel so safe, Knave,” Fynch murmured sleepily.

Knave only wished he could protect the boy from all that was coming toward them. But this was no time to scare him. They needed to be strong together.
I’m never far, remember?
the dog replied.

Fynch sat up and stretched. “I feel better than I have in days.”

You must eat,
Knave said, unable to hide the elation in his voice.

“You sound like my sister.”

Your sister must be a wise woman.

Fynch reached to hug the dog. “I’ll eat for both of you.” He was able to start a fire with the smallest trickle of magic and Knave quietly marveled at how quickly his friend had accepted his new powers. Fynch did not talk about the wondrous nature of his new skills, but Knave understood that the lad treated this gift as he treated everything in his life—with serious care. The dog knew Fynch would never be playful with the magic or test its boundaries; he would no more send messages unnecessarily than he would try out his own ability to fly.

The boy refused the rabbit Knave had killed for him. “I can’t; it repulses me for some reason.”

You don’t like rabbit?

The boy frowned. “I don’t think I like meat anymore. I’ll find some berries.”

There were some cirron berries growing nearby and Fynch made a meal of them with a knuckle of bread. “I feel well enough to travel now,” he said in between tiny mouthfuls.

It’s time we made a move,
the dog agreed. He was about to say that they should travel as far as they could during the morning, and that Fynch should sleep in the afternoon before sending them about ten leagues east, when Fynch cut across his thoughts.

“I’m going to risk Rashlyn today.”

He caught Knave off guard.
What do you mean?

“I’m tired of all this patience. I’m tired of feeling sick and
wearied by the magic. If it’s going to be this harmful to me, let’s not waste more time. Let’s really use it.”

What are you talking about, Fynch?

“I’m talking about sending us all the way. I sent you to Werryl, and I know I can do it now for the two of us. I can get us right to the door of the fortress if we feel that bold.” Then he grinned shyly. “Perhaps I should send us somewhere a little safer.”

No!
Knave replied.
Too risky, too dangerous for your health, too—

“Hush, Knave. I know my limitations.”

I’m not sure you do,
Knave said testily.

Fynch knew the dog’s bad humor was a manifestation of his fear. “Trust me. I think I can blur the magic.”

I do not understand.
Exasperation gave way to weariness in the dog’s tone.

Fynch shrugged. “Hard to explain, but while I was sleeping I think perhaps…” He hesitated.

Perhaps what?

“Perhaps the Dragon King spoke with me,” the boy finished, embarrassed.

Knave was surprised but he pressed on.
And?

“I believe I can try to muddy the magic going out, so to speak. Whether Rashlyn senses it or not, I might be able to confuse him sufficiently that he can’t lock on to us or what we are.”

That’s a big gamble.

“Yes, but time is not on our side. I’m getting bad feelings about things.”

Things?

The boy pulled a face. “Just a sense; again, hard to explain. I thought it was my fear for Elspyth, but it’s more than that. It’s Wyl, it’s Valentyna. There’s something very bad happening in the Razors, something not right.”

Unnatural, you mean?

“That’s it. That’s exactly what I mean. There’s a taint of evil on the wind, and it’s talking to me in my dreams.

What do you see?

“Two men. Both in pain. I can’t really see them, only sense them. One I believe I might know, but I can’t be sure…I mean, how could I?”

And Rashlyn’s behind it?

Fynch nodded glumly. “I think he’s the source of what’s bad. I could send a creature to find out more…perhaps Kestrel even. But that would just be more time wasting. We should go ourselves.”

Perhaps that’s why the Dragon King spoke to you.

“Yes, that’s what I believe. Are you ready?” Fynch said, picking up his small sack and pulling it around his body.

Now?

The boy grinned again, less hesitantly this time. “I’ve already opened the bridge to the Thicket. It awaits us.”

Knave suddenly felt the thrum of magic from the Thicket. He took a deep breath.
I’m ready.

Fynch put his arms around the dog and Knave sensed the pressure of the air thickening around them. As the Razors began to shimmer around them, Knave braced himself for the landing, unnecessarily. Fynch had mastered his sending skills and had summoned a pillow of air to cushion them as they arrived. Knave was on all fours in a blink and hovered protectively over the little boy, who was vomiting violently into the undergrowth.

Take your time,
he whispered helplessly, wondering what kind of toll the magic would take this time, so soon after Fynch’s last use of it.

Fynch grasped for his sack and the sharvan leaves. He forced a handful into his mouth, which tasted sour from the recent meal he had just lost.

Knave rebuked himself for agreeing to this madness when he had just managed to get his charge to eat something.
Sip lots of water,
he advised.
I’m going to scout around.

Fynch said nothing, chewing intently to start the painkilling juices flowing down his aching throat. Using the magic might have been a good idea, but it had taken a huge toll on him. He felt as though he might die.

Knave saw that the boy’s eyes were bloodshot, and for the first time, a thin rivulet of blood ran from his nose. The dog felt uncharacteristically angry with everyone: himself, for not insisting that Fynch spare himself, Elysius for passing on the magic, his king for entrusting this lovely child with such a huge task, even Fynch for insisting on sending them so far. He stalked away, his mood as dark as the fur that covered his body, and blended into the cover of the foliage. When he returned, his companion lay on the ground, still and pale. Alarmed, the dog nuzzled the boy, his fear almost making him whine.

“Knave?” Fynch croaked, his complexion ghostly as he raised his head.

I’m here,
the dog replied, his relief evident.
There are people coming, and horses, quite a reasonable number of them. We’re well hidden, so we just need to remain still.

“It’s Wyl,” Fynch said groggily.

The dog was confused. Wyl was in Briavel, with Valentyna.
How do you know?

“When I sent us, I tried something new.” Fynch coughed and blood splattered from his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone flat.

No! I am,
Knave said, his anger at last finding its way into his tone.
This is not right, Fynch. You’re going to die if you don’t stop overextending yourself.

Fynch looked at his friend with a sad expression. “I’m going to die soon anyway, Knave,” he said gravely.

The dog was lost for words, so Fynch continued, wiping his bloodied mouth on his sleeve. “I cast out as we traveled, trying to lock on to Rashlyn and using the magic of the Thicket to shield us. I found Wyl instead. I think the Thicket did that deliberately.”

Why?

“Probably because Wyl is not meant to be in the Razors. He should be in Briavel with Valentyna. The Thicket is warning me.”

Did it tell you what to do?

“No, unfortunately. That’s up to us, Knave. I think we
should just follow at a distance and take stock of the situation. He’s surely not here by choice.”

Are you up to following them?

“I’ll manage,” Fynch said.

Knave had to look away, unable to bear the pain in the boy’s face.
They’ll be a few minutes yet,
he said.
Just lie down until then.

For once Fynch obeyed.

C
rys made a sound of exasperation. “It’s too soon.”

“I don’t want to spend another second in this blood-soaked place,” Elspyth said, grimacing as she pulled on her cloak.

“Please, Elspyth. At least let me take you to Sharptyn.”

“No, Crys. I want to leave the region. I nearly died here and I’m not talking solely about my physical wounds. Before you arrived…” Her voice quavered but she steadied it. “Speaking of which, I still haven’t thanked you for bringing the Briavellian Guard.”

He waved her embarrassment aside. “Master Rilk said—”

“Master Rilk is a tailor!” Elspyth cut across his words. “I’m grateful to him, grateful to you all, but I’m ready to leave.”

“Where will you go? Surely not into the Razors?” Crys beseeched. His hurt expression added new injury to her aching heart.

“No. I’m not fit enough for that. I shall go home first.” She looked around her. “This place almost looks”—she searched for the right word—“clean again.”

Crys risked reaching forward and buttoning her cloak for her. “Liryk and his men have done a good job.”

Elspyth smiled at his gesture but wished he would not show his affection for her quite so openly. “They have. When does the Guard move out?”

“Today, I believe.”

“Then my timing is perfect. And you? Where will you go?”

Pain flickered briefly across Crys’s open face, but he wres
tled his expression back under his control. “Not Briavel. I’m a hindrance there and Valentyna will be making preparations for her journey to Morgravia now.”

“Poor soul. She intends to go through with it, then?”

“She has no choice. I don’t believe it can be avoided, Elspyth. And with Wyl taking himself off to die again at the hands of Celimus…” He trailed off.

“She could just say no,” Elspyth blazed, then grimaced at the sour look her words won from her friend. “No, I know. She can’t. That would mean war. Do you think the next time we meet Wyl, he’ll be the King of Morgravia?”

Crys gave an involuntary bark of a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, a helpless tone in his voice. “Wyl’s so stoic. Where did he find the courage to march into Celimus’s den, knowing he goes toward a horrible death?”

Elspyth sighed. “I think we’re all capable of being heroic when it comes to those we love, Crys,” she said sadly, and knew he understood by his equally sorrowful nod.

“Well, a happy ending for Wyl and Valentyna perhaps?” he tried brightly.

“But not for us, eh?” she responded in kind.

“It could be if only you’d let it,” he said, then wished he had not. “I’m sorry, Elspyth.”

She accepted his apology readily. “Come with me,” she said, knowing how badly the Duke of Felrawthy needed the anchor of friendship, and truthfully she herself did not feel like traveling alone.

“Really?” Crys asked, hardly believing Elspyth’s words.

A smile lit the petite woman’s face. “Why not?” She held up a restraining hand. “But there are terms.”

“Of course. No kissing, or any attempt at seduction,” he listed, grinning. “No suggestion that Lothryn is a wasted cause or that you’re too small, too fragile, too feminine to save him.”

She laughed openly now. “I like that you use your wit to hide your emotions, Crys,” she said, meaning it with affection.

“It’s all I have now. I feel so bruised and battered, I need to
hide. Thank you for allowing me to accompany you. I won’t let you down, Elspyth.” They both understood the unspoken words.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “Did Wyl have any ideas for us before he left?”

“Well, he did suggest I stir up some trouble within the Legion.”

“In what way?”

“Reinforce the name of Thirsk, remind the men that the Donals were true, insist that Celimus is a destroyer of realms.” He ran his hands through his hair. “And a slayer of souls.”

She touched his arm. It was all the solace she could offer. “Shall we detour past Pearlis on our way north?”