Bridge of Souls (36 page)

L
ORD AND
L
ADY
B
ENCH SAT WITH
E
LSPYTH AND
C
RYS IN THE
B
ENCHES
’
DRAWING ROOM
,
WHICH WAS HUNG WITH FAMILY PORTRAITS AND SOFTENED
with lush furnishings and drapings. Elspyth, determined not to miss out on the conversation, was propped in a comfortable chair. Helyn Bench’s physic had examined her and declared that the wounds were neatly sutured; infection had set in only at the shoulder. Fortunately it had been caught in time and the physic promised to send over a special brew that would clear up the problem within days. Rest and quiet were also integral to the healing. Helyn had not hesitated in confirming that Elspyth would remain with them until she was fit and well.

“I cannot impose on you for so long, my lady,” Elspyth had protested.

“Child, you’ll be going nowhere until the fever is gone and the infection has cleared,” Helyn had cautioned, and Elspyth understood there would be no arguing with the powerful woman.

Now the Benches and their guests reclined comfortably. Crys and Elspyth had related the worst part of their tale. A small porcelain brazier burned gently in the corner of the room. Elspyth thought it similar to those the Mountain People favored and said so.

“As a matter of fact, it is from Grenadyn,” Eryd replied, “but I’m impressed that you have seen one in the Razor Kingdom and intrigued as to how you lived to tell the tale.”

Elspyth blushed. “It is a long story, sir, and after the one we’ve just told you, I can’t imagine you would want more of
the same,” she said, hoping to deflect his attention from the story of how she came to be so far north.

“Indeed,” he said, eyeing her gravely but not pursuing it. After the story of the murder of the Donals, the Benches were already in a state of shock. “Crys, I regret having to tax you further on this subject, but are you quite sure that the Crown was behind the slaughter at Tenterdyn?”

Crys nodded. “My mother died in my arms and her last wish was for revenge. Her haunted eyes spoke of the horrors she had witnessed—the killing of my father and brothers and then the burning of their bodies. The massacre at Rittylworth was also definitely the work of Celimus—Ylena Thirsk confirmed it and Elspyth happened along quite soon after the raiders had left. She took the message from Brother Jakub to my father.”

Helyn handed Crys a goblet of wine. “None for you, I’m afraid, Elspyth. Sorry, please go on,” she add, smiling softly at the young Duke.

Crys hoped the tremble in his voice would disappear with the help of the liquor. “As I explained, we have been at Queen Valentyna’s court. She offered her protection without question. I hadn’t expected the diversion of tracking down Elspyth,” he said, “or I would have been here much earlier.”

“What can we do?” Lord Bench asked. “I feel so helpless.”

“Wy—” Crys stopped himself in time. “Ylena suggested that I come to Pearlis and try to stir up some trouble for the King.”

“Ylena Thirsk did? Where is that girl now?” Lord Bench demanded. “To tell the truth, I thought she must have gone home to Argorn after Wyl’s death. Now that we know about her husband’s murder, all the more reason for her to flee Stoneheart.”

“No, sir. Ylena was thrown into Stoneheart’s dungeons. A mercenary called Romen Koreldy rescued her.” Crys quickly outlined how Koreldy fit into the tale, manipulating the truth by telling them that he had made a promise to the dying Wyl to find his sister. “Then, after escaping Rittylworth, Ylena fled to Felrawthy. She carried proof of my brother’s murder there
with her—which is why Celimus sent his assassin to find her. Leyen, of course, never—” He stopped abruptly as both his hosts flinched with obvious alarm. “Is something wrong?”

“Leyen?” Lady Bench said, her expression aghast. “Is that the name you used?”

Crys nodded, glancing toward Elspyth.

“Can you describe her?”

Discomfited by Lady Bench’s interest, Crys gave a quick summary of Leyen’s appearance.

“But that’s her!” Helyn exclaimed. “I know this woman. She came to our house, for Shar’s sake. I have been protecting her from Celimus since I first met her and he began asking questions about her. She told me she was a messenger—a go-between for the King and Queen Valentyna!” Exasperation rang in her tone.

“She is an assassin, you say?” Eryd said gravely, looking toward his wife to be calm.

“Well…” Crys hesitated. He had made a mistake, should have used the name Aremys Farrow. But how was he to know that the Bench family would know Faryl?

“Out with it, young man,” Eryd urged. Duke or not, Crys was still a young pup in Lord Bench’s eyes. It was inconceivable to him, even after days of trying to accept it, that Jeryb Donal was dead. The old rogue had been stronger than several oxen; he had been destined to outlive them all. Friendship aside, it upset Eryd deeply to think that Morgravia had lost not just such a fine man but also its finest remaining strategist and soldier. Celimus would pay for that loss.

Crys looked helplessly toward Elspyth. She knew he was trapped by duty whichever way he turned: to his parents, to the realm, to these fine people, to a friend. She hesitated, and then impulsively leaned forward.

“My lord, my lady,” she interrupted. “I have a story to tell that you will not want to believe—no doubt won’t be able to believe once you have heard it. But I am telling you the truth, for I have borne witness to it with my own eyes.”

“As have I,” Crys joined in, a mixture of terror and relief
flooding his body as he saw that Elspyth had made the decision for him. He hated breaking oath with Wyl, but he hated lying to Lord Eryd Bench even more, particularly as the old man reminded him so much of his own father. And the truth was, they needed allies. Someone had to help share the burden of Wyl’s woes. It had sounded fair enough at Tenterdyn to keep this terrible secret, but someone in power had to know of Myrren’s Gift. Others must be convinced to rally to Wyl’s cause.

Eryd glanced between them. “This sounds dire,” he said. He had thought he had heard their worst, but it seemed far more terrible information was yet to be revealed.

“Why do I suddenly feel I don’t want to hear what you’re about to tell us?” Helyn Bench added, surprised herself that she could resist a tantalizing tale.

“You might regret our sharing this with you, Lord and Lady Bench. But once told, you must promise us you will aid us and act upon it.”

“My dear,” Helyn said, now truly wishing she had joined her daughter, Georgyana, for a day of shopping, “you make it all sound so sinister. What is this about?”

“It is the story of Wyl Thirsk, my lady, and I shall tell you everything I know, even though he will never forgive me for sharing it.”

Elspyth began.

A
s Elspyth was sharing Wyl’s story with a stunned couple in Pearlis, Wyl, in the Razors, was explaining to the women attending Ylena that he preferred not to wear either of the two dresses that had been brought to his chamber.

Cailech had commandeered a suite of rooms as accommodations for Ylena. Once again, Wyl was arrested by the simple beauty of the Mountain People’s creativity. A fresco of vines and their fruit trailed the perimeter of each room’s ceiling and the whitewashed walls were hung with paintings of the stark
Razor landscape. A thick rug on the floor and an equally colorful bedspread added yet more brightness to the natural light flooding in through the huge windows favored by the King throughout the fortress; he liked to bring the mountainscape he loved inside.

The last time Wyl had been in this stonghold, as Koreldy, braziers had warmed each room. Only the endless hallways and cavernous spaces connecting the chambers had been left unheated, and those had been freezing, he recalled. But it was well into spring now and the hardy Mountain People had done away with the heating.

Ylena’s body trembled from the cold as Wyl tried again to politely decline the garments. “Thank you, but I prefer my trews,” he said.

“Both gowns are woven from the coat of polders, my lady,” one of the women assured. Her tone suggested that this was equivalent to being spun from gold.

Wyl was none the wiser for the explanation but was courteous enough to touch the dress and smile. “It is very beautiful,” he agreed.

“Please, my lady, we will get into trouble if you do not wear one of these dresses.”

“Oh, surely not.”

They nodded. “Our king told us to dress your hair as well. He has had fresh thawdrops brought up from the valley.”

Wyl looked toward where the women glanced. He had not noticed the vase holding the tiny white flowers Cailech had promised to pick for Ylena. He felt more trapped than ever, and wished he could reach Aremys. Perhaps he should just make a run for it. He could hope someone would bring him down—if he were lucky, kill him. It would likely be a Razor warrior and then at least he could inhabit the body of a man again…but if he was felled by an arrow, he might not live to avenge those who had been murdered, or see Valentyna again.

Valentyna. His heart ached as he remembered the disturbed and disgusted expression she had worn the last time they were together. If only he could be a man again, he would somehow
make it up to her…even if only to apologize on Ylena’s behalf for his stupidity.

He realized suddenly that the women were staring at him and the silence had stretched embarrassingly long.

For you, then, Valentyna,
he decided, and nodded to the waiting women. “Which one suits me best, do you think?”

The women beamed. One reached out and touched Ylena’s hair. “You are so beautiful, you would do either of them justice.” Then she took Ylena’s hand. “We have longed for the day when our king would take a woman for his own,” she said shyly.

Wyl was touched in spite of the horror he felt. “Do you not mind that I am Morgravian?”

She shrugged and looked toward her companion, who made a similar gesture. “That you have captured his heart is enough. We do not question his choice, and in truth there is no one suitable within our own kingdom. Whoever he chose to marry, it would have caused jealousy among the factions. You have no allegiance to any Mountain family. This way he offends no one. And, my lady, rumors abound that our two kingdoms have signed a peace treaty. This makes your marriage to our king even more special. How could we not accept the woman our king loves?”

“Loves?” Wyl repeated, aghast. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“The King is a great judge of character,” the woman said stubbornly.

“He’s told you we are to be married?” Wyl asked, further alarmed.

They nodded. “Oh yes,” the other woman said. “The news is spreading like fire around the fortress.”

“And has he said when?” Wyl held his breath.

They hesitated, sensing his trepidation. “The day after tomorrow, my lady,” the older one said finally. “A gown is being stitched from pure white polder—our most rare color. Animals are being slaughtered today for the feast and people are already gathering to catch a glimpse of you.”

They saw the noblewoman’s hands fly to her face and press
against each cheek in horror. Her look of desperation frightened them.

“He will be gentle with you, my lady,” the older one assured, imagining the angelic beauty was fearing for her wedding night.

“Oh, stop, please,” Wyl said, determined now to find a way to flee or bring about his own death. He remembered the warning from Elysius with despair. It was not possible for him to invite his own death. But randomness was still possible, as young Fynch had assured him. That was what he needed now to save him. A random act—be it madness, violence, or anger. Whatever occurred, he had to be rid of Ylena’s guise within the next few hours.

Y
ou’re sure of this?” Myrt hissed in a whisper.

Aremys nodded, trying to look nonchalant as he lifted the latch on the side door leading into the stable. He forced himself not to glance over his shoulder. “Where’s Maegryn?”

“He’s always around somewhere. You’d better have a story at the ready if we’re caught.”

“Perhaps you should wait outside,” Aremys suggested. “I can’t risk you getting into trouble with Cailech. Once you’re committed, there’s no going back.”

Myrt shook his head. “I have to see the horse for myself.”

The set of his friend’s mouth assured Aremys there would be no further discussion. He nodded and stepped into the darkness. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the minimal light that filtered through the stable’s timber boards. A snort told him Galapek was in the shadows to his right. He immediately began whispering a stream of soft words to the creature.

Myrt closed the door and remained silent behind Aremys. He realized he was holding his breath. He watched Aremys raise his hand and place it on the animal’s majestic face, and as
man and beast touched, he felt a surge of emotion. Was this really Lothryn?

“Lothryn,” Aremys murmured. “If you’re there, give us a sign. I’ve brought Myrt.” He nodded at Myrt to step forward. “Say something,” he whispered.

Myrt moved from behind the Grenadyne and cleared his throat. “If that’s you, my friend, prove it.”

“I can feel the magic shivering through his body,” Aremys said. “He’s fighting it; that’s why his flesh is trembling.” He turned back to Galapek. “Come on, Lothryn, do it for Elspyth. She’s alive. She’s coming for you. And Wyl’s here too!”

The horse reared up onto its hind legs and squealed. Aremys fell to the floor, pain filling his head as a voice, equally pain-filled, growled into his mind,
Turn me loose!

“It’s him!” Myrt whispered as he tried to calm the horse, which was kicking and pounding at the wall. “Quick! He could hurt you.”