Bridge of Souls (37 page)

“He won’t hurt me,” the Grenadyne said, disgusted with himself for falling. His head throbbed but his satisfaction was intense, as was the awe this sickening magic inspired in him. “It is him, Myrt. He spoke to me. He wants to be turned loose.”

The warrior turned an anxious gaze toward him. “What do we do?”

Aremys frowned, as much with frustration as with helplessness. “Well, we can’t just let him go. We have to think this through. There’s Gueryn to consider, too.”

“Forgive me if I don’t lose any sleep over a Morgravian soldier,” Myrt said. “I care only about Lothryn.”

“Understood. Listen—” He got no further. A sudden shaft of sunlight made them both swing around toward the side door where Maegryn had just entered the stable.

“Myrt? What are you doing here? And that’s the Grenadyne with you, isn’t it?”

Myrt was not as adept at lying as Aremys and his hesitation, as well as the guilty glance toward his companion, was telling. “I…that is, we…”

“We got back today,” Aremys continued smoothly for his faltering friend. “I was hoping we could go for a ride.”

Maegryn looked quizzically at them. “But you’ve been riding for days.”

“That’s true,” Aremys agreed, mentally kicking himself and giving an embarrassed grin. “A lot has happened these past few days, Maegryn. I felt like being as alone as I am permitted to be. Can’t think of a better place than in Galapek’s saddle.”

“Surely you weren’t thinking of taking the King’s horse without his or my permission?”

“Of course not,” Myrt said, regaining his composure. “We were just passing and thought we’d look in on the animal. Aremys is fond of him—brought him a red apple because he knows he hates green ones.”

The stablemaster was not to be put off so easily. “I heard Galapek. What was all the noise about?”

Both men shrugged and Aremys knew they looked more guilty for that single gesture than for any of their stammered responses or awkward pauses. He could tell from the guarded look in the stablemaster’s eyes that Maegryn was suspicious of their intentions.

“Where are you going?” Aremys said when the man turned away. He knew very well where Maegryn was headed, but he was desperately stalling for time.

“The King, if he’ll see me. I’m sorry but I have my orders.”

“Who from?” Myrt demanded.

“Rashlyn.”

“Since when do you take orders from him?” Myrt spat.

“Since le Gant went missing,” the stablemaster replied. “The barshi insisted that anyone acting suspiciously around the King’s horse would meet the same fate.”

Aremys felt a chill move through him. “What do you mean, ‘fate’?”

Maegryn shrugged, fortunately not realizing that Aremys had no way of knowing of the Morgravian prisoner. “According to the barshi, le Gant has been dealt with.”

“Dealt with!” Myrt repeated. “I thought only the King made decisions about our prisoners?”

“Listen, Myrt,” Maegryn began, his anger stoking fast now. “I hate Rashlyn. You of all people should know that. But I won’t interfere in the King’s business—you should know that, too. Lothryn, Haldor rest his soul, learned the hard way about crossing the King. I don’t intend to be given into Rashlyn’s keeping because I’ve invoked the ire of King Cailech. I can’t help you.”

“Is that what’s happened?” Aremys pressed. “Rashlyn took le Gant?”

Maegryn looked down. “I don’t know what’s happened. I suspect Rashlyn took him from the dungeon, yes.”

“What are we coming to, Maegryn, when we are too scared to speak out?” Myrt asked. He did not mean it as an accusation; it was more a sad-sounding reflection on his own shortcomings.

“Lothryn stood up to the King and Lothryn paid the price!” Maegryn yelled. “I don’t have his courage.”

“True. And where is Lothryn, do you think?” Myrt asked, advancing on the stablemaster.

“Be careful, Myrt,” Aremys murmured. His senses had become highly attuned over the years to the feelings of men in a blood rage, and Myrt seemed close to losing control of his emotions.

“I…I don’t know. Dead, I suppose,” Maegryn answered, stepping back. “Don’t threaten me, Myrt.”

“An honorable death, do you think?”

Maegryn nodded slowly, uncertainly.

“He’s not dead. He’s alive!” Myrt boomed, close to Maegryn’s face. “Rashlyn told us as much. It’s just taken me a while to work it out.”

Maegryn’s expression was shocked now. “Alive? Where?”

“Here, Maegryn. Right beneath your nose,” Myrt said, a cruel tone to his voice that Aremys had never heard before. Myrt was too upset. This was dangerous.

The stablemaster frowned, stepped back again, closer to the door. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about magic, Maegryn. I’m talking about Rashlyn and his sinister ways.”

“I don’t understand,” the man muttered, licking his lips nervously. He looked deeply scared now, as if he too sensed that the situation had turned nasty.

“You’d be right to feel petrified,” Myrt went on, noting the man’s fear. “Lothryn is in your care.”

Maegryn’s eyes widened, the nonsense of Myrt’s words giving him courage. “You’re talking in riddles, man. What’s he saying, Grenadyne?”

Aremys hesitated. Myrt’s emotions had gotten the better of him. Sharing what they knew with Maegryn, who was as loyal to Cailech as any of his warriors and did not share Myrt’s single-minded dedication to Lothryn, was a dangerous idea. “Maegryn,” he started, his mind racing, “it’s going to be hard for you to believe us—”

“Galapek
is
Lothryn, you fool!” Myrt interrupted, spitting his fury and advancing on the cringing stablemaster. “Rashlyn, with the King’s permission, used his dark magic to change him into Galapek. That’s why you don’t know where the horse came from, and why the King is so careful about who rides him or asks questions about him. And that’s also why you’ve been sworn to secrecy. You’ve always known there was something odd about the whole situation surrounding the horse. Admit it, damn you!”

“Lothryn?” Maegryn repeated, shaking his head in confusion. He looked at the huge horse and saw the anger in its eyes then returned his anxious gaze to Myrt. “No,” he said, his head moving slowly from side to side in denial.

“You know it’s true, Maegryn. You’ve had doubts of your own from the start. Right from the beginning when Cailech said he would break this horse’s spirit and earn its loyalty with trust. What do you think that whole charade was about, eh? The King was humiliating Loth, destroying his closest friend, his truest follower, and then rebuilding him in the form of a beast. A mute beast that would have to carry the King on his back for the rest of his life and thus pay homage like any slave
or lowlife. An honorable death was too good for our best warrior, Maegryn. The King wanted to make him pay; he wanted revenge and humiliation for Loth’s betrayal.”

Maegryn retaliated, reacting to the pain of the truth he knew he was hearing. “Lothryn chose the Morgravian woman over his own king, his own people!” he cried.

“And he deserved to become this, did he?” Myrt boomed. “An animal! He still lives, Maegryn. That’s the worst of it. He knows. He’s trapped inside that body, in agonizing pain.”

The stablemaster shook his head again, as though he himself were in pain. “No. This isn’t true. Can you prove it?” he demanded, looking between the two men. “Show me how this is Lothryn. How can you know?”

Aremys answered in a tone of such resignation, Myrt knew they had lost the opportunity of convincing Maegryn. “I can feel the taint of the filthy magic.”

“That’s it, Grenadyne—your word? And what…you are gifted with sentient power?” He looked at his fellow Mountain man. “Have you gone mad, Myrt? You would trust this foreigner over your own king?”

“It’s the truth, Maegryn.”

The stablemaster gave a harsh laugh, feeling a small measure of control return. “The truth?” he scorned. “Says who? Another prisoner? For that’s what he is. I have no gripe with you, Farrow, but don’t ask me to take your word over that of my king.”

Aremys said nothing, knew nothing he could say would change the stablemaster’s mind.

“You don’t know anything of substance, Myrt,” Maegryn continued. “You’re just believing the Grenadyne. Have you heard Lothryn speak? Has the horse communicated anything to you?”

Myrt shook his head, anger trembling through his body. “He spoke only to Aremys.”

“To Aremys!” Maegryn repeated, still more scorn in his tone. “No proof, nothing but this man’s say-so, and you’re pre
pared to believe that Lothryn has been turned into a horse. Does that not sound ridiculous to you?”

Myrt nodded. “It does, but not when you say that same sentence with Rashlyn’s name attached to it. The barshi is evil and you know it. His influence on the king is dangerous. Lothryn felt it and said as much to me. I don’t think our king ordered this. I think Rashlyn did. I believe, as Lothryn did, that the barshi is able to sway the King against his own wishes.”

“Rashlyn uses magic against the King?” Maegryn clarified, aghast.

“Yes. That’s what I now believe. I think he can persuade Cailech to agree to things he would not choose himself.”

Maegryn put his hands up in a warding gesture. “That’s enough, Myrt. I don’t want to hear any more. You speak treachery against our sovereign and it is my sworn duty as one of his men to make this betrayal public. I’m sorry.”

The stablemaster had just opened the door when he felt the breath cut off from his lungs as huge, powerful hands closed around his throat. He let go of the door’s iron ring, gasping. Fear pounded through his ears and the blood pumped desperately through squeezed veins and arteries. As if from far away, he heard the Grenadyne shouting at Myrt. He found enough strength to twist around to see through his bulging eyes the rage in the bigger man’s face, but he could not loosen the warrior’s grip to beg for life. “I’m sorry too,” were the last words he heard before Myrt intensified the pressure and crushed his victim’s neck. Maegryn slumped in his killer’s arms, dead.

Aremys, shocked, stood frozen in place. He was angry with himself for not foreseeing Myrt’s rage and preventing the killing. But the deed was done. Instead of accusations he offered help. “Where can we hide the body?” he said matter-of-factly. Myrt was in a state of shock, his rage gone the moment Maegryn had died beneath his fingers. He did not reply, crouching instead by the corpse. “Come on, man! It’s done with. You can’t bring him back. We have to hide him.”

“I’m a dead man. We Mountain folk are strict about killing our own kind.”

“We’re probably both dead men anyway. Come on, help me. We have to hide him and buy some hours.”

“For what?” Myrt said hopelessly.

“Everything’s going to unravel, my friend. The King is marrying a woman who does not want him and whom he does not know well enough,” Aremys responded. “Strange stuff is going to happen—believe me. Time is our enemy now. I know you don’t want to, but you have to choose between Lothryn or your king and you have to do it now! This is what I wanted to avoid, why I asked you to remain outside.”

Myrt nodded sorrowfully. “I made my choice, Grenadyne. I chose Lothryn.”

Aremys continued, more gently this time. “All right, then. We now know we are in the presence of your friend, and we must find a way to release him.”

“Can we?” Myrt asked, his spirits lifting.

“By death if necessary,” Aremys answered gravely. “We need to find out more from Rashlyn.”

“He has Cailech’s protection,” Myrt warned.

“Not while the King is enamored of Ylena Thirsk, he doesn’t. We must get to Rashlyn now…and perhaps he will lead us to Gueryn.”

“I told you, I don’t care about the Morgravian soldier.”

“But I do. And so will Ylena Thirsk when she finds out her guardian is a prisoner here.”

Myrt looked at him, startled. “Her guardian? Does the King know that?”

Aremys shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so but I’m going to tell him. I’ll seek an audience with the King. You establish where the barshi is and keep him from Cailech at all costs.”

“And Galapek?”

“Will have to be patient a little longer,” Aremys said softly, turning to stare at the stallion in the shadows. “Myrt, this choice you’ve made—you do understand you’ll have to leave the Razors?”

“Escape, you mean?”

Aremys nodded. “I won’t let you go alone.”

The warrior sighed. “This is how Lothryn must have felt. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. I betray those I love whichever choice I make. I’m sorry, Aremys. I can’t promise I’ll leave.”

It was best not to force the issue, Aremys realized. The circumstances would no doubt make all the decisions for them. “Come on, we’ve got to hide this body,” he said.

Myrt nodded. “I know where.”

L
ADY
H
ELYN
B
ENCH RELUCTANTLY HELD HER HUSBAND
’
S JACKET AS THE MAN SHE LOVED SLIPPED HIS ARMS INTO THE SLEEVES
. “I
WISH YOU
wouldn’t,” she began again.

He turned in her arms and hugged her. “My mind is made up, my dear. I don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff. I think we must air the grievances tactfully.”

“Eryd,” she said, fear combining with exasperation, “how tactful can you be when you’re about to accuse someone of murder?”

“Indeed,” he said, and pointed to a silk scarf. “Would you help me with that, please?”

She flounced to the chair and picked up the length of silk draped across it. “And not just anyone,” she continued. “The King!”

“Helyn, in case you haven’t noticed over the years, I am not a dimwit.”

“Taking witnesses won’t stop him!” she cried. “He’ll just have you all killed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman. Kill me and then Lord Hartley? Then I suppose he’d have to kill Lord Jownes and Lord Peaforth because they would follow in our footsteps. And then who else would be left to advise, to cajole, to administer this city? He needs us.”

“Please don’t go. Don’t do this.”

“I shall know from the way he reacts whether or not he is lying.”

“Eryd!” Helyn pleaded, just short of a screech, hating the way her husband closed his eyes in despair. “Do you believe that the Donals are not dead? Not hacked to bits, raped, burned? Or that the massacre at Rittylworth was a misunderstanding and that the monks are in fact live and well?”

“No, Helyn,” he said, and the tone in his voice chilled her. She wished she had not resorted to sarcasm. He was deeply angered now; she had overstepped the mark. “Please do not speak ill of the dead. I am painfully aware of the deaths of my friends the Donal family and the innocent men of Rittylworth.”

“I’m sorry, Eryd, I—”

He cut her off, too angry to hear more. “Enough, wife. The three remaining lords of Morgravia cannot disappear! Now hush your ramblings and get this scarf tied, or I shall be late.”

“What did you tell the others?” she asked, resigned, understanding there was nothing more she could do to stop her husband from walking into the dragon’s den.

“All that we know.”

“Not about Wyl Thirsk, surely?”

“No. That revelation I am keeping to myself until I can see this phenomenon with my own eyes.”

“Do you believe our guests, though?”

He nodded, slowly, reluctantly. “How could I not? Their tale is so shocking and mysterious, no one could make it up.
Jeryb Donal’s son would not lie to us, Helyn. You can see it in his face that he is as petrified of this…this Myrren’s Gift, as they call it, as he is intrigued by it. We have known Crys Donal since he was a babe in arms. He is as open a man as any, I am sure. No, there is no lie there, but I can’t accept it fully yet.”

“That Wyl Thirsk walks in the body of his sister, you mean?”

“That he was the Koreldy assassin, that he was Leyen, whom you delighted in so much, that, yes, he has become his sister.”

“But it does make sense, doesn’t it, my love?” she said. “It is odd that a Grenadyne mercenary would bother to rescue his enemy’s sister from the dungeon of his benefactor.” Eryd nodded. “Then take her to safety before going to look for that Widow Ilyk person.”

“Is that the seer’s name?”

“Yes. I’m embarrassed to admit that she has done readings for me in the past.”

“It’s all nonsense, Helyn. You know that,” Eryd grumbled.

“I thought so until now,” she replied, hurrying on. “Then the Grenadyne is trapped, taken into the Razors, and instead of bargaining his way out—as presumably he could have done with that Mountain King—he risks everything to get Gueryn le Gant and Elspyth away. Does that sound like a hardened mercenary, or like Wyl Thirsk trapped inside the body of one?”

“I agree, Helyn. It’s not that I need convincing. I just—”

“So then he makes his way to Briavel to offer his protection to Queen Valentyna. Why? Well, of course, he’d saved her life once before from a potential assassination attempt and had fought to save her father’s too, losing his own life in the effort. But then King Celimus comes along and it all goes wrong. Wyl gets killed by the King’s own assassin, Leyen—”

“They called her Faryl.”

“Whatever her name was. That girl, as much as I liked
her—and I guess now it was simply Wyl I was liking all over again—was not used to womanly things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the baths. Remember I told you?”

“You must have.”

“And you weren’t listening as usual,” she admonished. “She was so hesitant about going into the pavilion—that’s where we first met. She was terribly embarrassed about showing her body, and let me tell you, Eryd, no woman who looks like that is ever coy about her body. She had no idea about the soap leaves, and when I mentioned the razing of Rittylworth, her whole demeanor changed. That’s because it was Wyl, fearing for his sister.”

Eryd nodded. “I understand, Helyn. I want to believe it, but I believe what I see with my own eyes, not hearsay.”

“I know. As you say, though, it’s too chilling not to be real. I need no further convincing.”

“About what, Mother?” came a light voice, and the Benchs’ daughter, Georgyana, slipped into the room.

“Were you listening?” her father asked, anxious that his young, fanciful daughter had heard more than he wished.

“No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I had,” she answered, and pulled a face at him, at the same time taking his hand and squeezing it. That father and daughter worshiped each other was obvious. Helyn sometimes wondered how they ever found room for her in their lives. “Did you meet our guests, darling?” she said.

“No,” Georgyana said, shaking her long golden curls.

“We have visitors downstairs,” her father said. “I suppose you came in through the back like a servant?”

“I’m hungry.” His daughter pouted. “I wanted to see what was cooking.”

“Well, come and meet them,” Helyn said, glad of Georgyana’s noise and distraction.

“Do I have to?”

“You’ll like them,” she assured.

“Who are they?”

“The Duke of Felrawthy and a lovely girl called Elspyth, from the north.”

“Oh, another stuffy old man like father?” Georgyana said, winking toward Eryd.

“Far from it, my love,” Helyn replied. “Crys Donal is one of the best-looking men in Morgravia, and soon to be the most eligible when word gets around of his new status.”

“Ooh! What are we waiting for, Mother?” her daughter squealed. “Off you go, Father. Bring me back something small and sparkly.”

Eryd rolled his eyes with exasperation. “I am hoping for an audience with the King, Georgyana.”

“Well, steal me something from the palace, then.” His daughter giggled as she left the chamber.

Helyn gave her husband a searching glance. “My love, please—”

“Don’t say it,” he warned gently. “You know I will be.”

She said nothing and left, fearful of letting herself down with tears.

K
nave was amazed at Fynch’s recovery. His surprise drew a grin from the boy. “Truly, I am well,” he said, stretching. “I’m even hungry.”

No headache?

“All gone…for now.”

How can this be?

“The King came.”

The Dragon King? Again! He was here?

The boy nodded. “He came to me in my dreams. I flew with him, Knave. He carried me to the Wild.”

You were here all the time
, Knave said quietly.
I noticed you were restless in your sleep, though. I feared it was pain…death.

Again the boy smiled, gently and without smugness, but Knave noticed something new in his expression. Some knowledge, perhaps.

I don’t mean to pry, Fynch, but you appear miraculously well.

“I am,” Fynch said, laughing. He stood. “And I don’t need sharvan either. He healed me.”

The King did?

“Yes. He said he would restore me so I can fulfill my task.”

Suddenly Knave could not look at him; he understood the way of things.
But nothing comes without a price, am I right?
he asked, sadness in his voice.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Fynch replied softly. “I am at peace, my friend. The King shared something with me that has made me happy. Happier than I have ever felt before.”

And this sharing was a secret?

The boy nodded.

I understand, Fynch. I’m glad you feel so well. I hated to watch you suffer.

“I know. You are a better friend than any I could wish for,” Fynch said, hugging the large dog. “Now,” he continued brightly, “I must eat something and then we must go. I am strong now, Knave, and ready to face our enemy.”

Knave said nothing. When he first clapped eyes on the small gong boy in Stoneheart, he had not anticipated that he would lose his heart to him in friendship. He had never guessed he would come to resent the burden placed upon his shoulders by the Thicket.

It was as though Fynch read his thoughts. “If we don’t destroy him, Knave, he will destroy the world we love and the Thicket. The magical creatures will die and the Dragon King will be exposed. We have no choice.”

Knave did not respond but Fynch sensed the resolve in the dog and knew that his words had reminded his companion of their duty.

Eat,
Knave finally said.
We have a journey to finish.

T
he Duke of Felrawthy was getting on famously with the unashamedly flirtatious Georgyana Bench. From the mo
ment they had touched hands, the young woman curtsying to the Duke, Elspyth realized Crys might never stare at her in that sad-eyed, wistful way again.

She was surprised how it hurt, tried to shake it off as simply feeling clingy about the person who had rescued her from death, but she knew deep down it was all about her longing for love. She did not want Crys Donal—of this she was sure, for she loved only one person—but she would be lying if she did not admit to enjoying the Duke’s attention.

It was embarrassing when Lady Bench dropped in on her private thoughts. “Forgive my daughter, my dear.”

Elspyth reddened and smiled awkwardly. “Not at all, Lady Bench.”

“Oh, do call me Helyn,” the woman insisted, touching Elspyth’s arm as they sat together, withdrawn from the animatedly chatting pair.

“Thank you, Helyn,” Elspyth said. “Crys and I are great friends. I think terror and fear bring people painfully close, and we have shared much, not the least of which was learning of his family’s deaths. But our relationship is platonic, I assure you.”

“You have been very strong for him, Elspyth. Don’t underestimate how he might feel.”

Again Elspyth smiled, sadly this time. “He’s made that perfectly clear, actually,” she said. “But I love another, Helyn, and I really must make tracks soon to return to him. I’m glad, truly, that Crys and Georgyana are getting on so well. He needs a reason to smile and a woman who will enjoy him.”

Lady Bench lifted her eyebrows. “I know I shouldn’t speculate so soon, but it’s true that they would make a marvelous match. Eryd would be delighted to join our family with the Donals.”

“Where is Lord Bench?” Elspyth frowned, not really wanting to discuss a potential love match between Crys and Georgyana.

Helyn Bench grew serious and looked away from her laughing daughter and into Elspyth’s soft eyes. “He’s gone to the King.”

“What?” Elspyth started to rise, alarmed.

“No, wait,” Lady Bench soothed. “You need to understand.”

“Lady Bench, he is sworn to secrecy about Wyl Thirsk!”

“And that secret will be kept, my dear. Have no fear, we are not about to start broadcasting news of magic in this city. We only stopped burning suspected witches less than a decade ago, as you would know.”

“So what will Lord Bench say to Celimus?”

Helyn Bench’s face darkened. “I believe he intends to confront the King—in his wonderfully articulate and polite way—about the Donal family and no doubt Rittylworth.” She put a hand in the air to stop Elspyth’s oncoming tirade, then noted the fear in Elspyth’s face. It reflected her own anguish, although she hoped she was disguising it well enough.

Elspyth glanced toward Crys, who was clearly entranced by the vivaciously pretty girl who had engaged him in such lively conversation. She returned her gaze to Lady Bench. “I think his action is unwise, Helyn.”

Her carefully chosen words sent a chill through her companion; they echoed her own anxiety. She began to weep, no longer able to hide her worries.

“Oh, Helyn, please don’t. Can we reach him?”

The older woman shook her head. “And he is adamant anyway. He would not listen to me earlier when I begged him not to do this.”

“What is his reasoning?”

“He believes in sovereignty, Elspyth. He desperately wants our king to act like the true Crown of Morgravia, to behave with care and compassion and to listen to wise counsel from his own lords.”

“Eryd has listened to our horrific story and still believes he can change this cruel King into a compassionate ruler?” Elspyth asked, shocked.

“He believes we must follow the rules of our kingdom. Talk before action. No accusations before all information is sought and gathered. He does not intend to ruffle feathers, Elspyth. Eryd will be careful.”

“Listen to me,” Elspyth said, enunciating carefully as if talking to a dimwit. She did not mean to act condescending; she was frightened. Petrified, in fact. She knew Crys had noticed her distraught body language when he excused himself from Georgyana and crossed the room. “Helyn, Eryd is in grave peril. His life is at stake. So is yours and that of your daughter. The moment he raises this topic with the King, he will broadcast how much we know and the King will instantly see him for the danger he has unintentionally become.”