Bridge of Souls (39 page)

Eryd tried to stand, but found himself paralyzed.

“My apologies, sir,” Celimus continued, as nonchalantly as if he were discussing the weather. “I took the precaution of poisoning your wine. Won’t be long now. I think I’m right, aren’t I, Jessom, in that Lord Bench would be experiencing some sort of paralysis now?”

Eryd could not turn to watch the Chancellor’s nod. If he had, he would have seen the disgusted expression on Jessom’s face, and known that the man had murdered one of the most
powerful men in the realm tonight only under threat of his own death. He heard Jessom’s whisper, though, as the Chancellor removed the goblet from his catatonic grip. “Forgive me, Lord Bench,” he said, and then was gone, stepping aside to reveal the heinously grinning face of the King of Morgravia

“You are dying, Eryd, in case you hadn’t quite grasped it. We shall say it was your heart. I will ensure a proper ceremony for your funeral, you can count on it, and all your noble friends will come and pay their respects. I’m afraid I can’t promise the same for your women, although I will make you an oath that they won’t suffer, how’s that? Pretty Georgyana, such a shame.”

Eryd began to growl unintelligibly, the only voice left to him now. His vision had turned dark, and although he could hear, he no longer listened. The cruel words were too painful. He felt his chest constricting and his heart seemed fit to burst from the little space it had left. He tried again to move, but it was useless.

His last coherent thought was that the King had gotten it wrong; for all his smug satisfaction, he had no idea that Crys Donal had returned to Morgravia and was in fact already in Pearlis. Perhaps, Eryd thought as his breathing came in shallow gasps, the young Duke had already taken the Bench women and escaped, for he would surely not have liked the news of this visit to the King.
Please don’t let Georgyana die,
he prayed as the paralysis took him and he gurgled a final heaving gasp. He died, eyes wide open, saliva dribbling down the dark robes he favored.

“Check him,” Celimus ordered.

Jessom obliged in silence, seeking a pulse at the neck. He shook his head. “Dead.”

“Good. That is a most effective weapon, Jessom. I might ask you to use it again sometime. I gather you didn’t enjoy that death.” Jessom did not reply and the King did not care. “You’ve already sent the men?”

“They left for the Bench household not long after the two lords’ arrival, sire.”

“Hartley knows too much.”

Jessom knew it was wasted breath to try to convince the King not to kill again tonight. “I shall see to it, your majesty.”

“Arrange for him to be dealt with by men you trust, Chancellor. I want no wagging tongues.”

“May I ask, your majesty, how we are going to explain the disappearances of Lord Bench and Lord Hartley?” Jessom risked.

“That is what I pay
you
for, Chancellor. Don’t trouble me with details. Be gone.”

Jessom turned, and as he did, so did something inside him.

W
YL ENTERED THE SAME IMPRESSIVE CHAMBER HE HAD BEEN ESCORTED TO AS
R
OMEN
K
ORELDY
. O
NCE AGAIN HE WAS GREETED BY THE
M
OUNTAIN
King, who immediately dismissed the two warriors he was speaking with.

“Ylena,” Cailech said, moving swiftly from the huge windows where he had been gazing out across the valley. “You look enchanting.” He kissed her hand and moved back to the panoramic view, this time with her in tow.

Wyl closed his eyes with revulsion but permitted the courtesy. “Thank you for the fresh clothes.”

“Can’t have you looking like a man all the time,” Cailech replied, his light green eyes sparkling in the dying light. “Are you hungry?”

“Not especially.”

“Mountain People are always ravenous,” the King admitted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be polite and pretend you’re eating plenty. Just push the food around if you must, but let the kitchen know you’ve appreciated their efforts tonight.”

Wyl nodded. “Of course.”

“Your hair is so beautiful and soft,” the King said, reaching a hand to touch Ylena’s carefully dressed hair.

Wyl stepped closer to the window, trying to avoid the King’s caress. “You certainly live in a magnificent place,” he said, keeping his voice steady, mind racing. He had to escape. No ideas had presented themselves, save death, and he was not permitted to force that. The Quickening was sinister enough without antagonizing its magics. He thought about those who were still left to him—Fynch, Elspyth, Aremys, Gueryn, hopefully, and, of course, always Valentyna. He was terrified that Myrren’s Gift might strike at them if he broke its laws, and he could not risk those precious lives.

“This is your home now, Ylena. I hope you’ll come to love it in the same way that my people do.”

Cailech watched the Morgravian noblewoman smile wanly at him. “May I ask you a question, sire?”

“By all means. Come, sit, let me pour us something to enjoy while we talk.”

Sitting was good, Wyl decided, for there were no chairs in the room that could take the two of them. “Thank you,” he said, walking deeper into the chamber toward the hearth.

“I had a fire lit. I presumed you might be feeling the cold.”

“Just a bit,” Wyl said, and shivered for effect, making the King grin.

Seated, Wyl broached the subject that had burned on his lips ever since meeting Cailech again. “My lord, I have learned that someone very precious to me was sent into the Razors a little while ago with a scouting party.”

The King did not reply, simply arched an eyebrow in query as he handed Ylena a small, exquisite glass of a honey-colored
wine that looked syrupy and delicious. “This is my personal favorite. Please enjoy.”

Wyl nodded his thanks and sipped. It was Romen’s distant memory that recalled the wine—a burst of sharp fruit that somehow was also achingly sweet—but it was Ylena’s mouth that smiled with pleasure. Again the King grinned.

“He is Morgravian,” Wyl continued. “An older man. His name is Gueryn le Gant.”

Cailech’s expression remained unchanged. “Yes, I know of him.”

“Is he alive, sire?”

“I don’t know.”

Wyl’s heart twisted in his chest. He had to be especially cautious here. He could not let on that he knew anything more than Ylena herself could know. “I see. But you had him as a prisoner?”

“That is correct.”

“Can we find out if he has survived, my lord?”

“That depends.”

“On what, your majesty?” Wyl drew on all his sister’s sweet manners.

The King put a finger to his lips at the sound of a knock on the door. “Come,” he called.

A servant appeared. “Forgive me, your majesty. Warrior Borc wondered if you could spare a moment. He said it’s extremely important.”

Borc! Wyl remembered the name all too well—the man had nearly prevented their escape from the fortress the last time.

The King showed his irritation at being interrupted. “Very well. I can spare only a moment, and tell him it had better be vital news.” The servant disappeared. “Forgive me, Ylena,” Cailech said. “This won’t take long.”

Wyl nodded, a polite smile on his sister’s face.

Borc entered nervously. Wyl stiffened as he saw that the man still carried himself with a limp—the legacy Romen’s sword, wielded by Wyl’s hands, had left.

“This had better be good, Borc,” the King warned. “I have company.”

The young warrior nodded toward the noblewoman, embarrassed, and made a low bow to his sovereign. “Please forgive me, sire, but I bring dire news.”

“Dire?” the King repeated, not taking the younger man seriously. “Get on with it, then, man.”

“Should I speak freely?” the warrior asked, glancing again toward Wyl.

“I would have said so otherwise,” Cailech replied, his tone brusque.

“Yes, your majesty,” Borc bobbed another bow. “I…er, well, I was passing the stable earlier this evening, sire, and there was a terrible commotion from within. It was your stallion, my lord.”

“And where was Maegryn?” the King asked.

“That’s what I’m here to tell you, sire. Maegryn is dead.”

The King paused deliberately in an attempt to steady his erupting emotions. “Killed by the horse?” he asked, mind racing as to whether Lothryn could or would do such a thing.

“No, your majesty. Killed by our own and the Grenadyne.”

“What?” Cailech roared, no longer caring for control.

Wyl stood and backed away, his own mind in a swirl of confusion. What could have happened between Aremys and Galapek to provoke such a thing?

“Farrow was there?” the King demanded.

Borc nodded. “It was not Farrow who did the deed, though, sire.”

“Tell me.” Cailech’s face had darkened, his eyes narrow. Wyl knew the look, had seen it through Romen’s eyes. A storm was raging beneath the seemingly calm expression. The men had forgotten Ylena in the shock of the news and he frantically scanned the room for a way out. But there was no side door, no entry other than the one presently blocked by Borc. He was trapped.

“It was Myrt, sire.”

The room became deathly silent. Even the air seemed to thicken in that moment of dread.

Cailech’s voice, when it came, was strung taut. The impact of a second betrayal from a trusted warrior hit hard, and he half whispered, half groaned, “You are sure of this?”

The man nodded, eyes darting toward Wyl and anxiously back to his king. “I was taking a tumble with a girl, sire. Forgive me. We were in the hayloft above your stallion’s stable when two men came in. I recognized Myrt immediately, and of course the Grenadyne was easy to distinguish even in the low light of the stable.”

“Go on,” the King urged, his body tensed like an animal ready to pounce on prey.

Borc looked as though he regretted the whole idea of bringing this alarming news to his sovereign.
Gone is the smugness now, eh, Borc?
Wyl thought, deriving momentary pleasure from the uncertain expression on the warrior’s face as he tried to explain something the King did not want to hear yet insisted on being told.

“Myrt and Farrow, they…” Borc looked embarrassed.

“What? What did they do?” the King demanded.

Borc took a breath. “They talked to Galapek, sire.”

Wyl had not thought the atmosphere in the room could get more potent with foreboding or that the King could hold himself more still or more tense, but he saw he had been wrong.

Borc tried to fill the silence. “The Grenadyne spoke to the horse as if it could hear him, sire, and so did Myrt. They…well, I feel awkward about this, sire,” he said, looking to his king for help.

“Say it!”

“They called your stallion Lothryn.”

Cailech swung around, a sound of anger combined with anguish escaping his throat. He swatted at the clay flagon nearby and it shattered on the granite floor, the smell of honey and syrupy-sweet wine wafting through the chamber.

“Finish it, Haldor damn you, Borc!” the King said, round
ing on his warrior. It was the first time Wyl had ever seen Cailech lose his control.

Borc swallowed. “The horse reared when they called to him, sire, then it began to scream and kick at the walls. Farrow told Myrt that the stallion wanted to be let loose.”

“Did they do that?” Cailech demanded.

Borc shook his head. “Maegryn interrupted their planning. He questioned what they were doing around Galapek. Myrt seemed unsure at first, sire. The Grenadyne did all the talking, said he wanted to go out for a ride or some such excuse. Maegryn said he had to report them because the barshi had given orders since the disappearance of the Morgravian prisoner that anyone acting strangely around Galapek was to be singled out.”

Wyl kept Ylena’s gaze on the floor but sensed the King steal a glance toward her at the mention of Gueryn. He worked hard to give the impression that she was embarrassed to be sharing this information and did not react to the mention of the prisoner.

Borc was racing to the end of his sordid tale, clearly uncomfortable and eager to leave. “Maegryn said he was coming to see you, sire, and that’s when Myrt grabbed him. Farrow told him not to, but there was blood rage there, sire, Myrt couldn’t stop. He strangled Maegryn but I didn’t stop to see what they did with the body, your majesty. I jumped from the small window upstairs and came straight here, although I gather the Grenadyne is also on his way to see you.” He looked behind him as if Aremys might already be standing there.

“And Myrt?”

“Has gone to find Rashlyn, your majesty. Farrow wants to know what has happened to the Morgravian prisoner. Maegryn mentioned that he thought the barshi had taken him for his own uses.”

Cailech twisted away in angry thought, staring out of the window. He could only barely see the great shadows of the mountains in the distance now as darkness fell quickly upon the Razors.

“Borc.”

“Sire?”

Cailech’s voice was as cold as the ice that covered the Razors’ peaks in midwinter. “Assemble the senior warriors. Tell the gatekeeper no one leaves, not even our own. Send reinforcements to the portcullis. Have several guards posted on every gate—even those into the town. Neither Myrt nor the Grenadyne is to be permitted access in either direction. Release the dogs. Understand?” Borc nodded. “Send Rollo to me immediately with one other of his choice—have runners sent for him if necessary. Tell Rollo everything and then find Myrt.” Borc bowed and departed.

The King turned slowly to face Ylena. Wyl set her face impassively and took the lead. “I’m sorry, your majesty, that I witnessed that. I’m sure it was a private concern.”

“It was not your fault, Ylena. I should have taken more precaution.”

“That man of yours was speaking about Gueryn le Gant, wasn’t he?”

The King nodded, staring so intently at Ylena that Wyl felt himself falter slightly. Perhaps it was not a good idea to question Cailech right now. But there might never be a better opportunity, and time was their enemy. “Gueryn le Gant is my guardian,” he said. “When our mother died, Gueryn was all we had, for my father was away at Pearlis with the King. When I was sent to Stoneheart to be raised as the ward of King Magnus, Gueryn was there too. He is family. He is all I have left.” Wyl made Ylena’s soft tones beseeching.

The news took the King by surprise, but he had no time to respond, for there was another knock. Once again he hushed Ylena with a gesture. Both knew who it was going to be. The same servant appeared with an expression of apology, but Cailech hardly noticed.

“Is it Aremys Farrow?” he asked before the man said anything.

“Yes, sire.”

“Send him in.”

Aremys was shown in and Wyl immediately sent him a look of warning.

“Sire, you were expecting me?” Aremys said smoothly, trying hard not to show his surprise.

“I guessed you would come around soon enough,” Cailech said, his tone casual and his body language relaxed. Behind him Wyl shook his head toward Aremys, desperately cautioning him against saying anything incriminating.

Aremys faltered. The smile he would normally give to the man he now considered a friend did not arrive.

“Care for a cup of wine, Farrow?”

“No, sire, I came here only briefly to pass on a message. Forgive my interruption, I thought it was important.”

“Apparently there are a number of important messages to be communicated tonight,” Cailech replied.

The cryptic reponse was not lost on Aremys. “I can come back later, sire.” He saw relief move across Ylena’s face and then froze as Cailech also glanced toward her.

“No, please, come and join us,” Cailech said affably. “I’d like to share some wine with you.”

Wyl looked at the shattered flagon and Aremys followed his glance. Something dangerous had occurred here tonight; tempers had frayed. “Are you well, Ylena?” he asked, suddenly wondering whether Cailech had hurt Wyl.

“I am, thank you, Aremys. I was just about to tell the King about Queen Valentyna and all she told me of Romen’s tales of the Razors.” Aremys nodded, frowning slightly, and Wyl took the risk of saying more. “You know, about how Romen’s escape was aided by Lothryn, and how he later worried about what might have happened to the brave warrior who betrayed his king.”

Wyl himself had fast reflexes but Ylena’s body moved more slowly than he was used to. He saw the King’s sudden action but as Ylena could not avoid the hard, stinging slap. Ylena’s small body flew across the room, gashing a leg on a small table
and sprawling across a chair before tumbling to the granite floor. Wyl lay still. From the terrible pain, he suspected Ylena’s slim shoulder had dislocated during the awkward fall.

Wyl heard Cailech ranting above his sister’s body. “Do you think I’m stupid, Ylena?”

Wyl had no choice; he spoke quickly to his friend. “He knows about Maegryn,” was all he managed before he felt himself lifted easily from the floor and flung again across the chamber. He glimpsed Cailech’s enraged face and heard his roar of anger. Ylena’s body crunched awkwardly against the stone fireplace and this time her leg snapped, the bone poking through the skin. Fresh pain klaxoned through her frail body. Wyl released a scream, partly out of helplessness, partly designed to keep Cailech’s attention away from Aremys. It was too late, though—Cailech’s men had arrived, among them someone Aremys clearly recognized.