Bridge of Souls (41 page)

“Explain yourself, Farrow.”

The mercenary shrugged, reveling in his nonchalance. It was amazing to let go of fear; he suddenly felt empowered. This was how Wyl must have felt when he was baiting Celimus into killing Ylena at Tenterdyn—except Wyl had not expected to die, he thought, a rueful grin creeping across his bloodied face.

“Answer me!” the King roared, raising the blade.

“I’m not afraid to die, Cailech, so threatening me will not help you learn what you need to. But I shall tell you anyway. You are a puppet to Rashlyn. Ask your men. Ask Rollo here what he thinks of your mad barshi and the way he controls you. Ask poor Myrt, who would have crawled over the very ice caps for you but hates you now for what you have done to Lothryn at the barshi’s whim. You are controlled by the mad sorcerer. He uses magic on you, my king, and makes decisions for you.”

Aremys felt the change of atmosphere in the room immediately. The grip of his captors lessened and he saw Cailech’s face move through a series of expressions from disbelief to rage.

“You lie!”

“No, Cailech. Look at your men. Ask them. You turned Lothryn into a beast. Galapek is an abomination—abomination—but it was not your idea, was it, sire? It was Rashlyn’s. And now the Morgravian prisoner has disappeared. Where is Gueryn le Gant, your majesty? Magically twisted into another abomination, that’s where. Can your people trust you with this sort of misery and sorcery hanging over them?”

Before Cailech could respond, Rollo broke in. “My king, is this true? Have you used magic on Lothryn?”

Cailech’s hesitation in replying was damaging.

“And now he’s going to have Myrt killed, Rollo, because he knows the truth too.”

Rollo dropped his hands from Aremys and his second followed suit. “I cannot permit this, sire,” he said, shaking his head, disbelief raging in his eyes. “I hate the barshi. But I loved Lothryn like a brother, and Myrt is our leader even though you are our king. You would kill the two men I trust most? Rashlyn is evil, sire.”

Cailech’s eyes darkened in the granite face. “Do you challenge me, Rollo?”

The warrior backed away. “I don’t know the truth, sire. I don’t understand any of it. If Myrt killed Maegryn then I wish to hear why. I want his side of the story, not the words of Borc,
who would sell his own grandmother to get into your good books.”

“I order you to take this man to the dungeons,” Cailech said. His words were slowly spoken and chillingly intense.

Rollo shook his head with equal slowness, hardly believing he was defying his own sovereign. “Not until you bring Rashlyn here…and Myrt.”

The room had become still with tension. Cailech stared at Rollo and then back at Aremys. His silence was telling as he considered his options. Finally he nodded wearily. “Go. Bring them both here.”

Relief flooded the warrior at the King’s capitulation. He wasted no time, nodding first to his second to follow and then to Aremys, who would have liked to thank Rollo for his courage. It was pointless, though. As he stared at Cailech and the King returned the glare, both knew the Grenadyne would not live a few moments beyond the warriors’ departure.

As the door closed behind the two Mountain Men, Cailech rounded on Aremys.

“I know you don’t intend to let me live long enough to clap eyes on Myrt again, sire,” Aremys said, playing for time.

“How instinctive of you, Farrow. I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Lothryn got to be a horse. Nothing so exotic planned for me, Cailech?”

“Nothing leaps to mind,” Cailech growled, stepping closer.

“Or do you have to wait for the puppeteer to arrive to make the decision for you? So he can cast his magic and make you dance precisely as he wishes?”

Cailech shook his head in mock disgust but Aremys could see him grinding his jaw. And then his hopes were destroyed. Cailech turned nonchalantly to gaze down at the figure of Ylena Thirsk, who had painfully and silently crawled the length of the room, a trail of blood behind her.

“Ah, Ylena, good. You’ve arrived painfully, I see, and just in time to watch your rescuer die. I think Aremys was counting on you to divert me while he took care of me, although I have
to wonder what he had in mind, as neither you nor he carries a weapon. Perhaps he was going to bite me to death.” The King laughed. “Here, my dear, let me help you,” and he reached down almost tenderly to pick her up.

Aremys felt his gut twist. It was over, then. Cailech was right; he had been counting on Wyl to achieve some diversion. Between them they might have been able to get the blade from Cailech and hold him off until the others returned.

“There we are,” Cailech said, placing a grimacing Ylena into a chair just in front of Aremys. “Now you have a good view.” He lifted her skirt to look at her leg and made a tutting sound. “Nasty. That must really hurt. I’m constantly impressed by your courage, Ylena.” He returned a savage gaze to Aremys. “How would you like this done, my friend? Throat? Gut? Heart?”

“May Haldor rot your soul, Cailech!” Aremys said, helplessness washing over him. He looked once more upon Ylena. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“You haven’t yet,” Wyl answered. “Remember who I am. Use me!” he urged.

Cailech smiled. “Such a brave pair. What is it between you two? I could almost feel jealous. You seem to have each other in some sort of thrall. It’s not ardor or lust, for I would have sensed that. It’s more than that—”

Aremys was not going to listen anymore. “Get on with it, then, and look to your back, Cailech. Celimus will never allow you or the son you foisted on Lothryn’s wife to live.” He rolled the die once more. Perhaps in Wyl’s fighting words there was a chance yet. “I’ve already told Celimus about Aydrech. Security in case you did not keep faith with me. He’ll come looking for you both. The boy will not live to see a year, I predict.”

That was it. That was Cailech’s weak spot, he realized. His love for the child and his desire for an heir were more important than anything else in the world to him. Aydrech was his softness.

Cailech’s subsequent howl at the biting threat was filled
with a venom that Aremys had only previously experienced in battle. It was beyond anger or fear. It was a rage people reach when there is nothing else to care about but the kill. Many hardened fighters spoke of the moment when nothing but blood—the enemy’s blood—could cleanse them of that hatred and wrath. Aremys watched the blade rise and closed his eyes, expecting to die. It was up to the gods now.

It was no god that came to his rescue that day but a damaged man trapped in a woman’s body; broken and bleeding, he somehow found the strength to push the enraged King still further.

“And Celimus will not spare the child any pain,” Wyl said, watching the blade also. “He’ll probably drag Aydrech behind his horse, or simply impale your weeks-old son…he might even roast him and feed him to the royal hounds,” he goaded the King.

This time Cailech roared as the blade descended and it was Ylena who took the mighty blow that nearly cleaved her in two, cutting flesh and sinew, cartilage and bone, finally coming to rest buried between her breasts.

Her sad, lovely eyes met Aremys’s as she fell to her death at last. Her gaze was triumphant.

Cailech groaned. The sound was deep and guttural, and filled with rage. He was bent double, his body shaking and his large hands clutching his head as it swung angrily from side to side, as if in denial. The Mountain King suddenly arched his back and clenched his fists, his expression a contortion of such pain that Aremys took a step back. Cailech let out a final low and desperate growl, slumping forward before he straightened, staring at the bright blood on the hand and arm that had dealt the murderous blow. The King took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his formerly light eyes to meet Aremys’s.

Aremys, hating to have put Wyl through more pain, noted their curious ill-matched color and did not know whether to cry with relief or share the despair of loss. He laid his hand
onto the hard, muscled arm of King Cailech and whispered, “Welcome back, Wyl.”

Wyl Thirsk, now King Cailech of the Razors, flexed his broad shoulders and sighed. “Let’s go find our friends,” he growled in Cailech’s deep voice.

F
YNCH SAT CROSS-LEGGED
,
STARING AT THE MAN WHO HAD BROUGHT SO MUCH HATRED AND DESTRUCTION INTO THE WORLD
. N
OW HE MUST DIE
.

Rashlyn did not know Fynch could see him, but he could feel the boy, sensed his powerful presence here among the Razors. He looked so small and helpless; how could a child possess such potent magic?

Rashlyn had fled without thinking, but leading the boy into the small wood behind the fortress now seemed like madness. Perhaps the child would die of cold. Perhaps he himself might. He summoned a spell to warm himself and pondered his next move.

It was not in Fynch’s nature to be violent, but he was a destroyer whether or not he cared for the role. The blood of the dragon line pounded in his veins and the Dragon King himself demanded this of him. He would not fail. He might die but he would not let his king down.

Not far away from him sat Knave, silent, filled with dread and powerless. His part in this adventure was over. He had
guided Fynch to Rashlyn and now all he could do was bear witness.

It seemed to Knave that the barshi had disappeared, but still Fynch sat and waited.

How do you feel?
Knave could not let go of his concern.

Well enough to face what I must.

Does your head still pain you?

Yes. There is no more sharvan, before you ask.

Where is he?

Hiding, he thinks. He is confused and frightened, but he will face me soon enough.

Are you frightened?

No.

I am.

Don’t be. This is what you and I were meant to do.

Who are you, Fynch? Please share it with me before…
Knave hesitated.

Before I die?
Knave did not reply and Fynch did not force it.
I am the son of King Magnus of Morgravia, half brother of Celimus. I am of the dragon’s blood.

Is that what the Dragon King saw in you?

Fynch nodded.

What does it mean?

Nothing really
, Fynch said, shaking his head gently.
Hardly anyone knows. My mother, and she’s dead. The Dragon King, you, and me. Magnus perhaps, but he is cold in his tomb.

Shouldn’t you tell someone?

Fynch smiled and shrugged.
Best kept between us. I know who I am now and where I belong. It is enough. That’s why the Dragon King took me away as I slept—he wanted me to know the truth before I faced Rashlyn. He restored me temporarily so I could fight a king’s fight.

Where is the barshi?

Over there,
Fynch said, pointing into the wooded area.
He thinks he is hidden.

Invisible?

Apparently. But I see him.

Fynch, what are you planning to do?

Nothing.

What does that mean? You won’t fight him.

He must attack me.

But you’ll then respond?

Wait and see. Be brave now, Knave; you’ve told me that often enough.

I don’t want to see you die.

Hush, here he comes.

W
hen Jos arrived at the antechamber outside King Cailech’s meeting room, he was greeted by a look of disdain from the servant who was manning the desk. “Are they sending half-wits to the King now?”

“Shut up,” Jos growled, towering over the man and glad to note that the words sounded perfectly enunciated. “Do your job and let me do mine.”

The man sneered but backed away and knocked at the door. Curiously, the King opened it himself. This dismayed the servant. He was not used to talking to his majesty in person. “Er, sire, there is a messenger for you.”

Wyl looked over the servant’s head to the bear of a lad behind him. No memory of his face registered within Cailech. “Who are you?”

“Jos, sire. I’ve been sent by Rollo.”

The King looked back into the room, spoke briefly, then nodded. “Come in.”

Jos entered to find the Grenadyne wiping blood from his face with a dampened linen and a woman, clearly dead, laid out on the floor with the King’s cloak covering her face.

The King looked at him with a stony expression. “I believe you know Aremys,” he said. Jos nodded, his eyes riveted on the dead girl. “This is Ylena Thirsk. She turned out not to be a good choice as a bride.”

“What did you have to tell us, Jos?” Aremys prompted, the blood finally cleaned away, although the wound still seeped slightly.

The warrior turned his confused gaze on his king and bowed. “Apologies, your majesty,” he said, remembering his manners and the message he had been sent to deliver. “Rollo sent me. They’ve found Myrt; he’s badly injured. Borc is dead. Rashlyn is nowhere to be seen.”

Wyl sighed. “Where is Myrt?”

“In the barshi’s tower.”

“All right. Jos, I would consider it a personal favor if you would have Ylena Thirsk’s body shrouded and readied for travel on horseback. I’m returning her to Morgravia, where she belongs. Please use people we trust; no one with a loose mouth—you understand?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Good. Then please ready horses for myself and Farrow.”

Jos’s eyes sparked with pleasure. He was rarely involved in any tasks other than lifting, carrying, and general menial tasks around the fortress. “Certainly, your majesty.”

“And Jos, after we depart, I am leaving Myrt in charge. Rollo will be his second and I am appointing you Rollo’s deputy.”

The hulking lad looked toward Aremys and could not subdue a beaming grin. It did terrible things to his already twisted mouth—which is why he rarely smiled—but that did not matter anymore. “Thank you, your majesty,” he repeated, bowing again. “You carry on, I’ll fix everything here,” he added, hoping the King understood him.

He did. “Good lad.”

The King and Aremys left hurriedly, with strict orders that only those whom Jos permitted were allowed to enter the King’s meeting room. Jos gave a twisted smirk toward the servant, who was not quick enough with his bow to miss the young man’s sarcastic gesture.

“How do you feel—or is that a stupid question?” Aremys asked as they strode through the corridors.

“Shaky, but I’m getting used to Cailech’s body. Relieved to be a man again.”

“A king, don’t forget.” Aremys watched Cailech’s face break into a reluctant grin. “You wear him well.”

Wyl took no pride in knowing he had just destroyed another life. “Cailech fought me. I wasn’t sure I could win.”

“Inside, you mean?”

Wyl nodded. “Such anger. I don’t know what he saw—presumably me, the real Wyl Thirsk, but perhaps he glimpsed Romen as well. Who knows? But whereas the others capitulated in shock, he was savage in his intensity to hang on to life.”

“It’s a pity he had to die. Cailech had admirable qualities. He was a good king most of the time.”

“Without Rashlyn he would have been the greatest sovereign of his time,” Wyl agreed.

“We have another king to worry about now,” Aremys reminded.

“Poor Ylena. I so wanted to keep her whole.”

“You did her proud, Wyl. Don’t dwell on it. She’s at peace now—and we aren’t. I presume we’re headed to Pearlis?”

Wyl shook Cailech’s proud head. “Werryl. I have to see Valentyna, if I can make it before she leaves for Stoneheart and Celimus.”

“You can’t prevent the marriage,” Aremys warned, knowing it was a waste of breath.

“I know. I just have to see her. Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yes. Up these stairs and then out across the courtyard toward that tower over there. And what makes you think the Queen of Briavel will take kindly to a visit from the King of the Razors?”

“Valid question. I’ll think of something. Knave is here, by the way; I saw him before we arrived at the fortress.”

“Does that mean the boy is here as well?” Before Wyl could answer, Aremys added beneath his breath, “Remember to acknowledge your people, King Cailech.” He nodded toward a group of warriors approaching.

Wyl received their salutations appropriately, Cailech’s essence guiding his gestures and facial expressions. He an
swered Aremys: “Yes, Fynch is most likely here too, though I can’t for the life of me think why.”

More people, more polite salutations, and then Firl, the lad Aremys had allowed to beat him during swordplay when he had first arrived in the Razors, greeted them. “Your highness; Farrow,” he said breathlessly, bowing.

Wyl nodded. “How bad is he?”

“I’m not sure, sire. We can’t find Rashlyn to help.”

“Have any other healers been called?” Aremys asked.

“Arrived a minute ago.”

Wyl pushed Cailech’s tall body past the young man and ran up the stairs with Aremys directly behind. Rollo’s men were guarding the door but automatically stepped aside at the sight of the King. Wyl entered the chamber. He had anticipated the worst but was surprised to see Myrt sitting up.

It was Aremys who spoke first. “I hope you haven’t made us run up those fucking stairs for nothing, Myrt.”

His jest broke the tension and Rollo and Myrt grinned while Cailech’s face twitched in that way it did when he was amused but thoughtful. Wyl had realized he still had to win Rollo’s trust and clear up the business of the barshi and his effect on the King.

He immediately addressed Rollo. “We need to speak.”

Rollo raised his hands. “The fact that Farrow is still alive, sire, says plenty. Forgive my insubordination of earlier.”

“Already forgotten, though we will speak more about your concerns shortly,” Wyl replied. He moved toward Myrt and glanced at the dog lying on the floor, Borc’s body next to it. The dog was deathly still and had puncture wounds on its body. For some reason Wyl felt dizzy and nauseous. It was not the sight of the animal’s blood, but the feeling that it was tainted with magic.

“Are you all right, sire?” Aremys asked, noting the King’s sudden change in demeanor.

“Is that Rashlyn’s dog?” Wyl said, fighting an urge to throw up.

Myrt did not understand what had happened, but he had watched Cailech’s interaction with Rollo and desperately wanted to trust his sovereign. He glanced toward Aremys now, who nodded reassuringly, then motioned at Rollo, who moved to shut the door. “Best to keep this between ourselves for now, sire.”

Wyl frowned. “Speak,” he said, moving away from the animal and positioning himself where he could suck in some fresh air from the open window.

“According to the barshi, the dog is…” Myrt hesitated, looking embarrassed, and glanced again at Aremys. The mercenary had only just become aware of the smell of magic. He no longer had to touch the beast to know it was there; he could sense it. The reek was not as bad as it had been with Galapek, but it was there all right. He despaired for Wyl at what he knew was surely coming.

Wyl followed Myrt’s gaze, sensed the awkwardness. “Say it, Myrt.”

“Yes, sire. Um…Rashlyn was boasting that the animal is the Morgravian prisoner. He used sorcery to turn him into a dog.”

The King’s face was suddenly a mask of anguish. “He what?”

Aremys moved to Wyl’s side. “Careful now,” he muttered. “You mean like Lothryn?” he asked, already knowing the truth as he looked back to Myrt. The big man nodded, his eyes fearful.

Aremys decided to impress some reassurance on these men, now so apprehensive around Cailech—and with good reason. If only they knew who Cailech’s puppeteer was now. “We can speak freely,” he said to the Mountain warriors. “The King has accepted that he’s been entranced by Rashlyn on occasion and magically urged to agree to things he would normally never entertain. We’ve deduced that the spells only work if the barshi is close to the King, or his majesty would never be free of his hold—as he is now. He will execute the barshi when and if we find him.”

He looked directly at Rollo. “It is because of this sorcery that our king was convinced to allow Lothryn to be…changed,” he said carefully. “It was not his idea. He would never have agreed to something so horrific, so against our law of honorable death.”

Wyl spoke up as if in a trance, stunned by the horrifying news about Gueryn. “He will never have that effect on me again. I am free of him. Do you men believe me?”

Something in the ferocious timbre of his voice and his cold, hard gaze had the right effect. Both Myrt and Rollo nodded.

“I will find Rashlyn and kill him,” he added, and they believed him. He moved to crouch by the dog and stroked it tenderly, battling the revulsion caused by the magic. “Gueryn still breathes.”

“He saved my life, sire,” Myrt said. “Borc would have killed me if not for the animal’s courage.”

Wyl stopped himself from saying all that he wanted to about Gueryn’s bravery; he was fighting back tears and took a moment to compose himself. “I will personally deliver Rashlyn to whichever god will accept him,” he said.

“No need, sire,” Myrt said. “You haven’t heard the rest of my story.” And he described the mysterious arrival of the boy through the tower walls, bathed in light and claiming to be Rashlyn’s destroyer.

Wyl closed Cailech’s eyes. “His name is Fynch,” he said into the heavy silence that followed Myrt’s startling revelation. “He is known to me.”

No one dared ask how or why, which was fortunate, Aremys thought, because he could not imagine how Wyl would explain it. Cailech looked haggard, he noted. It had been one shock after another for Wyl: his sister, then Gueryn, now Fynch…not to mention another death, another body, another person to learn about.