Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace

by H. Jane Harrington

  “Did he now? I'm sure I don't know what he means,” Kir insisted with a poorly executed mock innocence. Soft footfalls carried her back to her bedside seat. After a gulping swallow, she muttered under her breath, “Keh! I was depleted, not injured. Been fit and feisty for days now. Overzealous doting dragonflies, the lot of 'em.”

  Over the tinkling sound of liquid pouring into china cups, Kir said to Shiriah, “Since you're here, I take it the meeting was adjourned. Was Vann right behind you?”

  “On our way back from Lotus Five, Chamberlain Farraday intercepted him in the hall to talk of military matters. He told me to go on ahead. Here now, Toma.” Shiriah guided Scilio's hand around a warm teacup, turning the handle to his awareness. The liquid smelled heavy and rich, decadent with subtle sweet notes.

  As Scilio sipped, he found it to be exotic in its multiple layers of spice. “Gradhia dark? If memory serves, this is your favorite tea, Kir.”

  “Yup. Seems someone at Chalice is trying to cozy up to my good side,” Kir snorted. Shiriah matched her reaction, apparently an inside joke between them. “Doting dragonflies'll spoil me rotten,” Kir added under sniggering breath.

  Scilio was heartened. They were creatures of completely different natures, and yet, they seemed to be enjoying their shared company. It was an unlikely friendship, one that Scilio hoped would blossom.

  “I bet we're up for some good spoiling with the Second Wedding coming up. If it's anything like the First, that is,” Dailan said. Scilio imagined him licking his lips.

  “Probably right, Dagnabber, and I'm hankering to get to it. I know it's all a formality, but I'll be glad to finally call Vann husband, rather than affianced. And, I want to give Beacon back to him as a surprise wedding gift. So you best heal up quick and hustle yourself out of this bed, Ponytail.”

  Ponytail, the affectionate, sometimes jokingly derisive, nickname that Kir had bestowed, once upon a Mercarian airskiff. His fingers swept down his hair, falling off at his jawline. It was nowhere near a satisfactory style for the typical nobleman. He had sliced away his beautiful lengths with the banishment of the Shunatar, and he now could grant himself the permission to grow it back.

  “I don't suppose you can call me Ponytail anymore,” Scilio sighed, grasping a clump of his hair as evidence. “Even with potions to speed the growth, it probably won't be ready for the Second Wedding.”

  Kir nudged him to slide forward in the bed. She climbed behind and settled her back to the pillows propped against the headboard. A brush began sweeping his head, then the sides were pulled upward and backward, just about where his high ponytail used to rest. A few tugs and wrappings later, the sides made for a new style of ponytail, leaving the back hanging loose.

  Kir slid out from behind and stood beside the bed. “Even if you shave your head and join the baldy monks of Sewarch Cove, you'll always be Ponytail to me.”

  Scilio ran his hands over the styling. It was comfortable and clean. It felt right.

  “You know, I think I like it,” Shiriah mused whimsically. “Makes him look distinguished, don't you think?”

  “Yup. More mature. Refined. Sleeker, with a hint of wisdom,” Kir appraised.

  “I like it too, Shunatar. Maybe you'll keep this ponytail, instead of growing out your old one. You'll be a trendsetter for the modern stylish nobleman of new Septauria,” Dailan said, his voice muffled through chewing. He had obviously stuffed his cheeks with some manner of crunchy treat.

  The idea nodded Scilio's head in appreciation. He was a new man now. He might as well own it.

  “Splendid. Far be it from me to dismiss the approval of a Lady. Or Kir, either,” he ribbed. “And thus, I find myself ready for the Second Wedding, and the Ascension of our King Vannisarian and his Queen Kiriana. Let us commence the celebration!”

  -60-

  Impacting Statements

  I begin to find myself a little more each day, though perhaps I was never lost. I had believed myself ruined, destroyed by the Shunatar's own hand. I am coming to understand what Dailan said before: “You don't gotta kill the Shunatar to save His Majesty. Saiya Kunnai always says there's balance in everything. You just gotta find yours.”

  Profound words from a boy much wiser than myself. I believe I have found my fulcrum. The balanced point between the Shunatar and the Bardian. Both were instrumental in my actions at Quinning. They both are the all of me.

  - Excerpt from the new journal of Guardian Toma Scilio, Shunatar and Bardian

  For a champion of Order, it was ironic that the past two weeks had been nothing short of chaotic. Alokien would have approved.

  Vann had been so inundated with defense briefings, budget meetings, affairs of state and war councils that he had barely taken a spare moment to breathe. After months trapped in a prisonary kind of Hell, completely bound and helpless to act, he was finally able to do something. It was empowering to make decisions again, to have a voice, to be unchained from the frozen, timeless nothing.

  Nothing was frozen and timeless about the world he had been thrust into now. The Chalice House was abuzz, flurrying at all hours with movement. It was a makeshift headquarters, Chamberlain Farraday occupying one wing with the Generals and staff, the Hilian guests and attendants (freshly delivered via Aquilinian airferry) taking another, and the royal party, including Ulivall and Ithinar Steel, rounding out a third. There was hardly any vacancy in this overloaded brothella-turned-palace.

  Vann felt bad for Shiriah, having so thoroughly uprooted her establishment, but she was genuinely honored by the opportunity to host them. Her courtesans had hopped to work in busy service, certainly of many varieties. With a flush that heated his cheeks, Vann wondered how one went about itemizing such services on a budget report.

  During the first few days, army healers and courtesans bustled in and out of the various suites, tending to the many injuries. Vann decided he must be the only standing body from those temple grounds that had walked away without a scratch. Of course, he knew better than to think that wounds were only of the bodily sort. He was wounded, too, in a place the healers could not repair. His pains were of the soul. Those couldn't be mended and potioned away.

  The last meeting was ticked off the agenda by Nehkial, who had resumed his duties as Vann's attendant the moment he stepped off the airferry. Vann dismissed him for the evening. It was finally time to settle his mind and return to the quiet comfort of the Bluebell suite, where Kir would be waiting. He would stop in to Camellia and visit with Scilio later, once he had quenched his thirst on a goblet of Beckett, run down an overview of his day for Kir and given her the new book he had ordered. He looked forward to recharging his mental capacitor after such a long day of constant social interaction.

  Vann was thankful that the fourth floor of the royal wing was so quiet. Any busy attendants took the inner servieways, so the hallway was unoccupied. Compared to the hubbub of the army wing, it was practically a tomb.

  “Long day,” Malacar commented as he trailed Vann. “I don't know how you do it.”

  “My days of lounging idly are behind me, I suppose. Rather than acting the adventures of others, I'm writing my own script,” Vann mused, running a hand through his mahogany hair. “But you've been working just as hard, Denian. Taking all three Guardian shifts by yourself. I know it wears on you more than you'll admit.”

  “There is nowhere I'd rather be, Vann. I am your rock in the current.”

  “And you're more poetic than you'll admit, too,” Vann added.

  “I grew up around bookish sorts. I suppose something rubbed off.” Malacar betrayed a glimmer of a smile, laced with sadness.

  “You'll tell me your life story someday,” Vann prodded. “Now that we're in Havenlen, your homeland, you can't avoid it anymore. I will keep asking until you divulge.”

  “You sound like Scilio,” Malacar said. “He's been after me for ages. I think he believes there is some epic tale of juicy warrior romance hidden in the folds of my past, which he
would gladly exploit for inspiration in his plays. I'm afraid he would be sorely disappointed in me.”

  “You could always make something up.”

  “No. I'm not a storycrafter. It's more fun to keep him guessing.” Malacar's cheek twinged in humor, then his face softened. “Besides, it would be an insult to the memory. The truth is much darker than any beautiful warrior romance.”

  “So there is a story there?” Vann asked gently, trying not to push too hard.

  “One for another day,” Malacar assured him. “Rather than rekindling the past, you have a future to ignite. Let's focus our eyes on that.”

  Vann nodded, grasping Malacar's forearm in acknowledgment. They made their way down the hall to the Bluebell suite, which was obvious by the door. It was completely inlaid with pressed bluebell blossoms, flattened, fixed and suspended in time in the glossy sealant. Each of the doors in the wing marked the floral name of their suite in such a way.

  The drawing room was empty, so Vann followed the trail of boisterous voices back into the bedchamber, where it seemed a crowd had congregated. He was surprised to see so many of their friends there.

  Scilio was sitting in a wingback chair by the fireplace. Shiriah was standing beside him, left arm wrapped casually around his shoulder, her other hand pressed into his grip. He looked better than he had in days. There was color in his cheeks and life in his frosted lavender eyes, although they were parked on nothing near the curtain.

  Dailan and Bertrand were sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, and the young airship captain, Emmi, sat with them. A deck of cards was laid out between them in mid-game. By the massive pile of centinars, it looked like Emmi was winning handily. Dailan finally had some worthy competition.

  Lyndal stood at the vanity mirror, examining the split lip he had taken from Borloh in their earlier sparring match. He was still beaming from his recent promotion to Master Warrior. Beside him, Grydon and Gavin were trading opinions over some random detail with Avalir. Ulivall stood awkwardly beside Vittie, whose arms were crossed in a disapproving stature. Copellian and Eshuen talked in the corner and the other members of Ithinar Steel were dispersed through the room and balcony, caught up in conversations with a few of the courtesans. Corban, who had apparently taken a break from the Chalice kitchens where he had resumed his trade, sat on the floor beside Gressie, with little Erahnie perched in his lap.

  Inagor, leaning casually against the far wall beside Rendack, caught Vann's eye and issued a wide smile, even more proud than he was the night Vann had won the Best Young Actor award from the Findelore Thespian Society.

  Vann still couldn't believe Inagor was standing there. They had spent their spare moments during the past two weeks reconnecting, sharing their stories and grief, and reminiscing about Palinora. It troubled Vann to think that a rescue attempt had not been launched. If only he'd had a clue that Inagor was alive, Vann would have acted. Inagor would not allow any guilt or regrets over the idea, but it still was hard on Vann's heart.

  “I didn't get the invitation to the bedchamber party,” Vann said merrily to announce his arrival as he set the book on a side table. The room welcomed him in, a goblet was pressed into his hand, and happy tidings were shared.

  He had been looking forward to a moment of solitude and peace, but somehow, being surrounded by friends was more rejuvenating that Vann would have expected. Though they had been in and out on visits individually, the last time they had been huddled all together in one room, Bertrand and Grydon had been working feverishly and the atmosphere had been thick with worry, pain, heart-sickness and the coppery scent of blood. It was refreshing to enjoy collected company without the fear they had shared before.

  “So, what's the occasion?” Vann asked to nobody in particular.

  “Your affianced is about to reveal her Second Wedding dress. Lyndal and Scilio thought it too important not to mark with an audience,” Ulivall explained.

  Vann withheld a laugh. He had been so preoccupied planning a war he had almost forgotten the rest of the household was preoccupied planning his wedding.

  Everyone parked their expectant eyes on the closet doors as one began to open. Melia peeked her head around and giggled excitedly. “Okay. She's ready.”

  Gevriah and Lili pushed the doors aside, making a show of the event as though it were a stage presentation. In Vann's eyes, it might as well have been. The woman standing before them, regal and poised, dazzled with the brilliance of lumanere sunbeams. For a moment, Vann thought his heart might have faltered. It skipped at least two or three beats, for sure. He joined in the enthusiastic applause, splashing some of his wine in the process.

  Kir stood in the doorway with sunrise flooding her cheeks, her face pruning in embarrassment at the exuberant attention. Gevriah pushed Kir gently forward, urging her into the room. When Kir found Vann's eyes, the sheepishness faded away at the adoration in his. She shrugged and presented her arms for Vann to take in the display.

  “It's stunning,” he breathed.

  “I'da been happy to wear my Hilian gown from the First Wedding again, but everyone is bound and determined to keep making bigger spectacles of me than the last.” She seemed to be entertaining a private joke.

  “How could we turn down an offer from Veditor himself?” Scilio sang. “He is the most sought-after designer in all the isles, and as luck would have it, a White Tower alumnus. His second studio is located just two streets over. I got to meet the man!”

  Kir didn't seem impressed with Scilio's idolatry of dress-makers. “So did I, Ponytail. He's just an eccentric with an eye for falutin foofaraw when it comes right down to it. Anyway, we've got a war to fund. I don't think we should be splurging on frippery when I'd much rather be outfitting our soldiers.”

  “Master Veditor has donated his time and genius to your bigger spectacles, Kir. It will cost your coffers nothing but your own bodily display of his brand,” Scilio assured her suavely.

  That seemed to appease her, and she threw her gaze back to Vann again, seeking something he had not yet delivered.

  “It is gorgeous, Kiri. But your vision outshines any manner of fabric that covers you,” Vann said sincerely. “You are truly radiant. No gown is necessary for that.”

  Kir twirled, inducing the long skirts to bloom outward like a flower. It was certainly designed for dancing. “You think? If I don't need the frock, reckon I could go sunny side up to the Second Wedding. That'd gain us a few more allies in the crowd, wouldn't it?”

  The room, with the exception of Vittie, guffawed at Kir's cheeky, crude humor.

  “As I cannot make a visual assessment of said frock, a detailed description would not go unappreciated to the theater of my imagination,” Scilio commented hopefully.

  “Well, it's deep red, like the color of Brenderia's Blood wine,” Vann began. “It's fitted at the waist, accentuates her gentle curves, the skirts flare out, a sash drapes across the back around the shoulders, and it's low cut to show off the Karanni scrollwork.”

  “Very low cut,” Kir put in devilishly. “Makes the twins all perky and cleaved. Just the way you like 'em, Ponytail.”

  Scilio exhaled forcefully, playing up on a dramatic swoon. “Oooh. It's times like this I most miss my martyred vision. I do so wish a look upon such a treasure.”

  “Well, since you're the savior of the kingdom and all, I suppose I owe you this.” Kir pretended a weighted sigh and glided to Scilio's chair on her dancer's legs. She snatched up his hands and pressed them against her chest. “Here. See for yourself.”

  Scilio bobbed his eyebrows at the unexpected permission, sliding his hands to work on forming an impression through exploration of Kir's bodice. “Other ways to see, indeed! I will cherish this view.”

  A few of the Ithinar Steel boys whooped and clashed wrists. Vittie looked apoplectic. Vann laughed.

  Kir shoved the hands away playfully. “Okay, you've had your peek, licentious snollygoster. No sneaking when it's not i
nvited, now. I got me a vamblade with a hair trigger. You don't want to go losing any other means of seeing, understand?”

  Scilio saluted. “Your gift of tactile vision will long sate me.”

  Malacar shook his head, crossing his arms in pretended disapproval of Kir and Scilio's antics. “Can't even plan a wedding without you two gigging each other.”

  “We've been apart for months. Gotta make up for lost time,” Kir defended with mirth.

  “Speaking of which, it's been a while since we've graced you all with our vocal charms,” Lyndal said. “I'm up for a tune, if His Majesty and Guardian Scilio are.”

  Not since Cornia had Vann joined Lyndal and Scilio in blending their harmonies to song. He hoped his voice hadn't changed as much as his soul. Shiriah produced a lumaphone instrument from a shelf in the closet and strummed a familiar intro.

  Scilio's eyes twinkled at the suggestion. He and Lyndal began the opening stanzas of Butterflies Becoming and Vann joined in. He needn't have worried. They still sounded as smooth and synchronized as ever. Kir, Lili and Melia utilized the limited space to accent the music with the Halla, a traditional Dimishuan dance. Kir coaxed Erahnie to join them. The child was delighted, mimicking Kir's every move through a proud grin.

  Vann inhaled deeply, taking in the song, the room, their smiles, their jesting, their laughter. This was what he had missed. This was what he was fighting for. Chaos threatened to steal it all away, to paint the world in darkness and sorrow. But Vann would stand against it. He would repaint the sunder and wash out the shadows. With Kir by his side, he could do anything. Anything, perhaps, but face his own demons...

  The party finally filtered back to their own suites and Kir's Second Ladies finished their tending, helping her out of the exquisite Veditor dress. She slipped into a casual evening lounger with an ankle-length long-vest. Shiriah and the Guardians were the last to leave, then the bedchamber was suddenly thrust into an ethereal stillness.