Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4)

by H. Jane Harrington

  “Are you trying to die?” Malacar snapped.

  “I'm trying to live, Lunchbox!” Kir sang, drunk on adrenaline.

  “This storm is not a plaything for you to tempt. What if you had been swept overboard and lost? You can't save His Majesty from the bottom of the Empyrean Sea,” Malacar barked angrily. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then wiped the water from his thick russet face and jaw with an exasperated whisk. “Your life is too precious to risk like that, Kir. You are our acting sovereign now. Yours is the only valid Mark of Karanni. Vann's is disconnected and black, and Soventine is gone to the Chaos Bringer. That makes you the single Gods-marked ruler this kingdom has. If something happened to you...”

  All the vigor that had fueled Kir's brashness drained away at the distress in Malacar's face and the reminder of Vann's loss.

  “I can't lose you, too,” Malacar almost whispered.

  Kir had not been the only one nursing melancholia. They had been on the open waters for a week, but she had spent most of it belowdecks, in the privacy of her stateroom. It was too difficult to keep a convincing mask up in the face of her friends, and too easy to fall into her own mind in the face of her solitude. Malacar had joined her in the silent comfort; they had shared their despondence together, feeding off their mutual depression. Kir had finally emerged from hers, into the stormy night, without him.

  “Didn't mean to scare you,” Kir said. She wrapped her arms around Malacar's waist, offering her apology in the form of embrace. Even though his white tunic and navy cape were sopping, the light blue tabard was completely dry, a function of the Lotus Leaf technique woven in to the fabric. “I got carried away. It's the first time I've felt like doing much of anything, beyond petrifying to stone in that cabin.”

  Malacar nodded and pressed her head against his chest. His heart was still thumping from the fear and rush. Kir hoped it would awaken the spark for life that had slipped away from his own will. Sometimes it took a surge of energy to kindle a spark. The storm had reignited hers.

  “Saiya Kunnai! Honestly!” Lili scolded, using the affectionate Dimishuan nickname that meant Little Whirlwind. As Kir's Second Lady, Lili's job was to tidy, primp, organize, and basically keep the entire schedule and household running. Kir had not made it easy.

  Lili came hustling down the passageway with concern. Her deep crimson eyes swept Kir briefly, blinking satisfaction that she was in one piece. “Let's ring you out before the ship founders under the weight of your pantskirt.”

  Kir and Malacar shared a huffing chortle—the first they had dredged up since the moonless night, more than two weeks ago. They followed Lili into the dim of the lonely Captain's quarters that the three of them shared with Ulivall and Bertrand.

  While Malacar tended to his own soggy self in the corner nook, Lili shuffled around the travel trunk for some dry articles. Kir shifted a towel over her disheveled hair sculpture in a futile attempt at drying. She stuttered to pause between the cloth edges, blinking dumbly at the stranger's face staring back from the small looking glass bolted to the bulkhead. She almost didn't recognize the petite creature there. Crafted and unblemished. Rounder features and smooth skin, the once sun-kissed copper tone having been blanched away to a tender shade favored by Empyrean nobility (never mind the fact that she was Cornian by birth and Hilian by clan). She was fuller in the hip and chest than before her affiancement, enough to fill a gown without being a nuisance to the sword. The honey brown hair (that used to be a few shades darker and ponytailed haphazardly) decorated her head in the remnants of Lili's braided sculpture. There were no longer scars on this delicate neck. The only scars were the ones deep inside, such that the kingdom would never see.

  Kir's neck wasn't completely unblemished. It was covered with another manner of mark. Swirly scrollwork, glowing as though tattooed with a pearly, luminescent ink, decorated her from neck to upper chest and shoulders. The seal pendant she wore around a chain allowed the royal scrollwork to be visible on a Karanni-marked royal. The sacred Karanni seal was Vann's to wear for the weeks of affiancement before the Second Wedding, but Kir had claimed it in his place as proof of her divine right of rule. As long as she wore the pendant, the scrollwork would shout her position to the kingdom. She dared not take it off.

  Kir was a bodily fabrication—a design ordered by King Soventine to pleasure the eye—but she knew the truth. She embraced her true beauty now, and it had nothing to do with the physique of Empyrean ideal that had been crafted for her with magics and potions. Vann had taught her of the beauty within that outdazzled any sculptured image. The kingdom may have wanted her on a pedestal of design, but she now understood why Vann had found her ideal under the dirt and grime of the road that she once had hidden behind. Beauty was much more vivid when seen with inner eyes. Kir was finally learning how to love herself as she was, thanks to Vann's example, and no mirrors or eyeballs were necessary for that.

  When they were changed and bundled, Lili brought some hot tea from the galley. As if on cue, Ulivall poked his head through the door. His calculating eyes scanned Kir up and down, just to be sure she was fine. Ulivall's fatherly role as Kir's clan patron was not mere obligation, but something he took very seriously these days. Kir suspected he had enjoyed the thrashing he'd given her birth father, Virnard Karmine, on the moonless night. Ulivall had marked his symbolic claim on Kir, where the Duke had abandoned her.

  “Spanking Gods?” Ulivall asked with mirth. He settled into a chair, guiding the long, colorful patterned robes away from his legs to avoid getting them all twisted up underneath. On dry land, he tended to go about bare-chested like most of his warriors. When indoors or in the company of the nobility, as they had been in Westlewin, he preferred to cover his broad pectorals with the handsome Hilian robes.

  “They tried to spank us first,” Kir returned sheepishly.

  “Alokien is enough of an adversary for now. Let's deal with him before you anger the rest of the lot,” Malacar suggested.

  “It was reckless, but that livened my spirit proper,” Kir admitted with a deep, long breath. “Shakin' my fist at the Gods. I'd take 'em all on to get Vann back.”

  “I doubt I can muster up an army big enough for an all-out Holy War,” Ulivall said mildly, accepting a cup from Lili. “We're only a few days from making port at Kestih in southern Aquiline. Just bear these bulkheads for a little longer, Kir. The Karmine libertines are skittish enough. They're not used to sea travel and this storm has them all on edge. They don't need additional ruffling of their fears.”

  Kir had been keeping up a phony mask, unwilling to let her own sorrows and despair influence her friends who were depending on her leadership and fortitude. She was ushering the Karmine estate's slavehold, three-hundred-thirty-seven souls, to Hili where their collars would be removed and they would live in the freedom that Vann's Dimishuan Reformations had bought them. In the privacy of her cabin, Kir could drop the phony mask she had been donning for their sakes. They harbored excitement and yearning, on the cusp of the very freedom they had always dreamed about. Kir couldn't share it. She was riding on the responsibility of her new title, carrying the burden of the kingdom on her shoulders and the loss of Vann in her empty heart. They saw a bright future on the horizon. Kir only saw a dark world of chaos looming. How could one hold back a tsunami with a wall made of sand, spit and hope?

  Kir set routine time aside every day to spend in the company of the Karmine libertines, to reconnect after the years apart. In her youth, many of them had been more of a family to Kir than her own blood. They reminisced and regaled, but Kir could only experience the joys through a distant veil.

  During the escape through southern Cornia there had been too many distractions. Too many directions to scan for enemies. Too much to organize. Too many responsibilities that jockeyed for Kir's attention. Caring for Vann's empty vessel had been the first on her priority list. They had parted with Vann, Scilio and Dailan in Balibay Harbor to provide a diversion. By melting into the anon
ymous world, Vann would disappear from Alokien's eyes. It would give Kir time to find the answers they needed from Master Prophet Farning about how to wrangle Vann's soul back. On Kir's first day aboard the ship, the reality had finally caught up with her. There were no distractions here. No enemies or urgency. No Vann. Just a dull stateroom bulkhead, creaking hull, and an empty mattress. It had pressed Kir's fire and fortitude right into the deck. Malacar was struggling with the same grim reality.

  But today was a great day. The Gods had sent a storm to surge all Kir's apprehension away. In truth, she couldn't rightly finger the Gods for the storm, but it was easier to put a name on blame and curse it than it was to admit the randomness of the world. She was Her Affianced Highness, Kiriana Ellesainia de Valoria, Princess of Hili, Crown Princess of Septauria (pending Second Wedding, of course). Ragtag, self-proclaimed Queen of Septauria, albeit unannounced and unAscended. They'd get around to all that important royal-stuff later. Right now, Kir had a role to fill, and her affianced's soul to rescue. She was not one to get beaten down by such a little thing as a bored God like Alokien or all the wind and water the natural Gods could muster.

  “I know the libertines are anxious. I sure don't want to add to their upset. I'll lay below in a bit, to remind them that my reckless streak isn't something to fret about. We can't light a fire in the hold and there's no room to dance. That doesn't mean we can't engage in a little drumming and foot-tapping,” Kir said. “We'll send our own message to the storm and tell it we won't be jostled.”

  Ulivall grinned his wide mark of approval and Lili set to rebraiding Kir's hair. When she was done, Kir returned the favor. It was seven layers of pleasurable. Lili had hair like spun silk and running fingers through it was akin to being caressed by rose petals. She used to keep it loose and flowing, like a great obsidian waterfall over her shoulders, only the sides secured at the top with a poisoned hair pin. Kir had been braiding it lately, partly for something constructive to do and partly for the bonding it represented. In Empyrea, Lili had served as Kir's personal attendant. She had become much more than that. Kir now considered Lili her closest friend, right up there with Vann and the Guardians. When she was done with Lili's hair, Kir swung behind Ulivall and combed out his long black hair, then rebraided it in his favorite simple style. Lili helped, handing her the tie when she was ready. They joked and laughed as they worked, finding their cheek muscles out of practice. There hadn't been much cause to smile since the moonless night.

  Malacar didn't join in the light-heartedness, still flustered by Kir's brazen storm-joust. He would find his smile again in time. Kir would make sure of that. She inhaled deeply, satisfied with herself. Fists to the Gods, a good soaking, and energy renewed.

  It was a great day.

  -3-

  Of Storms on Past and Those Horizon Bound

  My privileged childhood defined for me the constitution of a family, in what amounted

  to a kinship rooted in blood. The clan bonding rituals of our serviehold seemed a

  grand pretense, designed by those uneducated in the true meaning of kinship. I have

  since come to understand a simple truth. The uneducated were not they, but I.

  True family is not in the makeup of the blood, but in the bonding of the heart.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  “It's the God-spanker!” Lyndal announced as Kir made her way into the cargo hold. A round of cheers and boisterous jollies bellowed from the warriors. Some of them were Kir's adopted clan-brothers, the Ithinar Steel boys. The rest were members of the Tree Viper volunteer Hilian militia. They offered over a tankard of grog and a few slaps on the back.

  “That's our Saiya Kunnai,” Rendack, their lead scout, said proudly. “There's no God or kadda she can't tame.”

  “I bared my neeyah and dared 'em to kiss it,” Kir said to the good-natured laughter.

  She had become something of a celebrity in Hili, especially among the warriors. The newfangled Highness title she was carrying around had not changed that. They were respectful, but Kir was still their sword-toting, rumble-tumble Saiya Kunnai. She welcomed their informality.

  The Karmine libertines saw Kir quite differently. They treated her not with back-slapping camaraderie like the Hilian warriors, but with reverence. She had been their little Lady Kiriana. She had grown up holding their hands and hearts in a strict world of formality and etiquette. It was a very different kind of celebrity, and the anxiety in their eyes was vivid. Word of Kir's impulsive storm-braving had not plastered grins across their faces as it had with the warriors. Instead, it worried them with notions of her safety, and probably notions of her sanity, too.

  Most of them were seated quietly on the deck of the cargo hold, clinging to their children and the few possessions they had been able to tote on the journey. The dynamic motion of the ship through the waves was frightening to those who were not sailors. These were horse grooms and housemaids. Gardeners and cooks. They did not relish the thrill of danger as Kir and the warriors did.

  Kir shuffled her way awkwardly around the hold, soothing the Karmines with encouragement and reassurance. It was a soul-smothering sardine tin of a situation, but it couldn't be helped. The crew berths were too compact to spend anything more than sleeping time there, so the libertines had taken up daily living in the cargo hold. They were too many bodies and too little space. It wasn't just the storm that had rattled nerves, but the stowing.

  After a while, they fell into their evening drum-song, which had taken the place of the nightly fire circle dances usually performed on dry land. It fascinated Kir how many different tones could be achieved by striking and swishing various objects. Master Kozias' old “use what you got” philosophy of battle was taken to heart. The cargo hold was filled with rhythmic cadence by way of clattering spoons, thumping barrels, sand-grinding boot heels and even hairbrush sweeping. What couldn't be created by way of stuff was improvised by way of vocals. Some of the singers could mimic instruments with their own mouths.

  The singing and drumming seemed to drown out the anxiety of the storm, just as Kir hoped. Eventually sixteen-year-old Lyndal (the youngest in the Ithinar Steel clan until Dailan and Bertrand had been adopted) gave his voice to a lively melody. He was a technically gifted singer with a tenor that almost rivaled Scilio's, without the edge that knocked the Bardian's into genius level. Lyndal's eight years of warrior training were not apparent in the rounded baby face. He looked innocent and tender, with soft crimson eyes and a face that smiled even when his lips were not turned up. Lyndal was a lot taller and stockier than thirteen-year-old Bertrand, but somehow he didn't look all that much older.

  There was something infectious about Lyndal. He bled reminders of Scilio's Creative charms, without the ego of nobility and pomp of arrogance that the Bardian had always boasted. Lyndal had every eligible woman fawning over him (and quite a few ineligible ones, too), but he didn't brag of his exploits like Scilio always did. He was a damn likable sort, able to coax smiles from anyone around him, including Kir, even when she tried her best to fight it. Kir had once sought out melancholia because it was easier to maintain than happiness. Lyndal persuaded her to the opposite. It was a good thing, too. Lyndal had been chosen to play the role of Vann's decoy, which meant that they would be spending a good amount of time together once they made landfall in Aquiline. Kir needed jovial company to keep her spirits up, since she wasn't getting it from Malacar.

  The time on the ship had allowed Kir to get to know most of her clan brothers better. She had been adopted into Ithinar Steel the year before, but Ulivall and the boys had only been able to visit Empyrea once before the First Wedding, so there hadn't been much opportunity for long-term togetherness. The Ithinar Steel clan was a small group of warriors. They had recently welcomed four more adoptees, Dailan, Bertrand, Lili and Melia, which brought their number to seventeen. Kir found her clan brothers a lively, animated, good-natured bunch, with the exception of Eshuen, Tennras and Copelli
an, whose unyielding seriousness leveled out the group and kept them grounded. Three of their number had stayed behind in Hilihar, to serve as commanders for Ulivall's troops.

  When he was finished belting out a few classic songs in Dimishuan, Lyndal began prancing around the hold with boundless energy. There was no room to dance, but somehow, Lyndal made his own. He and Avalir, their clan's austringer, began taunting and cavorting. They made loud their commotions, antagonizing and goofing for the sake of relaxing tensions and working the crowd. Lyndal obviously loved attention. He didn't care how ridiculous he looked, as long as it made people laugh. Stocky warrior Tennras, Avalir's closest companion, crossed muscular arms across his bare chest and shook his head in mock disapproval of the antics. When Lyndal tried to coax Tennras to their play, Tennras answered with a comical pop to Lyndal's head. Lyndal played up on the scene with a dramatic spin and swoon, overdoing it like he was on a true stage. If they had been wearing masks, Kir might have mistaken her clan brothers for a drunken troop of jesters. It seemed to be working. Smiles and laughs began to overtake the frowns and worries.

  Kir swept the hold with her gaze, taking in the many faces she knew. Between the Karmines and the Hilians, they represented two distinct eras of her life and one common element: they were going to Hili, the place they would all call home.

  “You're daydreaming again,” Copellian said, snapping Kir out of the drifting she hadn't realized she had fallen into. His thick brow was heavy as he scrutinized her over his hooked nose.

  In the dim Inferno lighting, the horsemaster's skin glowed mildly with golden shimmer. That, along with crimson eyes, marked one Dimishuan, a people long enslaved under magic-inhibiting collars. Vann had not openly shared what the High Priest Galvatine had told him—that the Dimishuans were not a separate race at all. They had been collared to keep them from casting Forbiddens unchecked. Dimishuans were immune to Kionfire, the dragonfire that royals historically wielded against Forbidden magic users. Vann didn't seem to know what to do with the information, and he had been stalling on the emancipation bill Consul Ferinar had been pushing for. It didn't matter anymore, Kir supposed. The kingdom had been turned upside down and didn't even realize it. Only a few in the whole of Septauria knew that a rogue god inhabited the body of King Soventine, and that their Crown Prince was a walking puppet...