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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “I wish you hadn't done that,” Malacar groaned. There was a deep pain in his voice. “Offering Farraday a place at Vann's side if he lends aid and plays against Alokien was a wise move. But offering yourself to him if we don't get Vann back?”

  “That's how Boxy Jaw thinks. He wouldn't believe that it's possible to find Vann's stray soul. He's expecting us to fail. The only bargain I could make him would be one he would fully benefit from.”

  “You don't think he'll try to sabotage you? In order to gain the outcome that he wants the most?”

  Malacar was warrior class and knew better than anyone how the whole warrior's code worked. It was clear that he held the oaths of noble-born officers in slightly lower regard than someone warrior-born. Even though Farraday was of the noble class, he still held dearly to his warrior's honor. At least, Kir was hoping she was right about that. In the time they had been courting, Farraday had stayed true to his principles and never tried to force himself on her. His hunter's nature made conquest sweeter when it was won, rather than given freely. Although the bargain had been made in blood, Kir had been wrestling with doubt that Malacar's skepticism watered. She was placing a lot of trust in the honor of an ambitious man that had very little to lose either way.

  Kir cleared her throat to keep the thin insecurity from chiming through. It didn't work and she sounded very small to her own ears. “I honestly don't know, Denian. We may be walking off this ship and right into a waiting brigade of troops. Maybe Farraday is planning to play both sides. Or maybe he means to outright stab me in the back. But what else could I have done? If we can't get Vann back, it doesn't matter what I promised Farraday, because I won't be

  ali—” She stopped herself before surfacing that dark admission, though Malacar's strained face said he already knew the finish to it.

  “We're not even going to entertain that thought. As you've said, there is no outcome that involves failure.”

  Kir nodded quickly to firm her resolve, thankful for Malacar's bolster to her delusion. His hand closed around her left forearm, where her vambrace once was, for support. It almost felt like he was getting more than he was giving.

  “I'm not leaving the libertines,” Kir said finally. “I want to get to Master Prophet Farning more than anyone and Karanni knows I would trade my shinbones to be there now. The self-centered me of the old days would have lit out without a second thought. I don't think Vann would respect that course of action. This title I'm carrying means I have a responsibility to more than just my own interests. I have to think of the people under my protection. Don't get me wrong, it's not that there's no urgency on my part. It's just unlikely that Vann is conscious. Bertrand says he probably isn't even aware of the time that passes, or that he's anything more than asleep. No matter how selfishly I want him here right now, I won't abandon the caravan for my haste. If I go on, there will be fewer warriors to protect them, and we don't know what lies ahead. It's only been a few weeks since the Dimishuan Reformations were adopted. There hasn't been enough time for the slaver camps to disband, or to be disbanded. For all we know, Soventine never even issued the original order. We can't risk losing the caravan to slavers. And anyway, the Crown Prince leaving his entourage behind wouldn't look right to watching eyes. Alokien wouldn't buy it. We'll stay together.”

  Malacar's silence indicated submission, even if he didn't agree. After a while, he spoke again. “It's never been more evident than it is now. You should take a Guardian. At least one, but preferably two or three to complete your entourage.”

  “A Guardian? No. I was just blustering for Farraday and calling myself Queen Unannounced, but it was all for show. It's tradition for the new Crown Heir to take on a Guardian at the Second Wedding. Since it hasn't happened yet, I'm technically not even the Crown Princess. Just the Affianced, waiting to get my flashy title. This is probably shaping up to be the longest royal wedding in the histories,” she joked thinly.

  “You're much more than that. The Second Wedding is only a show, to announce you to the court and the people. The First Wedding was the important one. The Karanni mark is your valid claim to Crown Heirhood, to authority, so the Second Wedding no longer matters. There is no shame in you taking the title that is yours but for a ceremony.”

  Something about the idea of conscripting a Guardian didn't sit well with Kir. She understood Malacar's point, and she was well aware of the glowing scrollwork across her neck, chest and shoulders that marked her as a Gods-touched ruler. The Karanni mark meant Kir had access to the upper magics of royalty, including the Guardian Bonding. Taking a Guardian implied that Kir was moving on in her role. It just wasn't right to do so without Vann. There was no pressing forward without him. It felt like a betrayal. Like she was giving up on him somehow, just by the nature of making a royal decision without his say-so.

  “It's wrong. To lead and take fancy titles and act like a royal without Vann at my side. I'm only wearing this scrollwork because he put it there. Whatever leader the Hilians see in me, in the end, it's just pretense.”

  “It's hardly pretending. The Hilians do not question your authority. I've even heard them refer to you as Queen Kiriana. And you know Vann would approve. It takes a leader with a fancy title to win a war.”

  Kir's nod was stunted and hesitant. Even Malacar's support couldn't rewrite the rooted insecurity. Malacar seemed to pick up on it. He had this annoying ability to read her like a scroll.

  “What's the first thing a warrior must establish before entering any arena, Kir?” Malacar asked gently, with a tutorial rigidity in the edges of his tone. He didn't wait for her to answer the question. “Confidence. You cannot win a battle if you do not believe you can. This is another form of warfare. Don't let your doubts influence your performance. Karanni has given you His mark of approval. Now you must allow your own. If you believe you are sovereign, your subjects will believe it, as well. Vann recognized your charisma long before you saw it in yourself.”

  “I'll rummage up the gumption. I envy you and Scilio, though. One of the things I loved about being a Guardian was the expectation that we stand in the background. We were invisibly there, never noticed.”

  Kir had never really paid mind to Guardians when she was a noble. She was passingly aware of their presence in a room, much as one knew the flooring and wall existed. They were expected, accepted, unremarkable. It explained why she had not recognized Sandavall Xavien as Tarnavarian's former Guardian when they had made introduction on the Fer Waidan. She had been in his company many times, and yet, the station of the Guardian was, to a highborn Lady such as she'd been, little more than that of any invisible servie.

  Malacar belly laughed like she had cracked a joke. “I don't think you ever went unnoticed, even in a Guardian tabard. You were the most espied Guardian in the history of Septauria, I think.”

  Kir simpered as the sun rose in her cheeks. “Reckon so. Everyone wanted a peek at the infamous fallen Lady Karmine, the Scourge of Balinor...” The smile died as the thought trailed off.

  “I wasn't referring to your notoriety. There has never been a lovelier Guardian. Vann certainly believed so. Be it filthy tunic, tabard or Empyrean gown, he could not unglue his eyes from you.” Malacar squeezed Kir's hand. He was trying to divert the topic. Since she wasn't all that keen on entertaining it anyway, Kir decided to indulge him.

  “Vann sees the world through little tunnels. He fixates on what's at that other end,” Kir said lightly. “I just happened to be the focal point in his tunnels for a while.”

  “A while? Since the day you met, more likely. I'm certain that wherever he is right now, he is anchored to the thought of you. Just before we rode out on the moonless hunt, he said the week since the First Wedding had been the happiest of his life.”

  It had been the happiest of Kir's, too. She should have known it could never last.

  “It's surreal, Denian. Did any of it really happen? It was all so fast. The way I got him. And... the way I lost him. We were only aff
ianced for a short whirlwind of a week. Looking back, it doesn't feel real. In my mind, I'm still a Guardian and I'm waking up from what was a wonderful dream.”

  Kir trailed her fingers along her left forearm, where her vambrace had been. She could almost see the image of the dragon that had adorned the lumanere arm guard. A band of pale skin was the only visible reminder that Kir's forearm had once displayed the marker of Guardianship. It may have no more place on her arm, but Kir still felt the call of the brotherhood deep down to her bones.

  Malacar studied his own blackened vambrace silently.

  When it was clear that he wasn't planning to speak again, Kir said, “Anyway, I was thinking on expanding my unit of courtiers. Not with a Guardian, but by taking on another Second Lady. Lili's overworking herself and she won't say so because it all needs doing. Most Crown Princesses have oodles of courtiers to do for them. It really isn't fair of me to put all the burdens of the household on Lili. Would that make you happy?”

  “It would, and I think it's a good idea, for both your sakes, but it's not the same thing. As acting royal, you must have a Guardian. You need another set of eyes. Mine may not be enough. It would be wise to set a precedent and select a Hilian. There has never been a Dimishuan Guardian before. It would make a bold statement. You are such a treasure to the Hili army and the Tree Viper militia. There are thousands of Hilian warriors willing to trade their molars to wear your vambrace. You'll have your pick. Of course, I have a few recommendations for you to consider, based on my own observations—”

  “Never been a Dimishuan Guardian?” Kir interrupted whimsically. “When you think about it, isn't that what Guardians ultimately become?”

  Malacar looked utterly flummoxed. “What do you mean?”

  “High Priest Galvatine told Vann that if a Guardian spends enough time in the Kionfire he's sheathing, he eventually develops the typical shimmery golden skin and red eyes that marks a Dimishuan and makes them immune to the Kion. From the sounds of old bardsong and whatnot, there have been a lot of Guardians in the distant past that ended up that way. So, I guess we can't say that there have never been Dimishuan Guardians before because under an active Kion, hypothetically, a Guardian can become Dimishuan over time.”

  “From a physiological perspective rather than a cultural one, I suppose so, but you're changing the subject again, Kir. It doesn't matter if the warrior goes into the job with Dimishuan gold or earns it by way of your Kion. The issue at hand is that you have no Guardian.”

  “I don't need a Guardian. I have you,” Kir countered.

  “You need your own. As you so succinctly put it before, I am not it.” There was a smidgen of pain in the tone, and Kir felt guilty all over again that she had made the comment.

  “I've got the Ithinar Steel boys, the Hilian warriors and the Viper volunteers surrounding me. I'll be safe enough with all those blades.”

  “It's not just about physical protection. The Kion needs its sheath,” Malacar reminded her firmly. “If someone uses Forbiddens in your presence, you must have a Guardian nearby to keep the dragon in check. Having warriors about does not guarantee your safety from your own Kion.”

  “It doesn't take one's own Guardian to sheathe the Kion, remember? Any Guardian can contain any royal's dragon. Which means that you can put a cork on my Snakey beast if it ever wants out for a barbecue.”

  Kir had only touched the essence of her Kion once—in the cave where Alokien was weaving his foul Forbidden spells on the moonless night. The burgundy dragonfire that backdropped Kir's vision had teased her with its awareness, but she had not been able to wield it against the God. Scilio had been the one to explain why. While inhabiting him, Alokien had been using Scilio's Guardianship to contain the Kions of Kir, Soventine and Vann. A Guardian usually needed direct contact with the royal to cork the Kion, but being a God in a Shunatar's body, Alokien was powerful enough to do it from a distance through Scilio. Guardians could sheathe the Kion of any royal, so with Malacar around, Kir didn't need a Guardian of her own.

  “I can't rely on that,” Malacar said harshly. “What if I am delayed or hindered in some way? What if I am slain?”

  “That's not on the list of potential outcomes,” Kir snapped. “I don't want to hear that kind of talk again. I will take a Guardian. I will. When Vann is back.”

  Malacar opened his mouth to speak, but Kir cut off any argument. “When Vann is back,” she repeated sharply.

  Malacar shut his trap and snuffed harshly. Kir hadn't intended for the conversation to dissolve to more frustration, but the martinet in Malacar would not let the matter drop.

  “Get some sleep, Highness. We'll be disembarking tomorrow and you should be well rested for the journey.” He turned on his heel and stomped away.

  Kir growled under her breath. As a child she had always expected that royals were obeyed without question, that their word was never countered. She was under very wrong impressions in that regard. Of course, she had never fathomed that Guardians could be brothers, or that being protected could be so annoying, either.

  If Kir couldn't handle one disgruntled Guardian, how in Karanni's sanctified name could she ever hope to lead a kingdom?

  -9-

  So Kingly a View to Such Longing Eyes

  My youth had been privileged with nobility, and so too, cursed. We enrich ourselves in the confines of our microcosm, subject only to the biases bouncing off our very facade. It is the greater privilege to be granted an escape from the walls that paint our limited world, luxurious though they may be.

  That we may transcend, that we may evolve, that we may become. My penitence and my very absolution depend upon what humiliations I here endure, and how I might internalize my new outlook. What limited perspective on the world was offered me by so muted a childhood, my eyes are ever open to what color far reaches beyond, and I now dissolve into that world, once veiled and despised. I owe nothing less to my sovereign, and to my own soul, adrift. Where once I pondered Kir's rise from her fall, I fear my own trial is upon me. Am I strong like my dear sister?

  Or must I submit that I am little more than my nobility allows?

  What must I become to survive?

  - Excerpt from the transitory journal of Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer

  Shunatar was a handful from the moment they got the boot. He was hazy and fuddled, probably on account of the brain-bangs he'd taken in the spill down the stairs. Dailan remembered someone saying you shouldn't let a brain-bang go to sleep, but he didn't really know why. He figured on making Shunatar walk it off for as long as they could, just for safe measure. There wasn't anywhere to go, anyway.

  It wasn't the first time Dailan had known the night streets. There were plenty of holes he could squirm into—under buildings or porches, between stacked barrels in alleys, sometimes in barns or mills if there was one around. Problem was, the holes were much more fitted to a body of his own size. They didn't accommodate bigger chests and longer legs, and especially when there were two of them, and especially when the two of them were not inclined to squeeze and squirm through holes to begin with. They'd need to find shelter somewheres. Since Shunatar seemed to be fumbling through his own mind, it was up to Dailan to find that somewheres.

  “We have lost everything,” Shunatar mumbled to himself. He looked over the mud caking his shirt as they walked.

  “No we didn't,” Dailan argued. “Can't lose what you ain't got. Everything we owned was on us. There weren't squat in that room we lost, 'ceptin for a happy roof. I still got the funds I pinched, so that's something. I figure we should use that to eat. There's other roofs that won't cost us a cheatin' at the hands of no-goods.”

  “What other roofs might those be? That inn was one of the bargain variety.”

  “Don't worry. We'll be dandy in no time,” Dailan assured him. “The most important thing is privacy. Folk tend to leave you alone if they don't notice you.”

  Shunatar kept his trap shut. He was the kind of fellow that li
ked attention and getting noticed. His energy seemed to come from people smiling and praising his talents and his looks and his wit and anything else folk was given to praising about him. He'd never had to hide in the shadows and scrounge from the refuse barrels before. A Shunatar shouldn't have to—wasn't a fitting place for the blood of the Gods. Probably wasn't a fitting place for scrawny gutter rats like Dailan either, but the world's the world.

  When they put a lot of streets between them and the stinky wall of muscle, sweat and nasty that was called the tavernarm, Dailan found a low-hanging spewer pipe that ran up the side of a building. It had metal attachy-bars that clung it to the brick, and they were a lot like a ladder, just smaller and thinner.

  “Let's ladder-climb these rung thingies,” Dailan said, showing Shunatar what he meant.

  “Dainn, my head is swimming, my entire body is aching, my stomach wishes to relieve itself of its meager contents. I just want to lay down right here under this eave. An adventure amongst the rooftops is not tempting me skyward,” Shunatar said wearily.

  “It's not for fun,” Dailan corrected. “It's to our shelter for the night. We're in lower White Tower right now, and it's probably not a place we want to be wandering when it gets darker. Not unless Guardian Malacar was with us, 'cause nobody'd try nuthin funny if he was here. But since it's just us, we gotta make due.”