“I would give every last ounce of my soul to retrieve Tarnavarian's.” Xavien's fingernails bit into the flesh of his left forearm, aching to feel the smooth lumanere dragon there once again. “He will return me to Guardianship in this.”
Ashkorai nodded deeply. “And my vambrace will be restored to its former glory, as well. We owe it to our Guarded, but more, we owe it to ourselves. To regain our honor.”
Xavien couldn't help but smile at the prospect. “Well then, my brother. We have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
High Priest Galvatine tapped a bony finger on the edge of the shogi board as he examined his pieces. He could feel Soventine's foreign purple eyes boring perfect holes into his forehead.
“Staring at me won't expedite my move,” Galvatine noted wryly.
“I was just calculating,” Soventine answered. It was not the voice of Galvatine's younger brother. This was the sound of something infinitely older. There was a quality in the smooth baritone that hinted of amusement and almost chimed like the lingering resonance of a bell.
“Of course you were.” Galvatine chanced a glance up, to the churning violet sea in the eyes that were no longer his King's. They drifted past him, to the statuesque form of General Farraday. The High General stood at attention against the wall beside Guardian Grent, wearing the silent and stoic mask of the warrior. Galvatine could read through it. Farraday knew the creature before him was no longer Soventine. Galvatine had not been able to converse with the General, for the King had kept him tucked dutifully at his side. Keeping an eye on him, no doubt.
Soventine seemed to recognize the direction of Galvatine's thoughts. “The good General is practically a Guardian now. Where I go, so does he.”
“Perhaps you might grant him the honor of Guardianship, then? Since you're already keeping him as your pet,” Galvatine chanced. He knew the Karanni scrollwork on Soventine's chest would be as black as his Guardians' vambraces, if the Karanni seal was around to reveal it. With the mark's disconnection from its host, Soventine could no more make a Guardian of Farraday than he could access the Kion.
“I like him where he is,” Soventine stated drolly. “For decorative purposes.”
Galvatine ran his fingers down the length of his silver hair pensively. “Perhaps I wish to speak in private?”
“General, good man. Take Guardian Grent and see about some refreshment. The High Priest wishes private commune with his King,” Soventine commanded.
When the General and the Guardian were beyond the door, Soventine settled into his seat comfortably. “Well then? What is it you wish to discuss that the ears of my retainers are too tender to hear?”
“I was just wondering why you haven't pursued Vannisarian yourself, Your Holiness. Should you not intercept him before he reaches the Hili border?”
“Holiness?” Soventine perked in interest. “You knew?”
“My brother and I have been playing games for decades. Of course I would know him from another. Besides that, I'm the High Priest. How could I not recognize the presence of my God, Alokien? Your eyes do rather give you away.”
“And does this not offend your moralities, Eminence? For a God to wear a King?”
There was a fine line to tread here. Galvatine knew he must proceed with caution. “I am but your humble servant, of course. Where else would the loyalties of a devoted servant lie?”
“I just thought you might be contrary. I claimed your brother's vessel and severed your nephews of theirs. Some men of power would not stand for such an assault on their families.”
“I have no family, Holiness. Upon entry into the Priesthood, all familial ties are forsaken. My only claim is to the Gods,” Galvatine proclaimed honestly.
“I am happy to hear that,” Alokien said. “So, you won't mind if I monitor all comings and goings from the Citadel, then. Visitors, even those who come by way of cloak, will clear my approval, and no scrollboard messages will fly from your compound without first crossing the scrutiny of my retainers. No offense meant, I'm just giving you a heads up. It's a standard procedure I require to ensure that your priests behave themselves. You're not unique. I extend the same analysis to all of my temples. A King can never be too careful.”
Galvatine had been hoping to avoid this. It seemed that he was now under as much scrutiny as General Farraday. There wasn't much he could do if his every move was to be evaluated by Alokien's agents. At least he was aware of his limitations.
“I will give you no need to trouble yourself. The Citadel is ever your instrument, Holiness.”
“I know,” Alokien said. “I built it, after all. I can topple it just as easily.”
“And Vannisarian? Will you topple him, as well?”
“Their head start was too great. While I recuperated from my wounds, the Hilians whisked them away. Before long, Vannisarian and his bride will be behind Hili Defensives. I have a few Aquilinian pieces in play. If they should fail, I can retrieve him at leisure once I am fully healed and Aquiline is secured. Defensives are not especially troublesome to me. In Vannisarian's vessel, I will not be hindered by physical ailment and age. Imagine the beauty of a God within the world! But then, you haven't made your move, Eminence. The game is still in play.”
Galvatine studied the board. He clapped a pawn into position. They had only just begun, but already, his options were too thin.
Exposure
* * *

-14-
Revelations and Resolutions in
Strengthening Household Ties
We lay upon the cushions of our nocturnal union, this dulcet creature of Hilihar and I. That Lili is an accomplished attendant is obvious, for she exceeded attendance to my carnal pleasures this night, but that she is more is increasingly apparent, as well. I am beginning to detect a well-hidden deception here. Lili was placed in our care and keeping, to care and keep not merely our comforts but Hili's interests. I do believe she is much, much more than she appears. Thankfully, she appears quite well formed and experienced, and I will endeavor to enjoy the offered gifts of Hilihar, despite the eyes of the smiling hawk that are undoubtedly watching my every move. As I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to betray. I do not fault Hili's paranoia and mistrust of we outsiders, for suspicion is the key to survival when one plays on the board of Kings.
- Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
After an embarrassing incident involving a passel of lake-bathing ladies, Lyndal hiding in a bush, and Kir's innocent Inferno Wisp meant to scare the offending peeper away (but that turned into a raging bush-fire blaze of screaming, splashing chaos and charging warriors, instead), the caravan set out early the next morning. They moved eastward down the Naybaryn Road that ran parallel with the northern base of the Arshenholm mountains. Kir kept a weather eye on the skies, hoping for signs of a hawk, either from Hilihar or from Farraday. There were many birds of prey in the skies above. None of them appeared to be playing messenger.
They hadn't been traveling for very long when Kir noticed Bertrand's slouching posture from afar. He had been riding on the second-row planking seat of the supply wagon, so he shouldn't have been fatigued; the obvious hunker of his shoulders and neck was concerning. He was rocking and bound up in himself. Kir directed Sorrha to trot beside the wagon so she could make sure Bertrand wasn't ill. The last thing they needed was their prodigy healer kicking over to plague, pestilence or worriment.
It took a few rounds of encouragement before Bertrand lifted his chin to Kir's urging. The boy had been known to retreat inside his head, rock on his heels or line up his favorite shell collection as a coping mechanism for stressful situations. It took no amount of figuring to see that he was distraught now.
“Bertrand? You don't look like you're feeling well,” Kir said. “Is the bumpy ride jostling your jellies?”
Bertrand shook his head, but he wouldn't speak. Kir knew from experience that trying to pry Bertrand's mouth open during one
of his fits was about as easy as wrangling greased piglets.
“Well something's eating you,” Kir observed. She swung her leg over the saddle horn and slipped off Sorrha's back to land gracefully on the board.
The wagon master glanced back awkwardly.
“Don't mind me, Ollajihn,” Kir told him. “Keep on driving. I'm just going to enjoy the view for a bit with Bertrand here.”
Bertrand didn't slide over on his own. Kir had to nudge him with her hip until there was room enough for her to sit comfortably without her legs dangling over the side rail. Sorrha trotted beside the wagon casually, waiting for Kir to reclaim the saddle when she was ready.
“He's been like that for a while now,” Ollajihn said, his Hilian accent thick. He was a native rather than a libertine, obvious from the weight of his dialect. He had been born and raised free in Hili. “I couldn't get a word out of him.”
“The beauty of Aquiline just has him tongue-tied,” Kir suggested with a wink, to let Ollajihn know that she could handle the situation.
He nodded back and turned his attention to the road ahead.
Bertrand's fingers flicked across the shell pendant he wore at his neck. The speed and rhythm of his fingers seemed to indicate his stress level. They were moving so fast that Kir could barely make them out. Bertrand did not tolerate change well and it seemed like the last few weeks had been nothing but constant upheaval. It was no wonder he was beside himself. The boy had some mighty peculiarities that balanced out his extraordinary gifts.
“Want to talk about it?”
Bertrand shook his head again, more emphatically this time.
“Hard to fix the problem if I don't know what problem there is needing to be fixed,” Kir said.
Bertrand rocked forcefully. His face was pruned and contorted in upset.
“Is it embarrassing? Is that why you can't talk about it?”
Bertrand's eyelashes fluttered and he glanced at Kir from his periphery.
“That's it, ain't it? Well, I got lots of humiliating stories. If you tell me yours, I'll tell you one of mine. Fair trade. How'd that be?”
“Nothing is eating me,” Bertrand finally forced.
“Damnation. I'm sorry, Bertrand. Something eating you is one of those figures of speech we've talked about. I meant something is bothering you,” Kir soothed. She was so accustomed to speaking metaphorically that she tended to forget Bertrand took things very literally. He had been learning how to navigate through common symbolism and phrases but his tolerance bottomed out to nothing when he was in one of his states.
“I know,” Bertrand said, almost whimpering. “I know that. I just...I'm just.” His fingers flicked and he turned his head away, like he was trying to keep her from seeing his distress.
“We don't have to talk if you don't want to,” Kir assured him. “Is it okay if I sit here a spell?”
Bertrand nodded, seeming thankful for the space to master himself. It was only a few minutes before he was ready enough to speak.
“It is embarrassing,” Bertrand said. “I cannot stop.”
“Stop? Doing what?”
“Thinking. Because why did Dailan have to go?” There was raw emotion and pain in Bertrand's voice.
This Supreme Master Healer could sit at a bedside to heal grisly wounds, deliver babies and even pull people back from the grasp of the Soul Collectors with the maturity of an elder. Yet here he was, laid bare: an abandoned thirteen-year-old boy with no hand to hold in his solitude. Kir sometimes forgot that Bertrand was still a child, one that could barely grasp the ability to function socially. Dailan had become Bertrand's very best friend in the past months, his open window into the childhood he had been denied. That window had suddenly been slammed shut and Bertrand had lost that secure part of himself, as utterly as Kir had lost Vann and Scilio. Everyone was overflowing with heartfelt sympathy for Kir's loss. No one had acknowledged Bertrand's.
“You're missing him,” Kir summarized.
Bertrand's tears fell fresh down his cheeks and he nodded. He pulled his knees to his chin, digging his heels into the edge of the seat board, and rocked some more. His thumb and fingertips pressed deep into his eyes, as if they could dam the unbridled emotion that he couldn't hold back.
“Me too,” Kir admitted. “I miss how funny he can be when he's telling stories. How fun he is to play cards with. How resourceful and smart and reliable he is. How you can tell him anything without him judging you. I knew I liked Dailan from the first. He's a damn good friend.”
“It's too quiet in there,” Bertrand managed. “Too quiet!”
“Quiet? You mean, in your tent last night?” Kir understood that sentiment, probably better than Bertrand could have fathomed. She remembered her first few nights as a Guardian in High Empyrea, alone in the silence of her room, without the warmth that she had come to enjoy in the evening companionship of Vann and her brothers.
Bertrand twisted his face away again. He slapped at his cheeks, frustrated at the tears.
“My tent is real lonesome without them, too,” Kir said. “I have a solution for you and me both. Why don't you bunk down with us? My tent's practically the size of a mountain, so there's plenty of room in the bedchamber with Malacar and Lyndal. We'll play games every night and it won't be so quiet. It will almost be like Dailan is with us. Would that help a little?”
Bertrand shrugged, but there was committal and acceptance in the motion. He bobbed his head. “It will not be like he is with us. But I'll come.”
“Good. I'll have Lili see about it. Your assistants can keep the healer's tent occupied for you.”
Bertrand shrugged again, but his features weren't as strained and scrunched as before. Kir handed over a handkerchief and he wiped the streaks from his cheeks. He seemed to be coming out of his state.
“You told me your embarrassing predicament, now it's my turn. Truth be told, I need your help with this. Cope and Mel haven't had a night to themselves in weeks, and they're fresh married. Corban's been hanging all over them. He's driving them batty. We need to convince Corban to bunk down with us tonight. That'll give the newlyweds a chance to spend some quality time together without Corban doting.”
“Just tell Corban to leave them alone,” Bertrand said, his brow heavy with confusion. He didn't seem to understand approaches that weren't straight to the point.
“That would just hurt Corban's feelings,” Kir explained. “We need to give him a reason to shack up with us that won't seem so harsh. Let's invite him in to share old memories and play some cards. We'll get him good and sloshed, maybe slip him some of that soporific potion you're so fond of doling out. Then, he'll just pass out and we'll roll him into the bedchamber with you boys. No hurt feelings. Happy Cope and Mel. Problem solved, right?”
Bertrand blinked at Kir dumbly. “I don't understand your logic.”
Kir sighed. “I know. Nobody ever does. Like I said: embarrassing.”
Even though Bertrand eventually agreed to Kir's idea, he never seemed to grasp why they had to be sneaky. Corban's heartstrings were tender, and Kir didn't want to trample them. If Corban was hurt, Melia would be hurt in the process, and the whole confounded thing would be laden with crisis, tears and angst that didn't belong in a newlywed's memories of the first happy weeks. It set the stage for a troubled relationship later. Or, so Kir supposed. She had no idea if that were true, it just sounded like something her Grandmother Karmine might have said. All Kir knew was that she wanted to preserve the peace and calm of the family dynamic. Cunning and subterfuge seemed to trump blunt and brutal for a change. Kir was always accused of being too candid, and this bush-beating approach was her way of toning down a degree. She was terrible with people, so this was good practice at dealing with tricky situations. She couldn't avoid them anymore.
When the caravan stopped for the evening, Kir decided to extend her invitation to Corban personally. The chow wagon was parked on the far side, so Kir made her way over. The team of cook
s was set up in a line of portable stations that slid from the sides of the wagon. Corban was overseeing the action. He had worked closely with most of them from years before, and they seemed perfectly in tune with each other. Kir watched the controlled chaos silently for a while, allowing them to continue their little dance. It brought back memories and delicious scents.
When Corban spotted Kir, he melted like butter. “Kiriana! Come see what we have on the menu for tonight. One of your old favorites—lamb seshuni over spring delonin, pickled radish and a follerberry reduction.”
Kir bobbed her impression, and she couldn't help but lick her lips. “I didn't expect to be eating fancy on this trip, Corban. You're gonna spoil me sideways.”
“It's not something we can manage every evening, I'm sorry to say. Stews are much easier and faster, and this portable kitchen is less than satisfactory. But this is a special evening. Even though I don't need a petitioning ceremony or gifts, I thought to mark the occasion of my joining your clan with a treat.” Corban was practically overloaded with enthusiasm. Kir couldn't remember when she had seen him so happy.
“Well, that's what I came to talk to you about. I was thinking, it being an occasion of import and all, how'd you like to join me tonight? We're going to run up some rounds over split sevens and reminisce about old times. I got me a few private bottles of aged Beckett stowed, so we can imbibe and celebrate all evening. You can even bunk with Malacar and Lyndal. You don't have to stumble back to your tent.”
“That would be lovely,” Corban agreed. “Melia and Copellian will enjoy it immensely.”
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 15
