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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “Sure they will, but I'm thinking they'll want the evening for themselves. Being so fresh off the boat and all. And since Melia is feeling so much better,” Kir said carefully.

  “Of course...” Corban hung up on the thought, just as someone on the line noted a backup at one station.

  Corban swept in and scooped up the neglected tray. He moved it to his empty station and began adding his own knife to the chopping. Menial tasks like prep weren't Corban's usual job, being the supervisor and conductor of the kitchen, but it looked like there was too much work and too few fingers. Feeding over four hundred hungry bellies with a small staff and inadequate tools was a tall order, even without the fanciful fixings that Corban had in store.

  Kir bumped Corban's shoulder with her own, nudging him for room at the station. She sectioned out some of the onions and began dicing alongside him.

  His blade slowed and he glanced askew, watching her work. Kir couldn't read his face, so she said, “Just like old times.”

  Kir was no stranger to kitchen work. She had spent a lot of time in the Westlewin Manor kitchens as a child, probably because it was one place she knew her mother would never go. She had befriended Corban and his daughters early on, before she could even remember it happening. Kir had always ribbed Scilio for his poor quality over the cookfire, but most nobles were overburdened with kitchen servies and would never have reason to find the how-to on their own.

  Kir had learned the fundamentals from Corban. She had her mother to thank for that. The Duchess' lesson in elitism had backfired. She had ordered Kir and her brother to work menial tasks alongside their servies for a day, to show them just how privileged they were to be highborn masters of the world. The lesson had been designed to teach nine-year-old Kiriana appreciation of her station in life, by showing her what 'lowers' were born for, and making her hate the vile chores that the Duchess had said, “are only meant for lesser hands”. Instead, it taught Kir to appreciate something else. She understood how much sweat, skill, and labor went into every single detail of her life, and made her feel guilty for enjoying the fruits of another man's chore. It solidified Kir's bonds with the servies that her mother saw as expendable tools.

  After that, Kir had begun spending more time in the kitchens, for the escape and companionship. Corban started teaching her how to cook around the same time she began teaching Melia and Jurnet how to read. Looking back, there was a lot of rule breaking involved in their relationship. Kir shouldn't have been there. Corban shouldn't have been teaching her. She shouldn't have been teaching his daughters. He shouldn't have hidden her under his station all those times she was hiding from the lash. They shouldn't have been friends. Kir had never realized just how much the kitchen represented disobedience. She had cut her teeth on disrespecting the rules when the rules seemed to be wrong.

  “Like old times,” Corban repeated. He returned to his chopping, but his knifework was disjointed and distracted.

  Kir finished dicing her onions before him, which never happened. His knives always flew far too fast for Kir to match them on a board. “What's ruckin your plunket?”

  “Nothing, dear one. I was just thinking.”

  “Distracted knives mean dismembered fingers,” Kir reminded him.

  “I've been trying, and maybe too hard,” Corban confessed.

  Kir wasn't sure just what he was getting at. “At what?”

  “I have a lot to make up for. To Melia. I don't know how to make things right.”

  “Doesn't seem like things are all that wrong,” Kir offered. “She knows you're alive now, and you've had a few weeks to catch up on the years you've been apart. You'll be together here on. I've never seen Mel so happy. She might could use a little room, though. I know you're thrilled to have Copellian as your waishabo, but they're new at trying on the marriage roles. They'd probably appreciate some time to themselves, to get more acquainted. As much as I love my brother Guardians, when Vann and I were fresh affianced, we didn't really want them hovering over us every second, if you know what I mean.”

  “I've been a nuisance to them?” Corban asked.

  Kir hadn't intended to get candid, but Corban had pretty much invited it, and maybe Bertrand was right. One night of distraction wouldn't change things. She'd have to use gentle facts if she wanted to reason with him. She was a straight shooter by nature anyway. “Oh, no! I'm not saying that at all. They're real grateful to have you with them. I can see it, and Mel's outright said it. But honestly, Corban. A tent with one bedchamber? Copellian told me you turned down a twofer so you could all cozy up in the cool evenings. You don't think that's a little too clingy? She's a grown woman and even though you're family, she's got to have a little room to be that grown woman.”

  “I know. I just have trouble leaving her out of my sight. I haven't figured out how to make it up to her. The wrongs I committed.”

  “By leaving her in Cornia, you mean? What else could you have done? You survived for Melia, and even though it took a while, you found her again. She'd have been happy to know you were living free and happy. You didn't wrong her.”

  “But I did. I chose my liberty over hers. I didn't go back and try to free her. I fled to Hili and left my precious daughter behind. I started a fresh life without her, and moved on. How can she ever forgive my abandonment?” Corban's eyes were misty and his face awash in despair.

  “That's not abandonment. My father disowned me to my face then scuttled every memory of me he had, so I think I'm pretty qualified to speak on this matter. If someone had asked Melia what her biggest wish was, how would she have responded? You in a grave, or you living free in Hilihar? I already know the answer and I don't even have to ask her. There was no way you could have freed her. Not then, and not on your own. You would have been walking yourself into a death trap, and Melia would have lived with that guilt for the rest of her life. You did the only thing you could have done for her.”

  Corban nodded, but his eyes were still glazed. Kir slid his unfinished onion to her section of the board and commenced to dicing, to allow himself time for composure.

  “Chef Corban!” Vittie barked from behind. “Why in Serafin's sanctified name is Her Affianced Highness engaged in kitchen duty?”

  Corban wiped at his eyes with his apron.

  “It's fine, Vittie. Master Chef Corban just got onion-eye, and I'm helping until the burn eases off a bit,” Kir lied, for the sake of Corban's ego. She had to stop herself from addressing Vittie as Momma Warhorse, as the boys had taken to calling her.

  Vittie crossed her arms disapprovingly. “With all due respect, Highness, it is not befitting your station. What if others see you relegating yourself to tasks of collared status? It is not advisable to influence impressions by offering negative ones.”

  Impressions, perceptions, looks and appearances. All life was a stage.

  “With all due respect, Taskmistress, antiquated notions of collar status are relegating themselves to the history books. Whatever impressions I offer in giving aid to a friend, I should certainly hope they not be viewed as negative. You have run a tight ship at Westlewin, and I appreciate your scrupulous attention to duty, but that world is behind us. You'll find attitudes in Hili to be somewhat more liberal and informal than the nobility would suffer.”

  “No matter the location or the company, respectable ladies would not dare dirty their hands,” Vittie countered boldly.

  It was not the first time Kir and Vittie had faced off over this same topic. Kir had lost count of them all. Vittie always won. Of course, that was when Kir was still a child and had no authority to object.

  “Respectable ladies have been dirtying their hands since time immemorial, they just dirty them with a different manner of filth. I prefer the kind that washes off in water and doesn't muddy up my conscience. You've spent a lot of years in Eserillia Karmine's service. I am not the Duchess. If you know me like I think you do, you'll remember that I have never cottoned to her high falutin' ways. This is a
different world, a changing world, and we can build it together if you'll only allow some room to embrace it for the betterment that it is.”

  Vittie's arms uncrossed. It might have been the first time Kir had ever seen her soften. “I am but a collared servie, and you are my Queen. If you command me to relax my attitudes on time-honored systems, I will do so.”

  “I'm not commanding you to do anything but accept a new life, Vittie,” Kir said. “I wouldn't have you be something you're not, or pretend to believe something that goes against your principles. You're a stickler for order, and that's kept Westlewin Manor the pride of Cornia for a lot of years. It's that same exacting, punctual diligence in you that I was hoping would organize my own house.”

  “You wish to acquire my collar?”

  “No. I wish to hire you as my Taskmistress. Nobody can run a household more efficiently than you can. I may not have seen eye to eye with the Duchess on many things, but she knew quality when she saw it. Would you consider working for me? Legally employed. I'll probably infuriate you with my boorishness, but that's nothing new.”

  “I will consider it,” Vittie replied, “if I am allowed to hire the staff.”

  “Agreed. I'd like you to wait until we get to Hilihar before working up the contracts. Don't limit yourself to the Karmines. Open the prospects up to the rest of Hili, too. Like you said, impressions are important and I don't want to start off on the wrong foot, saying my household will only be run on the benefits of nepotism.”

  “Understood. When shall I start?”

  “Seems like you've been doing a pretty decent job already. Just keep on keepin' on,” Kir said. “We'll talk pay and such later, when I get a handle on what I can even afford. I'm not privy to my own coffers at the moment.”

  “Very well. I accept,” Vittie nodded curtly, then she turned and snapped sharply, “Chef Corban!”

  “Master Chef,” Kir reminded her.

  Corban jumped to attention, having long since mastered his emotions. “Yes, Taskmistress?”

  “What are you doing, shrinking into the shadows there? Back to work. We'll have no slackers in Her Highness' household,” Vittie commanded in that familiar old tyrannical voice. There was something of a smile on her face, even though her lips were not turned up. Momma Warhorse, for sure.

  Kir handed over her knife and winked at Corban. He had not been under Vittie's command in years, but he snapped to like he'd never been away.

  Vittie stuck around, hovering domineeringly over the kitcheneers, commanding their haste with the sharp lash of her tongue. It was Corban's job to oversee the kitchens. Apparently, Vittie thought he wasn't doing enough of it to satisfy her.

  Kir had noticed Ulivall sneaking glances several times at Vittie when he thought nobody was looking. It was becoming clear that he was nursing a silent infatuation. He didn't seem likely to act on it, especially with so many priorities dominating his attention. Ulivall had never granted himself the luxury of chasing happiness beyond the battlefield, and he was long overdue for some personal gratification. Kir had no idea how Momma Warhorse could be at the end of that path to happiness for him, but she knew all too well that the head and the heart tend to follow to separate currents that don't always run parallel.

  Kir decided to solve two problems at once, by diverting Vittie's sharp eyes away from the cowering line chefs, and creating the opportunity that Ulivall hadn't found on his own. Socializing took as much strategizing as battle did!

  “Taskmistress, I overheard Ulivall say earlier that he wanted to speak with you. I saw him a bit ago, talking to Avalir near the corral,” Kir suggested. She wrinkled her nose, wondering how she had become a love pixie or guardian to tender hearts. This was much more Mirhana's realm than it was Kir's.

  “Very well. With your permission, Highness.”

  “Don't have to ask for that anymore, but it's granted if you need it so much,” Kir tried to keep from muttering sarcastically. She nodded dismissal as Vittie set off, then turned back to Corban. “See you tonight, then?”

  “Tonight. And perhaps tomorrow night, as well? And the one after that. If you'll have me. Melia and Copellian need their space, as you said. Do you think Guardian Malacar would mind terribly if I share his living quarters for the time being?”

  “Corban, that tent is a palace in itself. We could house half the caravan in there with room to spare for the horses. Glad to have you shacking up with us,” Kir laughed, slapping his back. “I'm sure Copellian will be glad, too.”

  After four days on the road, Kir still couldn't tell if her tricksy set-up for Ulivall and Vittie had done anything more than create an awkward moment of passing acknowledgment. They hadn't spoken of it and nothing seemed to have changed. Ulivall still stared after her from afar when he could, and she still went on about her warpath, seeming oblivious. Kir could have asked Ulivall if they'd shared a private chat or gotten to know each other a bit better, but it would have been obvious that she had been the instigator. Her matchmaking skills could not compare to Scilio's so she buttoned her lip and feigned ignorance of Ulivall's interest.

  The foothills rolled about them like the occasional clap of thunder that teased overhead. Ancient mining towns, long ago carved into the mountainsides of the Arshenholm, peeked through the leafy canopies to observe their passing with little regard. Towns peppered the hillsides, strategically located along the road to service travelers and traders. Corban needn't have feared running short of supplies, even with Malacar's massive appetite.

  Their party looked like a large merchant or slaver's caravan, perhaps with fewer wagons than one might expect on a long journey, but they didn't stick out in comparison to the other travelers on the road. They slipped by a local army garrison without attracting any undue attention. Their presence in northern Aquiline was a secret, and since Kir wasn't sure how far she could trust Farraday, she preferred to keep it.

  They hadn't come all that far, even with Vittie kicking them along as a spur. The pace was maddening, but it simply couldn't be helped. Large groups made for slow moving. Kir wanted so badly to take Malacar up on the suggestion to ride on ahead, but there was no way she would leave the caravan with minimal defenses. Although she could almost feel her hair turning gray with the ages that seemed to be passing, Kir reined in her urgency and stood the course for the sake of the Karmine libertines that looked to her.

  The gloaming was cast dim in the shadows of the mountain, so Ulivall called the party to make camp. Kir would have been happy to press on for another few hours, even under cover of darkness. A glance around the caravan made obvious the fatigue in every foot. They needed rest, even if Kir's antsy mind couldn't find it.

  Kir dismounted and urged Lyndal down off his destrier. She guided him into the tent that had already been erected for them. The minute the flap shut, he blew out a withheld breath that sounded almost like a pent up scream.

  “Bolts and Blazers!” he cried loudly to the canvas walls.

  “Stint your clack, Lyndal,” Kir warned. She cast a Sound Barrier to stifle his eruptions. “If Alokien's got ears somewhere, they could'a heard you.”

  He danced around, shaking his limbs out and rotating his neck. “I'm going stir-crazy, Kir. Gotta let some of this energy out before I explode!” He grabbed her hands and swung her around the tent, enticing her cheeks to turn up.

  She let him jig his jollies out for a moment, drinking in his energy that she, herself, had been lacking. “Go on. You've done Vann true today. Take off that alterlet and help build the fire. You deserve to kick your feet up tonight.”

  “Aren't you coming?”

  “I'll be along. Just need a minute to rally myself.”

  He saluted and tossed her the alterlet, then stripped down to the brass pantling he wore under Vann's robes. He ejected his bare, chiseled chest into the evening air, ready to revive the foot-sore band with his antics and boundless energies around the fire circle.

  Kir slipped out the back way, hoping to
avoid questions, requests, observations and just words in general. She needed a moment to refresh herself on the sylvan crisp of the wilds. Kir had always taken her strength from the deep greens of the forests. It filled her with a natural energy that couldn't be found in mankind. Lyndal fed her superficial smile, but the woods lifted her melancholy soul. Malacar's energy had been dark, draining her own. Kir knew he was struggling. She hadn't been much help to him in that regard. It was hard enough to keep her own head above water without having to worry about him pulling her under.

  A fallen log made for a good seat, so Kir helped herself to it. There was a crispness to the air that spoke of spring and renewed life. It reminded her of the Hatchel forest when she'd first met Vann. It had been the same time of year. The same sylvan scents. The same forest sounds.

  And the feel of eyes. Stalking eyes...

  -15-

  Barriered to the Alluring Song of the Enchantress

  Oh, sweet Quarinia, enchantress of my mind,

  captor of my heart, binder of my soul,

  Destroyer of my Smile.

  Here may you lie, here may you rot, in the imagined grave I have dug for you.

  But soft! I cannot bring myself to curse you to eternal torment, oh enchantress I never truly knew. I forgive you the expertise of your occupation, and the success of your mission.

  It is not you, but I, that walked my feet upon the path of my own destruction.

  May we meet again in the nextlife, and may you allow me to truly love you there.

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

  “I'm serious as a slip-stalker, Tosh. They're giving us a place to hole up for a few days. Free and clear,” Dailan insisted. His cheek did not bulge and his eyes did not stray, as they always did when he was engaged in hoodwinkery.

  The boy was immaculate, his hair was combed flat, and he smelled of patchouli with a residual hint of minty citrus. His new tunic and trousers were well-tailored, pleated in the current White Tower fashion. It was certainly as presentable as he had been since the wedding festivities in Cornia.