“Unless one possesses an eidetic memory, as I do,” Tarnavarian chimed arrogantly. He had been quiet for some time, a spectator, of sorts, to the game. No doubt he was analyzing Vann's strategies for weakness.
“Practice, and patience, Vannisarian. There is no rush. The more you focus, the more honed your mind will become,” Soventine soothed.
So many hours of Vann's youth had been spent pining for this. To sit opposite his father and brother, sharing in precious family moments of games and laughter. The moment had not materialized in any way he could have conceived. This game existed only in the construct of their minds, and there was no laughter here. The idealized father and brother Vann had imagined were as much a fantasy as the shogi board.
Tarnavarian had finally ceased his relentless torment at the prospect of a shogi tournament. Vann had learned that the only way to divert his brother's warped attentions was to provide him another form of tantalization. Any opportunity for Tarnavarian to display his genius was relished in that wicked mind, so Vann had devised just such diversions. Shogi was a game they all shared a fondness for. The matches seemed to stretch in infinite lengths. When Soventine won the round, Tarnavarian took Vann's place at the imagined board.
It gave Vann a chance to rest his mind from the constant bombardment of interaction. He had always been an introverted sort, preferring quiet rooms over social engagements. The time in Empyrea had forced him into the social limelight, and he honestly had enjoyed the opportunities to make friends freely. It always left him mentally drained, however, and his retreats into his head or his books allowed him to recharge his mental capacitor. Being in this place, inundated with constant attentions from Soventine and Tarnavarian had allowed him little room for such. He just wanted quiet. Who would have ever dreamed that an eternity in the abyss would be so grating and loud?
Vann left his father and brother to their game and allowed himself to drift. They were occupied in their extreme measures of focus, unconcerned with anything else. Their distraction allowed Vann the privacy of his own thoughts, for once.
Far off, if distance could be assumed in such a void, there was a pinprick of energy in the form of a burgundy light. It was piercing and bright, like the stars that were visible on moonless nights. Vann could barely make it out in his awareness, but the light had been constant and unyielding these many weeks. Neither Soventine nor Tarnavarian seemed aware of its existence, so maybe it was just a figment of Vann's imagination. Perhaps it represented the part of himself, that physical form that was still rooted in the world. He would have expected the emanatory projection of his anchor to appear in hues of sky blue. Burgundy reminded him of Kir, in the matured passion and fire that ripened in her glory.
The thought was comforting. His only connection with Kir in this realm had been through the memories of Tarnavarian's twisted tortures that had been thrust upon him. He could not unlive those horrific images. It had conditioned Vann's mind with the agony of Kir's screams, and he could no longer think of her without hearing her cries. To think of her now, strong and beautiful in her wine-red warmth, was a welcome reprieve from the terrified and tortured subject of Tarnavarian's Root Chambers. Vann knew he must grasp these precious respites while he could, before Tarnavarian would grow tired of the distractions and return to his favorite torments.
Vann wrapped himself in the thought of Kir and fixated on the distant burgundy light. He wished he could give himself over to a fantasy of her. But he couldn't dream, or even sleep. There had been no room for mental repose, thanks to Tarnavarian.
Vann didn't know if dreaming was possible in this place. Perhaps he was already asleep, trapped in a nightmare without end.
-18-
Unwrapping Rayner's Gift
From the moment Denian and I clasped arms as colleagues under the Mercarian trees, I could smell the hint of tragedy on his breath. Cool confidence covers culpability. Beneath the unwavering warrior facade there lies a tale that does not deserve to languish unappreciated. A warrior class epic of love and loss under weeping Havenlen skies. *Note: I have not been able to confirm his Havenlen roots, but subtle clues have led me to this induction.* I will uncover Denian's secrets, if not by his own confession, then by the clues he unwittingly offers my masterful reading skills. This mysterious warrior woman that gave her heart to the fulfillment of Denian's, whomever she may be, her name will someday blaze upon the stage of my epic drama for generations of theater patrons to enjoy. Now, all I have to do is find a way to make my brother sing.
- Excerpt from the Journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
The weeks since the First Wedding had allowed for no time or outlet for training. Kir was beginning to feel the mush creeping into her muscles. Malacar hadn't been much inclined to exercise on the ship. They were both in need of practice.
Kir had to order him into a round. The long sticks they'd collected served as longstaffs in their duel. They set to spar alongside the ridge of woods, using the light of a small fire to counter the imposing twilight. They could have chosen to spar near the bonfire and the dancing circle, but an audience was not on either of their agendas.
Malacar didn't seem to be feeling the drive for it like Kir was. His stance was uncommitted, his defense predictable, his offense lackluster. Kir might have thought he was humoring her and going easy because of her position. She had worried before that he was treating her too much like a royal and too less like a fellow warrior, but she could read something more in his motion. There was a weakness that was not coming from the weeks of inactivity, nor from the duty to regard her as some delicate royal flower. The crux of the matter was that his heart just wasn't in it. He had always enjoyed their spars before. Now, he seemed to be going through motions and emotions behind the stoic mask he was donning for her sake.
When he parried her staff too slow, she spun flankways and whacked him sharply across the back. He stumbled forward to a knee. It was a move he should have easily been able to counter. Kir grunted in frustration. She twirled the edge of the staff to his temple for the winning point, stopping just short of connection.
“Doesn't feel like you're even trying,” Kir grumbled. “It's a sorry day when a royal can routinely best a Guardian. You're usually better at staff fighting than me, but you're not proving that true now. I'm gonna end up painting your whole person with blacks and blues if you don't get some giddy-up in your want-to.”
“I'm obviously out of practice,” Malacar said through heavy breaths. He gestured in the standard warrior's yield sign, to acknowledge his loss.
“Out of focus, more like,” Kir returned. She offered her arm to haul him up. Sparring always invigorated them both, but the energy that was coursing through Kir's veins was lacking in Malacar's.
“Apologies. I'm looking to find it.”
“Kionara,” she said firmly, locking eyes and sending a whole load of meaning in the look.
He nodded with more vigor than he'd given in the whole of the battle. There truly was power in the word, and a strength that could not be denied. He returned it firmly, sending back a load more of deeper meaning.
Their next spar was better. Malacar gave himself to the task with more determination than the first round. When Kir was satisfied that he had found his lost warrior, she slapped him on the back, apparently on a good bruise. He barely betrayed the wince.
“C'mon, Lunchbox. I'm tuckered. Been too long since we've gone at each other with weapons harder than our tongues. Lemme work those knots out.”
Kir led Malacar back to the outskirts of the evening fire circle, to watch the revelers mingle and twirl with the pulsing beat of the drumming and the motion of the dancing shadows. They were not only engaging in their routine nightly dances, but practicing the fighting forms that Kir had devised. The Karmine libertines were beginning to solidify the moves in their muscle memory, thanks to the help of the Hilian warriors who were teaching them. The battle-dance had never had a name, but the participants had started referring to it as t
he Saiya Kunnai, after Kir's nickname. It was an appropriate description. The Dimishuan phrase meant little whirlwind, and the style incorporated a lot of twirling like one.
Before retiring to Copellian's side for the evening, Melia had laid out a cushioned blanket in front of Kir's tent. Malacar eased himself down to it and Kir plopped her sitter cross-legged next to him. The strain in his face was controlled but as obvious as yellow on a butterbean. Kir hoped her presence would be a steady rock for him. If they weren't trying so hard to maintain the decoy ploy, she'd have told him to go chase Vann, for both their sakes.
Lili offered refreshments and crisp moist towels to cleanse away the sweat and dirt of exertion. Malacar's tabard was tugged off. Lili folded it neatly as he removed his tunic. His back and sides were striped with evidence of Kir's staff. Kir squinched up her face with exaggerated, imagined pain to Lili. Although Bertrand was sitting just a stone's throw away at the fire circle, Malacar was not one to necessitize healing for minor things like bruises. It would damage his warrior's honor to be treated for something so insignificant.
To avoid trampling his already-tender ego, Kir decided not to summon Bertrand. She perched on her knees at Malacar's back to knead her fingers against his rigid cords. He always carried his tension between the shoulder blades.
“That's not necessary, Kir,” Malacar protested. “You forget your place. As a royal, it's not fitting—”
“Keh! Between you and Momma Warhorse, that's all I've been hearing lately is this falutin malarkey about my place,” Kir huffed. “I think you're the one forgetting it. If nowhere else, it's at the side of my brother, easing an ache that I'm responsible for dishing out. Just 'cause I'm wearing shiny scrollwork doesn't mean I can't lift a finger in aid when it's needed. That may be the kind of kingdom them of the past was running, but it's not the kind that Vann and I have planned. No more standing by while others do our scrubbing for us. Our hands have every intention of getting just as dirty.”
Malacar huffed. Kir couldn't tell if it was in humor or in annoyance at the prospect of a royal doing manual labors and things a servie would otherwise do. Just like Vittie, Malacar had been raised with with very specific notions involving what was befitting royalty. Kir had gone head to head with him over it in the past, back when Vann was still hiding from the world. Malacar had been loosing the martinet in his demeanor, but it hadn't all been washed away. Kir was no longer beholden to the highfalutin expectations of the highborn. She wouldn't allow any lofty pedestals in her proximity, even if they were erected by her overbearing big brother.
“You took a beating. Now you can take another kind at the end of my thumbs.” Kir pressed them into the knotted rocks that peppered his shoulders. “I need Vann's Guardian in tip-tops if he's to do his job proper.”
Lili joined Kir in the massage treatment. After a good half-hour of their collaborative efforts, Malacar's rocky wall was loosened enough for satisfaction. It gave Kir a chance to practice a bit of her newfangled healing abilities that had been paltry until the Conflation had watered their bloom. She didn't really know much on the how-to's, but she had rudimentary experience from childhood lessons and that was all that was really needed here.
Kir thanked Lili for her aid, then dismissed her to the fire circle for a turn at the Saiya Kunnai dance. She settled beside Malacar on the blanket to watch. They shared the easy silence, taking in the rhythm of the cadence.
“Highness?” came a tiny voice.
Kir turned her head to see little Erahnie approach. The child was the six-year-old daughter of Gressie, a former housemaid at Westlewin Manor. The girl had chin length, wavy mahogany hair and crimson eyes. The contours of Erahnie's face made her quite a little beauty; she would attract many suitors when she was grown. Erahnie held out a wilting weedflower, which Kir gracefully accepted.
“Would you put it in my hair for me?” Kir asked. She directed it to her temple, where Jessia's nepenthe had once perched.
When the flower was set, Erahnie bowed in a cute little display. She looked delighted that her gift had been appreciated. The child was about to return to her mother's side at the circle, but Malacar snatched her before she could prance away. Erahnie giggled as she struggled against his grip, seeming to understand that he was playing.
If Kir's arms had been made of jelly, she would have patted her own back. Malacar was cavorting with a nipper, which meant the spar had managed to fish him from his well of melancholia. Just as Kir had meant it to do. She marveled at her own genius over a half moon grin.
Malacar's hands found the secret spot of laughter under the girl's arms. Erahnie cackled and screeched as he tickled her. Although she thrashed and begged him to stop, she goaded the torment when he did. It was a hypocritical request. Why did children take pleasure in such intense and annoying stimulation? Why would they crave the torment? Erahnie returned the tickling, or did her best to try. Malacar's restrained laughter was obviously an affectation for her benefit.
Kir marveled at the exchange, not only at Malacar's aptitude for dealing with children, but Erahnie's innate understanding that the action was meant in fun. Children had always been a mystery to Kir, maybe because she never had much of a childhood, herself.
“You win,” Malacar chortled when his patience for the game was vanquished. The child didn't move from his lap, seeming happy to have found a playmate in the big Guardian. “Have you ever had a pet before?”
Erahnie shook her head vigorously. “Never. Shama says when we live in Hilihar, I can have a bird of my very own.”
“We're a long way from Hilihar. How would you like to have your own bird right now?” Malacar asked.
The child's eyes saucered. “For really?”
Malacar grabbed up his tabard from where Lili had placed it earlier. He fished a patterned square of paper from the pocket that lined the inside panel. “Only if you promise to take good care of him.” He began creasing the square expertly with folds Kir had seen him make before.
“I swear it on my collar!” she cried in delight.
“Now that won't do,” Malacar scolded mildly. “You won't have that collar for very much longer. You should swear on your honor. That's something you will have forever.”
Erahnie nodded through her grin, displaying a gap where a front tooth should have been. “On my honor. Someday I'll be a Guardian, too, and then I'll have even more honor! So I swear on my someday vambrace.”
“You will make a wonderful Guardian. Maybe Her Highness will teach you when you are older. She was a Guardian.”
“I know it. Shama says I'm a lot like Lady Kiriana.” Erahnie's chin tucked bashfully, and she threw a silly little grin Kir's way.
“Well, you tell your Mother I'll be glad to teach you how to be a Guardian. It's a fine duty. We need more women in vambraces around here,” Kir said.
Malacar put the finishing folds on the paper bird's beak and handed it over. “Your Arshenholm warbler, Guardian Erahnie. Make sure he gets enough to eat. Since he's still a chick, he'll need lots of care to grow strong.”
Erahnie turned the bird over in her hands with some oohing and ahhing.
Gressie approached tentatively and offered a respectful gesture of evening greeting. “Is Erahnie bothering you, Highness? She tends to end up under foot at times.”
“Not at all,” Kir assured her with a wink. “Seems Lady Erahnie has a penchant for Guardianship.”
Gressie smiled warmly. “It lightens my heart that you two are getting to know each other. When Erahnie was born, I had hoped you would grow to be close, but time was not kind and you were whisked away from us too soon.”
Kir hadn't known the woman all that well. In Kir's youth, Gressie had been a tender, another name for a common field hand. She had been promoted to the main house staff around the time Kir was petitioned and sent off to Empyrea. Because Kir had spent less time at home in those years leading up to the engagement with Tarnavarian, she didn't know Gressie nearly as well as she knew th
e other house servies.
“We can make up for lost years,” Kir said. “Erahnie's a Blazerspark. A regular little magpie. She's welcome at my fire anytime. That goes for you, too, Gressie. You saved my life on the moonless night, summoning Lili and Bertrand the way you did when the Duchess poisoned me. I'm beholden to you.”
Kir had not asked the whys and wherefores, but during the planning for the revolt at the Karmine estate, Gressie had been one of the few who had elected to stay behind. Someone had suggested that she had more to gain in staying than in leaving, and Kir wondered if Erahnie had been the reason. Gressie might have calculated the dangers of the journey to be too high. Leaving behind an established life was a difficult prospect, especially if the established life was comfortable enough to outweigh the risks. The collar might have held more security than the freedom for her.
That had changed on the moonless night, when the nepenthe blooms were torched and Gressie's memories came flooding back. She suddenly decided that she and Erahnie would go to Hili. Kir didn't really care why Gressie had wanted to stay behind in Westlewin. She was here now, and now was where they were starting.
“I was delighted to be of aid, Highness,” Gressie smiled genuinely, then offered her hand to Erahnie. “Come along. It is well past pixie time for you.”
Erahnie pecked Malacar's cheek, then sprang away to clasp her mother's hand. They both offered their partings and retreated. Before they were out of sight, Erahnie went skipping ahead toward her tent.
Kir and Malacar shared a huffing chortle at the child's exuberance.
“You're really good with nippers,” Kir noted. “How'd you learn that?”
“It's not a matter of learning. Children are not all that complicated. Just people in the small,” Malacar shrugged.
He had never talked about his past. He had never mentioned his family, his childhood, or even his homeland until recently. Kir knew there had been a woman of some relation in Malacar's life, but whether it was a mother, sister or lover, she hadn't figured and dared not ask. It was possible he would divulge a bit if she gave him the opening, so she said, “You seem like you've been around them your whole life. You must have had a passel of younger siblings to look after.”
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 20
