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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Kir had sat where Scilio was now, in something of a different circumstance. There had been a glimpse into that special level of her Hell, granted through unexpected accidents of their Guardian Bonding training. That glimpse had been so terrifying it still visited Scilio in his nightmares. What he faced now did not compare to the year Kiriana Karmine had spent in Tarnavarian's twisted playchamber. Scilio could not pretend that his predicament was anything so horrific. He could, however, adhere himself to Kir's example and learn from her experience. Kionara became his fixation, and Kir, his talisman. It was only in their anchors that Scilio found the will to block out the interrogation. He was able to remove himself from the process, in retreat to a deeper part of his mind. He was reminded of Kir's lesson: this is just a moment, and moments pass. Toma Scilio had harbored the soul of a God. Precious little could petrify him now.

  The two interrogators were much more skilled at creating mood than at creating methods. Their techniques were standard, old-school forms of torture that undoubtedly worked for their effectiveness, but the Creative in Scilio was almost disappointed that their practices were so bromidic. When someday he wrote his memoirs, he might be tempted to embellish the session, for its lack of depth. The Hilians were more creative in their designs, from what Scilio had heard. He tried to play up on his dramatic nature, but as much as he craved inspiration, he was honestly relieved that his captors were not enlightened by Hilian interrogation methods.

  The first hour was given to an inverted water torture, and when that yielded silence, the interrogators moved on to Blazer whips across his thighs and Frostery boots on his bare feet. Standard beatings followed. They were lackluster, even in their brutality. Not even the sting of the switches on his bare back and calves was enough to open his mouth. When they had covered his fleshy canvas to their liking, they would heal him superficially and begin the flaying anew.

  The interrogators were growing frustrated. When nothing in their regular repertoire proved effective, they sat Scilio in a chair and began the Scissor-Legs, by which criss-crossing poles placed between bound legs tried to pry the shinbones to cracking.

  All pain was drowned by vast seas of numbness in Scilio's consciousness. He could feel nothing, save the deep lingering guilt that lapped along the sands of his eroding soul. Far removed, enveloped in Kir's ballasting security, Scilio was divorced of physical sensation. He drifted along in the great abyss of his disconnected mind. An imagined gale of Kionfire walled off the outer world until he could hardly hear the questions anymore, and time seemed to muddle...

  Eventually, some change finally roused Scilio to awareness. The interrogators had allowed a break in the session. It was certainly long past sunrise. Dailan would be awake in concern by now. That was assuming, of course, that he was not being interrogated in another chamber.

  With the hood still shrouding his vision, Scilio could not make visual appraisal of his condition. His only recourse was a quick assessment based solely on sensation. His chin was kissing his chest, stretching his neck muscles to ache. His legs were sore, but not apparently broken. Even the lash welts, burns and bruises were not as painful as he had expected them to be. He was rather numb, in fact.

  There was some commotion across the room that materialized as voices in hushed tones. A suggestion of light, perhaps filtering through a doorway, peeked through the woven strands of the hood. It struck Scilio under the hindrance of darkness how dearly he valued his sight.

  “He won't say a word,” one of the interrogators was reporting. “He didn't even cry out or beg. If you hadn't already had words with him, I'd have thought he's mute. We worked him over well. I think he's out cold.”

  “I've never encountered so stalwart a subject, Vallislar.” That voice belonged to the Magister. It lilted like ribbons of cream through a decadent dessert, and the charm inlaid into every word seemed to paint rainbows through Scilio's mind. Her magic was very powerful. It bolstered Scilio's pride that he had managed to hold her off.

  “His memories may have been erased. Nepenthe or potion, perhaps,” the Magister continued. “He will stop at nothing to contain his secrets, whatever they may be. His mental barriers were so rigid, I could not even approach without being repelled immediately. I thought surely he would drop them under insistence of pain. You got nothing at all?”

  “Not in words,” Vallislar replied. “Even with Blazer whips, we couldn't break his barrier down enough for Grannersly's Psychonics to probe. And he fought off the veracity potion. It was laced with trepsikan to make him obedient. We forced it down his throat, but he somehow ignores the urge to divulge truth. It takes a special one to manage that. He's something else, Magister. Didn't even scream or flinch through any of it. It's going to take days, maybe weeks to crack him.”

  “Do you think he was involved in the purge?”

  “Doubtful. I think he's something more important than a mere operative.”

  The Magister suspired deeply in a breath that sounded much more like an expiration of regret than impatience. “What makes you believe that?”

  “Because there's something peculiar on his person,” said the other interrogator, assumed to be the named Grannersly. “It's best to show you, Magister.”

  Footsteps approached. Scilio did not lift his head or betray his awareness. They spoke freely in the illusion of his unconsciousness and he still had much to learn about their motivations. None of the baseline questions they asked had revealed a clue.

  “Look at his arm.”

  The Magister gasped. “Impossible! This looks like a...”

  “Right. But it's not. Guardian vambraces are famously lumanere. This one looks more like obsidian.”

  Grannersly added, “He has the arm and chest sculpture of one who trains under the sword. This vambrace dragon matches the one on the black sword we found among his personal effects. Do you suppose he's Night Wind? ”

  “Perhaps. We've never confirmed their existence, let alone that they carry a common marker. All we know is rumor and speculation,” the Magister sighed.

  “It makes sense. If the Crown's Guardians have special vambraces, it would stand to reason that the King's secret assassins might, too. We know there's a lot more to the Crown than what they let out,” Vallislar said.

  There was a long pause, as though the clues were being debated and considered silently. A silky hand smoothed tepid fingertips along the embossing of the vambrace's Kion. They traced the ridges, peaks and valleys with a curiosity that mingled with adoration. The armguard was Godscrafted of cold lumanere stone, once shimmering in its icy opalescent sheen that was said to reflect the very heart of the Gods themselves. It now shone with a black darkness borne more of the depths than of the Gods. Despite the lumanere's lifeless conception in the rocky embrace of the earth, the vambrace beat with the heartblood and awareness of Scilio's own flesh. It may as well have been the very skin of his forearm, for its palpable sensation of those delicate fingers in their tender exploration. Scilio had oft wondered why the vambrace was so much a part of him, when it should have been no more than an exquisite mineral ornament. It held a life and an essence that was connected to Scilio, on a level that was too deep to truly comprehend.

  Shiriah spoke. “I don't see a seam. It is permanently affixed. This is a work of much more powerful crafting than anything I know.”

  “We need an expert. Would one of those new gents have any experience with it? They're older, high educated, been around the block. Since they've been at court, they might have some light to shed.”

  “It is worth a consultation,” the Magister agreed. “I shall send for the Mercarian master healer. He's an old university acquaintance that we've been trying to recruit for years. It's time he got his feet wet. At the very least, we should treat the ails we inflicted on our mystery guest so he'll be fresh for the next round. Bressalin and Hessalin are otherwise engaged at the moment. But... hmm...” There was a sudden hint of amusement in her tone, as though she were chuckling wi
thout the sound. She must have leaned forward. Scilio could feel her breath on his bare shoulder. “I am truly sorry for this, Master Tosh. As a proponent of pleasures, it brings me none to inflict otherwise. This need not continue for long days or weeks. Just open your mind and let me in. I'll be gentle. Questions need not be delivered by the lash.” The Magister had realized he was awake, though how she could tell was a trick she would not reveal. “Grannersly. Vallislar. Allow me some time with our guest. Send summons to the healer, if you please.”

  There was a deep thump and clinking of a latch as the two men closed the heavy door behind them. The hood slipped over Scilio's head. His face was bathed in a soft, even light.

  Scilio squinted, taking in the large room through sweat soaked hair that clung to his forehead and teased his cheeks. It was not the kind of chamber he had expected. The dim wrought iron Inferno lamps were well crafted and elegant. There were no windows. The stone walls were draped with velvet fabrics and an over-sized circular bed claimed a prominent position in the far quarter. An elegant wardrobe was left open, revealing a multitude of devices and weapons that one might have expected to find in an Aquilinian slaver's camp. It looked to be not a dungeonous prison, but more of a specialized chamber that catered to extreme tastes in pleasure.

  The Magister pulled the poles from between Scilio's calves and chucked them aside. The motion of her handling instruments of torture was so graceful and elegant, there was some manner of irony to be found there, had Scilio the energy to indulge his wit. After positioning a chair conversationally before him, the Magister sat and studied Scilio silently for several long moments. There was no malice in her eyes, merely curiosity and a hint of apprehensive urgency.

  “What do you want of me?” Scilio managed. It was the sound of a hollow voice, cracked and parched, as though his vocal chords had not chimed in years.

  “Only information. We've never had to work so hard for it in any client before, which makes you an oddity. Oddities in our line of work are extraordinarily rare. And thus, concerning.”

  “I know nothing that concerns you,” Scilio insisted weakly. “You waste your time.”

  “I don't believe in wasted time. It all amounts to something. Just being here with you now is fruitful. We're establishing a rapport, you and I. I'd like to think we can be friends.”

  “You wish to play the gentle card, to counter the brutal torturers. Textbook interrogation methods, Magister. It will not work with me.”

  “Then, perhaps it will work with your brother. Shall I invite him down to chat? Perhaps Grannersly and Vallislar would enjoy making his acquaintance, as they have yours? I'll even summon your servie to our little party. He is quite an intelligent child. If Master Rel is unable to speak, I'm certain I can convince Dainn to.”

  It was the first time Scilio felt his bulwark weaken. The overactive imagination with which he had been gifted was suddenly something of a curse. He had to force himself not to beg. “Let this conversation be ours alone. I can find it in myself to befriend you, if such friendship stays between us.”

  “I knew you would see the benefit in my offer,” the Magister said with a genuine smile. “Friends know all about each other, so consider this our first date.”

  “When I court ladies, I prefer candlelight, roses and serenades,” Scilio managed to quip.

  The Magister chuckled mildly. “These whips and lashes are not to your taste? Some of our clients crave them. This room, in fact, caters to our... eclectic clientele. But if candlelight and serenades are more to your liking, I think I can manage something.”

  “Pleasantries, of late, are lost on me, I'm afraid,” Scilio said honestly.

  “My name is Shiriah Kehlamani. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of yours.”

  “My name is now Tosh. I was once called Toma Scilio.”

  “Skill-ee-oh? I've never heard the surname pronounced that way. There is a noble house of Scilio from Mercaria, but it's pronounced Sill-ee-oh, if I'm not mistaken,” Shiriah noted. “Any relation?”

  “You're not, and there is. I am... I was, rather, a lesser son of Safnir Scilio, the Armigal of Hasterfal. Now, I am only Tosh.”

  “I see. Noble upbringing explains the regal bearing in your stance and gait.”

  “I thought I had written that out of myself.”

  “Not as completely as you'd like. At least, not to those of us trained to spot it. Some things, especially those impressed upon us from birth, never disappear completely. Don't worry. It was not outwardly obvious.”

  “Of that, I am relieved to hear,” Scilio said.

  Shiriah paused as the lock hissed and the door opened.

  Grannersly strode in and set a tea tray on the table beside the Magister. “The healer was summoned. He'll be here soon.”

  The man was not what Scilio had pictured. His face did not match the deep bass of his voice. Grannersly was young (not much more than a university student), tidy and prim, slender of feature, graceful of gait, comely in a gentle way, but otherwise unremarkable. He was not at all the image of a menacing brute, prone to dispensing terrors and lashes. Scilio's imagination, yet again, outperformed reality.

  “Thank you, Grannersly. Direct him to the Camellia suite. Master Tosh and I have made acquaintance so we'll have no more need of your services here for the time being. I'll be escorting him back for rest shortly. Before you go, might you be so kind as to release our guest? He will cooperate.”

  Grannersly raised an eyebrow, studying Scilio with a tilt of his head, as though he found difficultly in believing it. He made no quarrel to the contrary. He unlatched Scilio's wrists from the magic inhibiting binders that had fixed them to the arms of the chair, then closed the door behind him as he left the room.

  Scilio massaged the tender wrists. He released his legs from their confinement without waiting for permission. Shiriah unhooked a teal silk robe from a wardrobe and helped his arms through, then tied it about his waist. She sat gracefully, poured two cups of buttercup yellow liquid and offered one over.

  “Tempting though it may be...” Scilio said, knowing his parched voice betrayed his thirst.

  “It is untainted, I promise. I will sample both cups if it will appease you. You must be desperate for quenching. There is no need for a show of bravado, Master Scilio.”

  Scilio accepted the cup, almost against his own will. He sucked it down greedily like a man dying of desiccation. Once the first drop touched his tongue, he could not stop himself. Shiriah refilled his cup several times over, until the pot was drained.

  “Shall I send for more?”

  “I am quenched for now, thank you.”

  Shiriah took another sip from her own cup, then folded her hands neatly around it. “Why are you seeking Merisha?”

  Scilio blinked in confusion. Not once in all the prior questioning had that name come up. “Merisha?”

  “Indeed.” The word was polite, the blunt inquiry evident.

  “I do not know her,” Scilio admitted uneasily. He wasn't quite sure what this was about. Of all the questions the Magister could have asked, from his background to his vambrace, this was the last one he had expected.

  There was an extended hesitation that Scilio could feel on the air. Something about his answer seemed to puzzle her momentarily.

  “Your banner on Jolanock Square yesterday said otherwise.”

  “Oh, I'd forgotten,” Scilio tried for a chuckle. Obviously, the Magister had eyes and ears everywhere. “I have something that belongs to her. Something of import I have been guarding for months. That's all. I just hoped to find her, to return the item entrusted to my keeping.”

  There was another dramatic pause. “And what is this item?”

  “A key. A letter and a key, from a professor named Cressiel Westerfold. His passing left the key in my care, and I seek to return it at his behest.”

  Shiriah gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. In an instant, all the training and masks that sculpted the o
utward projection of this stately, educated, achieved courtesan melted away. For one brief moment, Scilio could see the raw woman underneath. The woman who knew the name Cressiel Westerfold. The woman who knew Merisha.

  -22-

  Whirlwind Chaotic

  “There is no Chaos born that is not conceived in the balance of Order, so the Priests proclaim. We, as man, become the equalizer, in our words and deeds. And sometimes, in our singing blades.”

  - Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer

  The wave of winged kaiyo broke upon their lines before the groundlings did. Their screeching calls were met with stalwart hearts and singing blades.

  Rendack was right—there were several varieties of kaiyo that Kir had never seen and a few she had only heard bards sing about. These winged creatures were lower level, much smaller than the malcravens they had faced before, but they each had their own strengths that made them much more formidable than your average bird.

  Kir recognized one of the beasts as a basan from the old tales. It had a wingspan of seven feet, talons the size of daggers, and it looked a lot like a chicken bent on vengeance. It spat Blazerfire from its beak, the color of its bright coxcomb. Blazers were usually bluish in tone, but this energy crackled red. Even though a Shield could dispel the Blazerfire, most of the Karmine libertines still had collars, which hindered any access to Defensives they might have. The basan could be killed by blades at specific weak points at the neck. The feathers of the ones Kir felled would have made a lovely hat, she thought wryly.

  There were several flying kaiyo that Kir had no name for, and one creature that wasn't even winged. It looked like a harmless wispy cloud. Eshuen found out quickly that the fluffy thing was not intangible after all when it tried to engulf his face for the smother. Kir drowned it with an Aqua Wisp that seemed to dissolve it to nothing. She gestured in the warrior's sign of apology for the drenching. Eshuen was much happier with the air in his lungs than he was concerned about his soggy pantling, and he gestured back his gratitude.