As she ripped herself from the weave of the Panorama, Kir could finally feel Gensing there in the physical sense. He materialized to her awareness like a solidifying cloud, his left arm wrapped around her waist and his right arm gripping Inagor's dagger that was edged at her throat. She hadn't even felt him slip it from the scabbard.
He must have become solid and visual to the warriors at the same time, because their blades came up and their eyes saucered in disbelief. There were gasps and shrill cries from the caravan.
The breath shuddered in Kir's chest. The intensity in her sudden rage multiplied like a wildfire on brandy. She steadied herself, willing her breathing to controlled rhythm and focusing her outrage into a more useful form. Patience was not Kir's strong suit, but calculating the exact moment to strike was. With the razor edge of the dagger at her throat, Kir could not maneuver. Gensing was not a warrior and lacked the reflexes of one, so all Kir had to do was bide her time and wait for an opening.
“Drop your blade,” Gensing said simply.
Kir didn't fancy introducing her esophagus to the sunlight, so she complied. The sword thumped in the grass. She scanned the warriors, hoping to find answer in one of them. If they were ready to move on her blink, maybe they could overpower him together. Ulivall was easing forward, but he didn't seem receptive to Kir's visual message. She passed over Amari who was holding a claw-gouged elbow, Copellian who held a cloth against it, and Lyndal, who was too far away. Kir squinted and blinked as realization set in. Lyndal? Where had he come from, and what in Blazers was he doing out of costume? His bare chest was splattered with green kamai blood, and his sword was decorated in a putrid rainbow of gore from the battle. Kir would have cursed at him if there had been time.
“Yours as well,” Gensing commanded to the warriors. “Her Affianced Highness is valuable to His Holiness, but expendable in extreme circumstance. If she dies, he can dance the Conflation with another.”
Weapons reluctantly began to fall, and Kir felt a round of humiliation taint her blood to black. She couldn't fathom how Gensing had appeared behind her without her knowing, or how she could have prevented it. She never once felt him in the saddle until he had allowed her to. It was as though he moved as wind or light. It was an inhuman ability. He couldn't have been using Forbiddens—Kir's Kion would have flamed crazy in the presence of any of those unnatural spells.
“Now that I have your attention, I need His High Majesty to join us. Hurry him along now,” Gensing commanded. “Time and patience go swift, and this blade is swifter. Kiriana's jugular is only a tick-tock away from greeting steel.”
Kir could see Malacar from her periphery, guiding Vann through the parting rings. Kir blinked again, toggling between the decoy Vann and Lyndal. Someone else was wearing Vann's robes. Lyndal hadn't been able to sit still after all, and he had enlisted a willing body to take the role.
“Such dull, empty eyes,” Gensing tutted, studying the puppet of Vann.
The decoy clomped with sluggish step, but his breathing was intense and his hands trembled. Kir swallowed hard, hoping Gensing didn't notice the obvious fear that wouldn't have been present in the real Vann. As Malacar and the decoy drew closer, the image of Vann began to shudder transparently, like a thin window drapery blowing in the breeze to reveal a peek of the room behind it. Then, the mirage evaporated. It was little Erahnie wearing the alterlet, under the illusion that abandoned her in the distraction of her fear. When Erahnie realized she had dropped the visage, she clutched the alterlet and closed her eyes tightly to will it forth again, but it was too late. Gensing had watched it happen. It took a moment for him to register what he was seeing.
“It's a decoy!” he barked to the kaiyo. “Find Vannisarian. Now!”
The kaiyo pounced on the ring, zipping through tents. Some sped toward the forest for a proximity search. The distraction, and the momentary wavering in Gensing's confidence, allowed Kir the opening she needed. With a speed to make lightning jealous, Kir's head snapped backward in a sudden smash to Gensing's face as her right arm came up simultaneously to block his dagger from connection. It was a perfectly executed maneuver and he fell backward off the saddle as the dagger flew away from her neck. Sorrha seemed in tune with Kir's vengeance streak. As Gensing toppled, Sorrha added a well-aimed, mid-air kick to his ribs that planted him in the grass.
Kir jumped from the saddle and reclaimed her sword, then joined the circle of warriors that had ringed the Chamberlain. He was coughing and wheezing, trying to inhale breath that fought him. Kir kicked Inagor's dagger away from Gensing's slackened grip and motioned for Eshuen to bind him. Gensing spat a string of blood-tainted saliva to the grass and collected his breathing. Borloh hauled him upright roughly, ignoring the grunts as he and Eshuen wrapped beshinta vines about the wrists behind Gensing's back.
“For a gentleman so well versed in etiquette, you sure need some lessons in manners, Chamberlain. It's rude to lay claim on a warrior's blade without permission,” Kir huffed as she twirled the dagger into its sheath. She pulled her Psychonics, newly discovered and aching for practice, to the forefront of her mind and wrapped a spell around her palm in the same way she attached Elementals to her blade. She sent it sailing to the side of Gensing's temple, soundly draining him of consciousness. If the spell held true, he would be visiting pixie-nixie land for a few hours, and he'd wake up with a smarting headache. Several warriors moved in to secure Gensing's legs for good measure before they dragged him off.
The remnants of the kaiyo swarm seemed to scatter at the loss of connection with their commander. A handful of stragglers remained behind, but they were easily finished off.
There were a few surreal moments that seemed silent compared to the previous screaming, squawking and growling of the invading swarm. In the space of it, that almost seemed to slow and muddle, Kir realized that it wasn't nearly as quiet as she had thought. There was a droning in the backdrop of the lull that was not the echo of her frantic heart. It was the distant pounding of hooves by the hundreds. As the sound grew from hum to steady thunder, Kir bolted to Rendack's side. “What comes?”
Rendack's farscoper came to his eye and he parked it on the eastern horizon. “Greenie troops on the road ahead. Like they're flying on Kionfire.”
“Are they Gensing's opponents... or reinforcements?” Kir asked hesitantly.
“They're not flying a banner or standard... I can't tell.”
“We don't know how far Farraday's influence has gone. He might have betrayed us, or he might even be dead for all we know. If they're Soventine's troops, we have to assume the worst,” Kir reported, then she called out loudly, “Hilians, reform your ranks! Stand ready!”
Erahnie had dropped the image of Vann again. Her eyes were glazed and her lip trembled. Kir raced to her side and grabbed her hand, guiding her back to the inner circle. Malacar followed close behind.
“I'm sorry, Highness,” Erahnie sobbed. “I tried to hold it like Lyndal asked me to. I was just so scared to go near that man. He had kaiyo eyes.”
Kir positioned the girl on Vann's cushionlet and wiped her tears away briskly. “Erahnie, your diversion saved my life. I couldn't have overpowered him if you hadn't done exactly what you did. Lyndal handed you a big robe to fill. Don't you feel sorry, Magpie. You're a hero today.”
Erahnie looked up at Kir timidly, trying to figure if there was truth in the claim. Kir affectionately tucked back long strands of wavy bangs that fell into the girl's face.
“Now Guardling Erahnie, I need you to be a hero for me again. We don't have time for Lyndal to switch you back, and there's troops coming. I need you to play His Majesty one more time. You don't have to do anything except stare at the ground and don't move. Just find a happy place in your head and go there. It'll all be over soon, I promise. Just focus real hard and don't drop the decoy this time. Okay?”
Erahnie nodded with newfound determination.
Satisfied with the confidence that was renewing itself in the child
's countenance, Kir started back for the front line.
Malacar stopped her for a quick physical assessment. Kir waved him off. “Not even a chipped fingernail, Lunchbox. You?”
“I've been parked inside that hub, watching the warriors and felling the few that broke through the lines or came from above. Not more than a dozen. My sword barely tasted the battle,” Malacar lamented. The warrior in him had hungered to add his blade to the cacophony, and he felt like his share of the felling was on the piddling side of pathetic for a swordsman of his caliber.
“If Farraday meant to betray me, we'll know it soon,” Kir said. “I'm glad your blade is fresh, 'cause we're going to need it in that case.”
“I did not realize Lyndal had traded places with the girl,” Malacar said before Kir could address it.
“We'll have words with him later. I'm sure Eshuen will tan his hide. But don't fret on it now. You were occupied with teeth and talons. Like I told Erahnie, it turned out alright in the end. So far...”
“They're almost here. How shall we receive them?”
“With open arms and ready blades,” Kir said. “By Nomah, I'm hoping they are here for the open arms version.”
-23-
Valuables Exchanged, in Freedom for Finality
As Malacar handed forth that fateful scroll and key for my perusal, a powerful call besieged my bones. I know not when fortune shall guide us to this darling Lady Merisha, or in how many ways I shall comfort her. What I do know is that I am honored to bear forth the message, to lay this man's last longings down at her feet. After these many years, Havenlen shall one day know the sound of my footfalls again. May they be guided to her door and may she find closure in my arms.
- Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
“Cressiel Westerfold?” Shiriah's voice trembled. “You did say Cressiel?”
“I take it you knew him?” Scilio couldn't help but feel a spike of sympathy. The Magister's rigid face did not mirror what her glassy eyes spoke in volumes. There was a long-running pain in the creases that had settled in over time. It was a heartache well-masked, though readily visible to those who could read such creases and twinges.
“I did, yes,” Shiriah said distantly, her memories compelling her somewhere a lifetime away from the chamber. She forced her breathing steady in her chest and returned with a blink. “This is your sole purpose in seeking Merisha? To return this key?”
“It is. I've been delayed in the search. Our survival took priority.” Ulivall had claimed Merisha was a contact for the Underground. Did Scilio dare broach the name of the organization? He opted toward ignorance for the present, until he could establish the safety in divulging so sensitive a connection.
“Tell me. How did he die?” The anguish in Shiriah's voice was as genuine as her attempt to hide it. She had let her card-hand fall before, revealing a flash of what she held. That brief glimpse into her soul had painted a clear picture for Scilio. She was deciphered. He could read her now.
“The lonely Arshenholm bore witness to his passing. I think it best to allow the letter to do the telling. He documents his end much better than I can relay,” Scilio soothed.
“Then, might I see it?”
“Magister, I would gladly surrender said items to your keeping. They are a burden too long on my conscience, and I would be happy to deliver them to Merisha, by way of your hand, if you so require. If that might buy my freedom from your custody?”
“I think it might at that.” Shiriah seemed a different person somehow. In his debt, rather than in his domination. Distracted and desperate. As thirsty for Westerfold as Scilio had been for drink just moments before.
“Dainn has the key tucked in his sock for safety,” Scilio said. “We trade custody on occasion to avoid routine. The scroll is in my pack, hidden inside Rel's extra pair of underdrawers.”
“Let us retrieve them immediately,” Shiriah said.
Scilio leaned forward to rise, but his abused legs turned to jelly under his weight. Shiriah was there in an instant, pressed against his side, lending her strength to his. She smelled of lilac water, honey-lemon and sunlight. Of all the things this room was not.
Once he got his footing and began to move, the strength seemed to return and Scilio could walk unaided. He did not divulge it. There was something about the touch of her skin that enticed the desire for more. He was still guarding against any of her enchantments, so this one must have been woven into the very fabric of her being. The Magister had ordered his torture and abuse. She had bound him like an animal. She had tried to enchant him, to pry every secret from his head, just as Quarinia had done. And yet, he could not find an ounce of hate upon which to latch. She was a powerful and dangerous woman.
They took the servieways back to the bedchamber, to avoid upsetting any clients that might be passing in the halls. Scilio was fearful of mirrors at the moment. He was certainly a frightful mess. When they arrived at the room, Vann was still abed. It was otherwise unoccupied.
“I don't know where Dainn is, but I'm certain he won't be long. He would not want to leave Rel alone for long,” Scilio commented.
“He is probably with my Emerald. She is taken with him,” Shiriah noted absently. She eased Scilio into the wingback chair and began a Healing spell that she held against a burn on his arm. Her hand drifted to his vambrace and lingered there. Gentle fingers traced and stroked the dragon, as a lover might. “Your decoration is lovely. Will you next tell me of it?”
“I wish you would not ask.”
“I would trade all for Cressiel's key and scroll. Deliver them to me and I shall refrain from further inquiry. The secrets you guard are deep, Master Scilio. Tied to the Crown, no doubt, and the Crown is in turmoil if rumor is to be believed. Something tells me you are involved in the happenings of High Empyrea. That said, I will speculate no more and allow you to go on your way. If I only have Merisha's key as a fair trade.”
“I promise it to you,” Scilio reminded her. “The assumption you make is accurate. We are fleeing the very same turmoil that dizzies the Crown. That is all I am able to share on the matter, and I thank you for your discretion. How do you know Merisha? Is she a courtesan? Or perhaps a client?”
“Something like that...” Shiriah said with a guarded simper. “She is a dear friend. Of Cressiel's and of mine. Precious and cherished, and she has been beside herself since Cressiel disappeared. It was assumed, without proper evidence, that he had perished. To have closure on his passing will allow our hearts to rest easier now.”
“I should think she was special. Professor Westerfold's final thoughts were of her,” Scilio said, trying to offer his sympathies in the form of comfort.
Shiriah closed her eyes. She almost smiled, almost nodded. Her motions were barely discernible, but there was bittersweet agony-wrapped pleasure in the response that wasn't. The relationship between the two must have been exceedingly complicated.
“The healer comes,” Shiriah reported suddenly, as though she had just received word in her mind. “I would have summoned Bressalin or Hessalin to your aid, but they are occupied with regular clients at the moment.”
The door latch clicked as it opened, and the healer slipped respectfully into the room. “Magister Kellemahni,” he greeted, accented in suave Mercarian elocution.
His rich voice struck a chord of familiarity and Scilio's head shot up.
The healer's hair was short and black; his complexion was of a deep midnight, a popular tone of many southern Mercarian nobles, and he cut a dashing figure. His clothes were prim and stylish; the man strode into the room in a manner that suggested he was of high breeding.
“I received word that you required my aid. How might I be of service?”
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Shiriah was saying.
The Magister's voice kept speaking, but Scilio could not focus. His eyes were fixed on the healer, and his own voice caught in his throat.
When their e
yes met, the healer dropped his bag in shock. “It can't be. Serafin be praised! Toma?”
-24-
From Frowns of Fortune to Winds of Change
“When standing at a precipice, there are but three directions hence.
The step forward to the abyss, the step backward to the predator and
the leap into the clouds. They all lead to a fall. To ensure the only
propitious outcome, one best pack wings.”
- Sinneus Jyler, Master Tutor, Professor of Debate and Discourse
The rings reformed their tight phalanx. The wounded had been transported to the inner circles for attention from Bertrand, his attendants, and the handful of uncollared Vipers with healing abilities. The warriors astride their coursers, and Kir astride Sorrha, stood ready as the battalion reined up before them.
Kir could tell immediately that their urgency had been in pursuit. By the looks of their uniforms, they had been in quite a fray with the kaiyo. The swarm the royal caravan had faced amounted to the fleeing leftovers of what this large battalion had probably started with. Kir was entirely thankful that they had not faced Gensing's kaiyo army when it was at fresh strength and full numbers.
Kir recognized General Jorrhen even from the distance. She had been Farraday's General Waiting at the Battle of Gander's Vale, third in command. The black-eyed, stout, no-nonsense warrior was leading the troops here, and by the looks of the rank stripes on her collar and sleeve, she was in command of the entire Army of Northern Aquiline now. It was curious that Jorrhen had been promoted so high, when that position would normally have gone right to General Irrill, who was a rank above her.
Kir did not know Jorrhen well, though they had shared a drink after the battle at Gander's Vale. There was a deep respect between them. As warrior women of high rank, they were part of an exclusive club. The warrior class encouraged most of its women to support roles like healers and tailors. It did produce its share of female Master Warriors, but by nature of the world, only a rare few rose to positions of high command. Absolute respect and submission from unders was not always granted warriors of their gender. It had to be earned time and again, little by little, by way of trial, fight and pure cussedness. Kir and Jorrhen were kindred spirits of the blade.
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 26
