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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Emmi came to understand what he was about. She finally got up the inkling to nod her head and add, “Good idea, Frinns. I dare not taint my delicate eyes.” She tried to make it sound genuine, but there was a hint of sarcasm in there. At least she had used a false name for him, too.

  Lankhins and the driver had finished working off their trousers and they stood there staring at Dailan in their colorful skivvies. They looked mortified and fit to be fuming.

  “Now put 'em on your heads and down around your eyes real good. I'd better not see any peeking,” Dailan managed to say without doubling over. He bit his lip good and hard to keep from cackling and giving his bluff away.

  The men were not all too happy to be wearing their pants on their heads, but they probably recognized the benefit in living another day without ever seeing the promised strike that Dailan had threatened. The trouser legs spilled down their necks like bunny ears. They looked good and knee-slapping ridiculous. If only Lyndal was here to see it—he'd have been howling!

  “Now start hopping. Real slow on that a'way, and if I even think you're gonna peek, I'll turn this skiff around and show you the Saiya Kunnai.”

  The men stumbled about, bumping into each other with their arms outstretched. Dailan covered his mouth to choke it back and Emmi stared after them. The funnies hadn't caught up to her yet.

  “Slide on back, Lady Glenndown. You don't want the Barrier zapping you when the skiff starts moving.”

  She did as he told her. When she was situated safely between the barrels, Dailan threw himself into the cabin. He slapped the capacitor switch to kick it forward. He'd never really driven an airskiff proper before, but there wasn't much to it. He managed to keep it on the street without trouble. After putting plenty of distance between him and the bunny heads, he found a quiet alley to stow the skiff. Somebody would find it sooner or later.

  Emmi was waiting for him in the wagonback. The Barrier had dropped so she slid toward the edge and her legs dangled over the side. She was caught up in agogery.

  “You best pick your jaw up off the ground or squirrels might take to nesting in there,” Dailan scoffed.

  “That was amazing, Dainn!” she cried.

  Dailan shrugged like he'd done it all before. “You weren't half bad, yourself. For a gimpy girl.”

  He thought she might haul off and slap him at that, but instead, she slid into his arms and practically pummeled him with a hug. She had this great big cavern of energy in her gut that came bursting out like a volcano.

  Dailan wasn't exactly the girl-hugging type, but she was hopping on one leg, so he couldn't rightly shove her away, either.

  “You heard what that driver said,” Emmi noted. “He called us a team. I think we make a pretty good one.”

  Dailan shrugged again. “A team? I was the one done all the work.”

  “You? I got skiff-whacked and wrecked my ankle back there. That amounts to a lot more than what you did.”

  Dailan had thought the hurt ankle was all for show, but she was still bouncing on the good one. Bertrand always said a healed soreness should rest for a day or so, to keep the magic from unraveling. She probably had resprained the injury from the day before.

  “You really hurt your ankle?”

  Emmi's wincey nod was more about landing in trouble than landing in pain. “Hessalin's not going to be very happy with me.”

  She wasn't going to get far walking, so Dailan knelt down and offered his back. “This is getting to be a habit with you.”

  Emmi's weight practically drove Dailan's knees to the ground. He shifted her upward to distribute her better and started off in the general direction of Chalice House.

  “Race you home?” Emmi teased.

  Dailan rolled his eyes but he cocked a grin anyway. “Home? I've never knowed what that is.”

  “Me neither. I don't think that word applies to people like us.”

  Dailan wrinkled his nose. “Like us? How are you anything like me?”

  “I mean those of us born with the condition.”

  “Hardly ever been sick a day in my life,” Dailan countered self-consciously.

  “No, I mean the urge. Bahnli says I have the worst case of wanderlust she'd ever seen. She said on the day I was born, they had to close the window, for fear I'd go chasing the clouds.”

  Wanderlust? He'd never known there was a name for it. Dailan sure hadn't been born with the roots that fixed most people's feet to the floor. He'd always hungered to see what he hadn't yet. There was always a green that was greener, always a sea that was bigger.

  “I guess you're right,” Dailan admitted. “Folk like us have bigger eyes than what's good for us.”

  “Since we make a good team, you should come pirate with me. I'd make you my First Officer.”

  “First mate? If I was gonna pirate, I'd be Captain,” Dailan huffed.

  “I'm older, so I have seniority,” Emmi argued.

  “How do you know?”

  “What? That I'm older? I thought... well you're just so...” She hesitated for a breath, probably trying to work up how to describe his shrimpiness without insulting him. “Well, how old are you?”

  Dailan didn't answer right away. He almost lied, but she would see right through it with those feminine wiles. He didn't want to give her any more reasons to be suspicious. “The fact is, I dunno.”

  “You don't know how old you are?”

  He couldn't see her face, but she sounded like she didn't believe him. Sugar-coated lies are easier to swallow than bitter truths. He should have fibbed, after all.

  “Not really. Been shifted around too much. I never knew my parents and nobody could ever tell me where or when I was born. I figure I'm probably somewhere around twelve.” He rethought that, because twelve didn't sound all that impressive. Since it wasn't a lie to guess, he decided to add some padding to the estimate. “Closer to thirteen, really, 'cause I took a spurt this past year.”

  “Oh.” Emmi was quiet for a while. She was saying her sorrys in her silence, from the feel of the mood. When she finally opened her mouth again, she had replaced the sympathy with cheekiness. “Well, I know for a fact I'm almost fourteen. So that still makes me older than you, and that makes me the Captain.”

  “Maybe the crew would like me better at the helm than you.”

  “That would be mutiny. You'd have to challenge me for it.”

  “Who says I wouldn't? You've seen my flashy sword skills.” Dailan's chin rose an inch.

  Emmi blew out a breath of impression. She dropped the haughty air for true flattery. “I'll admit, you were pretty flashy, Dainn. Can you teach me?”

  “I don't plan on sticking around long enough to teach anyone anything. Besides, you keep gimping up at every turn. Horses that tend to lameness get et, ya know.”

  A cupped hand smacked Dailan's ear and rang him wobbly for a spell. “How's that for appreciation when I only injured myself on your behalf? I'd think you'd be a little more complimentary, since it was me that helped you get your sword back.”

  “It was you what took it and caused the whole problem in the first place,” Dailan reminded her gruffly.

  “But if I hadn't, we'd never have met and you'd still be sleeping on a rooftop,” Emmi said sweetly, like she hadn't just clocked him in the ear.

  Dailan couldn't really argue with that, but he spent the rest of the long, heavy walk back to Chalice House trying his best. They went back and forth with their pecking. Dailan couldn't figure on why he was enjoying it so much.

  -26-

  Finding Merisha

  The moonshine o'er yon Arshenholm lay gentle blankets here.

  This winding scar, disrupted earth, the grave of strife and fear.

  Sleep softly, bygone patrons now, for ever will you claim

  This lovely garden for your bed and honor for your name.

  Memorial to the Fallen, Arshenholm Spring Manor

  by Toma Scilio, Master Bard

&nbs
p; Time froze over. Or perhaps it was merely the perception to Scilio's mind. He seemed to hang up on the person that shouldn't be standing there, as it was an object out of place that could not be processed.

  When next Scilio blinked to awareness, the healer was kneeling before him, face pinched in recognition, relief, concern, exultation and more muddled, frantic emotions than Scilio could read at once.

  “Grydon?” was all Scilio managed to squeak out.

  “By Karanni's sanctified name, how ever did the fates manage this?” Grydon Lindt cried. His arms folded around Scilio's back as his chest shook, in laughter or tears or something in between. It was the friendliest touch to have graced Scilio's weary flesh in weeks.

  “Master Healer Lindt? You know this man?” Shiriah said in disbelief.

  “This man, Magister, is Toma Scilio, Guardian to His High Majesty, Crown Prince Vannisarian,” Grydon breathed, looking Scilio over. “There may be a different length to his hair, but there is no mistaking my Mercarian countryman. But that means...” He turned his gaze upon Vann's empty vessel that stared blankly at the ceiling. “Oh, Majesty. It just cannot be so!”

  Grydon was at Vann's side instantly, glowing his hands in assessment over Vann's chest. “There's a residual hint of the pleurafever that has been treated already. Otherwise, he is physically well. There seems to be little of him left...”

  “Majesty...?” Shiriah stared at Vann blankly, as frozen as Scilio had been only moments before.

  Scilio wanted to speak, but trouble came in finding words. There had been no glimmer of hope in Havenlen, no beacon of light to kindle his own. Now, for the first time, he was in company of a trusted friend. A dastardly lump in Scilio's throat tried to steal away his voice. He swallowed it down harshly and cradled his swollen face in his hands. Mastery of his tears was not forthcoming. They made a waterfall of his cheeks. The weeks of stoicism, the cauterizing of emotion had finally caught up. Scilio was not a rock like Malacar. He could not barricade his emotions forever.

  Grydon's arms closed around Scilio's shoulders again, this time in comfort. “Serafin preserve us! Rumor from Empyrea claimed you took your own life. That you are dead.”

  “I am,” Scilio said when he could manage. “To the world, I am. We've been alone for weeks, without friends, with only the sky to cover us. How did this house of tortures suddenly become a house of sanctuary?”

  Grydon wiped at Scilio's streaks with a handkerchief that Shiriah offered over, then he examined Scilio's swollen face. “Let's see about you as we talk.” He began a remedial spell that was held against Scilio's jaw. “I would have expected you to be with the royal party, en route to safety behind Hili borders. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have thought to find you in White Tower. I would have searched for you, otherwise.”

  “That was the nature of the diversion,” Scilio admitted. “We had to disappear into the world, with not a soul to our aid.”

  “How are you here without escort? I can't imagine Kir would have allowed Vann out of her sight for a moment.”

  “It was not easy for her, but...” Scilio glanced to Shiriah.

  Grydon followed the path of Scilio's eyes and read the apprehension. “The Magister is an ally. On my warranty, I would trust her with my life, and with His Majesty's. You can speak freely, Toma.”

  Scilio forced back the urge to wince as Grydon's spell passed a particularly tender spot on his cheek. “Kir has been our strength throughout. She was the driving force in our flight from Westlewin. This strategy was of her suggestion. We diverted eyes and attentions to give Vann a chance to disappear into the world, while a decoy makes his way to Hili. The Chaos Bringer seeks Vann's vessel, to inhabit as his own. The Karmine and Ellesainia bloodlines would combine to create what he deems to be ideal offspring. With the Chaos Bringer inhabiting Vann, his child would be a Shunatar. That Crown Heir would be his future vessel, and as a Shunatar he would have immense power. If the Chaos Bringer finds us, all is lost.”

  “A Shunatar? Isn't that what you are, by mark of your purple eyes? You once told me a Shunatar is the child of a god,” Grydon noted. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  Scilio almost couldn't bring himself to vocalize the bitter truth. The Chaos Bringer was his own father. “It does. The Chaos Bringer is a god seeking immortality in the flesh. He's found a way to achieve it, in this scheme he has been hatching. He would see chaos and destruction rain upon the world, to grant his selfish pleasure.”

  “Does he have a name?” Grydon almost looked apologetic for asking.

  “He is my very own patron. Alokien.”

  Grydon's breath stuttered in his chest. “Sweet Serafin.”

  Shiriah uttered not a word. She sat quietly, taking in every ounce of input, from their dialog to their motions. Her brow was pinched with the gravity of what she was learning.

  For some time, there was no sound in the room. Scilio couldn't even hear the ticking of the clockwork piece on the mantel. Guilt played a much louder symphony in the ear than any instrument might offer.

  “Tell me what happened on the moonless night. We've scarcely had rumors, much less evidence of what's happened,” Grydon said.

  “Rumor would not amount to much. Our plight was guarded carefully, and the Crown has obviously stewed concoctions of its own,” Scilio said. He explained in great depth and detail of the moonless hunt, Duke Karmine's cabal, and Alokien's plot, recalling every shameful memory he could muster. The escape to Balibay. The encounter with General Farraday. Their occupational difficulties in White Tower. No detail was left unaccounted. The room was silent for a long time upon completion of the narrative.

  “The God of the Creatives. I never—” Grydon shook his head. “What does this mean? Is Septauria at the cusp of razing? Have we so angered the Gods?”

  “Bored them with normalcy, is probably more accurate,” Scilio managed to quip. Neither Grydon nor Shiriah found a chuckle at the thought. “No. It is a singular ploy by Alokien, who seeks immortality in mortal flesh. The solitude of ages does no kindness to a soul. He has gone quite mad and refuses to give himself to slumber, as the other Gods do. There will be no razing. The Gods know nothing of Alokien's schemes. They are inert, lost in their repose. Whatever Chaos has been unleashed, it was by Alokien's design all along. My purpose in coming to White Tower was to gain access to the university's Prophetic Archives. My mission was to research methods of returning His Majesty's soul to his body, while Kir hopes to find answers from Master Prophet Farning in Hili. The Willaforr library offers no hints, but the university's stacks are ancient and extensive. I thought to spend time here, then move on to Drendledown if these archives yielded no clues. After I found Lady Merisha, of course.”

  Shiriah did not seem overwhelmed by the admissions, or the accusations toward a God. When she finally spoke, it was with conviction. “You will have all the access to the archives you require. Professor Yorhlingher is an expert in history and ancient prophecy, and a long time friend. He will help.”

  Scilio acknowledged with a grateful nod. He studied Grydon, still pampering a thread of disbelief. It seemed surreal and dizzying. “But, how are you here, Grydon? How, in all the isles and all the fates did you find your way to my bedchamber? In White Tower, of all places? Even as a playwright, I find the coincidence too contrived.”

  “After the First Wedding, Gavin and I returned to Southport, as you know. I needed to check on my practice and estate. We had planned to rendezvous with you in High Empyrea for the Second Wedding, but Guardian Malacar sent vague word from Balibay. He told us that His Majesty's party was being hunted and not to trust agents of the Crown. He advised us to flee underground, that we may be implicated for our friendship with His Majesty. White Tower is our alma mater, my sons are at university here, and we have friends. If we were going underground for a time, Underground it must be...” Grydon glanced to Shiriah hesitantly.

  The Magister was sitting on the edge of Vann's mattress, star
ing at him distantly. Not a word escaped her, Scilio knew, but she looked lost in a dream. She tousled Vann's hair reverently.

  “Magister?” Grydon asked tentatively.

  “Tell him, Master Lindt. He doesn't know. He's been searching all the while for Merisha. And it was Merisha that found him in the end,” Shiriah said softly. “If only I had realized sooner.”

  “You are Merisha?” Scilio asked the Magister.

  Shiriah smiled whimsically. “In a manner of speaking. As was Cressiel Westerfold. As are Grydon and his sons. And Bressalin, Hessalin, Vallislar, Grannersly and every other courtesan and courtesor here. There are many more of us, lending eyes and ears to the streets and tunnels. Quite a few of the professors. We are everywhere, and we are nowhere. But we are all Merisha.”

  “Gavin is with us, as well, Toma,” Grydon reported. “I'll send for him directly. He'll be frantic to see you. The Chalice House is more than it appears. This is the headquarters for the Underground. This is the home of Merisha.”

  “Merisha is the Underground,” Scilio reasoned aloud.

  “The code name, yes. Chalice House provides the front. We collect information from unsuspecting clients and we meet with members in privacy, under the illusion of nocturnal activity,” Shiriah provided. “Please forgive our crude methods. We've never been forced to extract information physically before, and our courtesors are not accustomed to such extremes. Clients usually fold willingly under enchantment and potion. Yesterday morning, our spies on Jolanock Square reported the declaration on your banner, that you were seeking Merisha. Of course, a stranger's knowledge of the code name was extremely concerning. It was happy coincidence that Emerald brought your Dainn to our door, and we had to act quickly. When you fought so stridently against our enchantments, we knew you safeguarded something vital. I never dreamed...”