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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Kir excused herself from the revelry and followed Melia, with Malacar trailing dutifully. He was determined to be Kir's Guardian, even though it was Vann's tabard he wore. With the Gensing threat fresh in their minds, he was likely to be more overbearing than ever. When they got to the corral, Copellian was already working Sorrha with a curry comb. He stopped and offered a wrist-clasp as Kir approached.

  “Saiya Kunnai, when I first met you, I admit I was not happy about someone of privilege being freely handed residency in Hili, when you couldn't begin to fathom its value. I never expected that you were anything but hot air and bubbles,” Copellian said. “I was wrong.”

  “You probably weren't. I've been handed things my whole life, and I take it for granted. I'm learning its value more every day, and even if I can't empathize with the Dimishuan experience, I can sympathize,” Kir said warmly. “I can be an advocate and a voice, if nothing else. I expect you'll keep me in check when my privilege starts to show. It'll be harder for me now, with this magic quill of command at my disposal. Puts me on a lofty pedestal and I might get too accustomed to the height.”

  “Glad to have the permission,” Copellian joked lightly. “Highness.”

  Melia picked up a comb to tackle Sorrha's other side as she ran down the morning update for Kir's benefit, most of which Lili had already reported.

  “I think your banner vest will have to be scrapped. Gressie couldn't get the bluish glowing stains out,” Melia said apologetically.

  “Glowing stains? The lumiquid blood?”

  “Is that what it was? We thought it was clean, but as Gressie was folding it in the dim, she noticed the glow spatter. It's not visible in daylight.”

  “I didn't know it stains permanent like that. Don't scrap it. I'll wear it anyway. That vest is probably worth a string of lorans now. Dealers sell that blood at high prices out in the world, since it's pretty rare and coveted for its uses. I wonder how much you can harvest from one kaiyo...?” Kir hung up on an idea that was quickly put to the back of her mind for later investigation. “Anyway, how's Avalir doing today? He seemed in good spirits last night. Bertrand said he was mending well.”

  “Tennras is driving him batty. Won't leave him alone, all concerned and clingy. They're liable to kill each other before the day is through,” Copellian said.

  “I know what that's like, having a doting dragonfly hovering overhead. Poor, poor Avalir. But it's sweet, and I won't dare rescue him.” Kir cocked a lopsided grin.

  Malacar snorted knowingly.

  Leaving the horsemasters to their tasks, Kir excused herself and walked the length of the encampment observantly, with Malacar trailing silently behind. At the far end, well beyond sight of the road, wagons were transporting the kaiyo carcasses to a pile for disposal, in what would amount to a huge bonfire.

  Kir stopped one of the wagonmasters. “I'm hitchin' with you. Take us out to the carcass pits.”

  She hopped to the back board, her dangling legs tickled by the high grass. Malacar followed. He banged his fist against the wagonside when he was ready. The ride was rickety and slow, but Kir figured it faster than walking back to the corral for Sorrha. When the driver reined up, Kir jumped from her perch and hailed Lieutenant Colonel Shanwehl for report. He explained that the carcasses were scheduled to be burned at midday.

  “Belay that. I want these things harvested first,” Kir commanded. “Some of them have valuable resources. The lumiquid's blood glows. The basan's feathers are firm—they should make for some good armor if they're woven together. The respillitan spits blinding poison from a pouch behind its eyes. Those fire-spitting hizuni have fur that won't burn. And that's just naming a few. Collect whatever you can from each carcass.”

  “This is a big undertaking, Highness,” Shanwehl cautioned. “It will take a few days.”

  “I know. You have my permission to organize a special task force for this purpose. The Hilians excel at this sort of thing, so I'll send a few of the Ithinar Steel boys over to supervise. No sense burning tools and resources when they can go to good use. What can't be used in the corps should be sold.”

  The officer saluted his compliance and set out to organize Kir's request.

  “This is brilliant, Kir. I wish I had thought of it myself,” Malacar commented on their way back to their tent.

  “I want a little stash of my own,” Kir admitted. “A vial of that lumiquid blood might come in handy. You never know when you'll need to glow in the dark, do you?”

  Two days of rest and replenishment ticked by. There was no sign or track of Gensing. Kir did not expect to see him again. The harvested kaiyo were burning in their pits. The smoke trail above the trees was an eerie purplish green, giving off a foul stench when the wind blew just right.

  There were still a few days before the encampment would be ready to depart, so Kir took the time to familiarize herself with Jorrhen's troops. The encampment was running smoothly, much to Kir's satisfaction.

  That ease was short-lived, thanks to Inagor. He was making his presence known as Kir's conscience at every turn, especially in the dim twilight that fed shadows and doubts. Kir wanted to talk to him, to draw his dagger and summon him, to spill her guilt and insecurities out at his feet. It would be difficult to pull that off because she was hardly ever alone. Even in her tent she could not find solitude, with Lyndal occupying it almost constantly. The appeasement of her conscience would have to wait.

  That afternoon, Kir found her chance. Lyndal was whittling a stick, Malacar was busy at the training circle, Lili and Melia were off on errands and everyone seemed otherwise occupied. Kir finally had a moment to herself. She swiped up Vann's alterlet and slipped the cord over her head. Pulling the image of a random sergeant to her mind, she activated the pendant. She had every intention of finding a quiet place and connecting with Inagor. Nobody would think to question or stop her if she was wearing the skin of a common soldier.

  The encampment smelled like campfire, mingled with an odd sweet aroma that crossed earthy mushrooms and muddy leather with licorice. Kir slipped through the rows of tents, taking in the sights and sounds, trying to get a feel for the overall mood. She could hear some of the off-duty men that were seated around one of the small fire rings. They were slurping up soupy beans as they talked, and her name sprang into the conversation. Kir bent down to fiddle with her boot, pretending it needed adjustment for the sake of looking busy.

  “I've heard the Dimishuans call her Queen,” someone said.

  “Belay that tongue! Queen?” another scoffed. “She ain't even been announced yet, and the Crown Prince never Ascended after Soventine bought it.”

  “Doesn't surprise me at all. She lost the first Prince, so she went after the other one. Nobles are power-hungry, the lot of 'em. Hifalutin pomps.”

  “That's for sure. She just put an end to slavery in Aquiline. Mighty big of her to challenge the Gods and undo eons of history like that. Can't imagine the priesthood is going to be too happy with her. Let alone the upper classes.”

  A new voice piped up. “We all knew it was gonna happen. Hili got its hooks fixed deep in her. You know they're just using her for their own political gain. She's a puppet.”

  A heavy voice added his opinion into the mix. “She's still our sovereign. War's been declared. Doesn't matter what it's about. We're warrior class, which means we follow the commands of our sovereigns, whether we like it or not.”

  “It's one thing to have a woman like Jorrhen leading. She's done right by us. But to have a noble wenchlet at the helm of a war? And a child, at that. Pretty little princess playing with swords, thinking she can command me to die for her. Don't seem right.”

  “She's a Master Warrior,” another countered. “They say she felled dozens of them kaiyo.”

  “But she ain't warrior class. She came up in the pampering of her highborn daddy. All she's doing now is playing dress-up with the boys. I'm telling you. If we're going to war, there's no way we can win it with a w
oman issuing the strategies. She's gonna have us all reading poetry over afternoon tea and fighting off the enemy with the ruffles in our skirts.”

  “I heard it only took her two years to earn Master Warrior status. That's impossible, even for warrior class trainees. She bought that title, sure as shootin'. Either with her daddy's lorans, or with the coffer between her legs.”

  Rounds of laughter rolled and Kir removed herself from the humiliation. She could have set them straight, could have called them out, could legally order their executions for such disrespect of the Crown. She had the authority. It's what Tarnavarian would have done.

  The insecurities welled up in Kir's gut and even though she was furious at the accusations, part of her almost agreed with them. What good was she, really? She wasn't trained in war strategy, after all. Her failures had been consistent. Could she really be expected to protect Hili, and an entire island, when she couldn't even save the ones she held in her very hands?

  The suggestion that she had cheated her way to Master Warrior status was the hardest to stomach, because she had fought for every tiny ounce of achievement. She had certainly not bought the title with anything but her blood, sweat and pigheaded perseverance.

  Logically, it didn't really matter what the soldiers thought, but in truth, it tore Kir's confidence to shreds. Did everyone feel that way? The Hilians, even? Malacar had done his damnedest to prevent Kir from engaging enemies at every turn, so he was likely seeing the weakness in Kir's abilities that she didn't want to recognize. Maybe she wasn't the warrior she had believed herself to be. It was possible Kozias had graduated Kir to Master Warrior to rid himself of her burden—he had always belittled her and called her Worm Food, expecting her to end up as such.

  Kir hustled away from the tent rows as the insecurities rolled in and multiplied. She knew they were borne more from emotional doubt than from truth, but it didn't stop them from spreading and flaring like wildfire. The words hurt because they echoed the very insecurities that Kir had been nursing for years. She had grown up in the noble class, where women were pampered, adorned in finery and foofaraw, displayed as trophies. They led poetry readings and parties, not armies.

  Kir knew better than to decry the abilities of women, but the brainwashed teachings of childhood were rooted deep. It was hard to kill them once they were watered. They came back to haunt her, as surely as Inagor's disapproving ghost had. He was standing beyond the tent line, glaring. He could see right through her alterlet, to the fragile thing beneath.

  Kir dropped the illusion and started toward Inagor, to the spot where he had last stood. By the time she got there he was gone, evaporated as if he had never existed. There were too many soldiers around to risk hollering out, so Kir started for the hilly woods at the base of the mountain, hoping to find him in the solitude there.

  It was quiet amongst the trees, the distant sounds of the encampment seeming a world away. Kir scouted around for a good seat, which she found in the form of a boulder cluster. Inagor's dagger slipped into her trembling hands. Kir caressed the scabbard, trying to call him forth.

  “I know you're out there, Inagor,” Kir said to the dagger. “I've seen you and I understand why you're angry with me. I took for granted that you would be supportive, but that was just because I needed the fantasy to bolster my courage. It was too hard to face the fact that I failed you. Have I really been playing with swords all along?”

  Kir glanced up to search the woods for him, expecting Inagor to be there, berating her with his eyes. A gray squirrel flicked its tail from the side of a nearby elm. There was no other movement or answer.

  “It's a fool's errand, isn't it? This quest to save Vann. This war against a God. If royal forces come for us, the Hilians can stand against siege, but for how long. By what right should they have to? I've been deluding myself. Raising hackles and bearing fangs, I'm only delaying the inevitable. There's no way I can win this war on my own. Not when the men I have at my command know the truth better than I do. You're right to scorn me, Inagor. I've been walking in the same delusion of optimistic ignorance that I always accused Vann of. Turns out, I'm just as lost as he is...”

  Kozias never stood for tears. They represented weakness to him. Fragility. Vulnerability. Everything opposite what a warrior should be. Kir had sworn never to weep for herself, but in reality, her refusal had come from avoidance. She was creating a mighty fabrication to mask the bitter truths that she couldn't bear. The delusion that she could save Vann and defeat Alokien was the only thing keeping the thin wall of Kir's facade from crumbling. She was weak. No amount of Kionara could hide that. In the face of the reality, it came crashing down in heaving waves that soaked the front of Kir's halter. She cried out to the canopy above and the depths of the soulwhisper below. There was little comfort to be found in either. They were unconcerned with Kir's anguish. The gray squirrel froze for a moment before resuming his gathering.

  The release had done her some good. When she was spent, Kir pulled her strands back together and composed herself. Her breath shuddered in her chest. One more glance to the forest yielded no Inagor, so she slipped the dagger back into her belt.

  “Wenchin hormones,” Kir spat, wishing that could fully explain her meltdown.

  The doubts were easier to bear, the insecurities mastered in the release. They were still there, but Kir had managed to wrangle them. What she had told Eshuen about release of frustrations being cathartic was dead on. It might have been easier if there had someone to beat them out on. Alokien, Xavien, even Gensing. Any of them would have proved good targets. She had mastered herself, for the most part, without violent outburst and without an audience, so at least it was a partial win. Now to Kionara and move on. The soldiers may have been doubting her leadership for all their stereotypical reasons, but she was stubborn Kiriana Ellesainia. She would prove them all wrong somehow. Somehow...

  Kir did her best to wipe damning evidence from her face, then made her way back toward the tent for a mirror to make sure. She would have called up an illusion on the alterlet, but if someone spied a soldier sneaking around the royal tent, it would cause problems and attentions that Kir wanted to avoid. She skirted familiar areas where familiar eyes would be, finally making it to the back of her tent without anyone noticing. Queens sneaking around their own tents. It didn't make for a grand picture. What would Palinora think?

  It was mostly quiet, with everyone involved in chores and preparations for the trip. Kir eased forward and peeked around the corner, finding the alley path around the side to be clear. Suddenly, the hairs on her neck rose to attention and she shivered at a sensation behind her. The honed senses that Kozias had so diligently whacked into her screamed warning and she froze. Every ounce of Kir's being felt the penetrating menace that stood behind.

  Steady breath warmed the back of Kir's neck in rhythm. Whether it was a stalking kaiyo or an assassin, Kir wasn't sure, but the loathing practically oozed from every ounce of the aura that pressed against her back. Kir didn't even have to stretch out to sense it. There was a rancid, earthy odor that fouled the air around her. It was like sweat mingling with bloody soil and sweet licorice. She fought her shuddering breath still, then forced herself to turn slowly on her heel.

  The sculpted ridges of a warrior's bare chest met Kir at eye level, just a breeze away from her eyelids. She walked her gaze upward, past a vulgar necklace of claw, fang and severed ears that hung around his neck. Past a worn, black-splotched leather pouch that dangled on a cord at the collarbone. Past red and brown warpaint that mottled the chest, jawline and cheeks. On up to the piercing hazel eyes that were brimming with the very definition of despise and murder in their deep wells. They were the eyes of Inagor Arrelius, but they were not the eyes of a friend.

  He towered over Kir, staring down, prolonging the moment for the uncharacteristic fear that threatened to drown her in panic. He made no move for the weapon that pressed against Kir's waist. Her heart raced in her ears like it wanted to flee for the
mountains. Her feet were fixed in place by a Binding spell of either Inagor's casting or her own fear's. Inagor's eyes were the blades in her soul. Kir felt a lone tear slide down her nose. She couldn't muster the breath to speak. Not since her first night in Tarnavarian's chamber had Kir been so utterly petrified.

  -28-

  Finding Tamlin

  “The vambrace harbors secrets it has yet to tell.

  Is the mystery one forgotten to time, or one not yet uncovered?”

  - Guardian Toma Scilio

  The ancients had a word to describe a utopian paradise that embraced peace and the harmony sung in simplicity. That word was arcadia. Eons past, some errant fool had bestowed the name upon the southeastern-most Septaurian isle. Perhaps in that forgotten age it lived up to the grand promises of its predecessor. More likely, it was wishful thinking and undue glorification on the part of the founders.

  From Sandavall Xavien's perspective, Arcadia was anything but peaceful and anything but simple. It was a rich world of lavish decadence on the part of its nobility, a feral labyrinth of chaos on the part of its dense jungles, and a stronghold of military might on the part of its many kaiyo-fighting forts and garrisons. Its weather patterns were complicated and unpredictable. Its people even moreso.

  As a born and bred Arcadian of the proud Vall province, Xavien had, like many others from the region, been named in its honor. The '-vall' of his given name, Sandavall, boasted of his home province to anyone he met. Xavien had grown up with a love of his untamed homeland, in all its boldness. Arcadians were known for their robust spirits, their fierce patriotism, and the hardy stubbornness required to thrive on the border of a perilous wilderness. The island was the front line of a kaiyo war that had been simmering for decades. The Battle of Cerener Valley, some twenty years past, had helped quell the proliferation of kaiyo that were escaping the jungles for a time, but it had been an age-old problem that even the battle's razing could not stop forever. Every child of Arcadia was trained from toddlerhood on the procedures of dealing with kaiyo. That was probably why the island produced so many masterful warriors. Battle was not a luxury of the warrior class in Arcadia. Learning to fight was a necessity of survival.