Gressie had called the Duke by his given, familiar name. It was none of Kir's business, but she asked it anyway. “Did you love him?”
“Not as much as I love her. That is why I am here.”
Kir nodded and wiped the moisture from her eyes.
“I did not mean to cause tears,” Gressie said apologetically.
Kir sniffed and chuckled. “They're not sad ones. You gave me two sisters today, Gressie. I couldn't be happier. Thank you for that.”
Blood-ties didn't mean much to Kir anymore, being firmly rooted in the understanding that family is made in love, not surnames. Still, the revelation that she had another sibling was thrilling. Mirhana had always filled that empty void, never dreaming that it was more than a pretended role in their childhood games. Kir's brother Kaidan had not cared much for relationships of any kind, being so wrapped up in himself and his interests. He didn't feel much like a brother, really. Malacar and Scilio cared for Kir much more than Kaidan had ever tried.
Now there was yet another reason to hustle to Hili. Kir couldn't wait to see Erahnie's face when Gressie told her the truth.
Kir was well ready to see blue skies again when she emerged from her cloister. Bertrand had cleared her for reentry into the world at large, and Ulivall seemed satisfied that her mind was sound. Malacar's pinched face said otherwise, but he did not speak out his concerns. It was nothing new, really. He was always silently fretting over her sanity.
On the morning of departure, Kir spied Beacon again. He was perched on the corral post near the gate. He flew off when some Privates appeared to deconstruct the temporary fencing. Kir couldn't follow his trail beyond the higher tents that had not yet been collapsed.
Something about Beacon's presence was a comfort. Kir knew he represented the eyes of an enemy spy, but the bird had been bonded to the two men Kir had loved most in the entire world. She couldn't bring herself to despise him.
The encampment melted away in surprising haste and eventually, they were back on the road. The journey was different now. There was a mount or wagon seat for every pair of legs and the security that blades in numbers brought. Kir had been offered the use of Jorrhen's private airskiff, which she flatly refused. The honest opinions of the soldiers had stuck on Kir's mind like frossennut paste clung to the roof of a mouth. Privilege and luxuries were readily granted one of her station and title, but if Kir wanted to earn the respect of the men, she would ride alongside them and earn it to their faces. Being cozy in a skiff didn't suit her anyway. She didn't fancy giving up the control that went along with holding the reins. Although Sorrha's saddle was not made of velvet cushions, it bought something much greater than comfort.
Lyndal rode in the skiff, keeping his head down and his alterlet up. In the evenings when the troops would erect their tents, most of the soldiers would bow their heads reverently as their empty Crown Prince passed by. It was the only glimpse of him they got, and Kir was heartened to see the respect they held. Vann had gained a lot of loyalty from the soldiers at the Battle of Gander's Vale, in his bravery during the battle and in his conduct following it.
In the course of the week, Kir saw Beacon several more times. He was getting brazen, sometimes flying low enough for Kir to count the stripes on his underwings. It wasn't a security issue so Kir left him be. Lyndal had been true to his role and there was no intelligence Beacon could offer Alokien that would be detrimental (other than their location, but thanks to Gensing, he certainly already knew that).
In Naybaryn, they met up with a greeting party from the Army of Southern Aquiline. General Beyhue sent official welcome to his territory. He and Dekshar Possenar, both waiting at Fort Ellesainia, promised to offer aid and provisions as needed along the river route. Between the battalion of troops Jorrhen submitted and the battalion of Southern Aquiline forces sent to escort them south, Jorrhen was satisfied with the numbers around the royal party. After some final debriefing and fond farewells, the General took her troops back to headquarters in Fort Krigdall. There was much to be done, shoring up defenses and beginning preparations for the expected invasion.
Dekshar Sehlovah accompanied Jorrhen's division, and he left Gevriah in Kir's company as planned. There had been no time to offer invitations to Gevriah before, since the vorsnarm scare had forced Kir tent-bound and her visitors were kept to a minimum. The road had offered even less opportunity; the encampment was early to bed and early to rise. Since her father was departing, Gevriah was alone now. Kir decided to make time soon, to invite her in and get to know her better.
Some of the party (particularly elders, children and Lyndal) boarded Hilian longboats that waited at the river port just south of Naybaryn. Most of the travelers and soldiers, Kir included, remained on horseback. Gevriah had insisted on riding, as well, claiming comfort in the saddle. Whether or not Gevriah was trying to emulate Kir (or maybe run up on her good side) was hard to say. Even so, Kir was rather impressed that Gevriah would choose a saddle over a comfy boat cushion.
After receiving advisories from Beyhue, Ulivall commanded the caravan make early camp every afternoon. They dared not be caught on the river after dusk. Reports indicated that mudtruller kaiyo had multiplied exponentially in the Arshen in recent weeks, meaning night travel by river was out of the question. The mudtrullers were light sensitive and buried under the muck of the river bottom by day. At night, they made foe and feast of anyone brave or ignorant enough to be on the water. The party made camp on the riverbank, just out of reach of the nasty creatures, and they resumed their journey with the sun each morning.
They turned their mounts south toward the pass through the Arshenholm range, cut so many eons ago by the river. It was familiar country now. They all paid salutes of tribute as they passed by the battlefield of Gander's Vale.
When Kir spied Erahnie scampering between the horses and wagons, she directed Sorrha to trot alongside the girl. Kir leaned down and scooped Erahnie up, flipping her into the saddle. The girl laughed wildly.
“Guardlings should learn how to ride, don't you think?” Kir said, sticking the reins into Erahnie's tiny hands.
“I'm allowed? Shama always said I was too young.”
“Too young? Keh! Blasphemy!” Kir cried. Just to be sure Erahnie understood she didn't mean the tone to be scolding, she tickled the girl's side the way Malacar did before. It must have worked because Erahnie giggled. “There's no such thing as too young for a Karmine. I learned to ride before I learned to walk. That's a bona fide fact.”
“I like horses, but I've never been allowed near the stables.”
“That's gonna change, Magpie. Horses are in your blood, same as mine. They were always there in my life from the start, like they were expected and routine. They were a tool. I learned to ride them, to master them, but Mirhana—she was my sister—she taught me to love them. There's a poetry to a horse, in the way it moves, the way it thinks. It's more than just a work animal. It's a living embodiment of art.”
They spent the next hour talking horsemanship. It was Kir's duty to educate her little sister. There was too much honor in the Karmine equestrian heritage, and in Mirhana's memory, to allow any Karmine descendant to be ignorant of the the horse. Mirhana's legacy lived on in both of them.
They had just skirted the town of Hafiss when Kir noticed a shadow moving through the trees that edged the road. Large animals, like bears and wildcats, were common in the mountain forests, and they tended to scare easily. At first, it didn't seem noteworthy. Then, Kir saw him.
Beyond the brush, deep in the embrace of the forest, the form of a large, bare-chested man made himself visible. Kir couldn't see his face. She didn't need to. She knew damn well who it was, haunting her from the shadows.
Kir tightened her arms around Erahnie's waist and fixed her gaze on the courser ahead, Ulivall's yellow Krigdall prancer. If she didn't see Inagor, he would not exist. Kir cursed herself a child, hiding under covers from the frightening beast in the closet. She was safe here, surrounde
d by rational eyes.
It had to be the vorsnarm. There were hallucinogens known to last for years in the system of the user, sometimes laying dormant until ages later when they came back to torment with visions. Kir had been regaining her confidence in the week since the vorsnarm episode. To be revisiting the hallucinations felt like a kick in the gut. A setback. Now that she was aware of the cause, she could control it. Fear could only be enhanced if it existed in the first place, so Kir shoved every ounce of the anxiety to the pit of her gut and walled it off. She would not be bested by the burnt-up renal glands of a slain Chaos-spawn.
When she turned her confident gaze back to the forest, the illusion of the man was gone. Kir raised her chin. Knowledge and sunshine always bested ignorance and shadow. The secretions of a dead vorsnarm would not torment her any longer. They were fiction. They were pure fantasy.
Kir decided against mentioning the relapse to anyone. There was no sense rekindling old fears for them, Malacar especially. She kept her eyes glued to Ulivall and his yellow mount. Safe, familiar, and sane.
-30-
Reunion of Treasures
“Why call the child a rat, Kir? Dailan is much more like a squirrel.
He leaves stashes of his booty behind, wherever he goes, in holes that are probably forgotten to his own recollection. Mark my words.
Bards will someday sing of The Lost Treasure of Dailan the Pirate,
and hunters will seek out his hidden plunder for generations to come.”
- Guardian Toma Scilio
The bedchamber in the Camellia suite was empty. His Majesty wasn't abed no more, and the covers were all made up fresh for a new sleeper. Dailan cocked his head and shifted Emmi's weight on his back.
“Huh. Rel won't go wandering without say-so. Reckon Tosh came back and fetched him. Wonder where they got off to?”
Emmi smirked at his ear. “They're probably getting the royal treatment.”
Dailan shot her a glance askew. It was pretty clear she didn't mean royal in the sneaky way that said she knew His Majesty was a Majesty. It was a snickering at the prospect of something luxurious and private going on behind closed doors.
Emmi caught his look. “What? It is a brothella, you know.”
Dailan unloaded her onto the bed, probably a little gruffer than was polite. He didn't bother arguing. Instead, he opened the big closet where the dunnage had been stowed.
“Tosh's pack is gone.”
“Shiriah probably moved them to a different room,” Emmi suggested.
“Or maybe Tosh decided to head back to the roof.”
“Let's go find Shiriah. She'll know.” Emmi raised her arms in asking for another back ride.
It seemed Dailan had graduated from gutter rat to pack mule. He hauled her back up and bit his tongue before he made a crude remark that would invite another slapping. “Lead on, Cap'n Bounty.”
They made through the servieways, peeking in the spyhole at each room. Shunatar and His Majesty weren't in none of them, and neither was the Magister.
“Let's go down to the tea room. The courtesans lounge there when they're not entertaining,” Emmi suggested. “Someone will know where they are.”
There was a lift at the end of the servieway. The ones in Empyrea were run on water that flooded tubes. This one was mech-run, with gears and ropes and pulleys that fixed to the cabin to make it go up and down. It wasn't near as flashy as the Empyrean ones, but it didn't need a lick of magic, so that made it better to Dailan's thinking. Having piddling magics, he appreciated stuff that got by without, like he did.
When they were in the cabin and the rail barrier was latched behind, Emmi leaned over Dailan's shoulder and tugged on the lever stick. The platform lowered smoothly to the ground level. Just as Dailan stepped off, one of the courtesors came down the passage with a loaded tray.
“Grannersly, have you seen Shiriah?” Emmi asked the tall, dandy fellow.
“She's been waiting for you and Master Dainn to return, Senlih,” Grannersly said. “You should hurry down to the jowl. She's rather impatient for him.”
“The jowl?” Emmi wrinkled her face up. “I hate that dungeon. It's creepy and disturbing, with all those chains and whips and horrid devices. Why that one?”
“Not for me to say. Something big is happening. Shiriah will tell you all about it. Just get Master Dainn down there, lickety-split. I'm engaged with a client or I'd take you down myself. Lady Mihlersbenn doesn't like to be left alone.” Grannersly urged them backward and onto the platform again. He balanced the tray on a shelf built into the cabin's railing, then pulled the lever to make the platform rise a few floors. “Don't dawdle, Senlih. I'm serious. Events are in motion, and Master Tosh is at the center of it all. Take our young friend straight to the jowl without delay.”
Grannersly hopped off the platform and disappeared around the corner with his tray. Emmi reached over Dailan's shoulder to operate the lever again. Dailan stopped her.
“What did you mean about chains and such? And why would the Magister have put Master Tosh in a room like that?”
“How should I know? It's news to me, too. That room is reserved for clients that favor restraints, punishments and that kind of thing. It'd be a great place to keep someone captive, really. You don't suppose your Master Tosh is a wanted fugitive, do you?” Emmi meant it as a joke. Dailan could tell by the smile in the words. Still, she was joking about it because she didn't know how close to the truth it was.
The Magister was probing and prodding, and she'd probably had Shunatar all to herself that morning. Maybe Shunatar had let his guard down with her. If she knew...
Dailan took a powerful case of the collywobbles. He tasted his stomach in the back of his throat as it jumped all around his innards. Why else would the Magister have moved Shunatar and His Majesty into a room equipped with chains? She'd probably bound them up for the Chaos Bringer to come claim, thinking he'd shower her with lorans and favors and power and whatever else she might expect to gain from the trade.
Dailan slapped the lever to lower the platform to the basement level. He threw the railing door open and jumped before the lift even touched down. His legs hit the ground running. “Which way?”
Emmi pointed down a hallway, then another. “Golley-goodens, Dainn! Where's the fire? It's the room at the end of the passage.”
Dailan didn't know what he was going into. Probably an ambush. He couldn't fight or rescue anyone if he was weighed down with a heavy haul of wenchlet. There wasn't time to plan or think, so all Dailan could do was throw himself into the room and hope the element of surprise was enough to make the captors wobbly. He dumped Emmi on the ground. She started spewing curses at his backside. Normally, he'da taken pride in trading insults, but he was so focused on the doors that he barely even took note of her chimey blasphemy.
Deynartrial rang out as Dailan drew it. He banged his shoulder against the door, not expecting it to give, but it flew open. He spilled into the room and landed on his knees. There wasn't time enough to count just how many people were in there. The two that mattered were directly ahead. Dailan fixed on their immediate captors.
Shunatar and His Majesty were both laying on strange, thinly tables, of the kind you'd expect to see in dungeons and Healer clinics. His Majesty was laying on his back and a torturer with dark skin was bent over his knees, flexing the legs such that he was liable to rip the joints apart. Shunatar was shirtless and belly down on the far table. The Magister was standing over him, rolling some freaky length of device along his shoulders. It must have been a torture method, because Shunatar groaned like it hurt and his hands clenched. The Magister stopped on the spot to press the device down harder between his shoulder blades.
Dailan saw pure red. He launched forward toward His Majesty's table, it being the closest. The torturer was facing the opposite direction and didn't look back when Dailan had come bursting into the room. Just like Saiya Kunnai had taught him, Dailan kicked his left ankle out from und
er with his right foot and slid on his back. He ended up underneath, right between the man's legs. Deynartrial came up and parked at the perfect spot on the inner thigh, ready to relieve the torturer of his jewels if he so much as sneezed.
“Don't make no suspect moves, or I'll be making a courtesan of your courtesor,” Dailan panted.
The man froze like a bucket in a blizzard. His face got all scrunched up and his eyes got big. He looked down to Dailan real slow, like time had forgotten how to keep up.
“Only a pupil of Her Affianced Highness could make an introduction so worthy of her,” the man shuddered. “Easy, Dailan. I'll thank you to leave me whole.”
So much jumpy juice was flowing through Dailan's veins, it took a good full handful of heartbeats before it dawned on him just what the man had said. Dailan dropped the blade from the danger zone and scurried backward like a crab, uprighting as he went. He banged into someone's legs behind him, and he swung around on his backside, holding Deynartrial out toward the person he'd bumped. His mind was a flummoxed whirlpool.
“Well now, Dailan, my lad. Is that any way to greet your favorite partner in cake and crime?”
Dailan blinked. He shook the fuddles out of his head and blinked again. There was only one man Dailan had shared cake and crime with, back during their months in High Empyrea. Gavinar Shelfern, His Majesty's law tutor. Dailan had been awful fond of Gavin, ever since the Master Lawyus had caught him with a pilfered lychee cream tart. They'd make a little pact over the booty, promising to always share what they had swiped from the uppities. Dailan's offering was usually cakes from the kitchens. Gavin's was usually coin. For a man all about upholding the law, Gavin sure had a wishy-washy threshold for what qualified as lawful. He had come up in the upper classes, but he sure didn't cotton to them much.
“Master Gavin? But, how? I mean, what's...? When did you...? Where was...?” All Dailan could muster was a string of stuttering blabber.
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 35
