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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “You forgot who and why,” Gavin chuckled. He hauled Dailan up by the arms and slapped them in greeting, then took it upon himself to sheathe Deynartrial. Dailan was still so hazy in all the shock that he barely even paid it mind. The bright colors of Gavin's flashy duds were about the only thing Dailan did notice. You'd have to be blind not to. There were more colors on Gavin's person than a rainbow even wore.

  All eyes were on Dailan. They weren't eyes of angry torturers. They weren't angry eyes at all, and it seemed more like they were laughing. Shunatar was sitting up on the table, with the Magister beside him. A few courtesans had stopped doing their busy work, which looked to be stuff related to pampering and refreshmenting. The dark-skinned man whose jewels had near been introduced to Deynartrial was sitting down, trying to calm his nerves, but he was grinning even so. It was only then Dailan recognized him as Grydon Lindt, the Master Healer. It made sense to find Grydon and Gavin together. Where there was one, there the other'd be. They were damn near inseparable.

  Shunatar waved Dailan over.

  “You're not chained and tortured?” Dailan managed to ask, even though the answer was bright as daylight. Normally he hated statementy questions. Somehow his brain wasn't much for processing anything decent to say.

  “Not at the moment, Dailan,” Shunatar said, using his real name for the first time in weeks. “The Magister was soothing my aches with massage, and Grydon was exercising Vann's legs to keep them from atrophy. I can see how it might have appeared otherwise when you first arrived.”

  “I still don't get it,” Dailan said, back and forth between Grydon and Gavin. “You're here. And we're here. And this room is... here...”

  “We've been waiting for you, Dailan,” the Magister interrupted through her genuine smile.

  “Dailan? So that's your real name? Well, I was waiting for you, too,” Emmi pouted from the doorway. She was hopping on one foot, clinging to the door frame, and her face was so sour it could have curdled milk. “You left me out there to rot.”

  Dailan grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, Emmi. I just thought I was needed on the rescue and I barreled in here without thinking. I didn't hurt you more when I spilled you, did I?”

  “Not my ankle, but my rear took a shiner, thanks to you dropping me on the hard pave,” Emmi huffed.

  “Oh, Senlih. Again?” The Magister skirted Dailan and helped Emmi hobble to a funny roundish bed that looked more like a kaiyo-sized layer cake. Somehow, the Magister seemed different. She was still stately and graceful, but she seemed more motherly than Magisterly this time. She had dropped her phony role as much as Shunatar seemed to have dropped his.

  Grydon was recovered from the scare of almost losing his Mercarian jewels. He jumped up and pulled Dailan into a big squeezy hug. “Toma told us of your resourcefulness and aid in protecting Vann these past weeks. Kir would be proud.”

  Dailan's chest swelled at the thought. It meant a lot coming from Grydon. His Majesty and Saiya Kunnai thought real highly of him and Gavin (the Mercarian G's, as Dailan had come to call them), so the praise weighed more. “Sorry I done that just now, Big G. Making hostage of your... you know.”

  Grydon laughed weakly. “It seems to be the standard greeting in your party.” He moved over to the layer-cake bed and introduced himself to Emmi. She okay'd him to mend her sprain, making positive sure he understood that she was only joking earlier about her rump being hurt.

  Grydon took to glowing his hands over Emmi's ankle. He soothed her with gentle talk when she whimpered and the Magister held her close to keep her comforted and still. She was tough as bricks and didn't need all that mush, but she seemed to like the attention.

  “I'm relieved that you found Kir's shortsword,” Shunatar noted.

  “T'weren't nothing,” Dailan said quickly. What folks didn't know about the danger wouldn't tweak any undue worryings or tongue-lashings. He didn't want to get chewed on for a problem that was past and done. “It was stashed good for safe keeping and me and Emmi collected it this morning. But how come we're down in this creepy room, and how is it the Mercarian G's are here? And why is everyone using given names in front of the Magister and her lot? I thought we had to hide our secrets from the likes of her prying kind.”

  The Magister didn't seem offended. She actually chuckled, but she didn't say nothing.

  “All will be explained in due time,” Shunatar said. There was a twinkle in his eye that hadn't been there in a while. “First and foremost, I need the key.”

  Dailan shifted his weight and shuffled his foot a mite, just to be sure the key was still in his sock. It was. He could feel it pressing against his heel. “Merisha's key? You mean to tell me Merisha's a courtesan here?”

  Everyone seem to find that statement rife with hilarity. Everyone except Emmi, anyway, and they all started laughing. It was a sort of release that came after nerves were calmed. Dailan didn't find it all that funny, himself. He plopped to the rug and pulled his sock off to dump the key out, trying not to look miffed. Shunatar was mighty pleased to hold the key again, but he turned it over to the Magister like it was a sacred, fragile object. It couldn't have been all that fragile—it had been pounded under Dailan's heel and tasting of his foot stench off and on for weeks.

  The Magister pulled a matching key from a silk pouch clipped to her belt. The two keys latched together by their interlocking grooves, fitting perfectly like two puzzle pieces. She clutched it to her chest, as tenderly as she had been holding Emmi. She whispered something Dailan couldn't make out, then her eyes got fountainy. It was almighty uncomfortable, seeing a grown woman get all weepy like that. Dailan squirmed in his collar. He couldn't fathom what weirdness of emotions had been unlocked by sight of the key, and the creepiness of the room made it all seem out of place. If only someone would explain something!

  “What's wrong, Bahnli?” Emmi asked.

  “Nothing, sweet one. For the first time in a long while, things are right,” the Magister said. She smoothed a hand over Emmi's wild hair and smiled through her tears. “This key is a precious gift, one that we had thought lost to the ages. Cressiel Westerfold kept one and I guarded the twin. Both are needed to unlock the chamber where Cressiel built his legacy. His gift to the world.”

  “Professor Westerfold's been gone for a year. What does he have to do with anything?” Emmi asked.

  “Everything. The Underground. Our vision for the world. It all centered around Cressiel's life's work.”

  “The Underground?” Dailan piped up. Ulivall had told them Merisha was a contact but he didn't know her or what she looked like. Emmi's reaction earlier when Dailan had mentioned it made a little more sense now, if Merisha was the Magister.

  “This is the heart of it all, Dailan,” Shunatar explained. “Merisha is the Underground.”

  Dailan threw a look around the creepy windowless room. “Well she sure has strange taste in decorations.”

  Everyone laughed again. Dailan had never figured himself so much a comedian.

  “We are no longer alone. The Chalice House is a front for the Underground, and they will provide us shelter here. This chamber is Vann's new hideaway,” Shunatar explained. “It is removed from the rest of the manor where patrons frequent, boasts no windows for would-be assassins to slip through, and there are secret escape passages that connect to the bowels of the city. For all intents and purposes, it's a safe room.”

  Dailan eyed the danglies hanging from hooks and pegs on the wall. They were all manner of spiky, chainy and whippy, and they made a room look the polar opposite of safe.

  “So we found Merisha and the Underground. Or, they found us, rather,” Dailan summarized. “That'll save us loads of time. I'm glad we're at Chalice House, 'cause in all honesty, I was getting kinda spoilt on the chow here. It's leaps and bounds tastier than the trashbin offals we been picking from. And you can't cook worth a newt's eye.”

  Shunatar cocked his head and Dailan slapped his own for having re
vealed that little secret about where their larder had been coming from.

  “Trash? Offals?” Shunatar's face turned about as green as Hili swamp water.

  “Did I say trashbin offals? I meant temple offerings. They kinda sound alike,” Dailan tried through a nervous chuckle.

  “I should thank you for the deception. I might have long since succumbed to emaciation had you not been kind enough to lie,” Shunatar admitted, even though his color hadn't come back.

  Everyone laughed again. It felt good to hear, most especially since some of it was coming from Shunatar. There had been way too much quiet frowning going on in the last weeks. A lot of happy chatter commenced as Shunatar threw on a tunic and some boots. Some courtesans served the midday meal on trays, while Gavin and Grydon made merry with Dailan and Shunatar. It hadn't been that many months since they'd been hobnobbing together at Westlewin for the First Wedding. So much had happened since, it felt like a year. Emmi didn't say much. She listened a lot and stared at Dailan a lot.

  After they filled their bellies, the Magister called for attention. “You've had no time to settle into your new quarters, and I know you are exhausted, Guardian Scilio. Still, I am impatient to unlock Cressiel's masterpiece. It has been languishing in the dark for far too long. Are you up for a hike through the White Tower underground? As His Majesty's proxy, you should witness the unveiling of Cressiel's works and his vision for the future.”

  Emmi sprang upright. “Guardian? His Majesty? Who, them?” She shot a question at Dailan with her eyes.

  Dailan raised his chin an inch, showing off his pride in the caliber of friends he kept.

  “Lead on, Magister Kehlamani. I find myself likewise enthusiastic in discovering what the Underground represents,” Shunatar answered.

  Emmi slipped off the mattress like she was ready to forge ahead, but Grydon stopped her. “Your ankle should rest for a day. It was premature strain that reinjured it.”

  “But I want to see this special place of Professor Westerfold's, too,” Emmi countered. “Can't I go, Bahnli?”

  The Magister cupped Emmi's chin in her hand. “Rest it, Senlih. You can visit when it is healed. Now that the keys are reunited, our access to the chamber will never again be hindered.”

  Emmi whined. “My ankle doesn't hurt anymore. Please don't leave me behind.”

  “It's a long walk through the catacombs. Much too far for a healing sprain,” the Magister said.

  Dailan rolled his eyes at his own charity. He was too accommodating for his own good. “I'll take her, Magister. I lugged her across White Tower for two days. What's another hour?”

  Emmi squealed and squeezed Dailan around his ribs until he thought they might crack. He was getting a lot more huggings than he was accustomed today. He loaded her onto his back.

  The Magister directed her courtesans to looking after His Majesty, then she guided everyone into the hallway. The far wall proved not to be solid after all, when the Magister pressed on what looked like a random stone and it slid away to reveal a tunnel behind. Channels along the bricked wall were lit. The passage looked to go on beyond sight.

  “Follow me. The underground is something of a maze throughout White Tower. It leads to many of our secret chambers and meeting rooms,” the Magister said.

  “The Underground's pretty literal about being underground, ain't it?” Dailan commented.

  As they walked, Shunatar filled Dailan in on what had happened that morning. Emmi took it all in from her perch on Dailan's back. When they got to the first fork in the tunnel, the Magister called Shunatar and the Mercarian G's forward to give them some directions. Markers on the bricks were codes for landmarks above them, so they'd know whereabouts they were. She showed them a notch in the brick where you could press your ear and listen in on conversations. The first one tapped into the private back room in a local tavern, where Keepers of Magic were known to meet. She said there were bunches more all through the tunnels. They moved on down a new branch. Every now and then, the Magister would point out a door to a meeting chamber or storage room. Dailan tried to remember the way so he wouldn't get lost when he took his own turns at exploring this new world. It was his kind of place and reminded him of why Saiya Kunnai always noted his tendencies toward ratlike behavior.

  “Rel's a Majesty? And Tosh is his Guardian?” Emmi asked Dailan, interrupting his concentration. “I can't believe it. So what are you, then? Some kind of Guardian's servie? Polisher of the vambrace?”

  “Nope. The collar's just my cover. I'm an unofficial Guardian, on secret mission for the Crown Princess herself. In fact, I'm more than just that. I'm from a very elite warrior clan. Princess Kiriana is my sister,” Dailan bragged. After all the inflating Emmi had done, it wouldn't hurt for Dailan to pad his own background a bit. If everyone else got a phony title, why not him, too? “I'm Prince Dailan of Hili.”

  “Prince?” Emmi brayed like a donkey in Dailan's ear. “The Princess is your sister... And you thought I was fabricating when I told you I'm a pirate!”

  “Believe what you want. I know the truth,” Dailan said smugly.

  Emmi cackled for show, but Dailan could tell there was half a part of her that wondered. Pirate didn't have nothing on Prince.

  -31-

  Glimpse into a Genius of Another Kind

  “Privilege is blinding. Your eyes are closed to the worlds not represented in your tiny playhouse. It takes a great step to advance a great change. Master Toma, there is a moment for standing still and a moment for pressing on. Decide which is your moment.

  When you seek enlightenment, you simply need open your eyes.”

  - Sinneus Jyler, Master Tutor, Professor of Debate and Discourse

  The passages of underground White Tower may have been dim and damp, but they could not diminish or dampen the renewal of Scilio's spirit. For the first time, there was hope. Protection for Vann, the intelligence of the Underground's network, the friendship and expertise of Gavin and Grydon, promised access to the university's library system and a scholarly aid. There was little else Scilio could have asked for, yet it was all delivered on the golden platter of Shiriah's smile.

  The catacombs were expansive. Though Scilio had not slept fully in two days, the stride in his step was long and eager. They walked a convoluted path through the bowels of the city for more than thirty minutes. Shiriah led them down several hidden stairways and eventually came to stop before a set of heavy double doors. The stone flooring of this tunnel was dusty, having welcomed no visitors in some time. Scilio's boots left prints in the lonely dirt. There was no obvious escutcheon, but as the key neared the door, it began to glow. The radiance illuminated an indentation in the panel in the exact shape of the key that was not noticeable before. It was an effective optical illusion. Shiriah pressed the key into place and the door hissed with release.

  The inner chamber was as black as Scilio's vambrace, revealing nothing of its secrets. Shiriah made quick casting of an Inferno to the perimeter lamps, and the light sped along the recessed channels lining the walls. The room was a shambles of a workshop, in more the creative sense than the quality sense. An expanse of shelves was built into the stony walls, perhaps carved into them, and they were accessible by a network of ladders and platforms which climbed so high, they were lost to shadow beyond the stretch of the lampchannel light. Each shelf housed a jumble of books, ornaments, trinkets, tools and devices. None of the oddities were apparent in their purpose, but they were mostly made of copper, tin, brass, iron and pewter. Some had gear workings or pulleys. Some looked like clocks gone wrong. It was the perfect chaos of an eccentric Creative's mind.

  Shiriah made her way around various dusty worktables strewn with inventions half-completed. Her fingers wistfully trailed the outline of a few of the objects as she passed, as though she were brushing the tendrils of Westerfold's aura.

  Gavin and Grydon shared mutual expressions of wonder. Gavin's bony chin was gaping, revealing his grin of pearly fake teeth. Da
ilan eased Emmi from his back when she was in range of a table to grasp. She would be able to navigate the room while hopping on her uninjured extremity, gripping the tables for stability.

  While Scilio had not been formally introduced, he could read Emmi's street-smart aura like a book. There was a slight hint of insult lining the creases of her eyes, as one shut out of a family secret often bears. The insult blended with curiosity and amazement. Perhaps a bit of residual awe at Dailan, by the way she looked at him. Emmi bounced around the room efficiently, examining various trinkets and articles that were strewn about. She thumbed half-attentively through an open book of mechanical sketches, distracted by the expansive size of the room around her. It certainly would take a while to comb through.

  Scilio followed Shiriah into the deeper chamber solemnly. He wanted to sing a melody to the praise of Westerfold's wonderment, but he recognized the shrine it was and chose to hold his enthusiasm out of respect for Shiriah. She had cared for the man very deeply. Hers had been a love guarded carefully.

  “Cressiel was a genius,” Shiriah said to no one and everyone. “A mechanologist of the highest order. His inventions were meant to equalize the people. No longer would the lower classes be limited by their lack of magics. It was Cressiel's dream to see the world running on a power of its own. Free of collars, free of status. By spreading knowledge and mechanology, he hoped to eliminate the hierarchy. Abundance of mana and magic would no longer dictate the power monopoly in this world.”

  Mechanology had long been discouraged in Septauria, for fear it would lessen the need and impact of magics. The Keepers had been on the terror trail for years, making examples of anyone they suspected had pro-mech inclinations. It was thought that mechanology, which gave rules to the workings of the world and set upon applying them in practical devices, would dilute the need for magic and eventually lead to its demise. According to the Book of Order and the teachings of the priests, magics had been gifted to man for survival. If the Gods thought they were no longer needed, magic itself might become obsolete. The Keepers were trying to maintain the social hierarchy by destroying anything they perceived as a threat to magic.