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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “You lied to me.” Emmi's breath stuttered in her chest at the accusation. She pulled back from Shiriah's maternal hand.

  Dailan eased to Scilio's side, where they exchanged uncomfortable glances askew. They both felt out of place, witness to a tragic family revelation that they had no right to observe. If it would not have been so noticeable, Scilio would have ejected himself from the room respectfully.

  “We may have played along, but we never outright lied. From a young age, you devised your own story and added to it over the years. We left you to it and never corrected you. Please understand, Senlih. We planned to tell you when you were older. As the years have passed, I feared Captain Bounty's visit more every time, because I knew one day you would be running off to join him. As much as it would have killed me to let you go, it almost seemed safer than bringing you into our world of perilous secrets.”

  “What about my mother? Was she even a courtesan, or was that all fabricated, too?”

  “That much was true. Your mother was a courtesan of Chalice House. And she always has been. To this very day. The hardest part was loving you as your guardian and not as your true mother.”

  Emmi stared at Shiriah, reading every meaning in the statement the way Shiriah had intended.

  “You are not my mother,” Emmi spat. “My mother's dead.”

  The streak of red waves rolled like an ebbing tide behind her as Emmi fled the cabin. She split the air between Grydon and Gavin in the entry, ignoring the sprain that she should have been nursing. Her heart was paining her much more than her ankle, certainly.

  Grydon looked after the girl with concern, but Gavin glided into the cabin without.

  “Quite a spitfire, that one, Magister,” Gavin hemmed, missing the heavy air of the chamber.

  “I'll see to her,” Shiriah managed. For a woman accustomed to hiding her true feelings, the tender edge of her pain was raw in her voice.

  “Perhaps she requires a moment to collect herself,” Scilio suggested gently. “Such a profound revelation surely needs time to process and season.”

  Shiriah nodded distantly. “She should not have learned the truth this way. I should have told her back when Cressiel disappeared. I was clinging to the past, trying to keep her a child in her safe little fantasy world forever.”

  Scilio had very little insight to offer that might ease Shiriah's burden. Having no offspring (of which he was aware), Scilio could not even pretend to understand the complex attachments of the parental heart. He knew enough, however, to recognize the difficult situation Shiriah and Westerfold had faced. Shiriah's position as Magister of a grand brothella, and their abyss of secrets, had forced them to hide their affections for each other, and even for their own daughter. In the end, it had worked. Emmi had been protected from the purge that had befallen the Underground. Scilio wondered if the price of that protection was too costly for Shiriah to afford.

  “”Scuse me, Big G,” Dailan said as he slipped between the men in the doorway. “Emmi needs a pack mule for when that ankle gives out on her. Figure it might as well be me. Don't worry 'bout her, Magister. I'll make sure she gets home safe.” He inclined his head to Shiriah, who returned the gesture gratefully.

  “Shall we do the same for you, Magister?” Scilio offered, holding his arm out for Shiriah's taking. “Now that Westerfold's work has been unveiled, we can always return when we are rested. It's been a day of emotional abundance for us all.”

  The Magister accepted his aid down the rickety gang plank and back through the maze of tunnels. She held her chin high with a stately bearing that had been molded into her from the years of professional enchantressing. Even if her posture did not betray, Scilio could read every bit of ache stitched into the linings of her heart. There were some pains that not even a courtesan's mask could hide.

  -32-

  Binding Wrists and Binding Allies

  “As a bard, I sing of love that knows no barriers.

  Love transcends all, love binds all, love is all.

  It knows no distinction of color or gender or age or class.

  As indiscriminate as death, as timeless as life.

  Where love is woven, it strengthens the fabric of the world,

  and stronger still with the variety of the weave.”

  - Guardian Toma Scilio

  Kir watched the tents go up with expert precision. Inagor watched, too, from the far distant field. Nobody had noticed him and Kir refrained from pointing him out. If the sentries had not seen him, it was definitely an illusion of the vorsnarm. Kir stared across the grasses, sending her own message: he could no longer rattle her.

  The site was familiar. It had been the make-shift headquarters of the Hilian army following the Battle of Kion Rising. They had met Vann's dragon in full glory at that battle, where it had burst forth to eradicate the Keeper army at the base of the river. Kir had been the sheath that put the Kion to bed. They had learned the Guardian's true purpose in that muddy soil. Being there brought back a whole slew of recollections. They were mostly memories of jarring pain, fear for Vann, and last-stand courage scraped from the depths of desperation. It was only a year, but it seemed a lifetime ago.

  The Hili army had occupied the area for quite some time after the battle, it being a convenient mid-way point between Hilihar and Gander's Ferry. The river was easily accessible, there was good cover of forest nearby for hunting, and the terrain was ideal for the horses.

  While the camp was being raised, Kir slipped away to the memorial that Hili had erected for those who perished on the royal airferry, the eight lost in the mage skirmish that followed, and the lost souls of Kion Rising. The events were connected and so honored together in the monument that decorated a humble ringed garden. It was a place of serenity and reflection. Kir sat at the base and ran her fingers over the names etched into the white Arshenholm stone. At the bottom of the list were two that stabbed fresh spears in Kir's heart. Palinora, and next to hers, Guardian Arrelius.

  Kir cupped her hand over the treasured names, then glanced up to where she knew he would be. In the shadows of the trees. Glaring, as usual.

  Malacar was right. It wasn't Inagor Arrelius. The thing that stared was a manifestation. He was an echo of guilt and burden that was losing his battle for her soul. It angered Kir that the apparition had taken Inagor's likeness. It didn't belong to him.

  “Saiya Kunnai!” a voice barked from behind. Jogging feet crunched the mulched path behind her.

  “I'm here, Avalir,” Kir called. “Just paying respects.”

  “Guardian Malacar is furious. He thinks you lit out without an escort.”

  Kir rolled her eyes. “Keh! It's not like I wasn't a stone's throw from his meaty fist, if the martinet had just bothered to look without panicking first.”

  “He cares about you,” Avalir said lightly. “He's beside himself with worry right now.”

  “Well, let him. I'm with you now and he can soak in the ridiculous panic, so he can see that it was ridiculous later. And if he doesn't see it, I'll ram it down his throat come spar time. Sometimes he acts like I'm a fledgling.”

  “Tennras is the same with me. It doesn't mean they think we're incompetent. It means they love us enough to fret.”

  “I suppose so.” Kir gestured toward Avalir's shoulder. “How's the fury-meal healing?”

  “Just fine. Bertrand even let me keep the scars.”

  Kir smiled. Scars to a warrior were like trophies to a competitive dancer.

  Avalir shifted on his feet. “Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you before we head in. Getting wounded got Tennras and me to thinking. With the way the world is turning, with the Chaos War and all, we can't know what will happen... Well, every day is one closer to the last, so Eshuen always says. Not exactly an optimistic thought, but he's right. We don't want to waste a single one. I know this isn't exactly the right time or place,” Avalir gestured all around, to indicate the battlefield, “but it has a history for us. It was
after Kion Rising that Tennras and I finally admitted to each other...” Avalir's cheeks flushed and he didn't have to finish the thought. “Anyway, we thought to ask your opinion. We'd like you to join our wrists in marriage. Would it be disrespectful to hold the handfasting here?”

  “On the contrary,” Kir said sincerely. She ran her fingers over the engraved names again. “I think it would honor these fallen. They would like to know that we can live in their stead and be happy, thanks to their sacrifice. There is no better place to make such a statement, and no better time. Like you said, we never know what tomorrow will bring. You have to rope and brand every moment as your own.”

  “I'll tell Tennras. He would have been here to ask with me, but Malacar has him scouting the other side of the road for your tracks.”

  “Oh yeah. Lunchbox. I best get back before he sends squads out on the warpath to avenge me.”

  Avalir and Kir made their way back up the road. Several shouts rang through the camp when they were sighted. Malacar stomped his way to Kir's side, but she held up a hand to silence the remonstration before it started spewing.

  “Gather the camp. There's a hitchin' to be done!”

  The spontaneous late-afternoon handfasting went off with and without a hitch, or so Kir joked later. Malacar didn't seem to find her comment all that amusing. He was still brooding about her earlier disappearance. Kir reminded him once that she had been within arrow-shot of the camp. A gesture of talk-ending put a stop to any more complaint on the subject.

  Kir had never performed a handfasting before. There wasn't much to it, and the Hilians appreciated simplicity in ceremony. The bulk of the festivity came in the fire circle and carousing. Lieutenant Colonel Shanwehl was hesitant to allow merrymaking amongst his troops. Kir convinced him that it was acceptable within limits. “Better they have a thimble of grog than a cup of envy,” she explained. She refused her own offering, preferring to keep her wits about her. There had been a time she would have sunk right down to the bottom of the bottle. That time was long gone. She had a duty more to her charges than drowning her own woes now.

  Libations were rationed to the off-duty soldiers. They seemed glad to be invited into the Hilian celebration, especially since some of them had grown friendships with Ulivall's warriors after the Battle of Gander's Vale.

  Lyndal had been allowed at the ceremony, to sit by and listen in Vann's skin. He sat cross-legged on the blanket by the royal tent, eyes cast to the dancers but maintaining their empty gaze. Kir knew he was aching to be among them, and she almost felt sorry for him. His clan-brothers had just been wed, yet he was unable to participate in the ceremony or festivities. When he was fed enough for show, Kir offered him some sips of wine. They kept up the act, for the good of the soldiers that still stole curious glances.

  Malacar was seated behind them, his back leaning against a tent post. Lili and Melia were sharing the blanket at Kir's side, hunkered over a tin of ambrosia sweets.

  Amari, the scrawny message runner of Ithinar Steel, slipped around the edge of the fire circle and plopped to his sitter before Kir.

  “Got a minute? Borloh is keeping Avalir and Tennras busy so we can plan.”

  “Plan? What are we up to now?” Kir couldn't keep a lopsided grin from lifting her cheek. The Ithinar Steel boys were notorious pranksters. Hitchings practically invited their antics. The long journey had left them little room for pranking, so the mischief had been steaming to the boiling point.

  Amari scooted in and leaned forward conspiratorially. “We're initiating the newlyweds. Since I'm on night sentry, my job is to freeze their pantlings into blocks of ice while they sleep. Corban is monkeying with their breakfast trays. Copellian will saddle their mounts backwards, and Borloh is going to muddy up the ground surrounding their tent. We're still working on everyone else's contributions. Did you have anything clever in mind?”

  “How about their boots? They leave them to air outside the flap every night, so it would be easy to snatch them up before Borloh goops the ground. I'm pretty decent at tree-scaling, and there's a prime oak just yonder. I'll hang them from a high branch.” Kir threw a glance at Lili, who winked back.

  “Dulcet! I'm off to find Rendack.” Amari saluted and bounded away.

  “You and trees...” Malacar muttered.

  Kir ignored him. Her eyes settled on Gevriah Sehlovah, who was mingling with a few of the Karmines. When Kir caught her attention, she waved Gevriah over. She could have had Lili formally summon her, but Kir was getting the impression that Gevriah was less concerned with formality than most proper highborn Ladies. She would not be offended by a casual, mundane, hand-waving summons that would have sent someone like Arumia Taliaford into conniptions.

  “His Majesty is enjoying the wine?” Gevriah asked politely as she laid out her own blanket at Kir's starboard.

  “I think so,” Kir said. She offered another sip for Lyndal and wiped the trickle from his chin. She would praise his theatrical performance later. “He's not all gone, really. There's still something of him left in there. It's what keeps him mobile and obedient to commands. It's what will call back the missing consciousness like a magnet, when we find it. At least, I hope.”

  “What must His Majesty's reality be like? Is he alone in the dark, or drifting through a vibrant canvas of the universe? Might he be aware?” Gevriah asked, almost to herself.

  “Bertrand seems to think his soul is probably in a state like sleep. That he feels no pain or fear, like a coma. Part of me prays that's true. Better than being trapped in a waking prison of the dark. Somehow, the idea that he's asleep is more comforting. I just hope I can occupy his dreams, and that they're happy ones.”

  Gevriah studied Vann for a moment. “I cannot fathom what these past weeks have been like for you, Highness. It's quite obvious how much you and His Majesty cared for each other. Having been his Guardian, well... I don't imagine a Bonding that deep ever truly dissolves.”

  Kir was surprised that Gevriah would grasp something like that. The Guardian magic was powerful, a marriage of its own in a way. The strength of the Bonding wasn't easily understood or put to words by those who'd never borne it.

  “No, I don't suppose it does. The week after the Conflation went by so quickly, there wasn't time to adjust to being his affianced. I still feel the weight of the vambrace. I'm more Guardian than royal, even now...” It was unnerving that Kir had admitted such a thing vocally, especially to someone she barely knew. Remembering Gevriah's status as a Lady of court and guile, Kir pulled up a defensive barrier. “It's been a difficult time.”

  Gevriah nodded, then fell quiet for a while. She watched the Hilian dancers moving around the fire with intrigue. After a while, she commented, “The motions of their arms look like a rhythmic battle dance. If they held swords, it would appear a battle in slow motion. I've read that the plainsmen in southwest Draback Flatte have a form of combat that is like dancing. And there's the traditional Charisand Sword Dance...”

  Kir blinked, stunned again. “There is an art in motion of all forms. The servies of our family's household taught me their fire dance when I was young. I warped it into a battle style that suited me. I'm returning the teaching for their benefit.”

  “It is a remarkable skill. I was never very good with a blade, broadswords being so heavy. I think this is a method I could learn,” Gevriah said with longing.

  “You? Trained with a blade?” Kir was stunned. Highborn ladies didn't dare callus their delicate hands with steel.

  “My father had no boys,” Gevriah said with a chuckle. She seemed to realize herself and cleared her throat self-consciously. “I did not learn much.”

  “I'm not judging, Lady Sehlovah. Intrigued is what I am. Your childhood doesn't sound conventional for... those of our background.”

  “No, it wasn't. I'm afraid it did not gain me many friends in the court. Few Ladies enjoy talk of equestrian archery. Or Borndon—I have a mean thumb shot,” Gevriah admitted. “Being a Lady o
f Aquiline, I can hook a trout or embroider a handkerchief with comparable relish, depending on the audience.”

  “How did we never end up friends in Empyrea?” Kir asked whimsically.

  Gevriah hesitated. “Well... the truth is, Highness, I thought you disliked me.”

  It was so far from the actual truth that Kir had to shake the disbelief out of her head. “How'd you figure that?”

  “You avoided me, so I thought you didn't want to be seen in my presence. At His Majesty's functions you always stood against the wall. The few times I approached, you... fled? I understood—most everyone felt that way. I've always been the odd one at Empyrean functions.”

  “Soggy bottoms, Lady Sehlovah. I wasn't avoiding you,” Kir said. “Fact is, I kept thinking it would be grand to know you better. I just didn't think you wanted to be seen with me. Ladies don't tend to chum about with servies and guards. Didn't seem fitting for me to even ask.”

  Gevriah and Kir shared chortles of embarrassment at their mutual misunderstandings.

  “What a shame that societal conventions prevented us from seeing beyond the mask of the other,” Gevriah mused. “I would have treasured your friendship in Empyrea, had we granted ourselves permission to exchange it, Highness.”