Gevriah nodded, chin still tucked. She whispered conspiratorially, “Father's been dressing me up, taking me out in secret since I was seven. I mastered my Lyric when I was nine.”
“Something tells me the prohibition of women on the hawking field is about to be repealed,” Malacar chortled.
Kir raised her uninjured arm toward Gevriah and gestured. Gevriah didn't seem to understand, but she mimicked Kir's motion. Kir crashed their wrists together in the warrior's standard sign of camaraderie.
Gevriah laughed. Her new role in Kir's entourage was more than just a political appointment. Gevriah had been accepted into their little social circle. She seemed to know it now.
Avalir reported Beacon to be healthy and fit for travel, and several of the Ithinar Steel boys dropped in for back-slapping and toasting. They relayed the hilarity of the morning, when Tennras and Avalir had awoken to the pranks. Kir was sorry she had missed their reactions. The delay only lasted an hour, but it was an hour of daylight gone, so when Bertrand was finished mending and bandaging Kir's forearm, she insisted on expediency. The caravan hopped to, and they were soon back on the road. The midday break came later than usual, to account for the delayed departure.
Erahnie asked to sit with Kir during the meal. Kir pulled the child into her lap and shared chit-chat as they emptied their pouches of jerked meat and dried fruits. Erahnie's tiny forearm was wrapped in a scrap of discarded fabric. A sloppy Kion was inked onto the linen vambrace, an obvious attempt at Guardianship.
“I made a vambrace,” Erahnie announced proudly. “Just like Guardian Malacar's, except for the color.”
“Well you earned it,” Kir said. “Before we head out, we'll find you a Guardian sword in the woods yonder.”
Erahnie bobbed her head in delight. She popped a water chestnut slice into her mouth, then wiped her hand and fished through her pocket. She withdrew an inking stick.
“Your vambrace looks lonely for its Kion,” Erahnie said, patting Kir's forearm bandage. “Can I put it back?”
Kir shrugged. “Have at it.”
Erahnie pressed the stick's tip for activation then started her sketch across the length of the gauze. After a few minutes, the splotchy ink became a snaky creature that bore slight resemblance to the dragon of a true Guardian vambrace. When she was finished, Kir offered over her gratitude.
“That's better. You're a Guardian again,” Erahnie said proudly. She giggled. “Now it's a gauzian vambrace.”
Kir belly-laughed at the wordplay, then she whispered, “I'll tell you a secret. Once you're a Guardian, you never stop being one, even if the vambrace goes away. The true Guardian vambrace is in here.” Kir pointed to the child's chest, where her heart was.
Erahnie made a little gaspy awww sound, like she had suddenly had an epiphany of philosophical proportion. Kir tossed her empty pouch to Lili, then snatched up Erahnie's hand. She guided her secret sister toward the edge of the woods that ran right close to the road.
When Malacar voiced his expected objections, Kir assured him that it was an urgent matter of Guardianship at hand, with an added promise not to stray far.
Kir and Erahnie searched the forest floor for the perfect branch. It couldn't be too thick or heavy, but had to be an adequate ratio in length for a child-sized broadsword. A few of the suggestions were cast away when they did not fit the standard. Finally, Kir found the perfect stick that met all the qualifications. “How about this one? We'll have Lyndal whittle the tip to a point this evening.”
“It's perfect,” Erahnie agreed. She shoved the long stick into her belt. The weight sagged the fabric and the tip dragged the ground.
Kir knelt and removed the belt. She retied it across Erahnie's body, then slipped the stick through on her back.
“Mine never fit right on my belt, either. Much more comfy distribution of weight when strapped on your back,” Kir assured the child, who looked very much appeased, and very much like she could take on an entire kaiyo army by herself.
Kir chuckled at Erahnie's proud display. Just over her shoulder, not twenty yards from them, Inagor Arrelius rose from the brush.
Kir swallowed down her heart. “I got some private business to handle in the bushes, Magpie. You run along back. Go show your mother your new Guardian sword. I'll be along directly.”
Erahnie picked up none of Kir's apprehension. She nodded compliance and bounded toward the road, eager to show off her prize.
Kir watched Erahnie skip off through the trees, then turned back to Inagor. He had vanished again. Kir huffed out her rising frustrations. She scanned the forest for any motion, finding none. It was odd—forests were usually busy. Birds chirping, frogs singing, squirrels rustling. This area was awful quiet, which might have been cause for concern. The forest was collectively sensing something and had stilled to the alarm.
On impulse, Kir began rummaging through the brush where the Inagor illusion had been. She wasn't really sure what she was looking for. There was a broken stem on a houndsfork branch, but that didn't mean anything. Erahnie might have come by in their earlier stick-search. A slight disturbance in the littered debris might have indicated that someone had been standing there. Might have. Kir wasn't an advanced tracker like Eshuen and Rendack. She could track well enough for necessity, but she couldn't read the tiny details like they could.
A familiar scent wafted along the breeze. It was earthy and rustic, like roasting mushrooms, but it also had a sweet after note, like the hints of licorice in Arcadian basil. Kir inhaled deeply, welcoming the scent into her lungs for identification. She recognized the aroma, unable to place it. Her concentration abruptly dissolved as the clomping strides of angry feet crunched the fallen leaves behind her.
It was Malacar, of course. Only his demanding feet could shake the ground so catastrophically. Kir's defenses immediately raised, her ire spiked.
“Where have you been?”
The concern peppering Malacar's voice grated Kir's senses.
“Tending private business in the brush, like I told Erahnie. You're lucky my pantskirt wasn't around my ankles when you stomped in here raring for a fight,” Kir barked. She couldn't rightly figure why she was so angry, but it had flared and she was not very good at taming the fires once stoked.
“A fight? I was only coming to check on you,” Malacar returned. “I saw Erahnie emerge from the treeline on her own, and she ran off into the caravan. When you didn't follow, I thought something might have been wrong.”
“Well nothing is. That's your overprotective man-brain expecting I can't take care of my own backside. Thinking I'm so weak I'll crumble without you,” Kir accused sharply. She tried unsuccessfully to tone down the vitriol. There was truth in the observation, anyway. Men were always controlling. Belittling. Domineering. They wanted submission and compliance, so they could be masters of the world. Malacar was a man, and he was no different. He wanted to own her.
Malacar's brow pinched. “That's not true, Kir. Before we left Balibay, I made a promise to Scilio, and to His Majesty. I swore I would keep you safe. You know I take my oaths very seriously. I do not believe you weak—quite the opposite, in fact. It is your strength that makes you a target to the arrows of the world. The strength that is you must be protected at all cost. Even at the price of your freedom.”
The fury welled up in Kir's blood in a wave that almost paralyzed her. She couldn't understand what was fueling it.
Wenchin hormones. Kir exhaled forcefully, willing the flames to cool. She didn't want Malacar to guess that she was allowing such a thing to provoke her. He would see it as a feminine weakness. It took a minute for Kir to control the anger to a manageable level. Her temper had been legendary, but she had never lost control of it so completely and for so small a reason.
“You're still seeing him,” Malacar said, after studying her for a long pause.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Kir shifted on her feet defensively. “I'm not crac
ked.”
“I'm not suggesting that you are.” His tone was steady, the usual Malacar voice of levelheadedness and calm.
Kir didn't answer. She was afraid of incriminating herself with anything she might say. It was hard enough to keep a lid on the anger that still wanted to boil over from her innards.
Malacar's broad hand rested on Kir's shoulder, a path of connection between them. “My wife. Raynah. She saw things, too.” It sounded forced. An admission that he had scrounged from a guarded place deep down. “She had an affliction. A malady of the mind. It wasn't her fault, but it ate away at her until... I just can't watch you suffer as she did.”
The intimate confession should have been touching. Malacar was trusting Kir with one of his heavy burdens. It made sense that his wife might have lost herself in the grief following the death of their son. But Kir's defenses rose again when she realized why Malacar had offered it. He wasn't sharing his burden for the bond of Kir's trust and confidence. His wife had been mentally unstable, and Malacar believed Kir was, too. He had always worried for Kir's sanity. Maybe now she understood why—he had always seen Kir as half-bent. Now he was thinking she was stark-raving.
“What path? I'm not mental. I'm in full control,” Kir countered.
Malacar squinted in what looked like physical pain. “Raynah used to say that, too.”
“I'm not your wife, Denian. I'm not Raynah!” Kir cried, shrugging his hand away. “I may be reckless and wild, but I'm not the kind of crazy you want me to be!”
“I was too weak for Raynah, Kir. I turned my head from her pain because I couldn't bear to face it, myself. I won't make the same mistakes now. Whatever it is that's afflicting you, we'll face it together.”
The flimsy lid Kir held over that boiling fury flew away and the uncontrollable rage spilled over again. Malacar seemed to sense Kir's flare of emotion. He raised his hands, seemingly to pull her against him in support, but it might have been something else. Maybe he was planning to subdue her. With Malacar's strength, he could easily overpower her. What would he do? Bind her in manacles and transport her to Hili like a kaiyo in a cage. Have Bertrand invade her head again and wipe away the parts they believed to be warped. As much time as she had spent in Tarnavarian's chamber, there was probably not an ounce of Kir left that was untainted. They would strip away every iota of her being and replace it with a puppet. Just like Vann. Something empty and void of personality. They would claim her lunacy as the reason to kill her soul...
Kir slapped his arms away. “Don't you touch me!”
“Please let me help you, Kir. I love you too much to watch you suffer these episodes.”
“You'll put me down,” Kir spat. “Is that the only way you can kill whatever insanity you think you see in me? By driving your blade through my heart, like I'm a lame horse that you can't mend?”
Kir couldn't read the stunned look on Malacar's face. He gasped in a breath, his jaw clenched like it wanted to break his own molars, and his eyes almost looked glazed. Had she nailed him flush? Was that his plan? He must have been shocked that she had seen through it...
The rational part of Kir knew better than that. It was Malacar, her quiet, caring brother. The look on his face might have been something else. It almost looked like she had speared him with a blade of words.
Malacar's feet stumbled slightly. He turned away, unwilling to let her see the waves of torment and anguish that flooded his face. Without another word, he disappeared through the trees toward the caravan.
The wrath that had overtaken Kir's blood settled, having no more accusation to fuel it. Kir was confused, with her own odd behavior, and with Malacar's absolute retreat. She could feel the frenzy giving way to regret, but it never had time to take hold.
There was a rustling behind, and Kir swung around. Inagor had emerged from the brush, but this time, he was not alone.
-34-
Copper-Bottomed Cup
It is not in Dailan to bemoan his misfortune, though his life has been wrought. His acceptance of circumstance does not hinder his aspirations to conquer it. I have watched him these many weeks, and I aspire to his spirits. I may be his superior in age and status, but he is mine in wisdom. I see the world anew as it opens toward me, a peek into a realm I did not know existed parallel with mine.
- Excerpt from the transitory journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
For being a girl on a gimpy ankle, Emmi sure could put some leagues behind her. She didn't have much of a head start, but it took Dailan a while to find her trail in the maze of tunnels. As folk went, he had a pretty good sense of direction. That didn't matter here, because the twisty, turny avenues of underground White Tower were disorienting. Dailan half-wondered if they were coated in Labyrinth spells. He didn't really know if such magic was just the stuff of myth, but he was prone to believing it was real.
Story went that decades ago, before the hundred-layer Defensives around Hili had been cast to keep unwelcomes Barriered out, the early Dimishuan escapees had placed Labyrinth spells in the wetlands to confound anyone what didn't belong there. Traces of the magic was said to still linger in the remote parts. The ancient cypress and red maples in the backwater Hili swamplands were home to ghosts of travelers caught in the inescapable web of the wetland Labyrinths. The lonely wraith would ask their unsuspecting victim for directions, then when the poor bastard was busy giving them, the spook would slay them so as to keep their spirit nearby for company. For all Dailan's liking to wander, he never strayed from the common channels in Hili, cause he sure wasn't of a mind to test out the truth of the stories.
Without landmarks, Dailan took a few wrong turns and had to backtrack until he finally gave in and cast a simple tracking spell to find Emmi's footprints in the dust. It would be embarrassing for a gutter rat like him to get lost, even if the place was a downright jumble of confusing.
He breathed a little sigh of relief when he finally found the stone wall of the Chalice House. The hallway was empty. Emmi's tracks were like faint whispers, barely clear enough to follow. He poked his head into the room Emmi had called the jowl, just to make sure His Majesty was still accounted for. Bressalin was looking after him. She bobbed her head to let Dailan know all was well.
Dailan followed Emmi's tracks to the lift. He rode it up a level. The outline of her footprints down the passage was obvious because of the hiccup of a limp. The tracks ended at a room up the passage. There were no servieways, which probably that meant that all the quarters belonged to the courtesans. Emmi's door was cracked a bit. It was invitation enough for Dailan. He poked his head through the gap, ready to duck if Emmi was of a mind to chuck something at him.
She was nowhere abouts, so Dailan slipped through the drawing room and into the bedchamber on tiptoeing feet. The room wasn't exactly what he had expected, but then, he'd never really been in the bedchamber of a regular wenchlet before (except for Saiya Kunnai, but she didn't count as regular in any of Dailan's definitions of the word), so he didn't really know what he had expected. It wasn't foofy and frilly, but homey and warm (even if it was a little cluttered and sloppy with crumpled clothes cast over furniture). Dailan likened it to the feeling you get when you drizzle honey on warm raisin toast with melting butter. It just felt good knowing you were about to get a bite of sweet comfort, and that's what this room was: inviting comfort, in everything from the plush tan and cream bedding to the cozy green reading chair by the fireplace. Several shelves lined the walls above the headboard. They displayed a row of books, model ships and a dozen or so mechanical trinkabobs, kinda like the one Dailan had fixed before, but all different in their own purposes and functions. A tinkery music box was on the side table. It looked like the one Emmi had been clutching in the old capture on Westerfold's desk.
Shuffling and scuffling from beyond the closet door on the far side of the chamber jumped Dailan's attentions back to Emmi. The door flew open and she came storming through it, arms loaded with a jumble of clothes. She stopped short when she
saw Dailan standing there, like time had ground to a halt. Dailan didn't say nothing, figuring a bit tongue would prevent a slapped face.
Just as quick as time had stopped for her, it kicked up again. Emmi limped to her bed and dumped out her armload. “What do you want?”
“Nuthin. I was just looking at all your trinkabobs. You got a dandy mechtech collection, like you said. Real nice room and all.”
Emmi's eyes fluttered upward to the shelves, but she didn't answer. She limped back into the closet and tugged a big travel trunk through the doorway.
“Going on holiday somewheres? I hear Eagle Beach is nice this time of year,” Dailan said, trying to play at making conversation. It was pretty clear she was fixing to run away.
“You're not that dull. You know what I'm doing,” Emmi retorted. She commenced to folding the trousers and shirts gruffly. The way she chucked them into the trunk, she shouldn't have bothered folding them at all. “And don't try to talk me out of it.”
Dailan huffed. “Heck, why should I? I know how good it is all alone, when you don't got nobody. I lit out a few times over the years, my own self. Never lugged around a trunk that big, though. That's why I figured it was for vacationing. You'll need at least one servie to help you haul it. 'Specially on that gimpy ankle.”
“Why? You offering? Prince of Hili?” Emmi sneered, but her face looked sorry the instant she said it mean-like. She softened up real quick. “You could come with me. If you wanted to.”
“I got me a job already. Gotta look after His Majesty and Guardian Scilio, you know. Princess' orders. I done my running. Now I'm right where I need to be. Family's depending on me. Don't wanna let 'em down.”
“I thought you loved the freedom of being on your own.”
A few of the tunics slid off the bed and Dailan caught them. He rolled them up and chucked them in the trunk. “Oh, I did. 'Til I realized a family aplenty was heaps better than a family of one. You ever tried to play Capers by yourself? It just don't work.”
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 40
