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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “A bit of Guardian legacy,” Kir managed, gripping wads of grass and soil in her good hand. She was glad she was laying down. A whirling sensation told her she would capsize if she tried to stand. The dagger dug deep and Kir tensed, unable to keep from crying out.

  “No!” a frantic voice boomed.

  A blue tsunami of muscle slammed against Inagor, driving him hard against the ground. Kir wasn't sure what the blur represented; she wondered fleetingly if the kaiyo waiting outside had smelled the blood and come for its meal. Kaiyo didn't speak, and she was pretty sure she had heard someone yelling. Several someones.

  Kir tried to pick herself up, to see what was happening, but the world was spinning and she couldn't get her bearings. She managed to call Inagor's name, then she forced herself upright against her protesting head.

  Malacar was engaged with Inagor, slamming his black Guardian sword against the lumanere one. Inagor narrowly avoided a fatal strike to his torso, but he was long since spent. He went to a knee.

  Firm hands hauled Kir to her feet. Ulivall's urgent voice spoke in her ear. He seemed to be guiding her away from the fray. Lili and Gevriah were suddenly on her other side, coaxing and soothing. Kir could only focus on the scene before her.

  Malacar raised his sword to deliver a killing blow. The blade sped toward Inagor's chest, bent on tasting his lifeblood.

  -38-

  Professorial Acquaintance

  For the briefest of moments, I had entertained the notion of submitting to Drendledown in the legacy of the Scilio line. Having already achieved Master Bardhood at so young an age, and without need for scholastic pursuit, I believed university could grant me little in the way of further interest. My studies were better served in practice than in forum, and so, I chose the road over the classroom. In retrospect, I wishI had further pursued my lesser magics beyond the mastery of youth. We none of us hold a monopoly on knowledge. I have come to realize that I am not as wise as I believed of myself, and not as learned as I'd like of myself.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  The city and university of White Tower were so named for the alabaster stones that formed the prodigious twin structures, visible from leagues afar. Since alabaster was a stone prone to weathering and degradation, every single block had been sealed with some manner of lumanere-flecked protectant, adding to the beauty and luster of the towers. The stones had been cut in ancient times from the vast Kellinspor quarry that southern Havenlen was famous for, thanks to the quality of the alabaster and the prolific yields that still made it a productive treasure.

  The towers themselves were functional university buildings, housing both classroom and administrative chambers. In their weeks of city residence, Scilio had not the pleasure of inspecting them from anything more than a healthy distance. Now that he stood between them, he regretted his prior reluctance to venture beyond the comfortable safety of the Jolanock table. There was much of handsome White Tower that had gone unseen to Scilio's appraising eyes. He must remedy that.

  The city itself did not reflect the opulence of the towers. It was mostly composed of rugged stone, thick wooden beams and metallurgics. Mechtech devices and clockwork were displayed as decoration on every wall. Minor details like the textured indentations in the street cobbles played on the hint of gears and springs. Brass, tin and copper were the common accents on the streets, with wrought iron mingling to their benefit. The central plaza fountain boasted a conspicuous artistic license in its tribute to mechanology. The turning gears that formed its base caressed and displayed the changing water patterns in resplendent arcs and cascades, guiding the falling water down its channels and springs to the coppery basin at its feet.

  White Tower was bisected by an impressive parent canal, which gave rise to the many waterwheeled structures that hugged the network of channels. Gander's Ferry had been likewise pocked with such generators, which relied on no magic for their empowerment.

  Scilio had long taken his magics for granted, having been highborn blessed with an abundance. It was something that he had accepted as his Gods-given right, without ponder or question. Not everyone was so Gods-touched, and Scilio had since come to find humility in his newfound station in the world. The people of White Tower, it seemed, revered the power of the innovative manipulator as much, and perhaps even more, than the power of the endowed caster. There was a bit of irony in the thought. It was to the university setting that casters came to hone their magic wielding in advanced study. The function and purpose of university was to mold seasoned Master casters, and yet, it was the forbidden appreciation of mechanology that painted the aura and style of the erudite city.

  Shiriah politely waited, allowing Scilio to take in the grandeur of the towers that stretched beyond sight. She finally commented, “Are they not exquisite?”

  “Their magnificence steals the breath and step of lung and foot,” Scilio returned. “They are wonders of the seven isles, truly.”

  “And ancient as the seas,” an unfamiliar voice added. “Almost.”

  “Professor Yorhlingher,” Shiriah greeted the approaching gentleman. “We were on our way to see you.”

  “Magister. How fortuitous. I was just returning from a faculty luncheon when I espied you across the plaza,” Yorhlingher said. His voice was tight and springy. “A welcome delight to make pleasure of your acquaintances, as always. But what a rare treat this is! Not often do I have the pleasure of entertaining you in my humble chambers.”

  The professor was middle-aged, with probably a robust forty-something summers under his belt. His weight was concentrated around the middle, his body much longer than his legs in proportion. He was not completely slovenly in his appearance, and yet, there was an apparent lack of attention in the detail of his attire. Yorhlingher's scholar robes were fraying slightly about the ankles, the right undertunic sleeve stained with old coffee splotches that washing had not bleached away (he was left handed, apparent by that clue, and the inksplatter that splotched his left thumb). His wild hair had not encountered a comb in, perhaps, months. Yorhlingher was a longtime bachelor, certainly, and a man who valued the time spent on his books as greater than time spent on his looks.

  “The pleasure is mine, Professor,” Shiriah began. “It's been too long, and I have plenty of acquaintances to share with you. In the privacy of your office, of course.”

  “Oh come now, Shir. No need for formalities, even in the presence of strangers. You know to call me Yorlie,” the professor cooed with comfortable familiarity. “We've been friends long enough. Introduce me to your companion, so we can be friends as well.” Yorhlingher's wide-set eyes studied Scilio keenly. He seemed to be gauging details using the exact methods Scilio employed. Nothing was lost to his appraisal. Even the distance Scilio stood from Shiriah was measured.

  “Perhaps not in public,” Shiriah said carefully and gently. “An artifact of mystery he shall remain for now.”

  Yorhlingher's eyebrows bobbed in keen interest. “Quite right. Well met, Master Mystery.”

  Scilio accepted the wrist-clasping of greeting; he could read an instant hesitance in the pressure of the professor's grip. Every clue in Yorhlingher's posture, hand and features read as caution, almost to the point of paranoia. A wary withholding of trust. Skepticism. Curiosity.

  They were understandable feelings. Scilio did not begrudge the man his apprehension, in light of the purge. What did surprise him was the amount of jealousy that he detected in Yorhlingher's bearing. Rivalry directed at Scilio, and infatuation directed at Shiriah. There was a definite essence of love here, though Scilio had not read any hint of such from the Magister. She had been fully given to Westerfold, so this love must have been unrequited.

  Shiriah's romantic attachments were none of Scilio's honest business, but it was a noteworthy development. As a storycrafter, Scilio was always keen for juicy tales and layered romances. Where better to derive such inspiration than from the people all around?

  Sci
lio could certainly not fault Yorhlingher his attraction. There was a natural magnetism that permeated from Shiriah's very essence. The woman was an enchantress without casting a single spell. If Scilio had not forsaken his old vices and committed himself fully to his Guardianship, he would have easily given himself over to Shiriah's charms.

  Yorhlingher's office, some twenty floors aloft in the second tower, was accessible by way of a busy lift station. The crescent room was naturally lit by several windows that boasted a glorious view over the city's expanse. By the dust of the window sill, Scilio could tell the sight was lost on the professor. Had he the luxury of such a view, Scilio would have parked himself every day on that ledge. Such a shame it went to waste on unappreciative eyes.

  The chamber, as a whole, was cluttered and chaotic like Westerfold's had been, but in a much more random fashion. Rather than mechanology and draft sketches placed in deliberate, organized chaos, Yorhlingher's office was brimming with old books and scrolls that seemed to have no purpose in their placement beyond absentminded strewing. Five cats had taken up residence on the shelves. A fluffy orange feline, flicking her tail lazily, perched atop one of the taller book piles, proud queen of her mountain. Dust pixies danced in the sunlight streams of the windows, sparkling like flecks of floating stars.

  “Pardon the mess,” Yorhlingher said half-heartedly, waving a hand at the room in general. He cast a Sound Barrier at the door to deter any curious stray ears their eavesdropping. “I'm not one for tidying, when so many other matters and interests make better use of my time.”

  “As a man of the Creatives, I can readily empathize,” Scilio assured him genuinely.

  “Creatives? What manner?” Yorhlingher asked.

  “I was named Master Bard at the tender age of seventeen,” Scilio answered. The admission used to roll off his tongue smoothly with pride and suave elegance. It was the first time his lips had boasted it in ages, but it sounded different to his own ears. The words were offered in modesty and humility, with a flush of cheek and flutter of eyelash, despite their grand assertion. To be so highly ranked without scholastics was quite an achievement. Scilio's reluctance to wallow in old pride was surprising to his own ego.

  “Master Bard, so young? Fantastic! I am agog, Master Mystery. I've always admired the gifted exhibitionist of the stage. I can't sing to save my soul and so admire those who can. Did you school here at White Tower? Or perhaps at the Sawling Academy of Creatives?” Yorhlingher's prior apprehension seemed to melt away to something of a starstruck demeanor.

  “Neither, I'm afraid. I had toyed with the notion of submitting to Drendledown, in the legacy of my father and brothers. Alas, the call of the bard pulled my feet to the road not long after I was so named to Master status.”

  “You are a bundle of surprises at every turn, Guardian Scilio,” Shiriah breathed. “Most men have only one or two layers to their souls, which unwrap as easily as one peels a tangerine. You are an infinite gift, hiding a new box inside as each outer layer is shed. A rare find for one in my profession. As this layer falls away, there is a Master Bard veiled behind the vambrace. I'm almost giddy to discover what the next layer will reveal. Now I understand the Sighs of Alokien I felt on your breath.”

  Yorhlingher blinked and his gaze toggled between his two guests.

  “Sighs has long remained one of my very favorites,” Scilio said, offering a reserved grin of appreciation for Shiriah's clever reference to an old bardsong.

  “Is it? Ever mine, as well,” Shiriah returned coyly.

  The exchange was something akin to flirtation, which came as natural to Scilio as the act of breathing. He may no longer acquiesce to such loose dalliances on his part, but interactions with Shiriah would amount to no danger. They had shared an entire night abed, wrapped up in each other with only a breath of fabric between them. He knew, as well as she, where the threshold of propriety lay, and out of respect for the other, neither would cross it.

  “Guardian, did you say?” Yorhlingher asked belatedly.

  Shiriah's face almost betrayed embarrassment at the digression, but she smoothed it over with the stodginess of royal introduction. She concluded, “These past days have been abundant with the surprises and delights Guardian Scilio brings, Professor.”

  “I'm certain of it,” Yorhlingher said indignantly. Whatever infatuation he'd exuded had been wiped away under the jealousy that made a brusque return. Yorhlingher peered at Scilio keenly.

  “Our purpose in coming is two-fold,” Shiriah began, slipping her arm around Yorhlingher's. She guided him to his desk with the practiced ease of one accustomed to leading men to her will. Scilio wondered if she had been using her enchantress talents.

  When Yorhlingher was settled in his chair and his concentration was no longer fixed on whatever phantom relationship he was seeking between his guests, Shiriah continued. “The first is to brief you on the current status of the Underground and our newest members. The second is to request your aid in scouring the Prophetic Archives. Guardian Scilio is on a quest for very specific information, and I have promised him your undivided attentions and urgent assistance.”

  “Yes, yes,” Yorhlingher agreed absently, roped around Shiriah's essence. “At your service, Shir.”

  Scilio wondered if he had looked half that pathetic when he was fixed in Quarinia's clutches. He was certain he already knew the answer.

  Shiriah spent half of an hour detailing the story. Yorhlingher was entranced. He devoured every detail as though his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. The divulgence was thorough to the point of being top in secret. Only a core member of the Underground was allowed access to such information.

  Scilio wondered, suddenly, why Yorhlingher had been immune to the purge. If most of the core members had been murdered, what kept his name off the list? Certainly every member was considered a suspect in the leak, if not in the actual purge. Shiriah had insisted before that every survivor had undergone extensive Psychonic interrogation and that the investigation had turned up no suspects. If Yorhlingher had something to hide, an enchantress of Shiriah's level would certainly have uncovered it, or at least recognized the barrier that locked away the secret. Even though Scilio, himself, had kept her out, she had been well aware of the wall he had erected to do so.

  “Quite a tale,” Yorhlingher said when Shiriah had finished. His hands were clasped before him on the desk in appraisal, thumbs rubbing together. “I take it our period of mourning is over, then? That is, Merisha shall rise again?”

  “Such is the plan,” Shiriah agreed. “We've been laying low, waiting for Cressiel to return while we cower and lick our open wounds. It's past time we emerge. With the Crown and Hili at our side, we can rebuild our ranks. The Underground need not stay shrouded in shadow. Without the fear of infiltration by mages and zealots, we can open our membership to the masses. Cressiel always wanted it that way.”

  “He did, indeed,” Yorhlingher said pensively, though he had vehemently disagreed, from the looks of his posture. He would certainly have taken an opposite stance on just about anything Westerfold had believed, purely due to the rivalry between the two. They had not been on the best of terms. The bitterness was not difficult to read in the professor's features. Shiriah had been the crux of the matter, the dividing factor that kept the two men at odds. She had given her heart to Westerfold, and while Yorhlingher had accepted it, he had not come to terms with it.

  “Well then, Guardian of ballad and lumachord, now that I am abreast, shall we begin our labors? Daunting a task, this soul searching in a forest of antiquity. We'd best get a move on. It may take months or longer to sniff a trail.”

  “Months? Might there be a way to expedite the search?” Scilio pressed.

  “Ah, to bloom in the springtide again! Remember what it was like to be so young and impatient with the world in its tedious turning, Shir?” Yorhlingher sighed, attempting to tap a dramatic nostalgia. It was meant to diminish Scilio in the suggestion of his immaturity.


  Shiriah smiled politely. Although she had at least fifteen years on Scilio, age did not seem to be a matter of import. She let the professor's taunt slip right past her interest.

  Scilio, however, could not let it slide. He controlled his reply, to avoid sounding nettled. “Forgive my impertinent brashness, Professor, but His Majesty's life and soul are at stake. Far be it from me to traipse along in slothful dalliance, as my prior profession would allow. If the end to my quest is at hand, I would seek any and all means to bringing about its completion without delay, whether my age be twenty-two or ninety-two. I owe His Majesty nothing less, as his Guardian and closest confidant.”

  “Apologies if you were offended by my ill-mannered sentimentality. Someday you'll be apt to envy the youth of your own students,” Yorhlingher chuckled. He did not seem bothered by the heat in Scilio's tone. “At any rate, if you were privy to the vastness of our university stacks, you might understand why your request is not a one-day affair. Our Prophetic Archives department is quite large. It would take two lifetimes to make an in-depth study of everything contained here.”

  “His Majesty does not have two lifetimes,” Scilio sighed.

  “When we return to Chalice, will conscript Master Shelfern to our aid,” Shiriah suggested encouragingly. “One more set of eyes will help. I'm certain he would prefer to expend his energies on the search, rather than sitting watch in the silence of the lonely jowl.”

  “Very well. Six eyes are better than four, and Gavin's are keen enough to equal eight. In the meantime, where shall we begin, Professor?”

  “I have seen works documenting research on the dissection of the nousect, somewhere in the Annals of the Ancients. That section itself takes up an entire floor.”

  “The nousect?” Scilio asked.

  “Soul, to the layperson. There are many layers to the nousect, the entity that makes up a self. It's not just one energy-mass or spirit that accounts for a person, understand? We are complex beings, Guardian. A nousect is made up of multiple parts. Think of them as departments, operating independently in their roles, but interacting across their boundaries. Each one is vital, and the balance between them is what makes up a true soul,” Yorhlingher explained, his years of professorial lecturing evident in the tutorial tone he naturally took. “There's a sensate section, to connect with the body's faculties. There's an intellectual section, where processing and rational thought occurs. The memory aspect, to store experiences. We also have the unconscious section that cannot be controlled or sensed. It keeps the body functioning and operates innate muscle memory. And there are the anchors, which tether the parts together and keep them bound to the vessel.”