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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Scilio nodded his appreciation and comprehension of the overview. “What I need to know is how one calls back a stray nousect. The anchor for the unconscious section of which you spoke is intact, keeping His Majesty's vessel alive and able to follow basic commands. If the rest of the nousect is trapped in a rift, there must be a way to harness and channel it back.”

  “That is the direction of our research. Let us be about it, Guardian. A friend in Shiriah's confidence is a friend in mine.” Yorhlingher didn't sound like he truly believed the words, but he put heart behind them in his pretendings.

  They made their way to the stacks, which were housed in an expansive complex across the tower courtyard. Scilio had not made it past the gate before, but with the passkey Shiriah had provided, he was granted access with little more than a passing nod from the gate sentry.

  Yorhlingher had not been exaggerating when he spoke of the archives' immensity. Scilio was awe-struck at the labyrinth, and a flutter of dismay tweaked him afresh. He hoped Kir would have better luck with Master Prophet Farning, because there looked to be a year's worth of research here. If Farning could not offer any insights, it would be a good long while before they would ever hear Vann's voice again.

  Yorhlingher divided the first area into three parts for canvasing and he directed them to their places. Scilio was thankful for the aid, but even with three sets of eyes, he wasn't confident that this was anything more than busy work.

  After a full day searching through dusty books and ancient scrolls yielded no results, they returned to Yorhlingher's office for a breather. Scilio fell into a chair and accepted Shiriah's offer of refreshment. The defeat must have been evident on his face.

  “Don't despair. We'll take it in increments. View it as a marathon, rather than a sprint. His Majesty is well cared for, so we can work unhindered for as long as necessary,” Shiriah soothed.

  “There's a futon hidden back in the far corner, behind the bookshelves,” Yorhlingher added. “We can take turns resting there if you're bound to work nonstop.”

  “You live in your office?” Scilio asked.

  “I have a place of my own, but my work is here. Why waste time between?”

  “Much like Professor Westerfold,” Scilio noted. “He seemed to spend much of his time absorbed in his work as well.”

  “I'm nothing like him,” Yorhlingher countered curtly. “Unlike Cressiel, I would never have chosen my work over the woman I loved. He gave away the best years of his life chasing after his dreams, while others chased after him and his reckless whimsies. What do we have to show... Well, anyway. That's all in the past, and I do apologize, Shir. I did not mean to speak ill of the departed.”

  “The Underground was worth our sacrifices, Yorlie. Cressiel left us with a shining legacy. All we can do is continue to chase after the dreams that he laid down before us, and make them our own,” Shiriah replied smoothly.

  “Quite right. The purge taught us how quickly life can be snuffed away. We must not dwell in old feuds long past.”

  “Speaking of the purge, Professor, might I ask how you survived?” Scilio broached.

  “I was off at conference in Newhaven at the time. Quite a distance from here, and I only learned the news upon my homecoming,” Yorhlingher said. “A few of my colleagues were thankfully spared, but I lost many more dear friends that fateful day. Tragic, tragic times.”

  “I see,” Scilio said, pretending appeasement. Shiriah trusted the man implicitly, but it did not mean he must.

  “Excuse me,” Yorhlingher said suddenly, with some urgency. “Call of the nethers.” He started off toward the relief room at a hobble.

  When he was behind the door, Scilio turned to Shiriah. “Yorhlingher was away at the time of the purge. Was he interrogated when he returned?”

  “He was,” Shiriah insisted. “I oversaw it myself, and I detected no red flags. He may be a bit—”

  “Self-absorbed?” Scilio tried, though could he not have been labeled the same, mere weeks ago?

  Shiriah chuckled indulgently. “Perhaps. But he's been a trusted core member for many years before the purge. I can't imagine that he would have been involved.”

  “There's just something off about him,” Scilio said. “I can't put my finger on it.”

  “He seeks my hand and always has. He and Cressiel were rivals, often at odds, butting heads about everything. I think Yorhlingher is hoping that Cressiel's death will leave an absence in my heart that he can fill,” Shiriah suggested.

  “That much is obvious, but there's something more,” Scilio said pensively.

  “Do you think I should have him interrogated again?”

  Scilio rubbed a hand over his chin. “I don't know yet. For now, let's focus on the task before us. I have a feeling we'll be here for an extended period. There will be time for me to work him. I'll see what I can read. I don't impugn your masterful Psychonic skills, but past mistakes have heightened my suspicions, and perhaps my paranoias.”

  “You have the instincts of Eskanna. I will yield to your expertise, and welcome your advice. Fresh eyes may find clues that mine have overlooked,” Shiriah said. The relief room door latch clicked and the Magister returned to Shiriah's countenance. “I wouldn't worry, Guardian Scilio. Every scroll and book we eliminate is one closer to finding the right one.”

  “I take heart in your words of encouragement, Magister. Well then. As we are all refreshed, shall we return to the search?” Scilio allowed a wink as Yorhlingher walked up from behind, wiping his hands off on his robes.

  There was a hint of smokey essence that trailed him. It was sweet like a cigar, but with a nutty aromatic richness. The professor's head call must have included some toking and puffing. It didn't surprise Scilio. Several of his old tutors had been known to light a pipe. It was a common habit for many scholars.

  “Let's get back at it. These books won't read themselves,” Yorhlingher said cheerily. His prior gruffness had been replaced with renewed vigor.

  Scilio kept a close eye on the professor as they worked. It wasn't likely that Yorhlingher was hiding anything, but then, Scilio had once thought the same of Soventine. He could no longer take anything for granted.

  -39-

  Reunion of the Unit, Rendered a Family Semi-Complete

  I have known precious few of the warrior class, for those of differing status tend not to mingle in society. If Malacar and Inagor are representative of their class, I am ashamed to have limited my associations. My youth could have benefited from a few friends like them, to broaden my shoulders and perhaps keep my ego in check.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  As Malacar's blade sailed toward the revenant Guardian, time seemed to slow and speed, all at once. Kir could not bear to lose Inagor. Not when they finally had him back. And she could not allow Malacar to take on the guilt of another mistake. His burden was already so heavy. The desperation, probably enhanced by the vorsnarm, solidified into a new spring of strength in her feet. Kir pushed off from Ulivall's chest, launching herself for the Guardians.

  “Malacar, no!”

  Kir skid between them on her knees and threw herself against Inagor's chest to shield him from the intent in Malacar's sword if she could. She knew she was too small and thin to deflect it, but she would try anyway.

  “He's my Guardian!” Kir screeched, her chin tucked in, ready to take the blow if the words had come too late.

  Malacar's reflexes were sound. He stopped the strike in mid-swing.

  “He's my Guardian,” Kir repeated in a weak, toady voice. She snatched up Inagor's vambrace and held it out for Malacar's appreciation.

  Malacar's arm fell. His shoulders slumped in relief and befuddlement.

  Kir eased to her hip and leaned against Inagor, panting into his shoulder. Malacar knelt before them, searching for the assurance that he didn't seem to have yet. He tentatively reached his hand out, as if he needed physical touch to be sure that the man
before him was not a ghost. Kir gripped his hand with her good one. She guided it to Inagor's vambrace, where it rested for a long moment.

  Malacar pulled Inagor forward, slapping at his own disbelief. The three of them tangled in a cumbersome triangular embrace, sharing rumbles of laughter that seemed out of place, and yet, not.

  There would be no laughter among them that was out of place, ever again.

  Ulivall moved in and hauled Inagor to his feet gruffly. At first, Kir thought he was about to take a swing, but his arms flew past Inagor's face, to encompass his battered shoulders. He wrapped Inagor up in a crushing bear hug. A cry of elation roared forth under Ulivall's happy tears. Kir had almost forgotten how close the two warriors had been during Inagor's months in Hilihar. The reunion was as sweet for Ulivall as it was for Kir and Malacar.

  “I think you're about to break my last un-shattered rib,” Inagor managed to laugh.

  Ulivall pulled away and slapped Inagor's back fondly, right along a raw burn. They traded winces and gasps. “Forgive my exuberance. I've missed my dear friend.”

  “If I can survive your greeting, I can survive anything,” Inagor said wryly.

  Ulivall wiped his face dry and cleared the emotion from his throat. “A part of me never truly believed you could have died. It would take a God to slay the likes of you.”

  “Not true. Kiriana came pretty close today.” Inagor wavered and braced himself against Ulivall's support.

  “We brought Bertrand with us,” Malacar offered, aiding Kir to her own rickety feet. “Let's get you patched, before Ulivall manages to finish the job.”

  “Take care of Guardian Arrelius first,” Kir commanded to Bertrand. She waved him over to Inagor, who was propped on high pillows on the opposite, freshly made bed of their room.

  The bedchamber was familiar, all too much. It was the same one where they had holed up during Kir's recovery a year ago. Most of the manor had been picked clean of valuables and trinkets, but the rooms still had their original furnishings. Even the table that had been a makeshift potion and bandage station was still there. The same ugly, beady-eyed hawk painting decorated the wall. Now it hung slightly askew on the nail.

  Kir was sprawled on her stomach on the old familiar bed, freshly dosed with a good helping of pain-masking potions that had done their job well. A mountain of pillows under her chest and chin propped her high. The Blazer burns on her arms and left hand were raw and already starting to blister, so Gevriah had worked little valleys between the pillows for them to rest without undue pressure. Wet gauze covered them. Kir was faced to the foot of the mattress, so as not to miss a single bit of action that came into the room. The view was abundantly more interesting than what the headboard could offer.

  Lili was seated at the table, fussing with supplies and potions as Bertrand directed. He had left his entourage behind for the sake of speed as the small party had pursued Kir's tracks. Lili and Gevriah were standing in place of his assistants for now.

  Bertrand shifted his case to Inagor's bedside, but he was waved away.

  “No, see to Her Highness first,” Inagor insisted.

  Bertrand's brow furrowed. He picked up his case again and shuffled toward Kir.

  “Royalty commands,” Kir ordered, “and I say treat him before me.”

  Bertrand moved back toward Inagor, who responded, “Royalty before Guardian. Her Highness should take priority, especially in a non-life threatening situation.”

  “Unless said royal person orders you to go first,” Kir shot back. “I whooped you worse than you did me, anyway.”

  “You see what I've had to deal with?” Malacar said wryly to Inagor. “Headstrong warriors make the worst Guarded. Good luck with her.”

  Inagor laughed heartily like he understood, then thought twice of it. He winced sharply and clutched the haphazard gauze around his middle.

  Kir pointed with her working hand. “See? Him first,” she said resolutely.

  Bertrand seemed convinced that Inagor's injuries demanded more immediate attention, so he plopped his case down and started to work. Ulivall and Gevriah hovered over them, handing Bertrand whatever instruments he asked for.

  After introducing Gevriah to Inagor, Kir looked to Malacar. “Report. What happened with the caravan? The kaiyo?”

  “The attack didn't last long. No casualties. They retreated quickly, within fifteen minutes of the swarm.”

  “They were only meant to be a diversion to give Kiriana the opening to follow me,” Inagor supplied apologetically.

  “Who commands them?” Ulivall asked.

  Inagor gnashed his teeth and grunted as Bertrand probed the deepest gash along his ribs. He looked to Malacar and said, “Soreina of the Web.”

  “Bolts and Blazers,” Malacar whistled, running his hand over his thick jaw. “I think we'd best hear the story.”

  Kir detailed what happened in their battle, and how the Guardian Bonding had defeated Soreina's hold on Inagor's mind. Inagor supplemented Kir's observations and storytelling as he was able. Kir left out his part in the tale, the months of his tortures at Soreina's hands, figuring to let him share it when he was good and ready. There was a collective pause. No one seemed to know what to say.

  “So, what now? Does the caravan know where we are?” Kir asked.

  “I've sent Borloh and Amari back to lead them here,” Ulivall said. “You and Guardian Arrelius will need a day off your feet, and we need the security of the troops around us. Especially in light of the new threat from this kaienze creature. I doubt she will relinquish you both so easily.”

  “Soreina,” Malacar breathed. “What happened this past year, Inagor? You were under her control the whole time?”

  “I was Soreina's right hand,” Inagor revealed slowly, as if he feared his own words. “When the airferry was coming down, she had a transport device ready. We bailed just before the crash. Afterward, we were both in pretty bad shape. She was better off than I was. Enough to take me captive, at least. We made it to her Arshenholm lair, deep in the mountains. I don't remember much of the beginning. I was bound in chains for... weeks? Maybe months. Lost track somewhere. I don't know how long I held out before... I can't even begin to work through what was reality and what was fabrication. Soreina was in my head, like she had always been there. And then, I was hers.”

  No one spoke. There was a reverent silence. Even Bertrand had stopped his work to listen, and to pay respect to the magnitude of the story. The words were a summary, but their imaginations filled in the horrific details that Inagor was ashamed enough, or kind enough, to leave out.

  “Soreina's entourage was defeated after the airferry crashed, but she's been busy since. She's got a few more retainers. None of them are very bright. Not capable to lead. She had me out doing her... her dirty work. That swarm of kaiyo that attacked is trained. Delivered from Arcadia by Chamberlain Gensing, of all people. Speaking of whom, I must apologize. I am the one that freed him. I know you were about his interrogation.”

  “That explains it,” Ulivall said. “We thought it an inside job.”

  “I used one of Soreina's transport devices, a riftjump cufflet, to spirit him away. It operated very much like that mage cloak Keeper Xavien was fond of, but with a limited capacity. I had to return to the lair for her to recharge it periodically.”

  “Why did Soreina want Gensing free?” Malacar asked. “I thought she was in the employ of the Keepers of Magic.”

  “That contract fizzled when the Keepers went into hiding. She is contracted with Gensing now. They are fellow kaienze, raised together in Arcadia. I was off on other assignments so I wasn't privy to the details, but it sounded like they are gearing up for something big.”

  “The invasion of Aquiline,” Kir supplied. “And the coming of the Chaos Bringer.”

  “I suppose you best tell me your story,” Inagor said. “Sounds like a doozy. But first, tell me of Vann. What happened to him? I could only see him from the distance, but he
doesn't look well. I haven't seen Guardian Scilio, either.”

  “Actually, that's not Vann. It's a decoy,” Kir explained.

  A tiny gasp escaped Gevriah's lips, despite the hand that flew to her mouth to cork up the shock. “A decoy? How is that possible?”

  “I'm sorry for the deception, Gev,” Kir said sincerely. “I was meaning to spill it before now. Might as well brief you and Inagor together. Let me back up and start at the beginning.”

  Kir summarized the basics of what had happened, starting with the Battle of Kion Rising. Bertrand resumed his work on the burns across Inagor's back as she talked. Gevriah listened soberly from her seat at the table.

  Inagor's face lit when Kir described the Guardian's true purpose—as an equalizer and sheath to the royal's Kion. He said he always suspected there was more to the vambrace that had been lost to history.

  The part about the moonless night was difficult to reveal. Inagor had been Vann's adopted father, and his every waking moment for over fifteen years had been spent in the shadows of the Chaos Bringer prophecy. It had not unfolded at all in the way Inagor and Palinora had anticipated. Kir made sure to gloss the story of the aftermath with so much syrup it could have coated flapfritters. Inagor had struggled enough already with emotional baggage. She wanted to make darn sure he understood the optimism in her outlook. She insisted that Vann's condition was only temporary and ridiculed any notions that might suggest otherwise.