“Ah, Kiriana! I was wondering who it was hijacked my dear brother from our camp. Splendid eve, Princess,” Xavien cooed with his effervescent charm.
“Good to see you, too, Slinky,” Kir returned flatly.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I've found a way to return His Majesty's soul to his body. But I need your help to do so.”
“Why would he help you?” Ashkorai asked warily.
“I'd like to think he wants me at my peak for our promised dance.”
Xavien opened his mouth to answer, but Ashkorai held a silencing arm before him.
“You are strong on your own. It does not take Vannisarian to make you so. You waste your mana,” Ashkorai said bromidically.
Xavien flashed Ashkorai a perturbed look for stealing his limelight, but he said nothing.
“Then, how about revenge?”
“I'm liking the sound of this,” Xavien said. “Go on.”
“Alokien is the whole reason Tarnavarian is lying on that slab in the tombs. He's the reason your vambrace is black as moonless, Ashkorai, and why you walk under cover of night. Alokien paints the black across your entire world. Help me now—help Vannisarian—and I'll make you a deal. Full pardons, for both of you. You'll never fear a local bulletin board and its Wanted posters again. Vannisarian is the weapon that can bring down Alokien. Fight with us. We are the key to your sweet vengeance.”
“Ah, the dulcet Princess offers a stay of hostilities in exchange for a sweeter prize,” Xavien said suavely.
Ashkorai cut him off with another warding hand. It was clear who the senior Guardian was in their brotherhood. “You propose an alliance? Despite our Guardianship of your mortal enemy?”
“You know what they say about strange bedfellows,” Kir quipped. “Alokien's as much Tarnavarian's bane as ours. I figure we're stronger if we team up against a common enemy. I believe Tarnavarian would join forces with Vannisarian, if he were here to make the decision. But since he's not, you are his proxy. You can act in his stead, as I am acting for my affianced.”
There was a world of grinding going on in Ashkorai's brainworks, though his face remained stoic and passive. Kir wished he would hurry up and agree with her. She didn't know how much longer she could maintain the connection.
Just as Kir was about to nudge him with a warning, Xavien slipped around the barrier of Ashkorai's arm. “What manner of alliance did you have in mind, Princess?”
“Our God is gearing up for a kaiyo war. I'm gearing up to be a disobedient subject. I could use you both as my personal advisers. I could also use your military expertise.”
“Use,” Ashkorai huffed to himself. “So easily thrown about, that concept, by noble sentiments.”
“I didn't mean it that way,” Kir said self-consciously.
“It's the truth of politics, which you know all too well. Pawns are meant to be used. In time, if you survive long enough, you'll learn how to be more polished in your choice of words. I don't fault your blatant candor. Using us is exactly what you'd be doing.”
Now it was Kir's turn to be defensive. “Even if I live to be a hundred, I don't plan to be so duplicitous as the likes of Soventine. I'm not one for crafting the elegant word, and I'm not the typical noble politician. If there's words to cross my lips in negotiation, they won't come from a tongue forked for the sake of sounding refined. Pardons and an offer of commission to my war council is on the table for you both, if you'll stand by me. That, and a chance to bring down the cause of your Guarded's misfortune. I'm losing my grip on the Bonding here... Are you with me or not?”
“And what, exactly, is the mission?” Xavien asked.
“The soulblade—the device Alokien used to sever His Majesty. There are six more of them, housed in the Relic Room of the Citadel. I need you to swipe one with your Keeper cloak. Meet me in White Tower at Quinning Temple. The Prophecy chamber keep at highsun hour, three days from now.”
Before Ashkorai could open his mouth, Xavien was quick with his acceptance. “Add Guardian Tamlin into the bargain and I'll take your deal.”
Kir hadn't realized there were any more Guardians to be considering, but it made sense that Tarnavarian would have had a third. Three seemed to be a common number in Guardianship, as in magic.
“Done.” Kir tried to say more, but the connection dissolved before she could open her mouth. The hazy blue gave way to the polished white Arshenholm stonework as the command center blossomed around her. Kir blinked the dryness away from her eyes, unsure if it was the Prophetic vision that made them sting, or the fatigue. Everyone was still staring at her, waiting on bated breath.
“I submitted the requisition,” Kir announced. She reached across Malacar, handing the pipe and cashnettar pouch back to Farning without thanking him. “Xavien's taken my offer.”
“Offer? Exactly what did you bargain?” Malacar asked warily, obviously thinking back to Kir's parlay with Farraday. He hadn't been too happy with her negotiation then.
“Vengeance and power. Both of which he'll get in droves if he join us,” Kir reported. “Xavien will meet us at Quinning Temple in three days with a soulblade.”
“And if he doesn't show?” Malacar asked through clenched jaw.
“Then we'll windbust Scilio and Vann to High Empyrea on the airship and proceed with Lyndal and Gevriah's backup plan. We'll shadow-hop in and use the chamber in the Citadel.”
Nobody said anything. They still stared like before, unnerving her last fraying strands. It seemed like everyone was trapped in a web of time, trying to catch up to the speed of Kir's momentum.
There was no more argument to be made; Kir had already cast the die and it couldn't be unrolled. She slapped her hands on the table in acceptance. The sting almost felt good—it was easier to concentrate on physical pain than it was to acknowledge the wringing feeling of her guts tying themselves into kinky knots.
“Then let's get saddled up. We're off to Havenlen.”
-49-
Casting of a Prophetic Die
At long last, we have found the Underground we have sought. Perhaps it is more accurate to say they found us. In yesteryear, I felt no call to applaud their order, for I did not believe the Dimishuan situation was of relevance to me. The misfortunes of another man's birth were not mine—what need had I to champion him? But something has changed in me. An Inferno spark enlightens my comprehension. I have lorded above the misfortunes of other men and thought them not my own, but therein lies the fault. It is my very lording above those misfortunes that has created them. Therefore, I become the misfortune. I am the wrong in the world.
I endeavor now to make it right, although I know too little to fathom how. I cast aside my nobility to stand with the Underground. I embrace my Lordship no more.
It will not undo my wrong, but it can move me a tiny step toward the right.
- Excerpt from the transitory journal of Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer
“I've got it! This is it!” Yorhlingher exclaimed with excessive verve.
Scilio popped his eyes over the pages of Relics and their Regards, Volume Five, to watch as the professor hustled down the row, practically skipping in his glee. They had been in the thick of it, without success, for almost three weeks. Twice already, Yorhlingher had alerted them to findings that had turned out to be false leads. Scilio held out little hope that the third time would be the proverbial charm.
“Another gem from Transference of the Conscious Self ? I thought we agreed that book was written by a charlatan,” Scilio said, endeavoring not to taint his voice with audible frustration.
“No, no,” Yorhlingher corrected. “This is from an older text. So old, in fact, the work has no title. I stumbled upon it in the Rare Antiquities room by pure accident.”
The professor's gloved hands spread the delicate scroll gingerly across the table as Scilio cleared his stack of books aside.
Gavin bustled forward from one of the nearby stac
ks. He slipped into the adjacent chair as Shiriah materialized over Scilio's shoulder. They all leaned in to examine the unintelligible script. It seemed to be written in a language foreign to Scilio's eyes.
“How will this help if we can't read it?” Gavin asked.
“You may not be able to read ancient Dimishuan, but as a lifelong scholar of the Prophetics and antiquated relics, I can,” Yorhlingher announced. “And thanks to my impeccable translation, I now know exactly how to return His Majesty to the vessel of his origin.”
Scilio studied the brittle scroll, trying to find familiar words in the jumble. No pattern was emerging to his awareness.
“Go on, Yorlie. Enlighten us!” If Shiriah entertained the same angst that Scilio felt welling in his blood, her tone did not betray.
“According to this document, the vessel must be present in a Holy Prophecy chamber on a Tidal Crest Day, when the moons are in alignment with the nearest planetary bodies. The tidal forces add strength to the spell, you see. I've done some calculating, and the nearest optimal day is tomorrow. We must have His Majesty ready in Quinning Temple's Prophetic chamber keep at midday. The spell is a simple Prophetic Reversal. An older, practically forgotten spell for its irrelevance in today's crafting world. But one not unknown to those of us with priesthood ties. I can perform it myself, in fact.”
“Is that it? It sounds too easy.” Scilio arched a wary eyebrow.
“You said yourself that the severing of the nousect was surprisingly simple. Reversals are equally uncomplicated, to those of us versed in Prophetics. Never fear, Guardian Scilio. This scroll is comprehensive and satisfactory. I know exactly what I'm doing. His Majesty will be with us in no time, and this whole ordeal will be behind you.”
Gavin seemed convinced. “I suppose it all makes sense. We shall yield to the good professor's experience.”
Shiriah exhaled a withheld breath of elation. Her forehead touched Scilio's as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thanks be to Karanni,” she whispered.
Yorhlingher ignored Shiriah's attachment, rather uncharacteristically. He chuckled through a sigh, pleased with himself. “I am looking forward to making His Majesty's acquaintance. Well now, I don't know about you, but I have some pixies to visit. Must be well-rested and prepared for the ritual, after all. We'll need all the reserve mana we can muster, so we should retire.”
“Please do so,” Shiriah told Yorhlingher. “I'm afraid there is far too much to do in preparation for me to enjoy a restful evening.”
“Oh, well, I can understand that, Shir,” Yorhlingher said. “I'm going to head back to my apartments for the evening. You know where to find me. I'll meet you tomorrow at Chalice, bright and early.”
“You're certain this ritual is safe?” Scilio asked.
“On my life, I am positive. If it makes you feel any better, the Mon-Priest Landhern is an old friend of mine. Shiriah's, too, as a matter of fact. Landy's not a core member of the Underground, but he's a sympathizer and he's helped us before. He can supervise the whole thing. Breathe easy, good man.” Yorhlingher's answer was solidified in his confidence. Scilio could detect no dishonesty or doubt in his demeanor.
“I will breathe easy when His Majesty verbally grants me the permission,” Scilio said tightly, trying to keep a smile from working its way across his face. He couldn't rejoice in a victory that was premature, but a sanguine piece of his anxiety tweaked with hope that Vann's voice would chime again, and soon.
“Let us return to Chalice and summon Merisha for briefing,” Shiriah suggested.
Scilio accompanied Gavin and Shiriah back to the estate, nursing cautious nerves. He should have been traipsing through the garden pathway, but something restrained him.
Shiriah noticed his reservation. “You don't trust this.”
Scilio measured his breathing. “Magister, trust is a luxury beyond the budget of my coffers. It feels off. Too quick. Too simple.”
“Isn't that as we wish it? After all the muck you've trudged through these past months, the quick and simple trail is naturally suspicious. We'll take every precaution,” Gavin assured him.
“Of course we will, Toma,” Shiriah soothed. “We will yield to your instincts. You don't have to agree to anything you are uncomfortable with. We'll insist that Mon-Priest Landhern translate the scroll independently and review the procedure. As the professor stated, I've known him most of my life.”
Scilio nodded silent acquiescence for their sakes. They placed more faith in Yorhlingher than Scilio was inclined to offer. The professor had not betrayed a single suspect tweak or twinge that would ring the alarm bells. There was no reason to distrust him. Was Scilio enhancing his distaste of Yorhlingher's personality with an enhanced suspicion? Perhaps Scilio was too close to the subject. Vision was blinded in proximity to the flame.
Scilio and Gavin returned to the jowl, while Shiriah went about directing the courtesans on the impending events. Grydon and Bressalin greeted Scilio and his news with gusto that he could only share through a fabricated smile. Vann was sitting in a chair, staring blankly at the wall, oblivious to the feats and dangers he might be facing in the next day.
“I've summoned the Underground for an emergency session in Lotus Five,” Shiriah explained as she strode into the room fifteen minutes later.
“I'd like Dailan to be at the briefing. Is there a convenient way to summon him?”
“Come to think of it, I haven't seen Dailan or Lady Emmi in a few days,” Grydon noted.
“He hasn't come to check in on Vann at all?” Scilio asked Bressalin.
“They told us they'd be out of touch for a while, camping. I think they took enough food from our larder to last a month,” Bressalin chuckled. “I wouldn't worry about them, Guardian Scilio. Emmi has been known to disappear for days at a time, out on her excursions. By the number of supply runs Master Dailan made last week, I got the feeling they expected this camping trip to be a lengthy one.”
Scilio couldn't relax in comfort as the courtesans could. It was one thing for Dailan to be toying around Westerfold's lair, but to disappear entirely was irresponsible and negligent. Scilio would have harsh words with him when the boy returned.
“Of all times for him to tap his wanderlust. I suppose he'll miss out on welcoming His Majesty back. I would have liked him in a supporting role on the way to the temple grounds. It seems he's not as reliable as I had believed.”
“There will be plenty enough Merishans to help with the transport and guarding the temple, Toma,” Shiriah supplied. “Let us make way to Lotus Five to receive them. It's a good twenty minute walk through the underground, so we should start now.”
Lotus Five was an expansive, well tended room, deep in the most convoluted part of the underground. The walls were cut eons ago, probably from ancient Kellinspor quarry stone. The chamber looked to house several hundred bodies comfortably, but as the last of the expected members filtered in and found seats, Scilio counted only fifty-two bodies, including the courtesans and courtesors of Chalice. Several of the members still wore their scholar robes, having been uprooted so suddenly from whatever mundane tasks had occupied them when the emergency summons came. They looked antsy, fearful, curious and cautious. It was the first time they had been collected together in over a year, from what Shiriah had said.
Grydon's two sons, Mehndor and Mehlnick, were among the younger of the members. Both were outfitted in White Tower student robes. They were eager for introduction, which had been delayed due to Scilio's preoccupation with the library and their preoccupation with midterm exams. The introduction was short lived, as Shiriah called the meeting to order and explained the events that had led them there. It took a good half hour of narrative before the members were updated and Shiriah moved on to the plan.
“We must escort His Majesty to Quinning Temple to restore him, but the farthest reaches of the underground's channels only come within a quarter-league of the gates. We will have to transport him through the streets f
or the remaining distance,” Shiriah explained. “Guardian Scilio, how would you prefer to coordinate this?”
“I'd like to set out for Quinning District at dewing hour tomorrow morning,” Scilio announced. “The streets should be relatively empty, with fewer eyes. Is there a convenient launch point? As close to the temple as possible, but still accessible via the underground passages?”
“I know just the place,” an elder professor offered. “My wife's cousin owns the Dursell Funeral Parlor on Quinning Avenue.”
“Splendid idea. It's as close as we can get to the temple from underground and may even provide us a cover,” Shiriah agreed.
“A funeral?” Scilio ignored the obvious foreboding symbolism that would have driven his Bardian self wild with inspiration. “That makes sense. It would give us a reason to be parading through the streets. Under cover of a funeral procession, we can transport His Majesty quietly to Quinning without drawing suspicion.”
“Our guards can masquerade as mourners, walking before the funeral skiff and behind. You can ride inside with His Majesty,” Shiriah suggested.
Scilio agreed. “Very well. All those who intend to join the procession must understand that there is an inherent danger in the transport. It is unlikely anyone knows of our presence or purpose, but I must assume that the journey will be impeded. Now that our identities have been exposed to Merisha, we can no longer hide behind our previous disguises. It's not that I don't trust you, please understand. My folly led His Majesty to his terrible circumstance. I can never again allow myself ease in his care. The very same agents that engaged in the purge of your membership may still have eyes about us. Any members willing to escort His Majesty must be willing to fight for him should an assassin present, so please come armed.”
“Pardon me, Guardian Scilio,” one of the professors called. “I don't own a weapon. Might I trouble you to borrow one?”
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 60
