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

by H. Jane Harrington

  A chiming klaxon ripped Galvatine from his thoughts. It hadn't been tripped in the Relic room. It was a general alarm, sounded by one of the priests.

  Priest Bagly hustled down the avenue to where Galvatine waited for report.

  “Your Eminence,” Bagly panted. “The tomb keepers... report just in... Prince Tarnavarian. His body... it's missing!”

  “Missing? Impossible! He didn't walk out of the tombs on his own!” Galvatine barked.

  “I don't know. Tombkeeper Wellis went to feed the Prince his daily gruel,” Bagly continued, still out of breath. “His slab was just... it was empty.”

  Galvatine rubbed his leathery hands over his face, feeling the lines enhanced in his trembling. “He couldn't have been smuggled past the sentries. The royal catacomb's Defensives are far too strong to allow anyone in that's not a Priest, a royal or a Guardian. There's no way in or out without the sentries knowing, unless...” Galvatine fancied himself quicker of wit than this. He shook his head in disgust at his own gullibility. “He wasn't an agent of Her Highness at all.”

  “I beg your pardon, Eminence?” Bagly looked bewildered.

  Sandavall Xavien. A Shunatar with a cloak. An abjured Guardian seeking redemption.

  “Bagly, hail the Keepers,” Galvatine ordered. He stepped toward the Nousectional display with determination. If he were to leave a legacy behind, it would not be written in failure.

  “Which ones, Eminence?”

  “All of them.”

  -52-

  Funeral Walk upon Quinning

  When despondence had taken the very last of me, Kir gripped my blood-stained hands in hers. She said, “We find the strength of our character not in what we do that's wrong, but in how we make it right.” I have endeavored to right the wrongs and reclaim my worthiness. I wish to be more than I believed I was. Have I succeeded in finding my better self? Have I righted the wrongs? I wonder if I will ever know.

  - Excerpt from the transitory journal of Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer

  Something about the shape of the Quinning Mon-Priest's facial features reminded Scilio of his old lessons tutor, Professor Jyler. As Scilio stepped from the hearseskiff's running board, he choked back a sentimental smile at the memory of the old tutor, even though their parting had not been on merry terms.

  “The more you learn, the more you will understand how much you have to learn,” Jyler had scolded. “Beware, young Master Toma. Someday you will come face-to-face with the folly of your arrogance. May it not destroy you before it can enlighten you.”

  The admonition had been cast aside with the many others that had failed to pad Scilio's ego further. He could not hold it against that pampered thirteen-year-old clodpate that he had not heeded the professor's words. There had been a decade of maturity to gather since, which should have diminished his conceit. Age did not equal wisdom, it seemed. Perhaps he could find the enlightenment of which Jyler had spoken, before the destruction was complete.

  Scilio scanned the manicured courtyard, finding it empty. The Guardian in him would not be content with visual findings, so he cast out a Panorama spell of Naturals, just to be sure. A webbed grid of the world expanded outward, filling Scilio's awareness with the nature of the temple, its layout and its occupants. There were a few priests shuffling about on duties in Brenderia's and Nomah's shrines, but no other patrons were visiting this early. The funeral party was truly alone in the sleepy temple. For assurance, Scilio fingered the hilt of his Guardian sword in the belt under his mourning cloak.

  “Oh departed soul, the Collectors welcome you to their hands,” Mon-Priest Landhern's voice called loudly for show. He bowed reverently, shuffling toward Scilio in tiny steps to close some distance. He whispered, “And welcome to you, Guardian. Follow me.”

  Grydon, Gavin, Mehndor and Mehlnick moved in from the forward processional to take up pallbearing positions. They had situated Vann as per the plan, to make a realistic corpse of him. It was too believable, this ruse. Vann looked too dead. Scilio reminded himself that, despite the funeral facade, this would not be Vann's end they were commemorating here. It was only his new beginning.

  The slabskiff, a mobile catafalque, devoid of the embroidered pall that would have decorated that of a nobleman or a Crown Prince, raised on gentle Wind currents to hover mere inches in the air. It was guided forward, trailing Scilio and the Mon-Priest into the inner courtyard and on to the cone-roofed Collector Hall, where standard funerals took place. The chamber was round, the high ceiling open at the apex to allow pyre smoke to escape.

  When the slab was situated over the pyre circle in the center, half of the procession filtered in. Shiriah and Yorhlingher were among them. The rest remained in the courtyard to guard the grounds under disguise of weepy mourners.

  “It's safe now,” the Mon-Priest said, distracted by Vann. “Welcome, Guardian Scilio. I'm sorry our acquaintance must be made in this manner. If I knew more of nousects I could have helped, but I am a student of Antiquities, like Yorlie. Souls are not my specialty. So this is he?”

  “Crown Prince Vannisarian,” Scilio confirmed. “Hunted by the Chaos Bringer to this suspended state.”

  “The Magister explained everything last night,” Landhern assured him. “We will harbor His Majesty and do all in our power to help. This hall is large enough to house us while we prepare. We can move to the Prophecy chamber keep when you are ready. It is the structure two south from here, in the heart of the complex. ”

  “Your Excellency, Yorlie guards the ancient scroll I mentioned. Might you translate it, to familiarize yourself with its contents and offer a second set of eyes?” Shiriah asked. She slipped her arm around Yorhlingher's elbow and guided him forward.

  Yorhlingher wrinkled his nose and sniffed, apparently not thrilled that his expertise was under scrutiny.

  “Of course, Magister. Though, I highly doubt good ol' Yorlie could have overlooked anything,” Landhern said, accepting Yorhlingher's wrist-clasp greeting. “Back when we were students of the Prophetics, he was always the one to catch everyone elses' mistakes. I always thought he would enter the priesthood, but he's such a scrupulous professor, it's no wonder scholarship maintained hold of him.”

  The creases at Yorhlingher's eyes softened with the flattery that he waved away in mock modesty as he donned a pair of thin white gloves. He opened the scroll box he carried and gently rolled the document across a long pulpit scroll table, then stepped back with his arms crossed.

  Scilio stood aside with Gavin and Grydon as the Mon-Priest pulled a pair of gloves and a magnifying glass from his inner cassock and bent over to examine the work. “Early Dimishuan text, Nilhan-era gilded embellishment framing. The parchment looks to predate the Loran Convention by several centuries. Nosackan blood ink.”

  “That was my conclusion, as well,” Yorhlingher confirmed.

  Landhern cleared his throat thoughtfully. “Now then, on to translation. In flame of sky the smolder rain, like petals fallen moonstone raze... Yorlie, this is an early transcription of the Moonfall Narrative, one of the oldest descriptions of the Razing. It's not... that is, are you sure you brought the right scroll?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Yorhlingher balked. “Of course I'm sure. I dared not let it out of my sight, even when I bathed. Let me see that.” Yorhlingher practically shoved Scilio aside to access the scroll, trailing his gloved finger down the script. He shook his head in disbelief. “I don't understand... this isn't what I remember... can't be right. This was not here yesterday. I distinctly remember reading a directive on nousect retrieval. Shiriah, I swear to you, there was nothing scripted here about the Razing yesterday. There must be some mistake.”

  A jolt of terror disrupted the lining of Scilio's innards. It was a good thing he'd had no stomach for breakfast or it surely would have ended up on the floor.

  “Be calm, Professor,” Shiriah soothed, casting a fearful glance to Scilio. “I'm sorry, but I must insist upon an investigation.”


  Yorhlingher nodded, in a daze. “Of course, Shir. Please do. I must know, myself, that I am not losing my mind.”

  Shiriah closed her eyes briefly, thrusting her Psychonic probe into Yorhlingher's memories. It took every ounce of Scilio's self-control to maintain his upright bearing. The ticking minutes seemed infinite in their stretches. Finally, Shiriah emerged from the recesses of her examination. Her dark lashes fluttered and she shook her head, looking for words.

  “I am not quite sure I understand it myself. This scroll is the proper one, and the Professor's memory is valid. It is the belief of perception that is tainted. As though he were willed to interpret the scroll a certain way. I'm not certain as to the point of influence. That moment is missing, erased from existence somehow.”

  “You're saying the Professor's mind was tampered with after a glamour was implanted?” Gavin summarized.

  “One of your courtesans, Shir. It has to be,” Yorhlingher said quickly, recovering from the initial shock. “Same one that betrayed us to the purge, I'm betting.”

  Shiriah's face paled as her hand found her mouth. “It couldn't be. Could it? Might it be one of our own?”

  “Perhaps not,” Grydon cautioned. “Think about the nature of enchantment, Magister. Psychonics can be used for willful manipulation, but their contact and proximity must be constant to keep the spells active. The moment the professor was alone in his apartment, the power would have evaporated.”

  Shiriah nodded absently, finding no relief. “You're right, of course. Unless the wielder was there with him the entire time, she couldn't have influenced him indefinitely. There were only specific moments missing from the memories. He was certainly alone last night. Those memories were undisturbed. Only a brief time is unaccounted for.”

  Scilio willed his stomach mastered with a mental Kionara. He was well familiar with Psychonic manipulation. As the target of Quarinia's enchantments for months, he knew what it was to dance in the puppeteer's strings. He also knew another method of warping wills. In Empyrea, he had used a potion on Consul Ferinar to interrogate his dirty schemes. Shiriah and the courtesors were likewise familiar with such potions. They had been used in Scilio's own interrogation in the jowl.

  “There are agents on the darkets that allow for manipulation of will. Like sepsikan and trepsikan,” Scilio supplied, throwing a meaningful glance to Shiriah. “Some of us are familiar with their implementation.”

  Shiriah mulled over the idea. “Quite, I'm sorry to say. It was most likely sepsikan. Treps induces obedience, but only until the potion wears off. Seps offers a long-term or permanent outcome. He may have been commanded to forget about the encounter once the glamour was lodged. But, who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “Agents of the Chaos Bringer. Because he wanted us here all along,” Scilio realized aloud.

  Shiriah gasped.

  Before Scilio could shout commands, the wide double doors flew open with a thud that echoed around the high ceiling.

  Mehlnick appeared, his voice lined with panic. “Guardian Scilio! Trouble! A line of kaiyo is moving in—not just one variety but all kinds. They came out of nowhere! I think they're surrounding the temple.”

  “Kaiyo? How is that even possible?” someone asked.

  “Guard His Majesty!” Scilio commanded to anyone in earshot. He ripped the mourning cloak from his neck and drew his Guardian sword.

  It was the first time the tainted steel had seen daylight in weeks. It looked like some alien blade, not the lumanere gem that one danced in his hands. Scilio launched for the doors and ejected himself into the courtyard. Another Panorama spell cast beyond the walls revealed a ring of advancing kaiyo taking positions along the wall and massing at each gate. It was unheard of, that kind of control. Was it even possible to train such wild monstrosities? He had seen the evidence with his own eyes weeks ago on Jolanock Square, but it was hard to fathom such command on a larger scale.

  Scilio didn't know enough to recognize various species. By the shapes in the grid-like patterns of the spell, he could tell there was quite a variety, differing sizes and some very obvious weapon-like appendages. There seemed to be hundreds in the nearby streets and skies, all converging on the temple and its entrances. A contingent of men, marching in formation, were advancing upon the main gate.

  Several of the Merishans barricaded the gate doors with thick beams. They backed away, wide eyes staring at the walls with shock and despair. There were chaotic questions and orders flying, panic thickening the air.

  “Guardian Scilio? What do we do?” someone called.

  Scilio, still maintaining the Panorama, observed the troops as they came to a halt and fanned out. It didn't seem to be an attack. They were either tucking in for a siege, or... “They don't want us to leave. Everyone, into the hall!”

  When the last body was inside, Scilio bolted the door. “We are surrounded by a battalion of kaiyo, and a unit of soldiers waits outside the gate in a defensive formation. They are not attempting to force their way in, so I believe they plan to keep us here until the Chaos Bringer can arrive. We cannot allow His Majesty to be inhabited by that foul creature. Mon-Priest, is there a way out of the temple that does not take us through the streets?”

  Landhern's pale face answered before his words did. “Quinning was built on this site in ancient times because of the concentration of lumanere in the bedrock below. Tunneling near temples is forbidden, to preserve the lumanere deposits that strengthen the Prophecy room. The only way out is through the gates.”

  “We're trapped?” someone cried.

  “What can we do?”

  “Guide us, Guardian Scilio. We will follow your command,” Shiriah affirmed. “Use the Underground as your pawns. Sacrifice us if need be. We are all of our convictions. We will prove that to His Majesty now.”

  Scilio had failed his Guarded once before. There was no way he would allow another failure. He wasn't a born warrior and boasted only sparing experience in the kaiyo-slay. His talents were of the Creative, literary and strategic varieties. More than his sword, they would mark his strength of Guardianship.

  “In a play I wrote a few years ago, Petalwalk on Bellflower Bridge, my characters faced a similar scenario,” Scilio thought aloud. “I will direct us through their actions, and we shall see if I'm as grand a playwright as I have long pretended.

  “I don't know where the Chaos Bringer is, but this scenario is undoubtedly by his design, so he must be en route. We cannot allow His Majesty to be quarantined here, in wait for the nefarious villain. We must flee to the safety of Master Westerfold's lair. There, we will find our means of literal flight, which we will use for transport to safety in Hili.”

  “Flight? Do you mean...? The rumors are true?” one of the professors chimed.

  “They are. Many of you have heard speculation about Cressiel's airship. It slumbers in the depths, below the Westside Thinking Pool,” Shiriah reported. Though her voice did not tremble, her eyes betrayed her restrained fright. “He was not ready to unveil her, but she is airworthy.”

  Scilio continued urgently. “It is a quarter league back to the funeral home, and we must bust through their defensive line to get there. We will divide into our groups and retrace the route. His Majesty will ride in the hearseskiff as before. The Magister will operate the skiff and I will perch atop with a Dome Shield to prevent any stray castings or kaiyo from overhead assault. The underbelly will be the weak point. Group Four has the strongest Defensives, so you will surround the skiff at ground level and maintain your most powerful Shields in a phalanx formation. The rest of the groups will form half-moon rings behind, to counter the kaiyo assaults. I cannot advise you on what you will face, but it will be perilous and chaotic. The kaiyo will attack by any and all means.

  “To eliminate as many enemies from our initial path as possible, I will launch a Ruptor as we emerge from the forward gate. Whatever survives will undoubtedly pursue, so you must run and fight like you've never thought y
ourself capable. If any survivors reach the underground tunnel, the entrance must be Ruptored behind us, to ensure that no enemies follow.”

  The plan was a disaster, Scilio knew. These were not warriors, but scholars. The blades they carried on their belts had never heard their own ringing or tasted anything more than cleansing oil. In Petalwalk, the casualty rate had been staggering. It was one thing to write expendable characters for plot device, but it was a completely different thing to consider living, breathing beings as sacrificial pawns. As Scilio glanced around the chamber, to his friends and those he had not yet come to know, he could see the honest fear in eyes that had never existed in his plays. He had written them a suicide mission. Under ideal circumstances, he might have spent days devising and molding a perfect strategy, but time was ticking against them. Delay could spell disaster. Action was the only prevention. Whether cowering behind a temple door or swinging their defiance, they would die either way. Glory was found in the last stand, and bards would someday sing the immortalizing ballad.

  “I know it seems an impossible task,” Scilio said, answering the defeat that was already settling into their features. “I have stared into the face of the Collectors on many occasions, yet I still stand. Do not think you have already fallen before you've taken the first step. Think you have won, and have but to reach for your prize. You must believe to survive.

  “This morning, we shall take the responsibility of our convictions. We will not pray to Eskanna to protect us, or to Nomah to guide our blades. We will not beg Serafin for preservation or Bosk for strength. We will be the masters of our own fates, the instruments of our own victories. As we go forth, let us be the Gods for once. If epic achievement demands epic sacrifice, then let us be epic!”

  Grydon's son, Mehndor, stepped forward and raised his blade. “For Vannisarian! For Merisha!”

  The ringing of blades echoed around the lofty ceiling, only drowned by the battle cry that followed. On the field at Gander's Vale, the soldier's call was deeper and resounding, thirsting for the heat of battle. This cry was one of finality. It was the sound of acceptance, of thirsting to leave something greater behind. It was the death salute of the martyr.