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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “Camping excursion, my shiny black vambrace!” Scilio harrumphed.

  Farning had been busy helping himself to the cabinet of wines. It looked like he was already well into a bottle of red Brenderia's Blood. “I suppose we should situate His Majesty in the Prophecy room, don't you agree? Prepare him for the ritual, perhaps? Unless you plan to spend the rest of the day in backslapping revelry while the world around us goes to seed.”

  “He's right. Vann's fine. Everyone's whole...” Kir glanced to Scilio and shrugged. “Mostly, at least. We can go about trading adventures later. Let's be ready when Xavien arrives.”

  “Xavien?” Scilio asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I'll explain later,” Kir assured him as Malacar draped Vann across his back again.

  “Through the doors,” Farning gestured, draining the goblet deftly before pouring another round. “I'll be in directly.”

  The crystal of the Prophecy chamber was transparent, speckled and veined with glowing opalescent lumanere and other minerals suspended before the darker backdrop like it was the abyss of the universe. Kir crossed the threshold, feeling the hum of energy zipping up her legs, standing her hairs on end. It reminded her of the electric pulsing in the cave on the moonless night. The floor was clear, like glass above a great endless chasm, such that gazing into it was like looking into a glowing forever.

  “Walking through the celestial heavens...” Gavin breathed.

  The chamber was nothing like the Westlewin cave and its large, earthy, rough-cut lumanere crystals. This chamber keep was polished smooth. The oblong altar in the center of the room was not shaped like a lotus here. Rather, it was a modest oval that reminded Kir of a funeral slabskiff.

  Malacar laid Vann out on the altar with plenty of gentle assisting hands. Kir positioned him comfortably, ignoring the pesky hints of funerary suggestion. This was not to be Vann's tomb, she reminded herself.

  “Now we wait for Xavien to make his grand appearance,” Malacar said, distinct distaste tainting the tone.

  “He's bringing us a soulblade,” Kir explained to appease Scilio's quizzical expression. “Imagine what happened on the moonless night and play it in reverse, with the Guardian Bonding doing the summoning. That's the general idea.”

  “I see it now,” Scilio said pensively. “I wish I had seen it then.”

  There was silence as the chamber was considered by all the awe-struck eyes. Grydon resumed his mending work on Scilio's shoulder.

  After some time, Malacar wondered aloud, “What's taking Farning so long?”

  “He's draining Quinning of its wine cellar, no doubt,” Gavin chuckled.

  Kir slipped the Karanni seal chain over her neck and onto Vann's, then leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his. She compacted her thoughts to a focused point and tried to send them through the soulwhisper, hoping the Prophecy room would ferry it straight home. “It's about that time, Stick.”

  “Yes, isn't it just?” Farning announced, striding forward into the chamber, hands tucked at ease inside his cassock sleeves.

  He seemed a lot more chipper than he had all morning, which was certainly thanks to the wine. Kir had noticed before that his personality was a lot easier to stomach when he was on the slosh.

  Trailing behind Farning was the Mon-Priest.

  “The soulblade was delivered,” Landhern reported. He removed a cross-body travel satchel from over his head and cast it aside near the door. “The messenger declined an invitation to enter, but he turned the device over to me.”

  “Yes, and the good Mon-Priest in turn passed it on to me, as I am the expert in all things Prophetic,” Farning added, admiring his own voice through the revelation. His hands slipped from the cassock sleeves and out came the dazzling soulblade, presented aloft for the appreciation of the entire chamber. “Behold, the Nousectional Transference Capacitor and Depositor, or the Noutercad, as it was known in an age lost to documentation and memory.”

  Kir wanted to sing out Xavien's praises. She wished she could have thanked him in person. It was odd that he had opted not to accept accolades for his actions. He was probably reluctant to surround himself with a room full of suspicious eyes, like Malacar's.

  The lining of Kir's innards trembled in a flurry of excitement as Farning pranced to Vann's head at the altar. He gazed down in adoration that was likely more for himself than for Vann.

  Everyone gathered around the altar expectantly and Malacar moved forward to take the soulblade.

  Scilio pressed a hand to his chest. “Allow me, please. It was my hand that severed him. It should be my hand that reclaims him. So I can truly begin my journey to absolution.”

  Malacar nodded solemnly and stepped aside. As Scilio approached, Farning waved him off. “No need, my dear Shunatar. I can perform the ritual quite well, thank you.”

  “But, it has to be a Guardian,” Kir argued, her annoyance with the narcissistic wencher reseeding itself. The wine had obviously gone right to his ego. “You told us that yourself.”

  “I'm a Master Prophet, Kiriana, dearest. You don't think I know how to perform an elementary Recollection?” Farning scoffed through a dazzling smile. He hissed as he pulled the sharp end of the soulblade deeply across his palm, letting the blood fill the channel well. As the blood reached the middle hilt, it seemed to glow and hum with life.

  Farning bent at the waist, like a broken dandelion stem, the blade clasped in his hands above Vann's stomach. His face was directly over Vann's, so close their foreheads were almost touching. “Bear witness, and welcome home your new King!”

  -56-

  One Step Toward Atonement

  “Oh, my treasured delight, my precious boy. You are a lotus kiss

  upon my cheek. In all you do, on every stage you entertain, to every

  smile you tease to pleasure, know that it was crafted by a blessing of divinity. You were born for greatness, Toma. You are a special one.”

  - Sailley Scilio, Dowager Armigaless of Hasterfal

  As the blunt end of the Nousectional plummeted toward Vann's soulgate, time seemed to slow. Before Kir could even gasp, Scilio had launched toward Farning, tackling him around the waist. They landed hard, the glowing blade clattering as it slid across the floor. They chased their hands after it as they tussled, both hellbent for the seize.

  “Guardians!” Farning shouted in the frenzy, his voice much airier than Kir remembered.

  The double doors flew open and three hulking bodies filled the frame, alert eyes taking in the chamber.

  It was Draback, Sterrick and Grent. Soventine's Guardians.

  “Attack!” Farning ordered, still rolling around with Scilio.

  The three Guardians in the doorway stared at him blankly, trying to make heads or tails of the situation. Everyone else was standing in a daze, working through all the unexpected happenings and wondering why the Master Prophet was ordering the King's Guardians around.

  Scilio and Farning had gone from a tussle to a full out brawl. Scilio was clearly the better fighter, but the injuries to his shoulder and leg slowed him up.

  “It's not Farning!” Scilio stifled a cry as Farning's fingers sank deep into the wound at his shoulder. “It's Alokien!”

  Kir's heart ran aground against her rib cage. She was sure it had stopped for a beat or three.

  Farning groaned theatrically. “Oh, my Shunatar. Why did you have to go and spoil it? The moment of epiphany is the climax of the show!”

  Farning's bloody hand fell to a pendant around his neck that Kir only now registered as an alterlet. The second his fingers pressed it, he began to change. The beady eyes widened. Legs lengthened. Pale cheeks ripened. Dark moppy hair smoothed itself into a trimmed and orderly cut with salt flecking the pepper. With the Karanni seal being so close by, the scrollwork of royalty materialized across his neck, disappearing below the collar line. Like Vann's, it was inky black.

  The body held in Scilio's grip was none other than Soventine's. A
lokien. The Chaos Bringer.

  “Now will you attack?” Alokien asked the Guardians, with sarcasm dripping so thick he could have slipped in it.

  Instant recognition dawned in the eyes of Soventine's Guardians. They launched themselves into the chamber, black swords ringing. Malacar and Inagor met them with their own. It was another hurly-burly flurry of commotion.

  “Arrelius?” Draback balked, clearly surprised to see a dead man in a vambrace.

  “Long time, Draback,” Inagor greeted over his blade that clashed sparks against the ruddy-haired senior Guardian's. “Stand down. That's not Soventine.”

  “He's still my Guarded,” Draback said in the closest thing to an apology Kir had ever heard from him. “I must obey his orders. It is his vambrace I wear, no matter who inhabits the puppet. Malacar and Scilio will be forced to do the same if the Chaos Bringer takes Vannisarian today.”

  Grydon, Gavin and Shiriah shifted toward the back of the chamber to stay out of the way. The King's Guardians faced off with Malacar and Inagor in a death match, the likes of which Kir had never even imagined. She may no longer wield a Guardian sword, but she had every right to play on the Guardian field. Kir flicked the trigger and the vamblade's long dagger popped into her hand. It was about to get its first field test. Deynartrial sang for blood as Kir made quick step toward them.

  “Kir! The soulblade!” Scilio interrupted her tunnel-focus. He pried Alokien's fingers from where they were dug into his shoulder wound and returned with a roundhouse that sent the God stumbling backward.

  Grent erupted at Scilio, pushing him away from Alokien as the God struggled to his feet. The Guardian battle shifted around them, pulling Scilio in.

  The redirection reminded Kir of the priority. Vann's soul first, spanking Gods later. The Guardians were keeping Grent, Sterrick and Draback occupied, so Kir had some soulblade searching to do. She leapt after the skittering device, crawling on hands and knees between the forest of Guardian's legs, rolling away and tumbling forward to dodge as she went. The wicked thing didn't seem content to stay put, sliding further along the smooth glassy floor every time it was bumped by a reaching hand or tromping boot. It came to rest right at the Mon-Priest's feet.

  Landhern bent to pick up the soulblade, staring at it like some obsolete tool whose function couldn't be figured. He cocked his head and grinned. “Your Holiness, I have it!”

  The voice didn't match the Mon-Priest. It sounded raspy and feminine, and all too familiar. Kir didn't know if the real Mon-Priest they'd met earlier was dead or not, but this definitely wasn't him. She focused on his chest, scanning for any hint of gleam where a pendant might be. When looking for it, it wasn't hard to pick out.

  Kir drew the Arrelius dagger and sent it spiraling toward the pendant with a Wind boost to give it power. It hit the target, shattering the alterlet on contact and sending the Mon-Priest flying backward. He clutched his chest, shrieking in a pitch that practically tore Kir's eardrums from their holes.

  As the image began to morph, Kir knew she had seen this happen once before. Snaking tendrils of silver hair grew to the ankles and the true spider witch became clear. She had pale skin and long features, periwinkle eyes, spindly fingers and long painted nails that were filed to points.

  “Soreina? Wenchin furies! How did she get all the way here from Aquiline?” Kir snarled.

  Inagor's face paled. “The cufflet on her wrist. It's the transport device that she favors on her assassination runs. Mine had a limited range, unlike hers.”

  “This is the second time you've unaltered me, bitch,” Soreina spat furiously, and Kir could have sworn the kaienze was drooling venomy saliva. “I'll drink your guts for this. Then I'll have your Guardian. He'll dance in my web again, and I'll make sure he lives forever.”

  Kir launched forward, fixed on Soreina. She had hungered for a rematch without the Kion's interference, and the witch was holding the soulblade, so Kir had all the priority she needed.

  They spiraled around the chamber in their dance, both spitting feisty. Soreina's moving, thread-like hair was a living weapon, rigid or flaccid as needed. She could grow it out as long as she wanted it, and even the detached strands seemed to obey her will. The soulblade disappeared into her hair, swallowed into the tangle of its protection. The only way to get it back would be to divorce her head from her neck. Not an easy prospect. Kir had thought the hair manipulation was a Forbidden spell, but the Kion had not been nudged. That meant the ability was part of Soreina's innate kaienze power.

  Kir delivered a forward youst with her double blades, but the hair-threads wove into a shield to parry the strikes. As instantly as they had formed up, they untangled and lashed out in five tentacle-like appendages. Kir parried and dodged, accidentally rolling into the middle of the Guardian battle. She blocked Grent's lunge with Deynartrial, then twirled to meet Sterrick's lateral clip with the vamblade.

  “Butterknife!” Sterrick boomed. “I've been keeping your lumanere shitter warm for you.”

  “Hope you're thinking of your beloved Farraday every time you do,” Kir smacked back, launching another strike that he countered.

  Seeing Soreina, Inagor traded out battles, leaving Kir to his place in the Guardian brawl. He danced around with the spideress for a spell as Kir managed to score a hit along Draback's upper calf. Soreina didn't seem happy with the change in dance partners, still seething from Kir's proclivity to break her pretty jewelry.

  “As much as I love tumbling about, Inagor, I want a taste of your pretty before I have you. She owes me two pendants. I think I'll take her heart to make a new one,” Soreina cooed. She thrust herself into the center of the Guardian battle and snarled, “You're my opponent, bitch.”

  Kir felt a twinge of insult as she blocked Soreina's wild moving hair blades. She was more wildcat than cur. “I'm a molly, not a bitch, witch.”

  Inagor caught Kir's attention with a purposeful gesture. They had mulled over a few ideas on the airship, in the event that they ever had this opportunity. Now was the time.

  “And you're just a bug I ain't squashed yet,” Kir added, keeping Soreina distracted. In the pouch on her belt, Kir's fingers shifted the clinking contents around until she found the vial she needed, obvious by the bulbous stopper. It was vorsnarm. Kir dumped the earthy liquid into her palm to prepare.

  Inagor threw an Aqua Wisp at the kaienze, which only served to soak her through. Kir had seen the woman survive an Inferno Bolt with little more than a singeing, so it was no surprise when the magic didn't faze her.

  Soreina cackled. “Oh, my pet. Did you really think that would do anything more than make me mad?”

  Inagor answered by dropping to a knee. He laced his hands as a launch point for Kir's foot. She stepped into his catapult, soaring high into the air with a Wind Wisp to propel her even higher. Soreina wasted no time in pursuit. Her threads sped outward to create a webbing of stable points on the walls, and her feet were compelled upward by the thin ropes her hairs wove. A network of threads made a haphazard walkway for Soreina's feet. Inagor had predicted this exact reaction. He knew the spider too well.

  Kir launched an Aqua Wisp near the chamber ceiling, adding the vorsnarm into the casting. She manipulated the Wisp, scattering it out to make for a rain shower. It did its job, wetting down the threads with dripping water and vorsnarm to enhance the strength of her next casting.

  As soon as Soreina was at level, Kir's own feet found a perch on the thread webbing. Using a Wind Wisp to give her spin momentum, Kir wrapped the folds of her own pantskirt, vest, sash and blades with the strongest Blazer magic she could muster. Just as she did with the Wind magic in the Saiya Mishina, Kir coaxed the Blazers to maturity as she spun. She released, sending the multiplied energy sparking outward in all directions. With a woven shield of hair, Soreina could normally disperse Elementals, but her sopping hair was scattered for the stability she needed for the web. The ribbons of Blazers hit her at maximum potency, channeled along her own threads.
The water and vorsnarm amplified the Blazer strength. Kir knew it wouldn't kill her, but the stunning would hurt.

  Soreina's body danced in crackling energy, and the lumanere around the higher chamber sparkled to life. When the Blazers had dissipated, Soreina plummeted, landing with a sickening thud on the floor. Kir slid her boots down the threads until the webbing slacked as Soreina lost consciousness. The landing from that height would have been jolting to the knees, but Kir rolled into it fluidly, thanks to the years of falling-practice that Kozias had always loved to run her through.

  Soreina stirred, just barely. Kir knew she had to move fast to retrieve the soulblade from the webbed prison the spidery kaienze had woven. She wasn't quite sure where to look. There were a few thicker clusters tangled near the back of her head, so that was probably where to start.

  “Highness, look out!” Shiriah shouted.

  Kir dodged aside blindly, narrowly avoiding Draback's blade. She had been so focused on Soreina that she hadn't been paying mind to the rest of the chaotic frenzy.

  Alokien had managed to put some distance between him and Scilio, but Soventine's body was battered, defeated. Scilio was clutching his side, dragging himself toward Alokien, and the rest of the Guardians were still engaged, pushing through fatigue, all of them decorated with too many crimson stains. Malacar rushed in to divert Draback's attention from Kir.

  Kir rolled back to Soreina, chopping at the tangled knots with the vamblade. She thrust her fingers into the mess of hair in search.

  “That's it, Kiriana,” Alokien said, trying to rummage up his charm that seemed spent from the battle with Scilio. He didn't look too good. “Fetch me my Noutercad. We have beautiful Shunatars to make together.”

  A sliver of movement behind Alokien caught Kir's eye. High Priest Galvatine had slipped into the room, trying to avoid attention. He held a soulblade in his hands. Kir didn't have time to question what he was doing there.