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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Kir pushed Vann into the wingback chair and tugged the boots from his weary feet. She disappeared for a few minutes into the bathchamber and emerged with a steaming foot tub.

  “Whew! Almost too quiet now, after all that crazy,” Kir said, kneeling. She eased his feet into the hot water and began to bathe them with a cloth.

  Vann reached to the side table. He picked up the novel and thumbed through the pages absently. “I brought you something. It's the fifth installment of The Jimaulk Sword Chronicles. I know you liked the first four. This one just came out.”

  “Mmm! I do enjoy that series. Lots of swashbuckling and hunky, chiseled warriors,” Kir bobbed her eyebrows suggestively over her lopsided grin.

  “That's your type, is it?” Vann ribbed. “Maybe Malacar is a better match for you. We should call off the wedding so you two can run away together...”

  Kir flicked droplets of water at his face. “Eww, Stick! He's my brother! We already ran away together and it just didn't work. Besides, you are my type.”

  “What? Naive, bookish and gangling?” Vann pressed.

  “Intelligent, kind-hearted and brave,” Kir corrected, dropping the banter for an honest assessment. She leaned forward, hands dripping, and kissed the tip of Vann's nose. “I wasn't able to read on the trip to Hili and I've missed it. Thank you.”

  Her honey brown hair was unbound, spilling gently over her shoulders the way Vann liked it. He slid his fingers down the smooth ends pensively, lost in a dim nothing.

  A flash assaulted his mind's eye, unbidden, a memory that was not his own. It was another hand that clutched Kir's hair, ripping her head back forcefully to expose the collar around her throat and the terror in her wild eyes...

  Vann startled and he dropped his hand to the book cover, removing the memory's trigger from his attention.

  “Rough day?”

  “No, just busy,” Vann replied self-consciously.

  “Talk to me, then,” Kir said, the vivaciousness replaced with gravity.

  Vann cleared his throat and began the routine daily update. “Beyhue reported a fresh wave of kaiyo reinforcements under Gensing's command, moving along the river from the eastern coast. He's launched a counteroffensive. We'll have a casualty report at the next briefing. Galvatine reports no unusual activity in the Prophecy chambers themselves, and the only news from the temples involves the disappearance of Westlewin's Mon-Priest, which is being investigated. Dekshars Sehlovah and Possenar will be arriving on the airferry tomorrow at dewing hour, so I need to confer with Shiriah about securing them suites here. Gevriah will be leading the welcoming party to meet them. The fifth division of the Army of Southern Havenlen is requesting—”

  Kir pressed her wet fingers to his lips. “No, Vann. I'll get my briefing later. Right now, I want to know about you.”

  “Me?” Vann blinked. “What about me?”

  Kir wiped her hands on her legs and leaned into the seat, half in his lap and half on the chair's arm. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close for a few moments. He sat awkwardly, sensing that there was something she was looking for, something she needed from him. He held her tentatively, unsure of what to say.

  Kir drew back and watched his hands slide down her arms.

  “Vann, these past two weeks I've heard reports, strategies, and even menu options from you. But not once have we actually talked. We've occupied the same bedchamber for almost a week now, but not once have we actually shared. You're back, but you're not always here,” Kir said. Her face was awash in a heartache that Vann remembered from before, when he had distanced himself from her in Empyrea. She was feeling the expanse of a chasm Vann hadn't even realized he had rent between them.

  “You're right. At first, you were so depleted, I didn't want to weaken you further. But you're getting stronger every day and I don't have a good excuse for my distance anymore. I've been mentally drained in the evenings and I retreat into my head. There's so much going on, but none of that is your fault,” Vann apologized. “Kiri, if I have made you feel unloved—”

  “No, of course not. I know all that and more. I've never questioned how you feel about me. But I think you've grown some feelings that you don't want to acknowledge. We can't tiptoe around it, Vann. The Second Wedding is happening in three days, and I can't bring myself to hang on your arm if you can't stand my hand being there. What you saw in the Prophecy chamber... I broke something for you, and I don't know how to fix it,” Kir confessed softly.

  “The Prophecy chamber? Kiri, your Kion could have killed you. I was terrified and helpless, but it doesn't change the way I feel. If anything, coming close to losing you again only reminds me of how I could never bear to,” Vann insisted.

  “I mean, about the King,” Kir corrected, almost in a whisper.

  “Soventine...”

  “I killed your father. You can never unsee my hand thrusting... It's something I've become accustomed to, these hands awash in blood. For a while I talked about his assassination, maybe even fantasized, but I never believed it would actually be me wielding the blade. I went from Crown-hater to Crown Princess to Crownslayer right before your eyes.” Kir stared at her hands, at the memory of the blood she could see coating them. Her eyes didn't glaze, but they were anguished without the need for tears. “You loved him, Vann. Even if he was a vile schemer who set about your destruction, I brutalized him in front of you and I am so sorry for that. I despise these hands, that you have to look at them and remember the atrocities they committed.”

  “Sweet Serafin, Kiri. Do not take this burden on yourself. That foul spell of Soreina's was not something you could have fought. It was not you that killed Soventine, but the kaienze,” Vann said firmly. He covered her petite hands with his own, shrouding the memory that stained them.

  Kir didn't seem like she believed him. She still stared, as though she could see right through his very flesh. “You dream, did you know? Every night. They're sleep memories, and they horrify you, Vann. You cry out to me, but not to the me here. You're screaming to the Kiri in the throes of your terrors. I think it's the murder of the King you relive over and over in your nightmares.”

  Vann inhaled deeply. She needed to know the truth. He thought he had been so good about hiding it, but it was Kir. Did he really think he could fool her?

  “Kiri, the death of Soventine's vessel has honestly been the last thing on my mind. He may have shared my blood, but the care he showed was pretended. He only loved himself. He dissolved from my heart on the moonless night when he betrayed me. Whatever punishments that traitor King endures in his eternal solitude are rightfully earned. Even if you had killed him by your own intent, I would have applauded you,” Vann said evenly.

  “Then, what you're going through... it's not about me?” Kir swallowed.

  “It is, but not in any way that is your fault. What I confess to you now is the true nature of my torment. This will be hard for you, so you have to be strong. Remember the Psychonic Bonding? Can I show you there?”

  “I'm your soulwhisper, Vann. So, whisper to mine.”

  It had been so long since they had swirled together in the embrace of the Bonding. The melding of their thoughts and emotions while they had intertwined their bodies had been the most intimate experience that Vann had ever known, but he was about to share something much darker with her there. It was not a sharing of love, but of terror.

  Vann opened his mind to Kir's, pulling her into the Psychonic link. He was two weeks removed from the warped mind games. Two weeks past the endless harassment, the unyielding visions, the constant stream of sickening images that his brother had forced him to endure. He should have been beyond the horrors of Tarnavarian's tireless attentions. But, he had been bathed in the streams of Kir's torture for too long. It was a conditioned association now. An anti-talisman. There were flashes, sometimes triggered by the most mundane of things, that brought it all back. Her flaying. Her collar. The smell of sizzling flesh. The piercing agony
of her screams. The smooth perfection of Tarnavarian's baritone.

  The comprehension filled Kir like sun through a morning garden. It surprised Vann how quickly she had grasped the root of his torment. She had lived through the same moments, and she had somehow found a way to overcome them.

  Vann followed Kir instinctively through the swirling recesses of his mind. She collected up all the points of memory, the screams, the tortures, the vulnerability. Every tiny shard that Tarnavarian had filed raw during their weeks of constant companionship in the abyss. Those moments were concentrated into a single point in Vann's mind and ushered through some manner of symbolic doorway in the depths. Kir was the turning of the key. It was a Psychonic Kionara she had charged for him.

  When they slid from the Bonding back into the empty bedchamber, Vann pulled Kir against him, soaking up her warmth. “How, Kiri? You're not a trained Psychonic, but you knew exactly what you were doing.”

  “I guess because I've done it before. Like what Scilio did in that Prophecy chamber. We mastered the moment inside your own psyche. Contracted the big hurt. Squeezed it to a small point. The door is closed, and you never have to open it again unless you want to,” Kir said, nuzzling into his neck. “Compartmentalization, done the Psychonic way. It's a coping technique I read about in the Lotus Palace Library when I was researching ways to strengthen my own mental defenses. But I prefer the good ol' Kionara.”

  Vann marveled at the woman he held, her strength and her confidence.

  “I'm such a fool. I should have confided in you,” Vann admitted, abashed. “I thought I was being strong in trying to deal with it on my own.”

  “Your troubles are no longer your own. From the moment you bound me in the Conflation, you lost the privilege of suffering in ithinary silence. Never feel you must take on a foe, or your troubles, alone. Soulwhispers share in our tribulations as well as our triumphs.” Kir smiled impishly.

  Vann chuckled at the clever recycling of Inagor's wise words.

  “We've won the Second Battle of Tarnavarian's Torment. He has no claim on us anymore. Let him rot in his miserable abyss. He and Soventine will make a happy couple. They deserve each other,” Kir continued.

  “When I was growing up, I always wanted to know them. I felt like I was missing out on something by being taken from them. But they are not my family. Malacar and Scilio are. Ulivall and every smiling body that shared our evening with us tonight. You and Inagor. That reminds me. I wanted to broach an idea. With the Second Wedding and the Ascension coming up, there's no better time for some royal statements of where my loyalties lie.”

  “What kind of a statements did you have in mind?”

  Vann sprang from the chair, surprising Kir by scooping her into his arms. The foot tub water sloshed along the rug as he carried her to the bed.

  “Well, for starters, I have a statement to make with you. It will take a while to make this one. We may be pulling an all-nighter.” Vann moved his lips along the gentle ridge of Kir's collarbone. The breath fluttered in her lungs.

  “Impacting statement,” she whispered.

  Vann found Kir's smile and pressed against it, tasting the minty reminder of her evening tea. He had kissed her a few times in recent days, but not like this. The passion that he had feared in the past week was delivered in the fire they shared between their lips.

  “So, what's the second statement?” Kir asked as she tugged the tunic over his head and ran her fingers over his chest. He had visibly thinned and it would take a lot of Corban's handiwork and weeks of training before he expected to see the meat on his bones return, as Kir called it.

  “Oh, I haven't even begun to make my statement here. But the next one we'll announce together at the Second Wedding. How do you feel about another name change?”

  “Another one? Damnation, Stick! How many names am I gonna have? Before you're through, I won't be able to remember which-who I am,” Kir teased.

  “Last time, I promise. I think you'll be happy with this one.”

  Kir smiled, taking him in with an adoration that filled the deep abyss of her ice blue eyes. “We'll see about that. In the meantime, I've been waiting a lot'a moonbeams for this statement right here. You best not keep a lady waiting any longer.”

  “As you command, Your Highness.” Vann saluted and pulled Kir into his arms.

  -61-

  A Good Day Rising

  Scilio ran his fingertips along the pages of his familiar leather journal. There was a texture he had never realized before. Ridges and valleys, of a scale so small they would only be relevant to dust mites and quills. Although he had opened the book a thousand times, he had never noticed the tenuous texture of the pages that he would have previously described with no other adjective but smooth. It wasn't that his senses were enhanced, but more that he was growing an awareness of the details he had once overlooked. It reminded Scilio of how he once would close his eyes to appreciate the subtleties in a beautiful song.

  Kir had guarded Scilio's precious journal, and she presented it back to him the day after he had awoken, in hopes he would resume his cherished occupation. He had abandoned it on the bedside table, a mute reminder of what he had lost. Now, he held it with fresh fingers as he waited for Dailan to return.

  “Okay, Shunatar. I finally found it,” Dailan wheezed through his panting as he thrust himself through the open doors onto the Camellia balcony. The boy had obviously been hustling for some distance to be so winded. “I couldn't remember where I stashed it when me and Emmi was organizing, so I had to rummage a bit.”

  “It was in Westerfold's workshop?” Scilio presumed. He slid forward in his seat at the balcony table.

  “Yeah. Got shoved behind some books about tinning and bronzing.”

  Dailan guided Scilio's waiting hand to the cylindrical object for his appreciation. It was about the size of a closed fist. A drizzle of crusty dried ink wept down the side.

  “I brung some parchment so you can test it out,” Dailan said, sliding the paper beneath Scilio's hand. “I found a good quill for it, too. You need one with the right kind of tip, so it will hold the ink, seeing's how this ink has more body than most.” The long apparatus was pressed into Scilio's writing hand.

  Scilio dipped the quill into the inkwell, with Dailan's instruction to the proper depth. The quill scratched across the parchment as Scilio began a scribbled trial.

  “I am Guardian Toma Scilio,” Dailan read aloud. “Oooh! Oooh! It puffs up as it dries! Flashy trick.”

  Scilio rubbed his fingers along the embossed ink, feeling the characters raised gently forth from the page, perhaps as mountains to a dust mite. He would be able to read his own writing now. “I believe it works. What did you call this solution?”

  “It's labeled Instant-Drying Embossing Ink. It's scribbled in Westerfold's handwriting, so I think he invented it himself. He wrote the recipe on the label—looks pretty easy. I can brew you up a stash,” Dailan said.

  “Well then, as I am situated, you should run along to prepare. Kir will want her airship officer dressed and combed well before it's time to begin the procession, and the hour is closing in,” Scilio instructed, then added, “And might I recommend a quick bath? I'm certain you have a dollop of cherry pastry to wipe off the front of your tunic, or perhaps your face. I can smell it.”

  “Oh yeah, you're right.” Dailan's lips slurped as he licked his finger clean. “Waste not, want not.”

  When the rinse-water was singing through the cracked bathchamber door and Scilio was certain Dailan was actually going about his scrubbing, he flipped through to the first vacant journal page, which Kir had marked with a bit of ribbon.

  He dipped the quill again and began to capture his thoughts.

  Day One of the Reign of King Vannisarian Arrelius and his Queen Kiriana

  It is a good day.

  We have shared a heavenly breakfast of Corban's delights upon the table of our celebrations this morn, my new Guardian tabard ador
ns my chest, and my muse sings with dulcet melody. Can I blame her, this exuberant delight of inspiration? I would commend me, too.

  There might be some manner of irony to be found in the beauty of the azure canvas that Dailan says fills these crisp Havenlen morning skies. We bards sing of stormy clouds as an omen of dark times rising and yet, the skies reported to me are vibrant and robust, like the twinkling gems Vann's eyes now are, as I have restored his soul. The sky applauds me in that imagined blueness. It reminds me of my redemption, as surely as does Vann's brimming vessel. As here I cast my gaze over this floral balcony, I cannot see the airship land docked in the street beyond, that waits to parade us to the ceremonial platform erected on Jolanock Square where we are bound at highsun hour. What I can see is the promise of shelter, the glory of victory, and the security of loyal troops around us, despite the ominous cloud of a Chaos War that looms on some distant horizon. Vannisarian Arrelius sees more. He stares at the future, a much grander vision than I could have designed. His eyes are cerulean as the sky, yet as multicolored as the rainbows that paint the clouds after a storm.

  I am undone no longer.

  It is a very, very good day.

  Epilogue

  Sandavall Xavien stood in the cabin of the idle airskiff, beaming at what his genius had wrought. The gleaming lumanere vambrace on his forearm winked in the summer Havenlen sun through the window, as though it were praising his triumph.

  Tarnavarian shifted his ankle-length red and gold royal robes about him, smoothing an imagined wrinkle that he believed to be creasing the cavernous sleeve. His thin blonde hair was slicked and sculpted to perfection. An etched golden crownpiece was pinned over the bun at the apex, the launch point for a long scarlet scarfcape that cascaded down his back. He was thinner than Xavien remembered, and although they were recovering with the help of healers, his muscles had practically withered to atrophy from the substandard care of the tombkeepers. He still blazed a fiery hunger in his piercing turquoise-blue eyes. It was a zeal for the hunt, the pursuit, the capture. A passion that ignited Xavien's own.