Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace

by H. Jane Harrington

  “I'm excited to know them,” Emmi said, and she meant it honest. “I can't believe I'll be escorting the royal party.”

  “And you thought I wasn't a Prince,” Dailan prodded. He stuck his chin out.

  Emmi sniffed, then she glanced around the wheelhouse of their airship. “And you thought I wasn't a pirate,” she shot back.

  All Dailan could do was answer with a shake of his head and a lopsided grin.

  Emmi got real thoughtful quiet. She took in the reality of where they were, and what they were doing. It looked like she had gotten a whole year older just in a minute.

  “I think I can feel my father now,” she said, reaching out her hand out to the moons like she could touch them.

  “Are you going to change your name to Emmi Westerfold, then?”

  “Maybe. But my pirate name will always be Emerald Bounty.”

  Dailan nodded. “Very good, Capper Em. Why don't you go get some shut-eye. You only got a few hours of napping here and there over the last week. We're going to be in the air for a while.”

  Emmi looked like she was about to pop a vein. “And let you have all the fun? Keh! Move over there, youngling. I'll show you how real flying is done.”

  She shoved him aside. He let her take the helm. When Dailan looked over the railing at the ground that fell away, he realized that the view from their rooftop home had seemed royal at the time, but it couldn't even compare to what he was seeing now.

  They set their sights on Hili, and Dailan had never felt more like a king. Or at least, a very, very important prince.

  -43-

  Prophetic Tumble through the Folds of Reality

  The last reunion of House Scilio went about as expected. Try placing twelve siblings, along with their respective spouses and cranky children, into a stuffy parlor room all at once with the matron of the manor. It was surely Alokien's Delight. I do adore

  my pampering siblings, but they are best kept at a healthy distance. Like the bitter Weedslore wine, they are so much easier to love when taken in small doses.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Toma Scilio, Master Bard

  The burgundy pinprick of light droned steadily on through the ages, like a beacon of hope for the lost ship. It was the one fixed reality in Vann's awareness. The one thing that kept him rooted in sanity. Long ago, Kir had used Mirhana as her fixed point, the anchor to her shore. This light had come to serve the same purpose in Vann's mind. It was the physical representation of his affianced, in a world where no other physical reality existed. It was his talisman, and it was Kir. He knew that now. Perhaps he was sensing the other side of the soulwhisper that connected them across the span.

  Vann focused on the talisman, trying to close the gap. If he'd had arms, they would have been reaching out. It was a futile stretch of infinity between them. At least the focus allowed Vann the ability to disconnect himself from Tarnavarian. It was a sort of barrier. By absorbing himself in fixation on the talisman, he could block the torment. For the first time in ages, Vann was free of his brother.

  Tarnavarian was a warped soul. How many years had Vann pined for this opportunity? How many nights had he spent wishing for his brother's company? If only he had known. Then again, perhaps it was a blessing that he never did. Ignorant fantasy seemed preferable to terrible reality. The unyielding march of time (or absence of it, rather) in this nothingness, and Tarnavarian's incessant boasting, had given Vann an insight into the way his brother thought. Thank Karanni that Tarnavarian had never Ascended. The kingdom would have trembled at his psychotic knees. Vann almost wondered if he, himself, would someday end up as twisted. If they truly were to be trapped here for eternity, what kind of spirit was he to become?

  He had no idea how much time had gone by for Kir and the Guardians. He was not about to break his silence and ask. At some point, the steady, unyielding burgundy talisman that suspended in his awareness seemed to change. The light had grown an awareness of its own.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?” Vann called to it, expecting no more answer than it had given in the last so-long.

  “Stick? Is that you?” The mellifluous voice that Vann had so yearned to hear was chiming before him, blazing through his existence like warm sunshine through a dungeon.

  Vann knew that emotion was a chemical thing; it was the mingling of a body's substances to create feelings. He also knew there was more to it, some deeper, inexplicable complexity. Love could not be quantified or measured. It was an emotion not of the body, but rather, a resonance of the soul. He didn't need a corporeal form to feel it well throughout his being.

  “Kiri?”

  “I can't see you,” Kir's voice trickled weakly through the pinprick, as though it were filtering through the hole in a barrel.

  “I'm right here, Kiri. I'm holding you in spirit,” Vann managed. If he'd had eyes, they would have been weeping. “How are you here?”

  “I've been trying to dream of you. All I've been able to muster up is the stuff of nightmares. It's about time I conjured a good one,” Kir smiled through the words, drowsy and wispy though they were.

  “This is no dream,” Vann insisted. “I don't know how, but you've managed to cross the threshold.”

  Without words, Vann could almost sense the bafflement that tainted Kir's veiled awareness. “I'm not dreaming?”

  “No. Whatever this may seem, I can assure you, it is real.”

  “Vann?” There was a practical fear that spiked in the tone, replacing the whimsy. “It's really you? I don't understand. We thought you wouldn't be awake—that you'd have no conscious perception.”

  “I've been completely aware since the moonless night and the cave. I can't feel anything of my body, but I promise you my intellect is intact.”

  The light seemed to envelope Vann in a warmth that could only be described as a dimensional embrace.

  “I've been trying to reach you for so long,” Kir's voice wept, in apology mingled with joy. “We're all fighting for you. I promise we'll figure it out and rope you back. It won't be long now and I'll have the answers.”

  “The thought of you has sustained me,” Vann answered. “It's the only thing keeping me from melting into oblivion.”

  “Just hold on a mite longer,” Kir urged, with renewed vigor and confidence. “Alokien ain't whooped us yet. I don't plan on bending over to his spankin'.”

  “I could not have imagined so ungainly a decent, from jewel of the kingdom to vulgar fishwife, Kiriana dear. How delightful,” Tarnavarian beamed.

  Vann had not realized the conversation was anything but private. Kir hadn't either, and she stuttered, “T—Tar—Tarna—?”

  “-varian. The same,” Tarnavarian finished, like a child with a new plaything. “I had hoped you would embrace your fall with grace and take your own life upon the blade of my gift. The poet in me finds this outcome to be much more satisfying. You stretched your own precious torment far beyond what I could have designed for you, Princess. Tell me, how long did you scrounge out your living from the pisspots and alleyways? By that atrocious vernacular, it must have been years.”

  “Vann? I don't... What is...” Kir's flustered, timid essence trembled and fluttered like the fragile wings of a butterfly through a gale. Suddenly, she remembered herself, and some solidifying of resolve firmed her words. They can roaring forth with the armor of Kionara. “Tarnavarian. If this is where you've been rotting for the past year, seems heaps worse than what I'd hoped for you. I wish you many dismal eternities.”

  “My cherished memories have kept well my company. Our honeymoon in my Root Chambers have been my favorites. Care to traipse down memory lane with me, darling?” Tarnavarian returned, dripping delectation from the chime in his tone.

  “Don't bother trying to intimidate me. That frightened little flower was nipped long ago, and what grew back is made of a stuff so solid, it can't be hedged by the likes of you,” Kir scoffed.

  “Are you here for conjugal visits, or merely for our
entertainment? They seem one and the same to us,” Tarnavarian almost laughed. “One need not bear legs to truly dance.”

  Vann was about to protest the disgusting suggestion, when Soventine interrupted his thought. “You never answered the question before, Kiriana. How are you here?”

  “Grand Maj—Soventine,” Kir said. There was more surprise in her voice that she failed at covering. “Got a regular family reunion going on in here, don't we? I don't know how I found a path. I fell asleep focusing on Palinora's soulwhisper, but I do that every night. I don't see what's different about this one. Where is here, anyway?”

  “We're in some manner of dimensional rift, Kiri. It's like a layer between the worlds, where we're stuck,” Vann said. “I think the only way to open a window is through Prophetic channels. Master Prophet Farning told me that without being in a holy chamber keep, you either have to hold yourself at the brink of death in a Prophetic trance, or you can use some rare Arcadian substance that simulates the conditions.”

  “Cashnettar,” Kir confirmed. “It was in the unity pipe I smoked with General Beyhue last night. But lots of Prophets use cashnettar. Have any of them made contact with you?”

  Vann tried to shake his head, forgetting that he no longer had access to bodily movement. It was an old habit that was hard to kill. “No. We've been completely isolated until now. Until you. I believe it's the soulwhisper. It's acting as a conduit, directing you to me. I can sense the opposite end of the path. It's been a steady presence in my awareness since I got here.”

  “I've been taking good care of your affianced, Kiriana. Never fear for him. It is the duty of an elder brother to educate his sibling. I pride myself in tutorship. As a former pupil, you know best how creative my methods can be,” Tarnavarian interrupted, for the admiration of his own wicked voice and for the call of attention that was no longer on him.

  Vann could almost imagine Kir roll her eyes. Tarnavarian had long represented a weakness in Kir. His tortures had been a year-long process of domination and terror, but she had no more fear of him now than she feared the threat of a paper cut. He was a conquered foe, long past relevance.

  “I know Vann better than that. He's got a wall of strength around him that can't be chipped down by the pathetic chisel of your insignificant words, Tarnavarian. Whatever torments you've been about, Vann is hardier than. He's got me as his talisman, and he's got an entire united island standing behind him. But you? Nobody cares a lick about you. When you went out, the kingdom's mourning was a flat out ruckus of jubilation, and you've been cast aside in favor of the better prince. In another year, nobody will even remember your name. Go play in the corner, you paltry, forgotten icon.”

  Vann could only imagine how long Kir had wanted to challenge Tarnavarian. When he had first met her in the Hatchel forest she was bent on vengeance, fixated on the goal of being Tarnavarian's assassin. She had moved so far past his torments now that she regarded him as little more than an annoying fly upon her table. Somehow, that knowledge renewed the foundation of Vann's wall. Kir's confidence bolstered his own. It no longer mattered how long he would be forced to abide his psychotic brother's horrors and warped ego. He could stand the ages with the backbone of Kir's tenacity.

  “If ever I walk free in the world, you will come rue those words,” Tarnavarian seethed.

  “If ever you walk free in the world, you'll see how true they are first,” Kir returned.

  “Just wait, Kiriana. Your precious soulwhisper will see how insignificant I really am. If Vannisarian thinks I've been sinister before, he will come to know the full extent of my genius. You'd best hurry yourself along in his deliverance. Or there may be nothing left of your affianced's frayed soul by the time you arrive to save his day,” Tarnavarian promised, with the cold calculation of one about to commit murder.

  Kir seemed like she was about to answer with another kind of promise, but her essence suddenly felt apprehensive and distracted. “It's slipping... Vann! The connection. It's fading away. I can't hold it anymore!”

  “Kiri!”

  “You bear him, Vannisarian,” Kir commanded with the last tether she could muster. “Kionara and keep your sword up. I'm hellbent for soulroping. Don't let him taint you. I'll be there directly, I promi...”

  As Kir's voice trailed away, the burgundy soulwhisper light dimmed with it.

  “It's always delightful when Ladies drop in for tea time,” Tarnavarian said. He was smiling through the words, but not in mirth. It was a malicious delight that tinted the sarcasm.

  Vann swallowed hard with the throat he did not have. All the layers of all the Hells seemed like a holiday compared to the trials he imagined Tarnavarian had in store for him.

  * * *

  Kir awoke from her Prophetic tumble with a jolt that ejected her from the bedroll like it had gone up in sitter-singeing flames. Time was suddenly of the essence. Vann was at Tarnavarian's mercy, with the promise of devilment laid before him. There was no room to dawdle.

  “What is it?” Lili was at Kir's side instantly. They all slept with one eye open these days, so it was no surprise that the abrupt bedroll launch had woken Lili easily.

  “Get saddle-ready. Only what you need on the road. We travel fast and light.”

  Lili did not waste time in arguing, and they were dressed in minutes.

  “Wake Inagor and report to the stable,” Kir commanded.

  “What do I tell him when he asks?”

  “Tell him we're going after Vann.”

  Inagor and Lili were not the only two that entered the stable as Kir, Copellian and Melia readied the horses. They were followed by Malacar, Ulivall, Gevriah and Ithinar Steel.

  “The cashnettar in the unity pipe I smoked last night allowed me to play around with my Prophetics,” Kir summarized without breaking from Sorrha's saddling. “I made contact with Vann through the soulwhisper. He's been awake this whole time, trapped in some void of a rift.”

  “He's been aware and alone? Prisoners segregated for extended periods in the cloister-clink often end up with issues that take months of Psychonic treatment to work through,” Inagor noted gravely, throwing a saddle blanket onto the back of his own mount. “How is he holding up?”

  “He's not alone. By Karanni, I wish he was, 'cause who he's got with him is heaps worse than any ithinary prison,” Kir said, trying to mask her unease.

  “Soventine is there?” Ulivall reasoned.

  “And Tarnavarian,” Kir reported grimly. “I can't leave him in the clutches of that monster. I shot my mouth off and stirred the hornet's nest. Vann will probably be taking the brunt of the sting. He's bearing it, but I know what Tarnavarian is capable of when it comes to warping a soul. Every day they're together is one more day closer to him cracking through Vann's barrier. That's why I can't delay any longer. We're close enough to Fort Ellesainia. Farning's waiting there. I'm going on ahead with Lili and Inagor. You bring up the rear and get the convoy down there double-time. Push through the drencher if you have to.”

  Malacar shifted on his feet. “I'll come with you.”

  “I need you covering Lyndal. His Guardian is expected to be at Vann's side,” Kir apologized. “I know it's not an ideal situation, but—”

  “Highness! Urgent summons from General Beyhue,” a sergeant reported from the stable doorway.

  “Get our mounts road ready, Mel,” Kir commanded. She bound through the door after the sergeant, with the rest of them hot on her heels.

  Beyhue wasted no time in thrusting a messenger scrollboard into Kir's hand the minute she entered his headquarters. “Scouts just reported in. Kaiyo swarms, fresh from Arcadia, on the move along the Hili border from both the east and west. They're following the rivers and will be at Fort Ellesainia by midday at present speed. When they close that gap, we'll be cut off. To make the fort before they do, we have to move the convoy now. I've sent word to Jorrhen for reinforcements and all outer garrisons have been mustered to our aid.”

  �
��Then it's begun,” Kir said hollowly. “Let's get a move on. Pray we can make it in time.”

  -44-

  Pawns in Motion

  The Keepers are creatures of their convictions, but said convictions are often malleable when used to justify their hypocrisy. As is often the case with zealots, they will break their own rules to win the game.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  The reward poster, nailed to every public board across White Tower, said it was a rescue objective. Keeper Blackhood knew better. The Crown Prince hadn't been kidnapped. He was on the run. The Chaos Bringer had likely been born in the prince on the moonless night, and the King now sought him out, to emancipate the evil from the boy's tainted, unconscious vessel. It all made sense, even the timing.

  Soventine had been a fool from the beginning; he should have sacrificed the boy before the Queen fled with him all those years ago. This was only damage control. The King was now relying on bounty hunters to catch the Chaos Bringer, before his wrath would be unleashed upon the kingdom. Blackhood shuddered to his bones to think of the Chaos Bringer's might. The prophecy had come to pass, which meant that the Keepers had ultimately failed. That was the hardest reality to swallow.

  The Chaos Bringer was an affront to everything the Keepers of Magic stood for. They had been secretly working with the priesthood for over a decade to bring him down. Too many of Blackhood's cohorts had died in the battles of Kion Rising and Gander's Vale. After Soventine declared open war against the Keepers, the remnants of their order had been scattered across the isles, hiding their cloaks from the eyes of bounty hunters looking to make a thousand per head at the collection stations. In truth, Blackhood could not fault the King for acting on the intelligence he had before him (he probably would have done the same, were he walking in the King's boots). Every fresh cloak that swung from the beams at the White Tower garrison reminded Blackhood how precarious his situation was. His job had never been more important.