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

by H. Jane Harrington

  Scilio cleared his throat and quelled the enthusiasm. Dailan was correct—this was not the proper outlet for his light to shine through. It had been the first time in a good while that fate had granted cause for celebration. The magnetism of merriment had been too attractive to quell. “You're right. We'll talk more when we get home.”

  Dailan moved to collect Vann while Scilio began disassembling his station. It took only a few minutes and they were on their way back to the rented room above the tavern.

  “Was our mute brother granted anything in the way of alms today?” Scilio asked discreetly as they walked.

  “A few centinars and a dirty crepe wrapper.” Dailan shrugged. “But that don't matter, 'cause I did well enough for both of us. Hit up a mechanology convention. It sounds like you done good, too.”

  “Very well. We'll be able to catch up our rent.”

  When they arrived at their room, Scilio was dismayed to find the door jammed. He threw a shoulder against it. Alas, it would not budge.

  A muffled voice bellowed from inside, heated in its barking. The door flew open and a man filled the frame. He stank of smoke, tobacco, fishy rot, and the odor of a body uncleansed for perhaps decades. “How come's you banging on my door?” the disgruntled man asked.

  “Pardon me,” Scilio said, taken aback. He double-checked the door number for confirmation. It was, indeed, his own. “There's been some mistake. This is my room.”

  “No mistake. This is my room, bought and paid for,” the man argued.

  “Now see here—” Scilio began.

  “There you are,” a voice boomed from the far hall. It belonged to the tavernmaster.

  “Excellent timing!” Scilio called. “It appears this gentleman has confused his numerals. He has taken up residence in our quarters. Would you please set him straight?”

  “Ain't him to be setting,” the tavernmaster grumbled. “You're behind in rent. So you're evicted, see?”

  “Evicted? A premature action,” Scilio argued. “I have the funds to pay the arrears, and an advance on next week, as well.” He held up the purse and jingled it.

  The tavernmaster swiped the pouch and counted the lorans on the string. “You're caught up now, but there's no more vacancy and no more tolerance for the likes of you. I only let to those what can pay in timely fashions. Be gone with you.”

  Scilio reached for the lorans in the man's hand. “If you will not allow our occupancy for the coming week, kindly return the funds that would have prepaid those days. You are in our debt, as you hold more funds than you are rightfully due.”

  The tavernmaster snorted. “In your debt? You thieving rat! You done stoled a bed sheet, a side table and some cushions. And don't you be saying otherwise, 'cause you're all holding the evidence, plain as day. This extra is payment for my having to replace that what you stoled. Now get out of my inn and leave this good gentleman to the comforts of his room. Or do I have to call the authora-ties?”

  Scilio was about to argue further, but Dailan persuaded him toward the stairs. “C'mon, Tosh. This room was a dungheap anyway.”

  “How dare he suggest the grimy possessions we borrowed are worth a week of rent?” Scilio protested. “No, I shall summon the law-arms myself. Let them see just what kind of dishonest establishment is being run here!”

  A thick hand closed around Scilio's tunic from behind and tossed him down the stairs. Time seemed to blur as each step found a tender new point to assault. The table he carried bounced and flipped its way alongside. Scilio could hear the clattering of his Guardian sword's scabbard, which was strapped to his back and now seemed to be catching him up on every step.

  By the time Scilio landed in a heap at the base, the burly guard (or tavernarm, to which he was oft referred), had already made his way down. He hauled Scilio up and hustled him toward the backdoor. There were moments lost in the dizzying struggle, but in his subsequent awareness, Scilio was planted face-first into the dust and dung of the tavern's back alley. The hilt of the Guardian sword banged sharply against his already-tender cranium. The table arced overhead. It slammed against the far wall, the impact amputating it of a leg. Dailan and Vann were not far behind, and they were shoved forcefully to the companionship of the dirt, as well.

  “Next time I see your purty faces, they won't be so purty no more,” the tavernarm said, accenting his words with spittle that sprayed from his lips. He pulled a long dagger from a hidden scabbard at his back and commenced to scraping the blade under his thumbnail. It was certainly a cleaning that the black dirt only ever realized in such gestures of menacing intimidation.

  “We're gone,” Dailan assured the tavernarm as he adjusted Kir's shortsword at his hip and urged Vann up. He shoved the cushions and bed sheet into Vann's arms, then tugged Scilio upright and collected the broken table.

  The tender points that had strained and banged on the ineloquent tumble down the stairs protested, but nothing seemed broken. Scilio mastered the moment in a mental charge of Kionara. He shook the haze from his eyes and blinked, then followed Dailan and Vann down the alley. His steadying hand braced the wall as he went. He did not turn to look back, to lament the loss of their temporary abode.

  It was not much of a home, but it had been a shelter from the darkness. Now the only cover they would find would be in the light of the twin moons, under the disapproving gazes of Bedorior and Bejaria, on the unforgiving midnight streets of White Tower.

  -8-

  On the Railing by Confession

  But nine days have passed since our merry band was gifted with the vambrace of another, in the welcome form of Guardian Denian Malacar. Our new colleague is adept as a leader, formidable with the blade, and a shining example of the warrior class. The trouble lies in tension.

  If Guardianship truly a brotherhood is, Kir and Malacar verily embody the sibling rivalry one might expect among petulant ten-year- olds. Their remarkable skills in combat may prove a powerful force on the field, should they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, though I do fear they may

  end up murdering each other long before an angry cloak makes another attempt. Their

  varied battle styles notwithstanding, they are the same: likewise graced with oxen wills,

  the desire for control, and the darkness of an unspoken cloud that hangs over their mutual pasts. Whatever secret binds them in blood and bitterness over the memory of the Balinor fields,

  they must overcome it together, or it will surely bury them together.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  A hopeful attempt at another pass to Kestih was quickly dashed. The nessertaum was waiting for them, patrolling the shores like he expected them to try again. He chased the ship past Sandbridge, eager to show off his kaiyo-strength. That left nowhere to go but north. Kir wondered how many boats were about to meet their match. There was no way to warn them off.

  The nessertaum chased the galleon much farther than they had anticipated. Sandbridge was now out of the question, and they couldn't make landfall in the middlings of Aquiline for the high cliffs that ran the coast for leagues, effectively bisecting the island. They were forced to press on and find the closest port at Talon Hook. When Malacar suggested rounding the northern tip of Aquiline to approach Hili from the east, Ulivall explained that the ocean kaiyo on that side of the island were even more populous than they were in the straight between Arcadia and Aquiline. The Royal Navy didn't even venture there. They'd be faced with the same problem they had now: territorial nessertaums and other kaiyo that were prone to chase and smash up anything trying to pass. No ships had attempted docking on southeastern Aquiline shores in many years. The southern Aquilinian waters were cut off for now, until the Navy could address the problem.

  Talon Hook was the closest harbor, the place Ulivall settled on making port. Eagle Beach, which lay well up the coast, was a popular destination for tourists from all over Septauria. The white sands sparkled with flecks of lumanere, washed ashore by the heavy curren
ts of the Empyrean falls. Tiny glass bottles filled with Eagle Beach sands were a fancied trinket for vacationers, and many people placed candles behind them to project the brilliant shine of the lumanere flecks. The sands of Talon Hook were not as impressive as their northerly cousin, but they sparkled slightly, too. Kir could see them winking in the distance, just beyond the last cliffs of the Arshenholm range. They didn't seem to wink with a smile, but with warning.

  Kir was beginning to second-guess her decision to retreat. Now they were left with no easy path to Hili. How could they transport almost four-hundred bodies safely across the entire island? Waiting for the navy to open the straight wasn't an option—they didn't exactly want to be noticed by a force that was probably on royal orders to intercept them. Ulivall had sent an eagle to his troops in Hilihar, but they were still on their own until the rendezvous could bring them what they needed to support a traveling caravan, and that would take weeks.

  If only Vann and Scilio were there. They were fantastic strategists and would certainly know what to do. Kir was just a warrior—not trained to think but to act. To follow orders. The wormy uncertainty began to creep in and solidify as insecurity. What good was Kir's title now? It didn't buy them an easy way out of this situation. In the journey across southern Cornia, they at least had the Karmine horses. Crossing Aquiline would not be as easy.

  The cabin timepiece marked the waning hour. Since the sun was dipping beyond the western horizon, Ulivall recommended waiting until morning to disembark. To save the dock fee, they anchored in the antsy waters off the harbor. As they shared a quiet evening meal, there was an odd feeling hanging on the air—an impatient excitement, rimmed with anxiety and muted disappointment. They had been on the cusp of a new life, looking through the long, dark tunnel at the light within reach, only to find it had been a flickering candle. Kir understood within an inch of her sanity, but she plastered on an encouraging smile as a model for the group. They would internalize her obvious mood. She needed them in good spirits, if only to bolster her own.

  When the caravan began to settle into their berths for the night, Kir bid her partings and made for the weather deck. Avalir had first watch. He saluted as she passed. The poop deck was empty and silent, so Kir found a seat on the flat rail board. Her feet dangled over the rail. The twin moons sprayed their sparkles over the choppy waters off the bow. Kir paid it no mind. Her eyes were fixed on the dagger in her hands. The scabbard was embossed with the Arrelius family crest. It had been Inagor's; it belonged in the Guardian vault under Kir's bed in the Brace. She had not been back to High Empyrea, and the dagger had found a temporary home strapped to her leg. She wondered if she'd ever see the crystal lotus palace again.

  Alokien had certainly returned to Empyrea by now. Going anywhere near would be walking herself right into the foul God's hands. He wanted Kir to provide him with a Shunatar child that one day would house his soul. He could walk the world as a King eternally, taking a new body each generation from the Shunatars he would make with his Karanni-marked queen. No, it was unlikely that Kir would ever see the magnificent Empyrean island again. They could not go back.

  Kir's slender fingers slid along the ridges of the Arrelius family crest on the scabbard. “Hails and salutes there, Guardian Arrelius. It's been a long while since I've paid you a jawbone. I used to come looking to you for guidance and strength, back in Empyrea when I thought my path was like yours. After Vann bound me in the Conflation, seemed like your job was done. Fact is, I've never needed you more.

  “The world's about to fall to chaos. I'm the only legitimate Karanni-marked ruler this kingdom has, and the trouble is, the kingdom doesn't even know any of it. Vann's gone to the winds. Tarnavarian may actually be alive in his tomb. We've got a journey ahead of us that's going to take weeks longer than I'd planned. There's a rogue God gone astray, planted in the King's body, and he's out for us. We're standing alone. I'm standing alone...”

  Kir rubbed her thumb over the lumanere Karanni seal pendant.

  “And I thought a vambrace was heavy. This Karanni stone has a weight of its own kind. When we were hightailing it across Cornia, there wasn't time to think on it, but I've had over two weeks of thinking in that cabin. I have no clue where to go. It's all an act. I'm not confident. Not a real Queen. Not even a half-decent leader. I wear a good mask and talk a good talk, but it's just pretending. How I can be a good anything when I don't even know how to be a good something? Everyone is looking to me, and all I can do is look to you.”

  The waters were uneven against the hull, but still quiet. They were under no more obligation to answer than Inagor was. Kir's thumb trailed her neck, following the invisible path that once was the Balinor scar. It was gone to oblivion, along with whatever security she once found in the strength of Ithinar.

  “I've been trying to figure out who I am now. Recreating myself over and over. Kir Ithinar was a different person than Kiriana Karmine, and I prided myself that Guardian Valoria was a blending of the best of 'em both. Just when I was starting to get a feel for my new identity, Vann added a whole new dimension and I have no idea how to be Kiriana Ellesainia. He got so good at walking the Vannisarian role in Empyrea, I was learning from his example. But he's gone now and I just don't know how to be without him. The only flower I am is the one that he planted. Now I'm withering up without him to water me and prune back my rough edges. I miss him something awful, but even more, I miss the person he makes me. I miss the better Kir.”

  She sensed, more than heard, the lumbering person that had been standing behind. Her warrior's skills had been honed on the sharp whips of Kozias' switch and tongue. It was a rare body that could sneak up on her now. Kir knew this particular body belonged to Malacar, though she wasn't quite sure how she knew it. He was standing a few feet behind her, probably eavesdropping.

  Kir had always been accused of habitual lunacy. She wasn't one to argue the assertion. There was probably an ounce or two of crazy in her, and talking to herself would lend to that image. Since Malacar was listening in to her long string of confession, she could find a way to slip in apologies without tripping on her tender stubborn streak that forbade any outward gushy-mush. Kir still didn't feel like she was in the wrong, but softening the sting of her words would be easier if she didn't have to do it to his face.

  “And then there's Lunchbox. I fired off my mouth cannon at Malacar's hull and now his maditude is spilling out. I'm just no good with situations I can't control. The whole of my world right now is a situation like that, so all I can do is focus on what I can. Getting the Karmine libertines to Hili and getting answers from Farning. Those things are in my power. But the whole rest of it? Just because I'm raising my fighting fists to a God doesn't mean I have to go raising 'em to them that care about me, too. Them that only want to help me, even if it smothers the life right out of my ability to control anything beyond what style braids I'm gonna wear today. Lunchbox was only doing his best to protect me. I don't fault him for it. I just have this habit of bearing claws and fangs. I'll do better to keep them sheathed in the future. I hope Denian knows all that.”

  “He knows,” Malacar's deep voice came from the exact spot Kir had pegged him to be.

  She half-turned her head, feigning surprise. “Oh. Lunchbox. Didn't hear you.”

  Malacar sniffed like he didn't believe her, but he didn't argue either. He sidled her and leaned his forearms on the rail. “Talking to yourself?”

  “No. Inagor, on the actuallies.”

  He studied her sharply from the corner of his eye, then his gaze fell to the dagger. The concern in his face did not ease. “You're talking to Guardian Arrelius?”

  “Don't worry. I'm not losing what's left of my sanity. Probably never had any to begin with...” Kir tried for a chuckle.

  Malacar didn't join her. He scrutinized her very darkly. It dawned on Kir that Malacar had always taken notions of her sanity very seriously. When she had been pummeled by her guilt over Balinor. When he had believed her t
o be seeing phantoms in the Arshenholm Valley that turned out to be Xavien. When she had been plagued by Xavien's grisly nightmares. Even when Scilio had once joked of her penchant for craziness. Each time, Malacar had responded with deep concern, almost outright fear, at the prospect of her picking cuckooberries. Was she that close to the brink of lunacy in his mind?

  “I'm not really talking to him. No more than the living really talk to the grave,” Kir assured him. She handed over the dagger and explained how she had used Inagor as a talisman of sorts, to bolster her strength in Empyrea.

  “I can understand taking Inagor as a role model. But his dagger? Why do you need to talk to it?”

  Kir took the dagger back and patted the scabbard. “I don't have a journal like Scilio and Vann. This is my outlet. Even if he doesn't hear me, it's nice to pretend that he might. Confession is easier to one who doesn't judge or condemn or argue back.”

  Malacar nodded silently and exhaled a lengthy breath. “I understand that. Probably better than you could imagine.” It was a while before he spoke again. “I am concerned about this trip, Kir. Ulivall and I have been discussing it. We both agree it would be safer to escort you and the decoy ahead of the party. A large group moves slowly. We can travel much faster if we leave them behind.”

  “You better be kidding,” Kir warned.

  “It's not the Karmines and Hilians that Alokien wants. We don't know if General Farraday plans to betray you. If he orders troops to pursue and Lyndal is captured, they will know Vann is not with us. And Alokien will have you.”

  “Farraday wants power bad enough, but he wants my bed just as much. I'd like to believe my bargain will hold him to his word,” Kir said.

  Kir had taken a bold risk to gain Farraday's allegiance. She was going all in on what amounted to a hunch. Farraday was an honorable man, enough that his duty would bind him to his sovereign, but Kir's assurance that the Chaos Bringer had been born in Soventine, that their King was no longer their King, had gotten his attention. Kir's promise of power in one outcome, or a place on her arm in another, had tipped the hand in her favor and won the High General's loyalties. Or, at least his word. Kir was pretty sure his honor would prevent him from breaking a blood pact, but then, there was a throne and a kingdom at stake. The prospect of power could drive men to all sorts of means to achieve it. Might Farraday abandon his honor to betray her to the side he viewed as the winning one? He was supposed to be walking with Alokien now, privy to plans and schemes, all the while working behind the scenes for Vann's benefit. Farraday didn't know that Vann was not with the caravan. If he did plan to betray them, at least Alokien would not have that piece of intelligence.