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

by H. Jane Harrington

  “Who are you?”

  The burning hazel eyes pierced as he opened his mouth. “I am Inagor Arrelius. The Vambrace of Vengeance.”

  “Keh! That sounds like a ridiculous character in a child's storybook,” Kir scoffed. “Who are you, really?”

  “I am the Guardian that yielded the life of my Queen to your protection. I am the Guardian that you failed.”

  Kir's breath stuttered in her chest. How would he have known about that? On the airferry, Inagor had commanded Kir to guard Palinora in his stead. Palinora had died in her arms, the product of Kir's failure in that request. She had suspected this Inagor was a manifestation of guilt. Could guilt come back in physical form, like in the myths of old?

  The warrior struck fast with the rigid whip when he registered Kir's doubt and hesitation. Had it been a broadsword, the artful move would have counted as an Arrelius Front, the signature strike that Inagor had designed. Kir had never been able to counter it in their spars. She didn't think anyone in the whole of the kingdom had, either. The whirling dodge was too slow. Just as the whip's rigid length struck, scorching a path from Kir's left collarbone to bicep, the reality did, too. This was not a manifestation. It was not a ghost. It was not someone masquerading under an alterlet.

  This man really was Inagor Arrelius, in the flesh and hate.

  Kir rolled away, clutching the burning trail across her collarbone. “How? How can it be you? You died aboard that airferry, Guardian Arrelius. You died!”

  “And was reborn. As have you been, times over,” Inagor said in his familiar voice that washed Kir's eyes in love and regret.

  “If you survived, why didn't you come for us? We were overrun and Palinora...” Kir gestured to the false vambrace of scars that embossed Inagor's skin. “She needed her Guardian. Why didn't you come?”

  “I was already dead,” Inagor replied coldly. “In the aftermath, I was remade.”

  Kir knew he was right. The barbaric trophies he wore around his neck, the warpaint, the ghastly vambrace of scars. If there was anyone who bore affliction of the mind, it was this dark shadow of a fallen Guardian.

  “Come with me now,” Kir pleaded. “This... this thing you've become. It's not you. Bertrand is here. He can help!”

  “To put me down in mercy?” Inagor said without a trace of emotion, imitating Kir's earlier notion to Malacar. “To kill whatever insanity you think you see in me.”

  Salty regret welled up, clouding Kir's vision. “To make you whole again.”

  “What made me whole is dead. I will avenge her. I will wear your heart as a pendant, in exchange for hers,” Inagor snarled.

  He launched a forward assault. Kir could not commit herself to anything but defense. She parried and dodged, unable to bring herself to attack. She didn't have any call to. She had failed in her duty, just as Inagor had charged. It was his warrior's right to issue challenge. Kir had shoved the guilt and responsibility for Palinora's death to the pit of her gut for Vann's sake. By ignoring it, she was able to focus fully on her Guardianship duties without distraction. She was no longer a Guardian, and she could no longer avoid it. It was time to pay up. Maybe it was the vorsnarm amplifying Kir's yearning for sweet penance, but even so, it was Inagor's right to demand retribution.

  When his whip repelled the broadsword in Kir's hands again, Inagor pulled into a high stance, ready to launch a fresh strike.

  Kir sank to her knees, opening her arms in welcome. The rain pattered on her face and streamed down her cheeks like tears. “If my heart will unburden my failure and avenge her soul, then take it. And we can all be at peace.”

  Inagor stood motionless, calculating.

  Kir thrust her essence into the soulwhisper, hoping Vann could hear her apology. She would be unable to rescue him now, but at least Malacar, Scilio and Ithinar Steel would pick up the quest where she had dropped it. She only wished her absolution could have been postponed until she could see Vann's smiling face one last time.

  As if by reprimand, the feelings she had offered the soulwhisper were abruptly rejected. It was not by Vann's spirit. It felt more like Palinora's. Kir couldn't hear it in words, but a stream of feelings washed over her in the buttercream hue of Palinora's aura. It seemed to say, You would serve me better by choosing to live for me, instead. It felt familiar and old, as though the meaning of the words Vann had offered before were rooted deep. If Palinora's soulprint had remained in the soulwhisper, it was sending Kir a message that was received loud and clear. Whatever desire for penance and absolution the vorsnarm had bloomed was flushed clean away.

  Inagor walked toward her, ready to accept the offer. Kir rescinded it with a cry.

  “To arms!” she screamed out at the top of her lungs, trying to beat out the loud droning of the rain. She picked herself up and raced for the edge of the forest, commanding sentries and troops to her aid.

  A quick glance behind showed Inagor on the back of the kaiyo he had brought. They crashed through the underbrush and disappeared into the denser woods.

  Amari and Rendack were the first of the Ithinar Steel warriors to arrive at Kir's side. She directed them Inagor's way, hoping the rain would not hinder the tracking. If they could capture him, they could help him. “We fought just through there. He skinned out, but his tracks are fresh.”

  They bolted for the area she had indicated as the entire camp went into full alarm. Ulivall led Kir to the side of the supply wagon for cover and Malacar appeared from somewhere. He pushed through the crowd of bodies to her side frantically.

  “What happened?”

  “It was Inagor,” Kir reported boldly, ignoring the flustered exchanges between the men. Her sopping clothes clung like a second skin. Kir wiped the wet strands of hair from her forehead.

  Malacar's face drained of color, as though his suspicions were being confirmed.

  “I fought him,” Kir said urgently, before he could argue. “Bertrand is going to find traces of vorsnarm in my system again but it wasn't from the kaiyo pits. Inagor wears a pouch around his neck that's soaked in the stuff. He was using it to rouse up fear before. This time I was raring for a fight, so the anger and battle-lust were enhanced, instead. We faced off and scuffled it up.”

  “Why would Guardian Arrelius want to fight you, Kir?” Ulivall asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the incredulity from his voice.

  “Because he wants vengeance for Palinora's death. He told me so. He survived the crash somehow, but his mind is addlepated. Maybe he's been living in the wilds with kaiyo for so long that it affected him.”

  “Living with kaiyo?” Borloh asked skeptically.

  “I don't know for sure. He had a saddled one that he rode like a horse,” Kir insisted to the disbelieving warriors.

  Everyone stared like Kir was off her rocker. Malacar's eyes were closed and his head hung despondently.

  “Kir, you've been hallucinating again,” Ulivall said firmly. He glanced at Malacar in silent acknowledgment. They obviously had just been talking.

  Ulivall's hand reached out in support. Kir ducked away quickly. She pulled down the collar of her clinging tunic to reveal the Blazer scorch that cut a blistering path across her collarbone. “Does this look like a hallucination to you?”

  There were a few gasps, and several questions under breath. Someone said, “But how could she have done it to herself? She doesn't have a Blazer whip.”

  Malacar blinked in disbelief at the sight of the raw burn.

  “Ulivall, I'm telling you, as sure as I'm standing here. Inagor is alive and his inklings are addled. We have to help him,” Kir insisted evenly.

  “We've got a trail!” Rendack shouted from the tree line. “He fled on some manner of kaiyo. Orders?”

  At Rendack's confirmation, there was another flurry of chaos. Kir could hear Ulivall and Lieutenant Colonel Shanwehl barking commands. Rendack's detachment was sent in pursuit, and Malacar stood before Kir. She had no idea where Lyndal was, where Lili and Gevriah had be
en, or anything more of what was happening. The dizzying hurly-burly around her blurred and muddled. The only person Kir could see before her was Malacar. His face was contorted in a bunch of emotions that Kir couldn't sort, but every one of them fell into the categories of pain and apology. She threw her arms around Malacar's neck and he buried his face into the crook of hers, holding her tightly against him.

  There were so many things to say to each other, but they allowed their arms to speak for them. Kir had never known Malacar to be free with his tears. The salty splotches that mingled with the pattering raindrops stung her burn and betrayed him. Kir wasn't sure just how many of them were for her and how many were for Inagor. Malacar had never really allowed himself the permission to grieve after the airferry crash. He bore his pain in the silent, stoic warrior way. Those kinds of hurts tended to murk up a heart when not allowed release.

  They stood in the middle of the swirling bedlam, clinging to each other like rocks in a whirlpool. Malacar smoothed the crinkles from his throat before he finally found his voice.

  “I doubted you again. Just as I did when Xavien haunted your steps,” Malacar apologized softly in Kir's ear.

  “You're not the first. I was doubting me, too. I have a touch of feral wildcat in me, Lunchbox. That's no lie.”

  “I keep finding her in you,” Malacar confessed. If pain could be bottled, it could have been captured and strained from the very breath of his words.

  Her. Her being his wife, Raynah.

  Kir didn't really know what to say. The form of Malacar's guilt and heartache was finally being laid bare before her, and she had no idea how to make it better. He had loved Raynah, obviously, and had been tormented at his inability to help her. It felt like there was something deeper that Kir was missing. Something tied to Malacar's reaction when he had stumbled away in the forest. Kir suddenly couldn't remember which of her assaults had wounded him so. Her mind had been frenzied at the time, and the memories of the outburst were all jumbled.

  “You loved her a lot, Denian. Raynah must have been awful special to have roped and branded the likes of you. If you see something of her in me, I'll take that as a compliment,” Kir said warmly, pulling back.

  Malacar didn't respond. There was more on this conversation that would have to be addressed later, when the camp was not in a hubbub. Someone ran by shouting orders, ripping them back to the present commotion that was spiraling and congealing into protection rings around them.

  “Are you sure it's Inagor?” Malacar asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  “Positive. I'll take my oath on it.”

  “What's become of him? This is not the Inagor we knew,” Malacar said heavily.

  “When you were looking for affliction of the mind, you were looking in the wrong place. There's something got its hooks fixed deep in him. Could the kaiyo be controlling him somehow?”

  “Maybe. There are Psychonic invaders,” Malacar agreed. “But if that's the case, he may be too far gone. There may be nothing of him left.”

  “We can bring him back to us,” Kir said softly. “I know our Inagor is in there somewhere.”

  “I don't know that we can,” Malacar said, already defeated.

  “If we can't save Inagor's soul from the darkness, we have no hope of saving Vann's,” Kir argued. “We will bring him back. For Vann.”

  Malacar nodded with renewed determination that Kir's strength seemed to feed. Kir was glad he didn't ask how, because she had no clue.

  The clamor from the troops that had organized around them was disturbed by screams at the back edge of the caravan. Someone shouted alerts of attack, just as Kir saw the wave of kaiyo swarm in. Rendack's team burst through the tree line with a large pack of four-legged kaiyo hot on their heels. They obviously had not made it very far in their pursuit of Inagor.

  “Protect His Majesty,” Kir commanded to Malacar. They both fell back to the far side of the supply wagon, where they found Lyndal.

  The kaiyo in this swarm were not nearly as numerous as the previous battle, but they were fresh and healthy. There had been no warning, with the wave bleeding through the trees. Even in their battle rings, they had not been ready.

  Kir and Malacar hacked their way through a pack of furies. Malacar was dispatching a basan when Kir noticed the lone warrior standing in the shadow of the trees. It was Inagor, beckoning her forth.

  -36-

  Virgin Bonding in the Arms of an

  Unconventional, Special One

  “A vase has no need of the flower to be whole, for the vase holds a vision of its own. If the flower finds the vase, they join to new purpose.

  Independent or reliant, no matter which, they are beautiful when

  joined and beautiful standing alone.”

  - Toma Scilio, Master Bard

  The Camellia suite smelled fresh, floral and airy. It was a stark contrast to the dankness of the musty catacombs from whence Scilio had come. He had parted from Shiriah as she made her way to Emmi's quarters. After checking into the jowl, Vallislar had directed him back to Camellia, which would serve as his private chambers. He had refused upon first offer. Scilio had every intention of rooming with Vann in the jowl, and no intention of taking eyes off him further. Grydon, Gavin and several courtesans made assurances that there would be no care removed from Vann's safety. They said Scilio deserved a night of his own, without worry or guard duty keeping him from full repose.

  Since he would be spending his next few weeks scouring the dusty books of White Tower's university library, he could not very well lug Vann around the stacks with him. Now that Vann was in capable hands, he could share the load with their trusty allies.

  After two nights without rest, Scilio should have passed out upon his mattress, but somehow, sleep escaped him. He was far beyond fatigue, running marathons through the avenues of his busy mind. There was too much to process.

  The copper tub melted stress and strain from weary muscles, and Scilio allowed himself the luxury of languorous pamper. He stared at his gaunt face in the mirror, wondering which had changed more: his body or his heart. He could barely recognize either.

  Opting to sleep unclothed (as he always preferred but had been unable of late, for their present circumstance), Scilio left the nightclothes on the rack. When he finally settled into the blessed satin of his crisp, vacant bed, the late afternoon sun was drifting across the western skies out the window. The teapot on the bedside tray was still steaming.

  Scilio propped himself against the headboard with the mountain of pillows. He chose the closest of the two cups and poured a stream of pale green liquid. It was vibrant in fragrance, dull in prattle. He toyed with pouring the second cup, just to give the lonely object some purpose. Perhaps he sought to delude himself into believing there was someone seated nearby to share it.

  The room was still, too much so for comfort. When was the last time Scilio had known silence in the night? He could barely remember. Dailan and Vann had shared his blanket these past weeks, and before them, his bed in the Brace had been occupied by Quarinia. Before her, there were the numerous Empyrean delights, of noble and servie alike. Lili came before them, with her graceful glide and measured smile, to liven Scilio's Hiliharian nights. On the rolling Mercarian roads, even without the fervor of feminine arms, the tent had held a warmth of another kind, in the companionship of Vann and the Guardians. Scilio's nights had never before been so ithinary.

  A gentle tap on the bedchamber door answered the thought. Scilio knew it was Shiriah even before he called invitation to enter.

  “I'm relieved I caught you before you nodded off,” Shiriah said as she slipped into the room. “Is there anything you need?”

  “I am quite well-tended, thank you. Did your heart-to-heart with Emmi go well?”

  Shiriah smiled bittersweetly. “We have reconciled superficially. She understands the necessity of the deception, but I don't know if I can ever earn back her trust completely. I fear I may lose her to the be
ckoning winds.”

  “She is a wayfaring spirit, Shiriah. When the call of the open road beckons, the rambler can only heed its song. I know that melody all too well.”

  “Emerald has chased rainbows from the time her feet would carry her, and she sees nothing but horizons. That child was born for a breeze. I've always known she would hoist her sails one day. A selfish piece of me wishes to keep her here forever, but how could I ever hope to cage the wind?”

  “Some flowers are too restless for their own roots,” Scilio mused.

  “And you, Guardian Scilio? Will you ever plant your roots?”

  “Perhaps I already have. Not in any physical sense, but Guardianship has tamed my itchy feet. Now, I follow the song of the Crown. Where Vann goes, so there do I.”

  Shiriah hesitated in her step and word. She toyed with a notion before casting it aside. “I've detained you long enough and your tea is getting cold. I'll bid you a good evening.”

  “The tray has a lonely cup. Would you care to join me? The pixies escape me at the moment.”

  “I was hoping you would ask.” Shiriah glided to the chair beside the bed and poured her cup with the precision of a tea master.

  As she sipped, Scilio said, “If I am being honest with myself, the desire to room in the jowl with His Majesty was more out of my own fear of unnerving silence. I was not made for solitude. I find my own company too dull to keep myself gainfully entertained.”

  Shiriah laughed delicately. “I don't believe your company could qualify as dull in any form of the word, but you derive pleasure from dispensing it. When your energy is drawn from the smiles of others, an empty room certainly can offer no comfort. There is no shame in that. It is simply the sum of your nature.”

  It was remarkable that the woman could read that much of him. It was true that Scilio was an extroverted sort, though he had not shown an outward hint of such in weeks. Now that he was relaxing his barrier, Shiriah could read him with the ease of turning a page.

  “When one cannot turn the tide, one must follow it thus,” Scilio recited the old saying.