“I dared not return to my own apartments this evening, for fear of the same solitude you abhor. The pillow makes an unsympathetic ear to my worries. In the end, it is relegated to a mere punching bag for my frustrations and a sponge for my tears,” Shiriah admitted.
“Then, allow me to relieve that unsympathetic pillow of its failed duty. My ear is unoccupied, brimming with sympathy, empathy, and any other 'pathy you can devise. I am an accomplished punching bag. And these sheets can make a satin handkerchief at your ready disposal,” Scilio offered. His tongue bulged his cheek. The old familiar Bardian peeked out from behind the shroud to test the light against his eyes.
Shiriah took in the intended humor and matched him, smile for smile. They had both been in dire need of companionship, and they both could fill the role for the other. There was a connection between them, ripening and maturing with every breath. Though they did not share a common experience, they walked upon common ground in their losses. Their songs harmonized with the heartbeat of the other.
To encourage catharsis in confession, Scilio gave her an opening. “I might have wondered what burdens could ever weigh the shoulders of the Magister in a house as grand as Chalice. Now I chance to wonder how shoulders so slender as yours can withstand a weight so tremendous, for they seem to carry mountains with ease.”
“Only with the aid of family. The strength of Chalice House has bolstered my own these past months. Make no mistake, Guardian Scilio. I may be the Magister, but the house stands firmly on the foundation of our unity. Without my courtesans and courtesors, there would be no house or Underground to lead. I am but a figurehead.”
“You sell yourself short.”
“Do I? I second guess everything these days,” Shiriah sighed.
“Keeping the rhythm of the step is exhausting when you are the one marking the pace.”
“Perhaps. The soul of the Underground evaporated with Cressiel, and the heart died in the purge. I am just trying to keep our heads above water and hoping we don't drown in the tide. There is so little of us left to save.”
“Take heart, Shiriah. Merisha still exists because you breathe. It may have been founded under Professor Westerfold, but it will rise again under you.” Scilio took Shiriah's cup and set it aside, replacing it with his hand. There was an art to crafting messages through touch, and he had long considered himself a master. The pads of his fingers communicated the exact assurances his words had meant to proclaim.
A spark of truth rekindled in Shiriah's dark eyes. She could read the candid belief in his grip and affirmation. His own confidence had been stoked at her hands. He was pleased to return the favor.
“It is a rare occasion that finds me shedding my mask,” Shiriah confessed. “I apologize that you have been subjected to the ugly doubt and weakness cowering behind it. Such does not become the headmistress of a covert organization.”
“There is no such ugliness that mingles with your person, on any surface or depth. I'm honored to be the one to see beyond the Magister's veil. Those accustomed to performance are rarely granted permission to remove our masks. Professions like ours are simply another form of stage. How easily one loses touch with what lies beneath, having spent a lifetime wearing the robes of another.”
“You speak from experience.”
Scilio had not mentioned his bardhood to Shiriah. It was not a matter of secrecy, but the subject had simply not been broached. He had killed the Shunatar and shrouded the bard. Guardianship was the profession he now embraced. “I am acutely aware of my flawed nature, rife with pomp and arrogance. I've recently learned that my delusions were just that. I was not all I believed myself to be. And now, I endeavor to recreate a new man from the detritus of the old.”
“I can't imagine the former Guardian Scilio was all that terrible, was he? Masters Shelfern and Lindt were completely overjoyed to see you. You are held in the highest regard in both their favors. Their reactions were completely genuine—I was monitoring them. They crave your company and consider you a dear friend.”
“The person they knew in Empyrea was the same fool that blindly followed power and false flattery to its terrible end. It led His Majesty to his current condition and me to mine.”
“If you allow yourself to learn from your mistakes, you grow from them. I think maybe you can find the balance between the man you were and the man you've become. Isn't that what aging is, after all? Wine cannot mature without first deteriorating.”
Scilio marveled how one could see the wisdom for another, without application to one's own situation. They both had been nursing insecurities that the other could wash away. “Perhaps the same applies to you. Professor Westerfold can no longer lend his genius to your order, but you no longer need him to lead. All your years managing a grand brothella have given you the skills to run an even grander organization. Swords can only be tempered through flame, you know. It makes them stronger and more resilient. You've been tempered in a fire of your own.”
“I don't feel strong. I can only pretend it with masterful grace. My life has been lived crafting pleasured illusions. I've been so many things to so many people. After years of nights spent playacting the fantasies of strangers, I've worn too many faces. I no longer know which is the real me anymore. When Cressiel lay dying, which was the Shiriah he grieved?”
“They are all aspects of you. It must have been all of them that he loved,” Scilio suggested. “You say you don't feel strong, but it takes a special kind of strength to wear so many faces. Perhaps Professor Westerfold, more than anyone, knew the real Shiriah behind the masks. It was she he loved the best. I think I've glimpsed her this evening. Find that woman, and embrace her. I would very much like to do the same.”
Their situations were not similar, but they understood each other. It was perhaps the first time Scilio had been able to open his soul so effortlessly without the gateway of physical sensuality.
Shiriah was genuinely touched. “Thank you, Guardian Scilio, for being there for him in the end. I'm glad it was you.”
“And I thank you, kind lady, for being Merisha,” Scilio said graciously. “Sharing a confidence of this depth pleads that you call me Toma.”
“I thought warriors preferred to be addressed by their family names.”
Most warriors, with the exception of a few like Kir and Inagor Arrelius, did prefer their family name over their given one. Scilio had always been regarded by his surname because there was an abundance of pride attached to his heritage. To be a Scilio was to be a master of Mercaria. He would always remain honored by his birthright, but no longer impressed by it. Any fool could be born. Lucky was the fool born to fortunate privilege. Scilio now understood that character and achievement were more remarkable than a happenstance of birth.
“Not after sharing so personal and compelling a conversation. I may claim to rival your courtesors in bedchamber experience, but in another way, you are my first. I've never before been so familiar of heart. I feel I could freely tell you anything, and not for the workings of spell or seduction.” Scilio could not explain the mist that blurred his eyes. His soul was raw and exposed, laid as naked as his body under the quilts. This was a kind of vulnerability he had never known before.
Shiriah slipped from her seat and settled on the mattress beside him. “Cressiel was my first and only confidant, Toma. Until this evening. I suppose we are both masters of congress and virgins of bonding.”
“I don't know how to be alone,” Scilio managed through a cracking voice.
Shiriah folded him into her arms. “Nor do I. But we don't have to be.”
They held each other for a long time, solidifying their connection through the electric tenderness of their arms. The Toma Scilio of the past would never have been content to let such an opportunity slip away, but there was no need to sate a lust of the body. Shiriah's hands were comfort enough, in their gentle stroking of his hair and caressing of his cheek. She did not weave a fantasy or coax his pleasure to a peak.
Her hands remained above the sheets, refraining from anything more than platonic affection. This was another manner of love making, chaste in its form but more powerful than any Scilio had experienced. They wrapped themselves in the comforts of each other and they fell asleep to the cadence of their shared heartbeats.
It was the most beautiful night of Toma Scilio's life.
-37-
Revenant Guardian
We, upon this tear-stained Arshenholm grass, sing tribute to a fallen hero. Guardian Inagor Arrelius, who here sacrificed his life that we may escape, will be honored in bardsong for generations. May we all live as splendidly, blaze as brightly, and go out as spectacularly. Perchance we should meet again in the nextlife, I shall sing him the tale of a Queen's Guardian from long ago, one who gave up his heart to her vambrace and its beat to her salvation. Where I once believed commitment to be anathema to my nature,
I now find myself hungering deeply to experience that which Inagor Arrelius cherished:
a love so strong it moved a mountainside.
- Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
Kir wasn't sure how she knew, but the kaiyo swarm had been Inagor's doing. It was a diversion to allow her to slip away in the chaos. Something about the way he stood there, waiting, signaled it. If Kir followed him now, the swarm would be called off. Or, so she hoped.
“Over there,” Kir directed Malacar, pointing to a pack of furies. “Take them out.”
He obliged, hacking against the beasts that had clustered near Corban's wagon. Kir utilized the distraction and slipped through a break in the ring. When she reached Sorrha, she ripped the reins from the hobble and sprang to saddle. Everyone was so occupied with their foes that nobody seemed to notice her departure. She urged Sorrha into the woods where Inagor had been waiting.
It didn't take long to find the obvious trail he left. Kir didn't like leaving the caravan behind in such peril, but they would be safer once she was away. If the swarm was truly meant as a distraction, her presence would only prolong the attack.
When she broke through the woods into a clearing, Inagor was on the ridge. He was astride the kaiyo, waiting for her to gain. When she did, he kicked the kaiyo, urging him onward. Leading her. Guiding her.
Kir knew where they were going. It wasn't far, and it was the only place their tale of blades could come full circle. He was leading her to the Arshenholm Spring Manor where Palinora had died.
The rain had already stopped, leaving a dreary gray sky over sticky humidity. Sorrha's hooves pounded out their urgency across the rolling foothills. Eventually Kir could see the white manor road in the distance. Even as fast as he was, Sorrha never gained ground on the kaiyo.
A sense of calm acceptance washed over Kir on the ride. The soulwhisper on her finger was steady and quiet, but there was a cover of strength to be found in its sky blue gem. Maybe Palinora's message had been one of Kir's own conjuring. Maybe the soulwhisper was just a trinket and had been forged with none of the ancient magic of protection that Palinora had suggested. Maybe it was just a stone and Kir was just a woman. Even so, Kir wrapped herself in the possibility, the hope, that Palinora's message was real. She clung desperately to the belief that she was feeling the echo of Palinora's soul that had touched her own, imploring her to fight. It would keep the vorsnarm from overpowering her will to live.
When Kir reined up before the manor, the grounds were still. The only movement was from Inagor's kaiyo that snarled and foamed near the stone fence lining the road. It made no move, despite the lack of tether. Kir led Sorrha to the far wall. She did not hobble him. If the kaiyo decided it was hungry, Sorrha would be free and able to escape.
Kir stood before the large wooden double doors at the entrance, remembering the last time she had been here. The heartache of Inagor's loss had been fresh. Kir had been overloaded with anxiety in the wake of her betrayal, and Vann had been overloaded with the fury to answer. He had believed Kir to be his enemy then. It had all been sorted out, but it had been the darkest time they had known, until the moonless night.
The manor showed the signs of its year of abandonment. The gardens were overgrown with weeds, the paths untended. Ivy mingled with kudzu, blanketing the stone walls like the green skin of some great monstrous kaiyo. The Arshenholm was reclaiming what man had carved out. Kir slid through the open door without needing to tug it further. The lobby was charred, littered with debris and ash dust. Streaks of dull light played through the remnants of the ceiling. Scilio had used a Ruptor here, blasting away the magnificent opulence that the lobby once was. The luxury of the manor was only a memory now.
Fallen beams littered the floor, making a haphazard maze for Kir's feet. She stepped over some rubbish and walked stately through, toward a familiar doorway.
As expected, Inagor was there. He was facing the broken window on the far side of the chamber that once had been an office. The furnishings had been toppled and long since raided by the Keepers, the army and any bandits that had come after. The fine Mercarian rug that had been blackened with Palinora's lifeblood was gone, leaving behind only the unremarkable marble floor, unblemished by the taint that had once covered it.
Kir stepped into the fated room. She had died here already. It seemed the walls were thirsty for her death once more.
“Vann tried to convince me that it wasn't my fault,” Kir said to Inagor's back. “I told him I knew that, just to appease him. All this time, I've nursed the blame. You charged me with her protection. I failed you.”
Inagor didn't say a word.
“I would trade places with her, if I could,” Kir continued. “I've wished and prayed for it.”
“Enough lies,” Inagor spat. He spun sharply on his heel. The hilt of the sleeping Blazer whip was tight in his fist, blanching his knuckles.
Kir shook her head solemnly. “It's the honest truth. Every bit.”
“You coveted what she had. You stole it all from her, just as you ripped the heart from her chest.”
Kir fumbled with an answer to the ramblings that didn't quite make sense.
“Her son. Her title. Her status. Even the ring she cherished on her finger. You took that, too,” he seethed, pointing at the soulwhisper. “You claimed for your own every ounce of Palinora's glory, after you murdered her.”
“Murdered... what...?” Kir stammered. “She died at the end of a coward's spear, not mine...”
“Lies!” Inagor yelled. His reverberating voice made a monster of the stone walls. The Blazer whip snapped to alert in its blue hum. “My Lady warned me your tongue would drip with them.”
“Your... your Lady?” Kir chanced. “Who is your Lady?”
“I would not allow your false, filthy tongue to besmirch her name,” Inagor said, launching forward.
They shifted around the room in their battle, upending the broken chair near the desk. Kir kicked it forward for obstruction, then swirled in a strike that was smartly countered. Their dance left no section of the chamber untouched.
“I don't know what Your Lady told you, but I did not murder Palinora,” Kir asserted when their weapons repelled each other. “I loved her. In our brief time together, she was more of a mother than my own was the whole of my life.”
“Your own admission convicts you,” Inagor seethed. “You said yourself you were guilty.”
“Of being too small and thin to be a worthy shield,” Kir argued. They sprang again, countering strikes back and forth. “I tried to block it with my own body, but Four's spear ran me right through. It pierced Palinora's heart through me, before I even realized we were dead.”
It was the first time Inagor hesitated. “Four?”
“Soventine told the kingdom it was a Keeper. But it was Soreina's antsy, beady-eyed henchman from the airferry that skewered us. His name was Four,” Kir said through pants. “It's wrong, that the histories will record it by Soventine's political double-tongue, when it was Soreina's lackey all along.”
“Calumny!�
� Inagor roared. “You dare implicate Lady Soreina in your own foul scheme?”
“Your Lady... Your Lady is Soreina of the Web,” Kir realized aloud.
“Your mouth is not worthy of her name!”
Kir could see the rising fury overtake his blood. She had rooted her own confidence in Kionara, and she had entered this arena with that solidly fixed in her will to avoid the vorsnarm's enhancement of detrimental emotions like doubt or fear. Inagor was under the effects of the vorsnarm, too. It was fueling this wrath and drive for vengeance, feeding the irrationality that had obviously been implanted.
It made more sense now. Soreina had taken Inagor captive and they had somehow escaped the doomed airferry before it crashed. All these long months, Inagor had been held in Soreina's clutches, probably tortured and brainwashed. Kir could hardly bear the thought. She wondered how long he had waited for help to arrive. How long before he finally accepted the fact that it would never come?
The twinge of anguish at the thought multiplied. Kir tried to control it before the vorsnarm watered it to full bloom. It was nearly impossible. How could she not be inundated with remorse? “Oh, Inagor. I am so sorry. I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy the kinds of things I imagine that kaienze witch did to you.”
Rather than comforted, Inagor was outraged at the insult to Soreina. He attacked again ferociously, with such intensity and speed that Kir could not counter. His fist exploded white rage against the side of Kir's head, knocking her backward. Stunned, she fell against the pane of the shattered window that Four had once climbed through. Stars swirled in Kir's vision, and her tongue tasted of salty copper.
Unleashed fists exploded against Kir's ribs, knocking wind from lung. A palm clenched around her throat, constricting her airway. Inagor leaned against Kir menacingly, staring into her eyes with a pleasured hatred, eager to watch the life slip away as she wriggled frantically in his grip. He looked more kaiyo than human. The small of Kir's back pressed into jagged shards of glass that were still embedded in the pane. They knifed deep like a row of fury teeth. Kir struggled, unable to even gasp. In a fit of desperation, she rammed her knee between Inagor's legs, sending him stumbling back with a grunt. She kicked against his chest in the same motion that flipped her backward out the window. She stumbled around the hedge, wheezing and hacking, sucking in reluctant air that didn't want to be breathed.
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 43