Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace Page 14

  Ferinar looked taken aback. Kir thought he was about to choke on his own spittle. He swallowed deeply and his eyes were fierce. If he showed half as much passion on the training field as he did around a debate circle, Kir was confidant Ferinar would excel with a sword in his hand.

  “Your word is received and obeyed, Highness,” Ferinar said curtly.

  Ulivall's face bled victory. Kir was happy to have bought it with her authority. He had been at opposite end of a political spectrum from Ferinar for many years, and he was finally going to see some of Ferinar's brashness spanked out of him on the field.

  “We all should ready ourselves for whatever lies ahead,” Kir continued, addressing the rest of the circle. “Practice would do every one of us good. In the skirmish on the moonless night, Ulivall did not lose a single warrior in combat with Duke Karmine's Elite. That says something. If we are going to talk numbers on scrolls, I want to see a lot more of theirs on the casualty list than of ours. The warriors will continue training everyone in battle-dance forms around the fire circle, and we will continue to find means of using what we got for advantage. But as I said, that's talk for another day. Right now, I'm smelling the waftings of Master Chef Corban's stews bubbling out there, and I'm hankering a big bowl of it. Let's call it a night and take to the fire circle for dancing and carousing. We can even pop open that keg on the wagon to celebrate the Karmines' first night in Aquiline.”

  The circle adjourned with empty stomachs and full minds. Kir tapped wrists with Ulivall as he exited the tent flap, for the unspoken victory against his rival, and for surviving her first session. He did not smile outwardly, but something told her she had done good.

  After chow, Vittie ordered the bonfire erected and everyone pitched a log into the flame. When it was good and high, the group commenced to celebrating their arrival and their good fortunes. Kir joined in the dancing, trying to make her feet lively. Cavorting almost felt like a betrayal to Vann. She did it anyway, knowing he would encourage it. Lili and Melia took up places on either side. They lost themselves in the steady rhythm.

  When Kir was happy with her contribution, she joined Malacar, Ulivall and Eshuen on blankets near her tent. It was close enough to watch the dancing, far enough for vision not to be tainted by the brightness. Lili and Melia sat beside her. Eventually, Copellian joined them, reporting the horses to be tended. He sat beside Melia and she leaned into him warmly.

  Kir marveled at how Copellian seemed to soften in Melia's presence. Their relationship had been good for him, loosening his stiff and stodgy demeanor. Melia whispered something in Copellian's ear and he whispered back. They wrapped arms around each other, tweaking Kir's longing heart with a deep ache. She had only known Vann's embrace for a week before he was taken away. Her arms ached to remember the feel of his...

  “The supplies are stowed and the dishes cleaned,” Corban announced, pulling Kir from her drifting thoughts. “Might I join you this evening?”

  “Pull up a cushion,” Kir said. “We were just taking in the air and dancing.”

  Corban sat between Melia and Lili. He inched himself closer to his daughter. Copellian stiffened as Corban pulled Melia's hand into his. She seemed stretched between the two, and it looked as awkward for her as it was for Copellian.

  “You will finally know freedom, Melia, and the weightlessness of a neck unburdened of that ghastly collar. Just wait until you see Hilihar. It's a city of dreams!” Corban talked on of Hilihar's wonders, and of the vast kitchens in his establishment. “I'll be manning Her Highness' kitchens now, if she'll have me.”

  “For spittin' sure, I will! I was planning to offer you the job. I won't allow my children to grow up without knowing your custards on their desert plates every day of their lives,” Kir quipped.

  Corban looked as proud as a game rooster. “Your children. Can you imagine? Your children, growing up alongside my grandbabies! The pitter-patter of tiny Karmine feet all over the boardwalks of Hilihar. It's like a dream coming true for me.”

  “Grandbabies?” Copellian huffed. “Not likely.”

  Melia elbowed him sharply and whispered, “Hush.”

  “Oh, don't despair. It will happen soon enough,” Corban said, oblivious to Copellian's dour expression. “Cherish these restful nights because once the little one comes along, you'll wish for them back. Melia was a good sleeper, but Jurnet? She would howl like a tea kettle, every two hours on the nose. Most exhausting time of my life. I would close down the kitchen at night, be up for the feedings, then back in the kitchen two hours before sunrise. I know I slept standing up at my prep station. It will be different for you youngsters, of course, raising your children in Hilihar. I was hoping Melia's sickness on the galleon to be the ills expectant mothers often have, but Bertrand said it was simply from the motion of the ship.”

  Copellian grit his teeth and muttered, “There's no chance of us ever having a little one when there's no chance to make one.”

  “What Copellian means is that the trip has been trying,” Melia smoothed.

  “What Copellian means is that his father-in-law has practically taken over his life,” Copellian corrected.

  “Of course!” Corban said brightly. “It's been wonderful, these past weeks. Getting to know my new son. Just think of how much time we'll be spending together in Hilihar!”

  “I am thinking of it,” Copellian groaned. “It's all I ever do...”

  The situation was too funny not to savor Copellian's torment, but Kir did feel bad for Melia. The poor woman was caught between the two men she loved and she was too tenderhearted to do anything about it. Corban needed some limits, but it wasn't Kir's place to set them.

  “Proud to hear that!” Corban said through his grin, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Especially since I'm hoping to join your clan. Family should be together. With all three of my dear ones in Ithinar Steel,” he gestured to Kir for her inclusion in the tally, “it's high time I switched my loyalties.”

  “You'd be welcome, of course,” Ulivall said, “if that's what you want.”

  “Our clan's mostly warriors. You wouldn't feel out of place? All our talk of blood and gore around the dinner table?” Copellian chanced.

  Corban harrumphed. “Blood and butchery doesn't phase me in the slightest. I work with it all the time. I may not swing a sword, mind you, but I wield another variety of steel. I keep my knives as sharp as any of your blades. I'll be right at home. No need for a ceremony or big to-do.”

  “Great. Now you'll be with us all the time.” Copellian smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “Exactly!” Corban beamed. He slapped Copellian on the back warmly.

  Kir wasn't sure if Corban was intentionally being thick (he did have a knack for denseness at times), but it was obvious that the newlyweds weren't getting a moment to themselves. She'd have to think of something, or Copellian might end up murdering her favorite chef. There was just no way Kir could allow such a tragedy. She cherished those custards entirely too much.

  -13-

  From Stalking Brothers to Brothers Stalking

  Kir seems to take some warped pleasure in noting my similarities to her favorite archnemesis, Keeper Sandavall Xavien. He and I share violet eyes, long features, lanky builds, slender

  musculature, voices that have been described as dainty or delicate, and obsessive natures over the passions of our respective souls. Whatever bonds us in our Shunatar qualities, I can readily assure Kir that Xavien may be a similar creature of blood, but that does not make him a brother.

  - Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio

  Steady, rhythmic cadence. Drips into plops. The very earth was singing in percussive staccato. The only sound in the cavern was the eternal music of the deep.

  Sandavall Xavien eased forward, twin shortswords clutched in his fists. Although he had slipped along the cavern trail silently, by only the dim glow of the lumanere veins lining the passage, he was certain his presence had not g
one unnoticed. While on the hunt, it was far too easy for the predator to become the prey. Xavien quite liked his heart where it was. He wasn't keen on allowing his quarry to rip it out. This particular quarry was far too dangerous to let his guard down.

  A quick glance around the corner of the wall left the view open to an expansive cavity chamber, an empty bedroll and a kettle of beans simmering over a fire. The owner was not in line of sight. A Panorama spell of the Naturals revealed exactly where he was, directly around the corner, too late. Just as Xavien raised his shortsword to defend his neck, a black blade sliced the air.

  “I expected it would be you,” Ashkorai growled over his black Guardian sword. “How did you find me?”

  Xavien pushed their blades apart and back-stepped to allow for maneuvering room. “I have many eyes.”

  It had only been a few weeks since the moonless night. Xavien had spent most of them following Ashkorai's whisper of a trail. Theirs had been a moonless battle interrupted. Guardian Draback had interjected himself into their dual before Xavien could interject his blade into Ashkorai's heartbeat. Defeating his brother Guardian was only a secondary desire to defeating Kiriana. In the aftermath of the Chaos Bringer's birth, Xavien had determined to finish the dance they had started.

  “No doubt you learned a lot from those filthy Keepers,” Ashkorai spat. His stance changed to account for Xavien's personal style before he launched.

  They had sparred together for many years and were thoroughly versed in the others' mastery. Little did Ashkorai know that Xavien had developed more than one style over his four years away. His was a versatility beyond compare. He may not have matched Ashkorai in bulk of frame, but he had other tricks in his repertoire that did not rely solely on brute strength. They danced through the cavern in the clattering ebb and flow.

  “Quite honestly, I never fancied myself a true Keeper. Our association was merely for my own benefit,” Xavien said, parrying a masterful Tanteral Swing.

  “Opportunistic,” Ashkorai summarized astutely. “Some things never change.”

  Xavien could not argue the description. He was, indeed, a creature of opportunity. “What else was I to do, when I failed in my duty at the hand of a Cornian Princess? Tarnavarian abjured my Guardianship. I had little else left. The Keepers offered tricks of magic that you can only guess at. Joining them was a better career move than your slaying the Crown Prince, I dare say.”

  Ashkorai eased his stance for a moment. “I did not slay Tarnavarian.”

  There were not many assertions that could surprise Sandavall Xavien, but this was one that stuttered his feet to a halt. “You never had a proper sense of humor, Ashkorai.”

  “I never would joke about this. I've come to a realization since the moonless night and all that unfolded in that chamber.”

  “The realization that your life was about to end at my hand, I'm sure,” Xavien returned. He would not be distracted by false claims. Ashkorai was clever; he would use any trick of distraction he could muster.

  “Hear me out, then issue your judgment as you will.”

  “I'll hear you out, as you bleed out,” Xavien sang. He launched a vicious forward assault, casting his passion into the dance. “I'll not have you use Tarnavarian as a distraction against me. You will find your end here, and our prince will be avenged.”

  Their spiral of death through the open expanse added a unique percussive ping to accent the song of the dripping moisture. Ancient stalagmites toppled in their wake as their blades left timeless etches in the rocky walls. Every move was countered beautifully, expertly, filling Xavien with an ecstasy he had only ever known in two other places: the arms of Tarnavarian and the death-dance of Kiriana. He lived for these rare moments.

  Their blades slid apart, sparking as they went, and Ashkorai withdrew for a breather. He had not been holding back, but Xavien suspected he had not yet unleashed his complete self into the battle.

  “Five for pause.” Ashkorai banged a fist to his chest in salute and sheathed his black Guardian sword. He returned to his seat by the fire, stirred the beans that were crusting at the bottom, then chugged from a water bladder.

  Xavien respected the intermission, as was customary in a lengthy duel. He was not ready to relax, but it would be poor form to disrupt an opponent's called recess. Impatience shifted his feet as he watched Ashkorai quench himself.

  Without warning, the water bladder came flying. Xavien caught it in midair.

  “Sit down and catch your breath,” Ashkorai commanded, like he was still a senior Guardian in the Brace.

  Xavien hesitated only briefly. He had waited this long. What was another five minutes? He eased to a comfortable spot opposite the fire, just out of reach of Ashkorai's blade. The water bladder held a crisp liquid that had certainly come from a spring in the cavern somewhere.

  Firelight danced in Ashkorai's bright green eyes as he watched Xavien quench himself. He offered over the pot. “Hungry?”

  “To taste your blood on my blade,” Xavien offered back.

  Ashkorai shrugged and helped himself to the beans. “You interrupted my supper.”

  “You interrupted my love,” Xavien returned. His voice was pathetic to his own ears, like a pouting child. In his head, the idea had been much more poetic than it sounded when spoken aloud.

  “Your love abandoned you when he abjured your Guardianship. Why do you still concern yourself with him, even after four years, when you no longer hold claim to his vambrace?”

  “Because I failed him. How else can I atone for my failure? Vengeance is my only path to redemption.”

  Ashkorai's jaw slowed as he chewed. His throat bulged when he gulped, but it seemed to be more than just beans he was swallowing down. “What if that were not the case? What if there was another path to redemption? For the both of us? Would you consider walking it with me?”

  “If you're trying to make a deal for your life—”

  “Not for mine. For Tarnavarian's.”

  Xavien's heart fluttered in his chest. “I am all ears.”

  “As I tried to tell you earlier, Tarnavarian is not dead. It all became clear on the moonless night.”

  “How can that be? Galvatine confirmed it.”

  “And you trust Galvatine implicitly, do you? When I used that soulblade, I thought I was killing Tarnavarian to keep him from the horror of becoming the Chaos Bringer. Only, it didn't kill him. It severed his soul from the body. A Guardian cannot kill his Guarded. It's one of the fundamental truths inlaid into the magic.”

  “But, your vambrace. It's as black as a bat's bare buttocks. Does that not mark you as the Betrayer?”

  “So I've thought this whole past year. Until I witnessed the aftermath of the Chaos Bringer's birth on the moonless night. The vambraces and swords of Vannisarian's Guardians turned black at the moment the Prince's soul was severed. The King's Guardians were affected the same way when Soventine was cut. Malacar claimed Vannisarian wasn't dead, and it makes sense. If the royals had died, the vambraces and swords would have vanished, along with the Guardian Bonding. That didn't happen. Why? Because their bodies are still alive. Vannisarian was wearing the seal of Karanni at the time, and his scrollwork turned as black as the vambraces. It occurred to me then. This is not the mark of Betrayal. It is only the mark of disconnection. If the soul is restored to the body—”

  “It doesn't make sense. The High Priests would have known Tarnavarian was still alive,” Xavien argued.

  “Of course they did. After I fled and Galvatine realized Tarnavarian still lived in an empty state, do you really think he would have alerted the world? He wanted Tarnavarian dead. What came out of that chamber was as close to a corpse as you could get. As far as Galvatine was concerned, the deed was done and the blame lay elsewhere. That removed one potential Chaos Bringer from the board, as he always wanted. Tarnavarian's body lies in the catacombs, as dead as the living get. But living, all the same. Karanni-marked royalty do not wither after death. N
obody would ever suspect that he's not as dead as his tombmates. The tomb keepers probably tend him just enough to keep him alive—the murder of a royal is a serious offense to the Gods. The priests wouldn't want to play a role in his ultimate starvation, for fear of the divine consequences.”

  “Is it possible? You really believe we can rescue him?” Xavien could not quell the rising anticipation and the new well of hope that filled his very being.

  “I don't know. Her Affianced Highness is trying to retrieve Vannisarian's soul. It stands to reason we could do the same for Tarnavarian.”

  Xavien studied Ashkorai incredulously. Ashkorai had never been fond of his Guarded. He had merely tolerated Tarnavarian's personality to preserve his own honor.

  “Why would you want to revive Tarnavarian? I thought you loathed him.”

  “I did. Gods know he was a scourge to this kingdom, and we're better off without his insanity. But I am his Guardian. How can I not act to save my Guarded, when I have information that says I can? It goes against everything Guardianship stands for, to allow him to remain trapped forever when we might be able to rescue him. My honor slays my despise every time I consider it. The pull of the vambrace compels me.”

  Xavien understood the sentiment all too well. He unconsciously rubbed his left forearm, where the lingering whisper of the vambrace had left its invisible tattoo. There was a call inherent in the Guardian magic. It was an urge to protect and defend, to never leave or abandon. Xavien had long believed that the drive behind his lust to defeat Kiriana and Ashkorai, the two people that had most wronged his Guarded, had been his love for Tarnavarian. Perhaps it was merely the echoes of the Guardian Bonding that had been left behind in Xavien's own soul that made him thirst for that vengeance. He could still hear the call, even though his vambrace was long gone to the winds.