Bridge of Souls (3 page)

“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

Aremys forced a shrug. “Oh, no reason. I’ve always been rather intrigued by those with the power, that’s all.”

“To be honest I wish he’d leave the mountains. His influence upon our king is too strong. There are times…” Myrt’s voice trailed off.

Aremys glanced toward his captor. “Go on.”

The Mountain Man shook his head. “No, I speak out of turn.”

Aremys could see it would not be wise to push Myrt further right now, although it pleased him to note that Myrt felt comfortable enough around him to be candid. Perhaps Myrt could become a source of information, or a key to escape.

It looked as though Maegryn was satisfied with Galapek. He was barking orders now for the other horses to be led out.

“Where did Cailech find this magnificent horse?” Aremys asked brightly, noticing that he seemed to be growing more accustomed to the nearby magic.

“It’s the strangest thing,” Myrt replied, clearly relieved to have moved away from the previous conversation. “I really don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the very best horses come from Grenadyn—as you would know—but this animal just turned up one day. He certainly isn’t from our stock.”

“You mean it just appeared out of nowhere?” Aremys asked, astounded. Perhaps the stallion had also been cast here by the Thicket.

Myrt laughed. “No, I didn’t mean that. But Maegryn knows all the foals born here. And if we bring horses over from Grenadyn then it’s quite a big event because they have to be shipped in. I don’t recall this animal being brought across the channel—it would surely have caused a stir if he had.”

Aremys was intrigued. It was not his imagination, then. There was something mysterious about the King’s horse. “What does his handler say?”

“Maegryn’s very tight-lipped on the subject. I’ve tried to find out more but he’s refused to discuss it. I get the impression that Rashlyn might have gifted the horse to Cailech, though I couldn’t guess at where he would find such a beast. Perhaps the King has asked both to keep it quiet. Cailech can be quite unpredictable on occasion—in case you hadn’t noticed.” Myrt grinned.

“I have,” Aremys said wryly.

“He is a great man, but he can be contrary at times,” Myrt warned, before adding softly, “I know that worried Lothryn.”

Aremys took a careful breath at the name of Wyl’s friend. “Lothryn—that name sounds familiar. Who is he?” he commented absently.

“A friend. Formerly second in command to our king. A man I would have followed without question into any situation—but who betrayed us all.”

Maegryn was leading the horse toward them now and Aremys again felt the sickening pull of magic. He forced himself to focus on Myrt’s words. “Betrayed you? Where is he now?”

“Gone,” Myrt said, ending the conversation. “Your mount is ready—and here comes Rashlyn. Be warned—he is a strange man.”

The barshi was already mounted on a chestnut mare. He stopped just steps from the mercenary and gazed down upon the tall foreigner. “You must be Aremys,” he said in his strangely hesitant manner. “Cailech suggested we meet. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Aremys lied, instantly taking a dislike to the wild-looking man with the dead eyes and unwilling smile. He raised his hand in salutation, deciding to avoid all physical contact with the barshi. If Aremys himself sensed the horse’s magic through touch, perhaps Rashlyn could do the same with him. He wondered whether Cailech had specifically asked Rashlyn to watch how he reacted to the horse today.

Which would mean they are definitely suspicious of me,
he thought. The stench of Galapek’s magic buffeted his senses as the handler halted the stallion alongside the mare.

“Master Aremys, you’ll be riding Galapek this afternoon,” Maegryn said. “Be firm with him, sir. But also give him his head on the flat. He likes to gallop. Could use a good run today.”

It was all Aremys could manage to nod agreeably and take the reins from Maegryn. How had he backed himself into this situation? Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it and deliberately turned his back to Rashlyn as he mounted. He could not allow the barshi to read his fear.

Waves of revulsion pulsed through him as he took his seat in the saddle. It required all his courage not to leap from the horse immediately. “You lead,” he said tightly to Rashlyn, hoping to get the magic man ahead of him.

Unfortunately, Rashlyn had his measure. “Myrt—you know the best paths,” he said. “You lead. I’ll bring up the rear.”

The party of three set off, with Aremys now fully convinced he was under observation by the King’s sorcerer.

M
YRT SUGGESTED A PATH VIA THE LOWLANDS SURROUNDING THE LAKE
. A
REMYS GRUNTED HIS AGREEMENT
,
STILL STRUGGLING TO DAMPEN HIS
revulsion for the horse beneath him. Myrt did not linger for a comment from the barshi and set the direction. Once the horses were moving at a steady canter, Aremys felt better, and when they set them at a gallop, the exhilaration and the wind in his face alleviated some of the sickening taint permeating his body from below.

For the first half of the ride the men said nothing and Aremys was happy to be lost in his thoughts and the pure pleasure of being out in the breathtaking valley. The lake was mirror calm and he marveled at how it reflected the lower rises of Razors. The cacophony of the waterbirds drowned any potential for conversation, which suited him perfectly. Although the sun was high overhead, there was no real fire in it, and the riders were glad to feel its gentle spring warmth upon their shoulders, loosening winter’s firm grip on the land.

Now that Aremys had been touching the stallion for some time, he was able to control his reaction to the horse. Whatever had initially caused him to gag wretchedly in front of the King had diminished to a constant queasiness, which he was mastering. His revulsion had given way to an intense pity for the animal. The beast moved beneath him with superb grace, all muscle and power, eager to respond to his rider’s urgings, but Aremys sensed something beyond the physical, something he would almost equate with human emotion.

“We can stop over there and rest the horses.” Myrt butted
into his thoughts, pointing toward a cluster of rocky outcrops that formed a loose semicircle and a natural sun trap.

Aremys nodded. He would have preferred to keep going but was helpless, certain that this entire afternoon was all being carefully orchestrated.

They settled themselves against the boulders while the horses grazed contentedly on some tender grass, far enough away that Aremys could converse without the magical stench threatening to upset him. Still, he felt Galapek’s pull. The more confident Aremys became in his resistance to the revulsion, the more strongly the horse pleaded to his senses.
What did it want him to do? What was this creature that it could generate such loathing as well as sympathy?

A new thought struck Aremys: not
what
was this animal but
who
? The notion was so striking that it washed away his fear.
Who was this animal? Who was calling to him using the magic of the Thicket? Could the beast be under an enchantment, like Wyl—a man trapped in another guise?
The thought revolted him.

As he shook his head clear of such a shocking notion, the barshi embarked upon the expected interrogation.

“The King tells me you have lost your memory,” Rashlyn said, without any preamble.

“I have,” Aremys answered. “It is a terrible feeling not to know anything about oneself.”

“I gather it is returning gradually?” the man replied, reaching to unwrap the hunk of cheese and hard biscuit Myrt had packed.

Aremys noted the man’s grubby fingers and looked away. The Mountain Men were tough and capable of living rough, but he knew they bathed regularly. The King led by example: He was always scrupulously clean. As it had struck Elspyth not so long ago, Aremys had realized that the people of the Razors were a sophisticated race with great artistic and creative skills as well as a love of the land and a deep respect for one another. Since Cailech had stopped the tribal fighting and drawn the people together, that respect had extended beyond simple courtesies to living alongside one another in a manner
that promoted cleanliness and protected them from disease. Aremys had noted with surprise the special ablution blocks that were built around the fortress, proof of how highly Cailech rated the importance of proper sanitation. The King was convinced of a link between human waste and disease, and so it was rare to see any Mountain Dweller squat in the fields or in a corner of the fortress to relieve himself. Instead, carts rolled away from the many ablution blocks daily to deliver the waste into pits dug deep in the ground, far from the main living areas, where it would harmlessly break down and return to the earth. It was part of the modern thinking—along with education and the maintenance of the old languages—that Cailech was beginning to impress upon his people. But this man, Rashlyn, with his dirty hands, his unkempt appearance and offensive manner, did not fit the Mountain folk’s mold. How did they tolerate him?

Rashlyn was staring at him. “Yes, slowly,” Aremys answered finally. “I know my name, at least, and where I hail from.”

“Would you like me to check your skull for any damage? I am a healer,” Rashlyn offered, along with some of the cheese.

Aremys could not risk that the sorcerer might sense through his touch the Thicket’s trace of magic. And Shar alone knew where those filthy fingers had last been. “Thank you, no,” he replied. “I’m not hungry and my head is fine.”

The man frowned. “It must have been a firm blow to knock your senses so. You really should let me examine you.”

“No need,” Aremys replied briskly, glancing toward his quiet companion, hoping to be rescued. “Myrt here has already looked me over. There is no sign of any damage.”

Myrt did not deny Aremys’s claim but did not support it either. Aremys suspected that he too was fighting a battle of loyalty. It was fairly obvious from his body language alone that the warrior despised Rashlyn.

“This business of your lost memory is odd, then,” Rashlyn said. He spoke through his food and bits of the cheese crumbled and fell from his mouth into his tangle of a beard. Again
Aremys looked away, disgusted. “How could a blow strong enough to cause you to lose your wits be entirely healed?”

“I have no idea,” Aremys said, shrugging. He found the barshi’s probing stare most unsettling; there was madness lurking there, he was sure of it. He stood and said politely, “Excuse me whilst I take a drink,” glancing again at Myrt, this time for permission to sip from the stream.

Myrt nodded and Aremys walked as casually as he could to the stream’s edge and bent down. He splashed freezing water over his face, enjoying the refreshing trickle of droplets that found a way into the front of his shirt and slid down his chest. As he straightened, flicking water in all directions, he sensed someone directly behind him. The thrill of fear that passed through him nearly unbalanced him into the stream. He turned abruptly, expecting to see Rashlyn reaching toward him, sinister and threatening.

Yes, Rashlyn was standing behind him, but instead of reaching out for the mercenary, he was digging in his pockets. Aremys felt stupid. He was definitely becoming paranoid, he berated himself silently and angrily.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said, a little slyly, Aremys thought. He retrieved a tiny jar from a pocket. “Here—this will ease the headaches I believe you have been suffering.”

“What is it?”

“A soothing blend of herbs for rest with a dash of laudanum. It won’t harm you, or dull anything but the pain, I promise. Sip it every hour as you need.”

Aremys was trapped. Rashlyn’s filthy hand was extended toward him with the small bottle in its palm. He had to take it, or risk throwing yet more suspicion on himself. If the King was waiting to hear that Aremys had vomited again or had refused to ride his stallion, then he would be disappointed, but this moment might yet be his undoing. Aremys saw the healer’s eyes narrow at his reluctance but still he hesitated.

“I can easily make up some more; you’re not denying anyone by taking it,” Rashlyn assured, the softness in his voice al
most threatening. Aremys was sure the man was daring him to refuse.

He took a moment to shake his head free of the water droplets, then paused to wipe a sleeve across his face. “Thank you,” he replied, reaching out slowly, hoping Rashlyn would simply drop the phial into his hand.

Before that could happen, Galapek alarmed all three men by rearing up behind them, screaming loudly as though in pain. Myrt reacted first, running toward the horse. Aremys took his chance, moving swiftly away from the healer. “Let me help!” he called.

The horse clearly wanted Myrt nowhere near him, rearing and screaming even more wildly as the warrior approached. To Myrt’s surprise, however, the stallion calmed a little at the sound of the big mercenary’s voice and allowed Aremys to sidle up to him.

Aremys reached for the reins and called again to the horse. “Galapek, there, boy. There, now. Settle, big fellow,” he whispered. The horse stilled now, trembling and frightened.

“Poor Galapek, whatever has happened to you, I shall rescue you, I promise,” Aremys said, stroking the animal’s broad, magnificent face. “Be calm now, boy.” He rubbed the stallion’s neck, and for the first time, the stench of the magic did not turn his stomach. Whatever this curse upon the stallion was, it was somehow communicating with him, flowing through him and around him, begging him to keep his promise.

And then a word came into in his head. It was faint and desperately called but he sensed it clearly.
Elspyth,
he heard, just once, and then it was gone, like a sigh given to the wind and borne away.

Aremys was so shocked he stood rigid against the horse’s neck, trying without success to recapture the word. Elspyth. Surely that was the name he had heard? Myrt’s urgent voice broke through his haze of confusion.

“Farrow! For Haldor’s sake, man!”

Aremys turned, surprised by the anger in the man’s voice. Then he saw Myrt’s expression—not angry, but distraught—
and followed his friend’s pointing finger. By the water’s edge, where he had left him, Rashlyn writhed on the ground, shouting gibberish as spittle foamed and flew from his mouth. His arms and legs flailed wildly, then, suddenly, fell completely still.

“Check that the horses are secure,” Aremys called over his shoulder as he ran to the prone figure. He hoped Rashlyn might be dead, but luck was not with him. He lifted the small man’s chin to ensure a clear breathing passage, but stopped short of breathing any life-giving air into the barshi’s mouth. “He has a pulse, I’m sorry to say,” he risked to Myrt, who had come up behind them.

Myrt did not smile but something akin to a twitch of amusement flitted across his face. “What’s happened?” the Mountain man queried.

“Is he prone to fits?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not heard of any occurring before.”

“Could it be the cheese?” Aremys asked.

“No, it’s fresh. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Something else, then. It seemed to occur at the same time as Galapek took fright.”

“What are you saying?” Myrt squatted, saw the indecision in his companion’s face. “Speak freely—I have protected you before.”

Rashlyn lay rigidly still at their feet. Aremys lifted back the man’s lids. The dark, madness-filled eyes had rolled back into his head. The man was unconscious; he could hear nothing.

“I’m not sure I should air my views. You’re a loyal Mountain warrior, after all.”

“Not to him!” Myrt spat disdainfully on the ground. “Like you, I wish he was dead. He’s a danger to all of us.”

“Because of his magic?”

Myrt nodded reluctantly. “He uses it for evil, I’m sure of it.”

“I think it’s his magic that has prompted this episode.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, entirely.” Aremys sighed and decided to take a chance on Myrt. He hoped his instincts would serve him
truly. “Were you given any instructions about me and this afternoon’s ride?”

Myrt frowned. “Nothing special. I was briefed to give you a chance to enjoy Galapek because you had expressed such interest in the horse.”

“The King didn’t tell you to keep a special eye on me?”

“My job is to keep an eye on you, Farrow. You’re our…”—he hesitated—“our guest, after all.”

Aremys grinned ruefully. “Myrt, you are more friend to me than most people I have met over the past decade. But let’s be honest here: I’m a prisoner. I have to accept that. However,” he went on, scratching his head, “your king is entrusting me with a very serious task, which means he has faith in me. Sadly, I can’t be quite as honest with him as I can with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I suspect he is in the thrall of this man. You’ve told me as much yourself, and spending just an afternoon with Rashlyn has convinced me he’s not someone to trust.”

Myrt said nothing, merely frowned again.

Aremys pushed on. He glanced toward the horse. “I could be aiming completely off target here, but I think there’s something very odd about Galapek. No, not odd. Enchanted.”

Myrt rocked back on his heels as if slapped. “Magic?”

Aremys nodded. “Worked by Rashlyn, I’m guessing. And known of by your king.” There, it was said.

Myrt stood and began pacing. He said nothing for a while and Aremys kept the silence, watching Rashlyn for any signs of consciousness.

“I don’t believe this,” the warrior hissed eventually, pointing at Aremys.

“You don’t have to,” the mercenary replied calmly, having anticipated the anger. “I’m just offering my own thoughts. I’m not suggesting that your king—whom I like and respect—is in complete agreement with Rashlyn.”

“Then what
do
you mean, mercenary?” Myrt asked brusquely.

Aremys was sorry that he had pushed his friend so far. It
was obvious from his anger that Myrt had suspected something not so far from what Aremys had suggested. But the blood of the Mountain People ran thick with loyalty. Wyl had warned him as much and he should not have presumed that friendship might override that loyalty—although, of course, it had in the case of the man Lothryn, who had chosen love and friendship over his monarch.

“I’m sorry if I’ve given insult, Myrt. It was not intended, especially not to you. I meant that I think Cailech—under the spell of Rashlyn, as you have pointed out—has permitted something unnatural to be wrought upon this horse.”