Bridge of Souls (4 page)

“And how for the love of Haldor’s arse would you know, Grenadyne? Are you a practitioner yourself, now, who knows when magic is being wielded?”

The harsh words bit at Aremys, as intended, but he could not ignore the truth. Could he risk divulging it to Myrt?

“Myrt, do you trust me?”

The man passed a weary hand over his eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“That you are reliable.”

“Good. That is enough for me. Now, we have to get Rashlyn back to the fortress. Help me lay him across his horse and I will tell you everything I know as we travel.”

T
hey took the same route home, although more slowly. Aremys had tethered Rashlyn’s horse on a lead some distance behind them, so if the healer regained consciousness he would not be able to hear their conversation and would have to alert them by calling out. “An old mercenary trick,” Aremys had said, winking.

On the return journey, Aremys began to share with his friend all the information he was prepared to risk bringing into the open. He cast a silent prayer to Shar that he had this man’s measure, that he could trust him not to betray him. He said nothing of Wyl, of course, simply explaining that he had been
in the employ of the Morgravian sovereign. Myrt accepted that the mercenary would not explain what specific task he was employed to do for Celimus, merely nodding when Aremys assured him that it was nothing connected with the people of the Razors.

“Let me simply say that I was tracking someone of interest to the Crown,” Aremys offered.

“And that’s what brought you so far north?”

“Yes. I’ve remembered that I came to a place called Timpkenny in the far north east of Briavel,” the mercenary lied. “I believed the person I was following had passed through there.”

“And these people who set upon you—just common bandits, you think?”

“Mmm.” Aremys nodded. “Added a little something to my ale to make me feel sick so I would stagger outside the inn late at night. I’m guessing now—all of this is a little hazy, thanks to the drug—but they must have thrown me over a horse to remove me from prying eyes. They led me to the fringe of a region called the Thicket. Have you heard of it?” Aremys held his breath.

Myrt was staring at him intently. He nodded. “They say it has powerful magic.”

“It does, my friend, or at least I think it does. The bandits left me there after robbing me. Something must have frightened them, because I expected to be beaten, at the very least.” Aremys steered himself toward the truth. “The last thing I remember is a strange noise coming from the Thicket itself.”

Myrt’s eyes were huge. “A creature?”

“No creature I know makes that sound. No, I can still hear it—it was a sort of humming sound—and then the air became thick and oppressive,” Aremys replied.

“Then what?”

Aremys made a gesture of apology. “Then nothing. I woke up to the sound of your men’s voices and no memory of what had occurred or who I was. You know the rest. My memory came back gradually over the next couple of days, and it’s still
returning slowly.” He shrugged, then added for effect, “I can even remember the faces of my family now.”

Myrt, stunned, shook his head. Finally he spoke. “I believe you, Aremys. No one could make up such a tale, and we know of the Thicket’s legend. It’s just a shock to hear that its magical reputation is more than myth.”

“For me too, Myrt. But I’ve been over it and over it and the only explanation I have is that the Thicket, or something inside it, had something to do with me appearing at a location in the Razors it would take days to reach by normal means. You checked the area; there were no signs of other people or animals, so I couldn’t have been kept drugged and led in by horse.”

“I believe you,” the big warrior repeated, his hands raised in defense.

“Well, I don’t want to put any strange ideas in your head, but my only explanation is that this place called the Thicket is enchanted—I too have heard the old tales—and it did not like my being there, let me tell you. I felt its animosity. I think it got rid of me.”

“That’s impossible, man!” Myrt said, desperate to cling to something rational.

“I agree, but there’s no other explanation. You understand now why I had to keep this part of my story to myself? Obviously I couldn’t tell that tale to the King. He would have laughed first and had my throat slit a moment later. As to how the Thicket rid itself of me—it repelled me. I can’t think of any other way to describe it. It would be great to believe a nice family of tinkers found me, picked me up, and carried me with them on their journey through the Razors, but I think you’d agree we’d only be making up an explanation to help ourselves feel better about a notion we don’t want to accept or understand. No, Myrt, I am convinced that magic has been wielded upon me. I have other reasons to suspect as much as well.”

Here it was, the very core of his tale. Myrt would either give himself over entirely to Aremys now or brand him a madman
and go running to Cailech. Aremys took a deep breath and waited for Myrt’s inevitable question. He risked a glance behind. Rashlyn lay draped over his horse, still unconscious.

“What do you mean by that?”

The fortress was all but upon them now. Aremys could see the people working the orchards, driving carts and going about their chores. He shivered, noticing for the first time that a chill had descended into the valley and a slight breeze had picked up, sending ripples across the surface of the formerly mirrorlike lake. The disturbance matched his own mood.

“Aremys, what did you mean?” Myrt repeated.

Aremys reined Galapek to a halt and the other horses followed suit. He knew Myrt could tell this was difficult for him and was giving him time to find the right words. There were no right words, though—so he just told it as he saw it.

“I think I’ve been touched by the magic of the Thicket. It temporarily knocked out my memory with the force of its power, but it gave me something in return.”

Myrt drew back warily and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Aremys hurried on. “It left me with the ability to sense magic.” He held up his hand. “Before you jump in—no, I can’t wield it. I just sense it. And magic is with us now.”

“Where?” his companion whispered.

“Right here, beneath me.”

Myrt looked toward the ground.

“Galapek,” Aremys said. “This horse is not natural, Myrt. It is riddled with magic, bad magic. It’s tainted—it smells evil and repulses me as effectively as the Thicket transported me all those leagues. This horse reeks of enchantment and I think Rashlyn is responsible for it.”

“That’s why you were so keen to avoid his touch,” Myrt finished, tying together the threads of all he had noticed but had not been able to understand.

“That’s right. That’s why I disgraced myself on our first ride together when Cailech rode Galapek. The magic assaulted me and I had no control over my reaction to it. I didn’t even know
why I was behaving so strangely. It took me a while to work it out, but I know I’m right.”

“And now?”

“The magic still revolts me, but I have it under control now.”

The warrior whistled through his teeth. “So that’s why you seemed nervous riding out this afternoon.”

Aremys nodded. “I was terrified. I had no idea how I’d handle it, but I knew that Rashlyn had been sent to watch my reaction and so I had to be very careful.”

“So you’re saying the King sent him?”

“Of course. Cailech’s too smart to allow my behavior on that first ride to go unnoticed. He’s testing me.”

“He speaks well of you, Aremys, you should know that,” Myrt defended.

“Thank you. I’ve grasped as much, and yet I know he is suspicious of me—understandably so, because if he’s got something to hide with this enchantment, anything that threatens it is a danger.”

“You’re risking much by telling me this.”

Aremys nodded gravely. “My life is in your hands, Myrt. I trust you, and Shar knows, I had to tell someone. I was about to go mad.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just keep my secret for now.”

“I cannot be party to anything disloyal to Cailech,” the man said carefully.

“I wouldn’t ask it of you. I just want to learn more about the horse—and Rashlyn, whom I wouldn’t trust if he were the last man alive in this land.”

“None of us would, except the King,” Myrt replied, disgust lacing his tone. “And you think the horse’s rearing and shrieking and Rashlyn’s collapse are connected?”

“Yes. Something has tampered with their magic or disturbed the link between the two. I’ll admit to something else…”

“Yes?”

“I felt it too, but only lightly. As Rashlyn was holding that medicine out to me, I became light-headed, slightly dizzy. I thought it was the fear of him touching me, but I think I know better now. The magic of the Thicket was resonating again…perhaps warning me. Or maybe something has happened, something connected with the Thicket that has also disturbed the horse. I don’t understand what, or how. Maybe the Thicket can disrupt the actual enchantment on Galapek—why else would Rashlyn also react? They must be connected.”

“But you don’t know how?”

“No! It’s frustating!” Aremys frowned. “But I intend to learn more. Will you keep my secret?”

Myrt nodded unhappily. “I will keep it.”

“Thank you. I won’t betray you or your people—you have my word.” Aremys banged his fist on his chest in an oath only another northerner would understand.

Myrt mirrored the movement and then the two men banged fists together in the traditional northern oath of loyalty.

After they had ridden on some time in silence, Aremys decided to push his luck with the Mountain Man. “Now that you know my secret, perhaps you would share with me whatever it was that you held back earlier about your great friend Lothryn?”

Myrt looked taken aback and uncomfortable. “It was nothing of importance.”

Aremys shrugged. “It seemed to me that you were troubled by the mention of his name. I thought you might want to share your burden with someone who would not judge you for it—an outsider you can trust.”

Myrt glanced back at the barshi’s unconscious figure, then looked around surreptitiously, his expression uncertain.
Come on, tell me,
Aremys urged silently. He knew if ever there was a moment to learn about Wyl’s savior, it was now, while Myrt was in a fragile state of mind and the bond Aremys had built between them was new and strong.

“Lothryn…” Myrt spoke the name as if in veneration.
“Brave Lothryn was brought back to the fortress after the Morgravians escaped—well, all but one.”

Aremys bit back the question that leapt to his throat. He must not disturb the man’s flow of speech. There would be time to learn about Gueryn le Gant later.

“Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth, managed to get away—because of Lothryn’s aid and the fact that we were facing several zerkons. Lothryn and I fought back to back together on Haldor’s Pass, a dangerous escarpment. We killed three zerkons that day and lost several men. When the battle was over my great friend turned to me and held his wrists out to be bound. He didn’t ask for mercy or even a quick death—both of which I had expected, and might even have given him. I loved him enough to give my own life for him, and I knew Cailech would execute me if I showed such mercy. But Lothryn knew Cailech would have instructed me to bring him back to face his ruler. He allowed me to keep my faith with my king.”

It was Aremys’s turn to whisper. “What happened?”

Myrt’s expression became distraught. His voice shaking with tightly held-back tears, he continued. “I delivered him to Cailech. It was a private meeting and I was not permitted to be present. I have no idea what passed between them. Later, all the King would tell me was that Lothryn was undergoing a special punishment and we would not see him again. I asked whether he was to be killed and I’ll never forget the King’s reply. He said, ‘He probably wishes I would kill him.’ I saw a mixture of pain and regret in his face, Aremys. The King loved Lothryn like a brother, and his betrayal cut deeper than any other wound ever could.”

Aremys sighed. “And there’s been no sign of Lothryn since?”

Myrt shook his head, deeply upset. “We’ve tried. I know Rashlyn knows something, but he’s as mad as a pit of burning snakes. He makes little sense at the best of times.”

As if on cue, they heard a sound behind them, a weak cry from the man slung across the trailing horse.

“He’s stirring. We’ve tarried long enough. We shall speak again when we next get a chance alone,” Aremys said and, as Myrt dropped back to check on Rashlyn, he clicked Galapek on toward the mammoth arch that swallowed them into the great stone fortress.

W
YL
’
S PROGRESS ALONG THE
D
ARKSTREAM WAS SLOW AS HE TRAVELED AGAINST THE CURRENT BACK TOWARD THE
T
HICKET
. H
IS MIND FELT BURDENED
rather than lightened by his meeting with Elysius and his heart was especially heavy at leaving Fynch. Further, his emotions were still in turmoil at the loss of his sister, Ylena, whose body he now inhabited, and by the disappearance of Aremys. He had precious few friends in his life now. To lose one so soon—especially one he trusted as he did Aremys—was devastating.

But it was leaving Fynch behind that troubled him the most. As he inched his way toward the Thicket, Wyl realized how important the youngster had become to him. Others, such as Elspyth and Aremys, had accepted the strangeness of his life, but Fynch had guessed his secret from the start and had protected him. Little Fynch, so humble and yet so wise, had saved not only Wyl’s life but also that of a sovereign with his ingenuity. And then, following his own path, he had left the safety of Werryl, first to track down Romen’s killer, and after obeying the pull of the Wild. The boy was deeply enmeshed in this
whole business of Myrren’s Gift, or at least in the curious life that Wyl was now leading, and Wyl was angry at himself for not insisting that Fynch leave Elysius and travel with him.

The truth of it was, he suddenly felt he needed Fynch. Their lives, strange though they both were, were entwined, and it suddenly occurred to Wyl that Fynch’s involvement might be more than pure coincidence. Fynch had been at Myrren’s burning; was it possible that he was magically tied to her gift, too?

Wyl sighed. Fynch aside, he was concerned about so many people that his only plan at this minute was to return to Timpkenny. He would stay overnight there before making a decision on his next move. The remainder of his journey up the Darkstream was curiously and happily uneventful—Ylena’s fears mercifully remained at bay—and Samm was nowhere to be seen when he alighted, relieved, from the small craft. His intention had been to avoid the boatman and so it suited him that the cottage appeared deserted.

Wyl did not relish the notion of passing again through the mysterious Thicket, but he knew he could not wait too long to find the courage. Dark fell heavily and fast in this place, and he did not want to risk Samm coming across him. He walked briskly toward the dark line of yews that marked the border of the Thicket. Wyl was convinced that he could hear a dim buzz emanating from the enchanted forest; it frightened him, but as he had been allowed to pass through once before, he was counting on similar generosity again.

Wyl took a deep breath, closed his eyes reflexively, and pushed into the tangle. The Thicket’s cool atmosphere chilled him instantly. The silence was disturbing. It was clear that the forest knew he was there, and the thought that this place could sense, think, and make decisions for itself was the most disconcerting notion of all.

Oddly, this time there were no snagging branches and no confusing pathways. Previously, when Knave had led him through, Wyl had felt sure that alone he would have lost himself among the yews for good. This time paths seemed to open
themselves up to him. He shook his head with wonder. The Thicket was guiding him swiftly through its depths. It wanted him gone, was as glad to be rid of him as he was to have his back to it.

“Thank you,” he whispered in genuine relief. Whether or not the Thicket heard he could not know, but he felt better for having offered his gratitude.

It was then that a terrible thought struck him: If the Thicket could guide him out, it was just as able to keep Aremys in. Was the mercenary still blundering around in the forest, trying hopelessly to escape?

Wyl overcame his intense fear, took the chance, and began to call to his friend. The somewhat desperate edge to his voice carried loudly through the dense overgrowth but did little more than scatter small animals he could not see. As if in response to the tension his concern for Aremys had created, Ylena’s fear of enclosed spaces began to threaten again. He felt it first as a tightening in her chest, and recalled the identical tautness of emotion that had occurred just before he’d lost control of himself during his first journey on the Darkstream.

The familiar shallowness of breath hit him and he stopped moving. Was the Thicket’s magic acute enough to sense this change in him? Instinctively, he began breathing into his cupped hands. He could not imagine how he remembered this trick, but it was something his father had taught Ylena when she was an infant. Panic, he recalled, had often overcome his young sister, prompted by any suggestion of being enclosed or hidden: the game hide-and-seek, looking into the dark depths of the well, or playing under Wyl’s bed. To his knowledge, Ylena had not experienced this terror since she was a child, but obviously its ability to strike had traveled with her into adulthood. Wyl was grateful now for his memory of Fergys Thirsk’s trick to calm his daughter; he quickly noticed a marked change in what had been steadily rising panic levels.

Whether or not the Thicket was aware of his discomfort, Wyl was fairly sure it deliberately steered him toward what
might, at a stretch, be described as a clearing. His relief—or, more to the point, Ylena’s—at the space was evident as her legs buckled, dropping him to the ground. It remained cool beneath the yews, but the oppressive atmosphere was not as marked, and Wyl knew that if he could get his breathing under control he would feel less anxious. He put Ylena’s pretty head between her knees and forced her lungs to breathe slowly and deeply, as foot soldiers, suddenly overcome by fear of battle, were taught to do before the command to charge. He held this position for several minutes and was relieved that he could feel the anxiety lessening.

A soft sound above prompted him to raise his head and he was confronted by the largest owl he had ever seen. Strikingly marked, the majestic tawny blinked slowly and deliberately in the way owls do. Wyl watched it as intently as it was regarding him, wondering which of them would turn away first, if that indeed was what was expected.

He lost the staring contest. “And you are?” he said, feeling ridiculous but reminding himself that he had spoken to Knave without embarrassment. Why not this curious owl with such intelligence lurking in its large yellow eyes? He was rewarded for his faith.

I am Rasmus,
the owl said into his mind, startling him.

“I hear you,” Wyl replied, in awe of the splendid creature before him.

That was my intention,
Rasmus said somewhat disdainfully, rotating its head in a disconcerting manner.

“How is it that we can communicate?” Wyl persisted. “Is it because of Myrren’s Gift?”

The owl made a disgusted sound.
It is because I allow it, and because you are here.

“In the Thicket, you mean?”

Where else could I mean?

Wyl felt an apology springing to his lips but resisted it. This creature was either baiting him or simply did not like him. “What do you want with me?” he asked, his tone direct.

Again the owl blinked.
We want you to leave,
it said firmly.

“Well, can’t you just rid yourself of me?” Wyl replied, determined not to be cowed by this strange creature.

If we choose to.

Wyl sighed, irritated by the owl’s superior manner. “Then choose it, owl, for leaving here is what I want too.”

If you want to be gone from here, why do you linger?
Rasmus asked, his tone suggesting he too was losing patience.

“I am not lingering,” Wyl snapped. “I was guided to this spot, and if you’re as magical as I suspect, you can probably sense the sorcery that has touched me.”

I can.

“Then you know that this is not the body I was born with.”

And so?

“And so this particular body does not care for the density or fearsome atmosphere of your Thicket.”

It is not mine,
the bird countered.

It was Wyl’s turn to blink—with exasperation. He took a steadying breath; showing his fury would not help here. “The person whose body I walk in is scared of this place and was having breathing difficulties.”

We gathered.

“Was this clearing deliberately created for my benefit?” Wyl was determined to find out the extent of the Thicket’s abilities.

Yes. Are you ready to leave?

“Not until you answer a question.”

I am not beholden to you.

Wyl took a gamble. “If you trust Knave, then you should trust me, for he and I are friends. I mean you and the creatures of the Thicket—or indeed the Thicket itself—no harm. The secret of your magic is safe with me.”

There was a long pause. Wyl stood up, frustrated by the owl’s stare and its silence. “You have let me pass through before. I know you have no intention of killing me.”

Ask your question,
the owl finally said, irritably.

Wyl curbed his enthusiasm and took a moment to consider
how best to phrase his question. He sensed the owl would answer, at worst cryptically, and at best literally, so his question would have to be very clear.

“Where is Aremys living?” he asked carefully.

There was no hesitation from the owl.
He lives in the Razors.

Wyl’s relief spilled over. “Is he safe?”

I have answered your question,
the owl replied, fractious now.

“Please,” Wyl beseeched.

Rasmus made a peevish clicking noise.
Aremys is safe.

Wyl wondered how much more the owl knew. The Thicket held many secrets; perhaps they could help him as he journeyed on. He had nothing more to lose other than the owl’s patience, and that was already fast depleting. “Rasmus,” Wyl began reasonably, “you have shared your name. Mine is Wyl. But then I’m sure you know that. Can we not be friends?”

Yet another tiresome question?

Wyl sat down deliberately. “Yes, I have questions. I know what you are concerned about, and I will not betray the Thicket. I owe it for keeping my friend Aremys safe and for helping me so far. I am your friend also.”

The Thicket has no friends of your kind, save one. You are not he.

Wyl assumed the bird referred to Elysius. “Then let me ask what I need so I can help the others you do trust—Knave and…Fynch.”

He had intended to say “Elysius,” but “Fynch” came to his mind and slipped out first. He saw the bird react as he spoke his young friend’s name, and the shrubs around him seemed to shudder. Was it the boy who interested the Thicket?

“I will protect Fynch always,” he risked.

And was rewarded with a testy reply.
He does not require your protection. He has the protection of the Thicket.

“I see,” Wyl said, not really seeing anything but harking back to his earlier suspicion that Fynch had some special purpose in this dangerous game they were playing. Then a notion came to him as suddenly as a wasp sting and causing similar pain. “He’s not coming to Werryl, is he?”

The bird said nothing at first, then sighed. At that soft
sound in his head, Wyl felt hollow. He had lost Fynch.
Fynch has his own path to follow now,
Rasmus confirmed.

Although he had suspected as much, Wyl felt his heart sink at the owl’s sorrowful words. Fynch’s new path must be a dangerous one, he realized, or the owl would not have mentioned protection. Wyl also realized there was precious little he could do about it. The Thicket would not permit him to return to find Fynch, he knew. It obviously had its own reasons for helping the boy to follow this new road.

“Knave will be at his side, of course?” he ventured.

Always,
Rasmus said.

“Thank you,” said Wyl, and meant it. “I shall leave now. I am grateful to you, Rasmus, and the ‘we’ you speak of, for allowing me this time and for answering my questions.”

He stood and bowed to the huge bird with marked respect, then walked away, presuming the Thicket would now guide him quickly to its fringe and toward Timpkenny. He was surprised to hear Rasmus call to him.

He turned. “Pardon?”

I said, where are you going?
the owl repeated.

“I must make my way south to Werryl as quickly as I can.”

We will send you there.

Wyl looked at the large bird quizzically. “Send me?”

Come back to the clearing.

“I don’t understand.” Wyl felt a thrill of fear run through him.

You will. Stand before me and close your eyes. Do not open them.

“I won’t.”

If you disobey us, we shall never allow you to leave,
the owl warned.

Too much depended on his safe departure from this place. Wyl did as asked, wondering if this “sending” business was a small show of friendship after all.

Be still,
the owl cautioned.
It will feel strange but you must trust us. Do not resist. Just let your body float. Remember, do not open your eyes.

Wyl understood none of it but obeyed as a man used to taking orders.

Farewell,
Rasmus said, and then Wyl felt a vast, chest-crushing pressure against his body. He wanted to open his eyes but fought the urge, having given his word. Breathing was all but impossible, but he refused to panic. He had to trust the owl.

Had he disobeyed the owl’s strict instructions, he would have seen Fynch before him. Wyl could not see the tears on Fynch’s face or the goodbye the boy mouthed to his friend, but he felt the touch of the Gate Wielder as Ylena’s trembling body was pushed through a thickened disk of air and disappeared.