Free Bridge of Souls by Fiona McIntosh Page B

she felt immediately contrite. “Did Commander Liryk give you the name of this visitor, Justen?” she asked, more gently now.
    “Yes, your majesty. It is a woman by the name of Ylena Thirsk.”
     
     

5
     
     
    M AEGRYN MET THE RIDERS AND WAS ALARMED TO SEE THE STATE R ASHLYN WAS IN .
    “H E ’ LL BE ALL RIGHT ,” A REMYS ASSURED THE anxious stablemaster as he handed him the reins of Galapek and Rashlyn’s horse.
    “I couldn’t care less about him,” Maegryn said, and the vehemence in his voice surprised Aremys. “But the King will be alarmed and that makes us all uneasy. Did you have any problems with the horses?”
    “Galapek got himself a little rattled over something, but he calmed quickly. Just skittish,” Aremys answered, skirting the truth. The fewer lies he told the better. “He’s more incredible to ride than I could have imagined. Thank you, Maegryn.”
    The man could not help himself; he smiled widely at the praise. “Yes, he’s a beauty, this one. A real find.”
    “Where did he come from?” Aremys put the question casually.
    “The barshi gave him as a present to the King. Had the horse sent in secretly from somewhere, apparently. He won’t tell anyone from where.”
    “That’s a little odd, isn’t it? You’d think that if there were more like this one, the King would be keen to know.”
    Maegryn shrugged. “We’re not allowed to ask too much about Galapek, sir.” He looked embarrassed. “I’ll be off, then, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed the ride.”
    Aremys knew there would be little further information to be won from Maegryn today. “Thank you. I hope you won’t mind if I look in on him again?”
    “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, sir. You’re one of the very few he permits near him. I think he’s taken a shine to you.” The stablemaster smiled.
    Aremys stroked Galapek’s twitching withers as the horse was led away. He was hoping for another sign from the animal but got nothing.
    Myrt was barking orders for Rashlyn—who was lying on the ground still mumbling his strange nonsense—to be taken to his private quarters and attended by a physic. Then the Mountain Man turned to Aremys. “Come on,” he said. “The worst is still before us.”
    Aremys sighed, needing no confirmation. Cailech.
     
     
     
    T hey tracked the King down to his wine cellar, catacomb-like chambers dug into the ground beneath a separate stone building. Descending the flagged stairs into the musty darkness, Aremys smelled earth and spice; mixed with the aroma of yeast and the oak of the barrels, it was a comforting blend. It was cool down here but not cold; the temperature would remain much the same year round, he guessed, and the vaulted ceilings combined with the peace and stillness to give the cellar a chapellike quality.
    “We’re sorry to interrupt you, your majesty,” Myrt began.
    The King turned from his discussion with the cellarmaster and grinned at the newcomers. He’s in a good mood, Aremys thought. What a pity we’re about to ruin it.
    “Farrow, you have to try this!” Cailech called over the barrels. “It’s to be our best vintage yet.” The King slapped his cellarmaster on the back in praise, then lifted the long-handled tasting cup to his lips and drained it. “Ah, nectar,” he said, delighted.
    “Sire,” Myrt bowed. When he straightened, his expression in the diffused light of the beeswax candles was sufficiently somber to win Cailech’s attention. The King’s smile faded.
    “You look like you’ve swallowed bad meat, Myrt. What’s wrong?”
    “It’s the barshi, sire,” the warrior began. Cailech handed the tasting cup back to the cellarmaster, who stepped aside. “He’s unwell,” Myrt added.
    “Oh?” Cailech looked toward Aremys. “Farrow, what’s this all about?”
    Aremys was surprised to be brought into the conversation. He wanted to clear his throat but knew this might make him appear nervous, so he just began talking, sticking as closely to the