Daughter of Ancients

Chapter 14

Never in all the years since I first entangled my life with the Dar'Nethi sorcerers had I felt so useless, so unnecessary, so absolutely incapable of affecting the outcome of events. Even in the ten years between Karon's execution and the day he came back to me in the body of a Dar'Nethi prince, I had been in control of my own survival. Even in my despair as I had watched Gerick's transformation into a Lord of Zhev'Na, I had refused to let go of him, and my words had woven a thread that helped draw him back from the abyss. Even in these past months while watching Karon die, my days had been filled with purpose—to gather him close and give him what comfort love could provide.

But now Karon was gone, spending his last days in an exile I could not share, and Gerick was off with him pursuing truth and forgiveness. No matter how often Ven'Dar spared a quarter of an hour to ask my judgment of Karon's letters or so kindly inquired what word I'd had from Gerick, I knew I wasn't needed. What use had anyone in Gondai for a middle-aged woman with no talent for sorcery?

I slammed my book onto the table, causing the lamp to flicker dangerously and my young hostess to stick her head into the sitting room. "Is all well with you, my lady? Is there anything I may—"

"No, Aimee. I'm sorry. I'm just unpardonably rude and impossibly restless. No one can do anything for me until I decide on what, in the name of heaven, I'm going to do with myself."

I didn't want to be "done for." I wanted to do something—anything—to get this over with. And, of course, even as I wished it, I understood that I was wishing Karon back to his dying. If I could just be with him . . . But a casual touch by any Dar'Nethi could reveal that I was mundane. My face might be recognized. The sight of the three of us together might trigger a question that would lead to discovery, wasting all these weeks' work.

"A plague on that woman!" I said.

"Surely these matters will not take long to resolve," said Aimee. "With Master Karon's wisdom and your son's power . . . and their friend, Master Paulo, is so capable and devoted. . . ."

"My husband writes that no conclusion is in sight. They've found nothing to prove that the Lady D'Sanya is not everything she appears to be, yet clearly doubts remain. And with these vicious happenings in the north, they must be sure of her."

"Would you like company for a while, my lady? I've slept so ill of late that I keep drowsing over my work. I'm on the verge of feeling entirely useless."

"Of course." I couldn't seem to concentrate on anything.

Aimee carried in a large basket of yarn, sat on the couch beside me, and began winding the yarn into spools. "The Lady D'Sanya seems to have done only good deeds in all these months. My sister writes that she has reforested the worst devastation in Erdris Vale, where the Gardeners believed ten years would be required. And my father's older brother, blinded by Zhid sorcery in his youth, was hired to do the water-seeking for the Lady's new hospice in Maroth. When she saw him struggling to mark his plans so the Tree Delvers would know where to set their saplings, the Lady brushed her hands on his eyes and he could see for the first time in thirty years. He told my sister that he would happily be blind again if fate ordained, for he'd had the chance to look upon the beauteous daughter of D'Arnath and found her worthy of her father's name. Everyone in Maroth marvels at her kindness and her good works."

Perhaps it was my general irritability or just the fact that I had never known anyone to live up to such a singularly virtuous reputation, but as I listened to Aimee's glowing report, I set myself the task to find Lady D'Sanya's flaw. I could not confront the woman, lest Karon and Gerick's subtler efforts come to naught, but I would investigate everything she'd done since she appeared so abruptly. She could not be so perfect as everyone believed.

"So is the Lady a Gardener or a Healer?" I said. "What true talent enables her to do all these things?"

Aimee wrinkled her brow, her fingers pausing. "I don't know that I've ever heard it said. It is most unusual for anyone to display such skills in so many disciplines. Though she cured my uncle's blindness and has healed the souls of many who were Zhid, I've never heard that she uses the healing rite as T'Laven or Master Karon does."

The girl felt through her basket for another length of yarn, and a tickle of enchantment feathered my skin as she tested one and then another until she found a color that matched the rest of the spool she was winding. "Have you asked D'Sanya about your own sight, Aimee?"

"Ah, well. . ." Aimee closed her eyes and dipped her head a little as if to dismiss my question. Speaking of herself always gave her pause, yet she had never been awkward about her infirmity.

"Come, tell me. Have you?"

"My blindness is of nature, not enchantment, and long before I could remember, my dear father tried every Healer in Avonar with no result. Though I've never been other than content with the Way laid down for me, my sisters urged me to speak to the Lady after our uncle's change. And so, one day when I met her at the palace, I asked her to examine me. She neither spoke the Healers' invocation nor used the blood-rite as she tested me, and so I suppose we must conclude that she is not a true Healer."

"And what did she say?"

"She was most profoundly grieved. When she laid her cheek on mine, I could feel her tears. 'Would I could remedy nature's cruelties along with those of men,' she told me. I assured her that it was truly of little matter to me. I could not deem nature cruel, but rather immensely generous to make me an Imager, who could envision things so vividly in my mind, and to give me a talented and loving family to help me develop my skills and put up with my clumsiness."

Aimee—who could not be certain of a person's presence or identity if that person had not spoken to her— was unaware of the new arrival who stood in the doorway of her sitting room, listening as she expressed her contentment with her life. She could not see the thin, freckled face and understand instantly that she need never suffer a moment's unhappiness that a sworn worshipper could prevent. The poignancy of the scene was almost enough to soothe my irritation.

Aimee paused thoughtfully. "The good Lord Je'Reint once said that—"

"Paulo," I said, interrupting before the girl's good-hearted affection for the whole world—and her frank admiration for Ven'Dar's deposed successor—drove another stake into poor Paulo's heart. "A perfect time for you to join us."

"Master Paulo!" As with every visitor, Aimee jumped up to greet the newcomer as if he were the one person in the world she had been yearning to welcome. Three balls of yarn rolled from her lap to bounce and unwind themselves in colorful disarray across the floor.

"My lady. Mistress Aimee." Paulo bowed to each of us, allowing no hint of either awe, admiration, or hopeless dejection to touch his voice. From the leather pack hung over his shoulder, he brought out a single folded sheet of paper and gave it to me. "I've only the one today, ma'am."

Knowing that Paulo and Aimee would forgive my rudeness, I read Karon's letter right away. Two short paragraphs. Nothing he hadn't said five times before. Even his handwriting was listless and straggling. Blinking away the pricking in my eyes, I stuffed the letter in my pocket and turned back to the others.

Paulo had retrieved Aimee's yarn, the colorful mass looking odd in his hard, bony hands. "Here, miss." He thrust the tangle into her graceful fingers. "Sorry. I seem to have made a mess of your thread."

Aimee frowned, plopped the yarn into her basket, and wagged a scolding finger at Paulo. "Never try to fool me, sir, thinking a blind woman cannot see the truth of her own mistakes. My friends know better."

Paulo's breath stopped, and his cheeks paled as if a headsman had just raised an ax aimed at his neck. Though his lips worked, they produced no sound . . . until Aimee covered her mouth with her hand and broke into merry laughter. "I'm sorry," she said, after a moment. "You are just so serious and so very kind . . . and I am a terrible, wicked tease . . . please, come sit and rest yourself from your journey."

Though his face told me he might prefer to bury his head in the cushions piled in the corner of the room, poor Paulo sat down in a straight wooden chair across the low table from Aimee and me. Setting her basket aside, Aimee poured a cup of cold saffria from a pitcher on the table in front of us and offered it to Paulo. A peace offering, I thought, though she could not see that he took the cup with his eyes fixed somewhere in the region of her gold-link girdle and thus could not observe her smile of apology. She tilted her head as if searching or listening, and, after a moment, bit her lip uncertainly.

I went to their rescue. "Paulo, Aimee and I were just discussing the Lady D'Sanya. Has Gerick mentioned her true talent?"

"No, ma'am. He's not said anything about it. And I guess it's not a thing you go and ask right out."

"You're exactly right, sir," said Aimee as she returned to her seat and picked up her basket. "To question a person's true talent is to imply that the person's worth is somehow defined by his abilities at sorcery, which of course it could never be. There are so many qualities of more importance." Rarely had I heard Aimee so earnest in her opinions.

"So what is she then?" I asked the world at large.

Paulo frowned thoughtfully. "She's no Horsemaster. That's certain. She fixed Nacre's leg weeks ago all right, but he's been bothered about it since."

"It's not just that the leg is tender?" Though I cared nothing for Lady D'Sanya's skill with horses, Paulo's observations were always valuable. And I wasn't about to say anything to discount him in front of Aimee.

"No. He's just … not himself. Not by a league or ten. He's gone vicious. That's why I've come here in the middle of the week. To bring him back and find another. I sent my Stormcloud with the young master to Maroth, and I thought I could coax Nacre back to himself. But it's no good."

"I've few enough horses in my stable, and they're mostly carriage horses or plodding nags suited only to carry a petrified rider around her little paddock," said Aimee, offering her pitcher again. "But you're welcome to any of them. And if none suit, I'll take you to Master Je'Reint's stables—the finest in Avonar. We can surely find you an excellent mount there. My lord is so generous. He's taken me to his house many times and offered whatever service I need since my sisters moved away. I'll be happy to arrange a visit if you'd like. I'll take you there myself."

"That would be fine, mistress. Really fine." Given the look on his face, one might have thought she had offered him the sun from her silver platter and then told him he couldn't have it after all. He refilled his cup and set the pitcher back on the tray.

"What other news, Paulo? Is Gerick back from Maroth? Three weeks, it's been."

"I've not seen him. Last I heard, the Lady was still away from her house."

"And Karon …" .

"He says he's not managed to write further on his work nor any more than the one letter. Says he gets distracted too easy, but not by anything that's worth writing about." Paulo's face reflected the worry that accompanied any mention of Karon nowadays. "Things are not right with him, my lady. Though it's a risk to have me sneaking in, he seems to pick up a bit while I'm there. But he's not right."

I knew things were not right with Karon. His letters had dwindled in number and length and substance as the weeks had gone by. I ached for his loneliness and isolation, and without Gerick there to test him, I couldn't even know what was natural and what might be caused by the strange enchantment under which he lived. "He says your visits have been the best thing in his life, Paulo. You must have found something interesting to talk about."

When Gerick began spending so much time with D'Sanya, Paulo had taken it on himself to visit Karon, saying he would sneak through Karon's private garden, so as not to risk anyone inquiring about "Master K'Nor's" new visitor. But what had begun as an occasional hour had expanded into daily visits, so we'd seen little of Paulo for the past weeks. Karon's letters said that he and Paulo were having some useful discussions that were the first things to keep his attention since he'd been at the hospice.

"We pass the time. Talk a bit. Not much as would be interesting to anybody else." His gaze followed Aimee, who stood at her sideboard cutting slices of cake and setting them on small plates. When he noticed me watching, he colored and looked away. "He's a deal lonesome since the young master's been away. I'm sure he'll pick up when my lord comes back."

Ven'Dar had told us about the Zhid attack on Gerick and the Lady. Gerick had sent only a brief description of it along with his warning message about the consiliar. If he hadn't needed us to forward the message on to Karon for him, he'd likely not have told us anything.

Since then, Gerick had sent only one brief note from Maroth, saying they had seen no more signs of Zhid interest in the Lady, and that D'Sanya had kept him so busy, he'd had no time to investigate anything. Life has changed for me, Mother , he'd written. I've learned things about myself I never imagined. And I've come to understand so much about you and my father and how you've been able to survive all that's happened to you. Whatever comes of all this, I hope to be the better for it .

Karon was intrigued by the Lady's determination to teach Gerick to enjoy himself—an unexpected echo of a wish the two of us had shared for five years. He said I wouldn't recognize our son's manner. I've seen Gerick pleased or satisfied in the past , Karon had written a week or two before Gerick left for Maroth. And when he has joined with me, I've felt his care and love as if they were my own emotions. But never until these past weeks have I seen him happy. When he comes in from his time with her, he exhibits no trace of the burdens he has borne all his life. Though I fear for what we may yet unearth about this woman —and truly those fears lessen every day—I cannot regret Gerick's discovery that he can be happy or my witnessing it before I have to leave him. The paths of life are truly marvelous .

I didn't like it. Gerick and Karon were like two infants setting out to untangle a family squabble. Gerick had been a hermit for nine years after a completely unnatural childhood, emerging only briefly at age sixteen to offer his life to save the world from the Lords. And nobody in any world was less willing or able to recognize ordinary human wickedness than Karon, who insisted on seeing his own goodness reflected in everyone he encountered. All the more reason for a practical and uninvolved—though not exactly objective—observer to get busy.

I had the beginnings of an idea, and all I needed was a few words with the harried Prince of Avonar to help me decide if my plan made sense. When Paulo and Aimee set out on their excursion to Je'Reint's stables, they took my message for Ven'Dar to the palace. And along with a new horse for Paulo, and a gift of some elegant writing paper sent to me from Je'Reint, they returned with the Prince of Avonar's agreement to meet with me the next morning.

Two days later, I set out to seek my own version of the truth. Though skeptical that I might discover what others had not, Ven'Dar had provided the assistance I requested. He had given me an introduction to V'Rendal, a loyal and discreet Archivist, who could allow me access to the records of D'Sanya's interrogation, as well as provide me with an identity, credentials, and a plausible excuse to be poking around in case I wanted to look further. The woman worked tucked away in a quiet chamber below the palace library—the Royal Archives, a cool, high-ceilinged room lined with tall wooden cupboards.

I began by reading the official report of the Lady's examination by the Preceptorate, and the statements by the Archivists, Healers, and Historians who had questioned her. D'Sanya's knowledge of historical detail, her experiences, and the evidence that could be corroborated from other sources supported the belief that she was exactly who she claimed to be—a twenty-year-old woman who had been born more than a thousand years in the past.

"One thing bothers me, V'Rendal," I said to the buxom red-haired woman who sat across the wide table carefully removing the pages from a tattered book. My finger tapped the crisp vellum of the report that lay in front of me. "Your Historians found only three references to D'Arnath's daughter, all in a single text. The first is merely a date in the record of royal births. The second is in a listing of those attending the celebration when D'Arnath was crowned High King of Gondai. And the third is in the record of the residents of the palace when the great census was taken in the third year after the Catastrophe. He never even mentioned her name. Though he recorded no date of death, in every description of the family's activities after the third year of the war, only the sons were listed. How can we assume that this writer was correct, and all others in error?"

The woman picked up a penlike instrument with a leather-wrapped handle and used the small V-shaped blade set into its tip to cut a stitch in the book's ruined binding. Then she lifted out another fragile page and set it on the stack beside her. "The source is the important thing here. S'Tar was the official Historian of D'Arnath's court, required to be complete and adhere to the strictest standards in his writing, including all lists of the sort you've mentioned. His works are considered unimpeachable. As to his lack of detail about the daughter, I have my own theories. Prominent Historians pay little mind to women even yet."

A fly buzzed around our heads and into V'Rendal's face before settling on her stack of pages. She blew a quick sharp puff of air toward it, and the fly bounced from the stack onto the table, apparently frozen. Then she split another stitch and resumed her work and her lecture.

"Few histories . . . few books of any kind . . . survived those days. Books are so fragile. One of the great tragedies of this pernicious war occurred when King D'Arnath himself destroyed the Royal Library and its archives by mistake in a battle near the end of his reign. S'Tar's work and a few other specialized court histories survived because they had been so widely distributed. Every major library had its own copies. A few lesser-known histories—E'Rind's Obscure Histories , Mu'-Tenni's Ancients , one or two other texts—had never been added to the royal collection, and thus survived the destruction." She pursed her wide mouth in resignation. "But very few of those works still exist, all reportedly in the same condition as this poor volume and quite scattered throughout the Vales. I've never seen even one of them. After that disaster we began storing our most important histories inside the palace rather than a separate building. Tell me, are women ignored in great events in the mundane world?"

I smiled at her as I closed the bound reports and stacked them. "Dreadfully so. At least Dar'Nethi women have been able to participate in great events. In my country we are just beginning to wield influence. So, did the Historian who wrote this report research any of those more obscure histories?"

V'Rendal clipped another stitch and rolled her eyes. "He told me that it wasn't worth the trouble to look further, when S'Tar had provided the necessary confirmation of the girl's existence. The stories of her in the more obscure texts would not likely be reliable. And in truth … he was probably correct."

I hadn't expected much from the public record— clearly the Preceptors and the Dar'Nethi people had been satisfied—and so I was only slightly disappointed by my initial lack of results. If the opportunity arose, I might hunt down the more obscure histories, but I was more interested in the D'Sanya of my own time. The ancient Historians would not have known what happened to D'Sanya in Zhev'Na anyway.

"To be confined 'asleep' for a thousand years . . . how is that possible?"

"I don't know of any way. For short periods, yes. Everyone assumes the Lords could do whatever they liked—blatantly ridiculous, of course, else how would Avonar still stand? Yet it's true we don't know half their works."

"So no one investigated the nature of the Lady's enchantment?"

"No. I've wondered myself. Believed it should be a part of the records. Only one other person ever asked about it, one of the Restored. The man came in here every day for a week, reading the entire history of the war and how it all ended. A quiet man and most polite, but"— she shuddered—"I had M'Qeti from the Royal Library come here every day the man visited, so I didn't have to be alone with him. I suppose he had been Zhid for a very long time. It is so difficult to imagine that they don't— Well, I told the fellow I might speak to a friend of mine about the Lady's enchantment, but I've had so many other things to work on these past weeks . . ."

V'Rendal paused in her activity, setting aside her cutting tool, her thick fingers lying quietly on her book. "I suppose you could speak to my friend. Garvй's an odd man . . . and friends tell me he's gotten a bit unstable. I suppose that's the nature of being an Arcanist."

"An Arcanist?"

"When a Dar'Nethi boy or girl comes of age, it is usual for the child to be gifted with one of the hundred named talents." Her speech reverted to the precisely pruned simplicities of a nursery tutor. "That particular talent comes on them over a period of years and eventually dwarfs the smaller skills that all Dar'Nethi—"

"I know all about the Hundred Talents and coming of age."

"Hmm . . . well . . ." The woman cleared her throat, disgruntled at my interruption. "Perhaps you also know that enchantments of great difficulty and complexity often cross the boundaries of the hundred?"

I bit my tongue and held patient. "No. Please go on."

"Well, Arcanists are gifted in such matters. They are quite powerful… unusual… and often become dangerous, as I've said. Garvй is our only living Arcanist. He happens to be off investigating the site of these Zhid attacks just now, but he returns in a few days. If you like, I could ask him to see you."

"Yes, I'd like that. That would be very kind."

"I'll send a message to Mistress Aimee's house. I should get on with my work now. Everything seems to be taking longer than it should of late."

"Certainly. You've been most helpful. Just one more question before I go."

V'Rendal had bent her head to her work again, brushing a stubby finger delicately about the ragged border of a page. But she didn't say I couldn't ask more.

"I want to speak to those who first encountered the Lady." Those who witnessed her return to the world of the living might have insights or impressions that had been suppressed by later evidence.

Sighing and pulling a sheet of paper and an ink bottle close to her, V'Rendal wrote out several names. "These are the Gardeners who first spoke to the princess. Come back tomorrow morning, and I'll send you to their present location—assuming they've not pulled out. I've a book to send out that way, so I'm having a portal made. Easy enough for the portal-maker to send you on as well, assuming he can get the thing to work at all."

"Thank you so much for your help, Mistress V'Rendal." As the workroom grew suddenly chilly, the Archivist nodded, but did not speak. Enchantment filled the space like a shower of unseen feathers, and the brittle edge of the thin sheet beneath her hand seemed to soften and flow together, as if it were knitting itself together again. But then the shower of enchantment came to an abrupt halt, and she swore at her clumsiness. I pulled open the door and hurried out, closing it softly behind me.

V'Rendal's portal left me at the dusty village of Megira, a deserted cluster of whitewashed mud-brick buildings once used as a watch post where Dar'Nethi warriors could keep a wary eye on the desert. No permanent settlements existed out so far as yet. The Dar'Nethi had abandoned the security of Avonar and the Vales only slowly after the war, and talk in Avonar said the recent attacks had brought that movement to a halt. V'Rendal's information said the Gardeners were working somewhere out past Megira, and that I should take the road straight west to find them. I set out walking down a cart track that showed signs of recent use.

The day was warm and windy. Megira sat in gently rolling hills of grass and rock and scrubby trees, but the cart track descended quickly into wide expanses of grasslands newly claimed from the desert. I wasn't worried about the Zhid. The recent attacks had occurred far from this region.

Evidently in ancient times, few cities or towns existed in the twelve kingdoms of Gondai beyond the royal cities used for governance. The Dar'Nethi had preferred large, sprawling dwellings sprinkled randomly across the landscape. With the ability to make portals for urgent travel, journeys were for exploration and pleasure, and long guesting was the custom. Dar'Nethi householders had thought nothing of having fifty guests at a time staying a month or more. Those who desired solitude had built themselves retreats in the woodlands, mountains, or open spaces, and warded them with enchantments so that no one would happen across them uninvited. Only since the Catastrophe had the people felt the need to huddle together tightly for safety and survival. And as their talents declined through the centuries, complex skills like portal-making and mind-speaking became beyond most people's abilities.

After an hour's walk I caught sight of blue tents billowing and flapping in the warm, gusty wind, small figures moving around dark mounds, and many flat wooden structures. Closer approach showed the dark mounds to be piles of rich earth, and the wooden structures long, rectangular trays of small plants, filled ones scattered all over the area, empty ones piled one upon the other. A number of people were unloading . . . no . . . loading three half-filled wagons with the seedling trays.

"I've come to see the Gardener Eu'Vian," I said to a dirt-streaked young woman who came out to meet me. "My name is Ser . . . S'Rie, and I've been sent by the Archivist V'Rendal to interview her."

"Ah! About the Lady." The girl offered me one of the water flasks tied to her belt, and I accepted gratefully. "Poor Eu'Vian will be happy when everything is written, and she can retire from celebrity. Usually she's hounded only when she goes into the city; you're the first in a while who's come all this way to meet her. I'm K'Tya."

The young woman reattached the water flask and tied a red scarf around her hair as she led me into the busy Gardeners' camp. Sweating men carrying picks, shovels, and small trees nodded as we passed, and women wearing brightly colored shirts, trousers, and scarves bade me a good day as they wheeled barrows filled with dirt and plants out into the dunes.

I hurried to keep up with the young woman. "Archivist V'Rendal is hoping for something—"

"—to make her history superior." K'Tya finished my thought with an accompanying sigh. "Some new fact. Some new clue. We know. But you'll find that Eu'Vian is not the kind of person to remember things unevenly. She'll tell you only what she's told before. I'll warn you not to waste her time. We're awfully busy just now."

"I saw the wagons."

She nodded. "Preceptor L'Beres has sent out a notice to forward parties like ours, recommending we pull in at least as far as the nearest settlement. We're trying to get enough done that our newest plantings can survive our absence for a while. Can't say I'm not a mite nervous with these awful reports coming in so fast, but it tears you apart to leave your work at such a vulnerable stage. The last half-year has been such a struggle." She slowed and waved to a sturdy woman who was stacking seedling trays onto a small handcart. "Eu'Vian! You've a visitor!"

K'Tya's prediction was exactly correct. The square-jawed woman with whom I sat in the shade of a dusty plane tree quickly demonstrated that her mind was highly organized, and she was unlikely to have forgotten anything. In no more than a quarter of an hour, Eu'Vian had recounted her tale of the young Gardener J'Savan bringing the starving woman with the incredible blue eyes to her camp, where the poor soul grieved for the long-dead king she claimed was her father.

". . . We fed her and cleaned her and put her to bed. She carried nothing with her but a primitive bronze knife and J'Savan's water flask. She bore no scars—none visible at least—and no evidence of beatings, torture, or enslavement. We were sure she was mad, yet she touched us so deeply that we wept to see her sorrow."

"And you took her back to Avonar right away?"

Eu'Vian sat up as straight as a child reciting lessons, her hands folded around a gray stone water flask. She did not fidget as so many do when questioned. "Not for three days. Though we had no Healer among us, she was so weak, you see. We woke her only to give her water and nourishment. On the third day, her madness seemed behind her, and she was already picking up our modern speech. She called for me and asked if she could hold my hand while she asked me a question. Of course, I agreed."

"And what was the question?"

"She asked how many years it had been since King D'Arnath had died. I hesitated, fearful of her delicate state, as you can well imagine. She spied my reluctance and smiled at me so sadly. 'Good mistress, I promise I will not retreat into madness,' she said. 'As I have lain here enfolded in your kindness, I have searched my memory and concluded that something extraordinary has come to pass. If I am to confront my fate, whether it be truth or enchantment or some disease of my mind, I must know its full compass. So—you spoke of D'Arnath as if he were a being of myth, his life and passing well beyond your own span of years. Tell me, Eu'Vian, how far beyond?' "

"And when you told her?"

"She wept, but did not falter. 'So there is no one living who knew him, or his sons, or his children's children. No one who could tell me of his dying words?'

" 'No, gentle lady,' I said to her. 'Unless they are written in our histories, no one could tell you that.'

" 'But you've told me you have a prince … a successor. … Is he not of D'Arnath's line?'

"I told her how the direct line of D'Arnath had ended so honorably with Prince D'Natheil and so tragically with his demon son, and I told her of good Prince Ven'Dar."

"And how did she react to that?"

"With resignation, I would call it, as if my news had met her worst expectations. All she said was, 'I would dearly love to have met my great-great-grandnieces and-nephews to the hundredth degree, but I suppose I shall have to be content with your prince. Am I right that my identity will be a great sensation in Avonar?' When I confirmed that it was already, she laughed sweetly, but with her sadness yet entwined with it. 'It is a wonder, is it not? I cannot explain it.' That's all she said of the matter to me. As we escorted her back to Avonar, she asked ten thousand questions as to matters of our history, exclaiming over each revelation as if it were a wonder in itself."

My fingers traced the sun-faded patterns of the woven blanket, feeling the malleable firmness of the warm sand underneath. My mind was racing. "You say she asked about D'Arnath's dying words. Did you not think that strange?"

Eu'Vian glanced at me oddly. "Not if one considers the traditions of our past. Did your family not—? Well, I suppose so many died in the war that some families have forgotten the old ways."

She seemed to be waiting for me to respond. I didn't want her wondering about me or examining me. "My family was never traditional," I said. "No one had time for it."

She shook her head, not quite in disapproval, but in disappointment. "How will our young people ever grasp the value of our Way if those of us with graying hair forget? That's why our enchantments continue to weaken, even though the Lords are gone. No one remembers. Well, it was long the custom that a father's dying words would make a family whole: settling grievances, resolving disputes, setting recompense for offenses, finalizing judgments. The family left behind was required to adhere to the dying man's saying. Before a battle, a man would set his words in writing or hold them in his weapon or a ring or something that could be given his family."

"Ah yes. Of course, I've heard of that custom." Only a small lie. "Just one more thing. Did the Lady ever give any hint of her true talent?"

"No. Certainly not to me. I've never even thought about it." Few Dar'Nethi would ever have asked the question. She puzzled over it for a few moments, but shook her head.

"What of the youth, J'Savan? Did he ever refer to it?"

"I never heard anyone speak of her gifts—except in the months since that day, of course, when they reported of their astonishing magnitude. Do you think there is some . . . significance in the direction of her talents?"

"Most likely not. We would just like to have the records complete. So, I'd like to ask J'Savan about it, and about other small things he might remember from the first encounter. Mistress V'Rendal says that no one has spoken to J'Savan himself since those first days, as you are the leader of your group and you've been so clear and reliable in your reports. But every mind remembers small things so differently. Would it be possible for me to speak to J'Savan? I promise not to take much time from his work."

For the first time Eu'Vian looked a bit uncomfortable, shifting her position on the blanket and brushing away gnats or hair from her face. "J'Savan no longer works in our group. He—" She shifted again, frowned, and pressed her water flask to her mouth for a moment without drinking from it. "It is very sad about him, as he is so young. No one knows quite what happened."

"What is it, mistress? I would really like to speak with him."

"J'Savan fell ill several months ago—a terrible disease of the mind. I ask after him frequently, but no one has yet been able to help him. He is confined in Feur Desolй, the prison house at Savron. You could learn nothing from him."

"You're saying he's gone mad?" Dread crept into my soul, roiling and growing and thickening like yellow winter fog.

"Indeed. He slaughtered three members of our work group and tried his best to murder us all."