Guardians Of The Keep

CHAPTER 22

Seri

I had assumed we would be able to approach some Dar‘Nethi, one of the Preceptors, perhaps, who might help us develop a strategy to rescue Gerick. But the Dulcé knew of no one we dared trust with the secret of Gerick’s parentage, especially before the Prince was examined. And the shamefaced Dulcé confessed that, without some urgent prompting such as the threat of a compromised Heir, no Dar’Nethi would give a moment’s hearing to a mundane woman who wished to go to Zhev’Na, especially in this time of tenuous peace. Even Kellea, a Dar’Nethi unknown to anyone and inexperienced in her art, would be viewed as highly suspect, perhaps even a Zhid spy. For the moment we must proceed on our own.

I believed Bareil grieved sorely for Dassine and Karon. The full weight of events seemed to descend on him the day following the Prince’s departure. We had spent the morning discussing our plans to learn our way about the city. Bareil participated enthusiastically, dispensing advice, encouragement, information, and funds in the form of a cloth bag bulging with coins. But just about midday, as he was marking streets and shops on a sketch of Avonar, his voice trailed off and his hand began to tremble. He stepped away from our small table and rubbed his temple.

“What is it, Bareil? Are you all right?”

“Ah, my lady, I need- I must leave you.” Indeed his olive complexion appeared sickly and washed out. He grabbed his cloak from the hook by the door, his pack, and D’Natheil’s sword belt and weapons from where he had laid them carefully out of the way. “I should put these things where they’ll be safe. Careless of me to keep them here. I’ll be back… I don’t know when I’ll be back. Please excuse me.” With no more than this, he barged through the door and hurried down the passage.

We didn’t see him again until evening. He brought us a roast fowl and a thick, savory pottage of grain and vegetables, but he declined to eat with us. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I cannot remain here with you. Master Dassine’s house must be set to rights in case the Prince wishes to take possession of it again… or give it to someone else… I’ve asked a Word Winder to reinstate the house wards.” He seemed hesitant, unsure of himself as I had not seen him in our brief acquaintance. “I’ve arranged for you to stay here at the guesthouse as long as you wish. I would invite you to come to Master Dassine’s house-Master Dassine and the Prince would be honored-but you would surely be remarked.”

“Won’t you be in danger? You were almost killed…”

“Now that the Prince is with the Preceptors, I have little to fear. No one will bother a Dulcé without his madrisson. Nothing could be learned from such a one. Please… be assured I will help and advise you in these matters as I’ve promised.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, Kellea and I worked very hard to learn the common language of Avonar. I had picked up the rudiments from the Dulcé, Baglos, on our summer adventure in the days before Karon/D’Natheil had recovered his power of speech and understanding of Leiran, and so was able to gain a reasonable understanding of the spoken language in good order. But I stumbled badly when trying to speak it myself. Kellea, on the other hand, drew on her sorcerer’s power to become fluent within the first week. I was sorely jealous.

Paulo would not sit still for any teaching. He swore that his head had no more room for extra ways of saying the same thing, and spent our study hours exploring the streets and byways of Avonar.

As he had promised, Bareil came to the guesthouse every day, but only for an hour or two at a time. His demeanor was subdued and reticent, as if he weren’t sleeping well. He told Kellea how to find us clothing of colors and styles appropriate to Avonar. While only slightly different in style from ordinary skirts and tunics, bodices or breeches-the Dar’Nethi seemed to prefer loose-fitting or draped tunics and shirts rather than close-fitting-the garments were colored in vibrant, gem-like greens, reds, and blues that Leiran dyemasters had never discovered. And no Leiran or Vallorean seamstress could have imagined such materials or construction: fibers softer than silk, yet of such resilience that an Isker peasant could wear such a garment for a lifetime; stitches that were perfectly uniform and almost invisible; embroidery of such charming and complex design that the queen’s whole staff of needlewomen could not produce one sample of it in a year.

But such details, marvels at any other time, were lost on us as we drove ourselves to discover some way to retrieve Gerick from the heart of the Wastes. Together we reviewed all that Bareil had told about the stronghold of the Zhid and whatever he could supply of Dar’Nethi scholarship regarding the Lords. But we were unable to discover any way to transport ourselves to Zhev’Na, much less a way to wrest a child from the Lords’ clutches.

I demanded patience of myself and the others. Though my fears screamed for instant action, my brief encounter with the Zhid had taught me that I had no weapons to fight them face to face, and so far we had discovered nothing new that would give us the least chance of success. Bareil’s history lessons told us that the Lords wanted Gerick to come of age in their care, so they weren’t going to kill him. Kellea hinted that I was coldhearted to let my son languish in Zhev’Na, but I believed that if I were to save him, then, for the moment, I had to let him be. We would study and learn and find a way.

We heard no reliable news of the Prince. Rumors flew about Avonar that D’Natheil was dead or mad, that he was preparing for an assault on the Wastes, that he was laboring on the Bridge, or that he had gone back across the Bridge to lead the Exiles back to Avonar. Few Dar’Nethi took any of these stories seriously, Bareil told us. Most believed that the house of D’Arnath had its own ways that could not always be explained. Had not the present Heir been cloistered with Dassine for ten years, only to come forth to win a great victory and preserve the Bridge? Because of what D’Natheil had accomplished, every day brought a renewal of power that had been lost to the Dar’Nethi for centuries. The Zhid no longer attacked the walls of Avonar. Prominent citizens spoke of forming expeditions into the Wastes to rescue those Dar’Nethi still captive, but these ventures would require years of preparation. The Dar’Nethi had no more information about Zhev’Na than we did.

And so we worked and we studied and we listened, but truly made no progress at all.

On one evening more than six weeks after Karon had given himself to the Preceptorate, I was sitting before our little fire, studying a map Kellea had found in a bookshop. Though the map itself was not so old, the shopkeeper had claimed it was a rarity. Current maps delimited a vast proportion of Gondai as the unknown Wastes, showing physical features only in the narrow strip that bordered the living lands. But this map showed detailed names and locations of mountains and rivers, kingdoms, domains, and villages as they had existed before the Catastrophe.

I was alone as I pored over the inked scroll. Paulo was roaming the streets again. Bareil had taken Kellea to Dassine’s house to find a book that listed ancient place names and their descriptions. From the combination of the book and the map and Dassine’s tales of his captivity, we hoped to discover what place might have been transformed into the fortress of Zhev’Na. The night was quiet, and I was intent on my study, not daring to feel excited at our first possible breakthrough.

The door crashed open, filling the room with the scents of cold weather and woodsmoke. “You’ve got to come.” Paulo was ruddy-cheeked and breathing hard. Snow dusted his brown hair and dark wool cloak. “They’ve got the Prince at that Precept House-Master Exeget’s house. And your boy is there, too!”

I scribbled a message for Kellea and grabbed my cloak.

“I knew they’d take him there,” said Paulo, frost wreathing his face as we raced through the snow-blanketed streets. “Knew it from the first. So I found the place. Been watching it every day.”

We cut through a long-neglected bathhouse, our footsteps echoing on the broken paving as we circled empty pools littered with years of dead leaves and matted with snow. Moonlight poured through the fallen ceiling to reveal glimpses of richly colored mosaics peeking from behind masses of winter-dead vines. The path through the bathhouse gardens led us into a broad street of fine houses. Only a stitch in my side caused our steps to slow.

Avoiding the soft pools of lamplight that spilled from the paned windows alongside laughter, music, and the savory scents of roasting meat and baking sweets, we hurried toward a formal circle of trees at the end of the street. A high, thick wall, quite overgrown, and a severely plain iron gate with no hinges, no latches, no guards, and no obvious way to open it closed off the roadway. Through the gates and a large expanse of trees and shrubs, I glimpsed a huge house with many lighted windows on its lower floors. Signaling for quiet, Paulo led me into a narrow lane that skirted the wall.

At the back of the house, the stone wall yielded to a wooden building. The unmistakable scent of stables hung in the cold air trapped behind it. Paulo carefully removed three boards from the wall, leaving a hole just large enough for a person to crawl through. He went first, pulling the loose boards back into the hole once I had slithered into an empty stall filled with fragrant hay. Skirting the wide stableyard, we sped across a gravel lane and through a hedge, across a snow-covered lawn, and around a corner of the great house.

The addition of a massive chimney sometime after the original house was built had left a jutting corner in each side of the house. Near the bottom of the wall to the left of the chimney was a wide grate of the kind used to draw fresh air into an enclosed room. Yellow light and the sound of voices spilled out of the grate.

“However did you find this?” I whispered.

“Back when that Duke Baglos told us how wicked and stubborn the Prince was when he was a boy, he said how Exeget used to make the Prince spend time outside in the winter for punishment. Well, I’ve been throwed out in the winter a deal of times, so’s I thought where would a fellow go to get warm if he was out like that? Stables, maybe, or in a corner like this where he could get a look at what was going on in the house.”

We settled ourselves beside the grate and peered inside. I could easily imagine the boy D’Natheil, sent into the winter weather unclothed to crush his pride, huddling here to draw warmth from the brick chimney and watch resentfully as his warm and comfortable mentor went about his business in the Preceptors’ council chamber. For that was surely the room that lay beyond the grate.

The chamber was immense, its floor well below the level of the ground on which we sat, and its ceiling out of view. Suspended from the unseen ceilings were wide lamps created, not from candles or oil lamps or torches, but from a thousand faceted globes of light hung on hoops of bronze. Tapestries woven of jewellike colors adorned the walls, hung between elegant pilasters shaped like elongated wheat sheaves. Tall bronze doors, each with a graceful tree worked in relief, faced us across the expanse. Our vantage allowed us to look down on a raised dais that stood just in front of the great hearth. On the dais stood a long table and seven elaborately carved, high-backed chairs, five of them occupied: one by a huge man wearing a wide neck-chain of gold set with rubies, another by a buxom, broad-faced woman in a robe of shifting colors, one by a skeletal, balding man, and two more by an elderly man and woman who sat in the center-the Preceptors of Gondai. Gar‘Dena, Madyalar, Y’Dan, Ustele, and Ce’Aret. A sixth man, his light, thinning hair immaculately combed, face round and boneless, looking something like a foppish clerk, must be the Preceptor Exeget. He stood just beyond the table, beside a chair that had been set to face the dais. Karon sat in the chair.

He wore a white robe, just as on the day I walked with him in my mother’s garden, but on this night his face expressed neither hope, nor joy, nor even the tired and rueful humor of that meeting. His haunted eyes were hollow, his face gaunt. His hands, resting on the wide arms of his chair, were shaking. Eyes fixed on the fire beyond the dais, he showed no signs of hearing anything that was being said. What had they done to him?

Exeget seemed to be concluding an argument. “… and so we have uncovered at last what the traitor Dassine has wrought: imprisoning a dead soul before it could cross the Verges, murdering our rightful Heir, and reviving him by implanting this impostor in his body, leaving us with a sovereign so crippled of mind that he could easily be molded to his master’s will. Even our ‘Prince’ will tell you he does not belong in his office. His life should properly have ended ten years ago in the brutal fires of his adopted world. He belongs beyond the Verges.”

Earth and sky, they’d told him everything!

“But no matter the method of his transformation, you cannot deny that he is the Prince as well as the Exile,” said Madyalar, the woman in the color-shifting robe. “I see no difficulty here. He has answered all our questions. He possesses the Heir’s power; we cannot deny him. D’Arnath’s line ends with D’Natheil.”

“Not so,” said Exeget. “Vasrin Shaper has again shown her faithfulness, taking the matter of our dilemma and shaping a solution. The line of D’Arnath cannot end if this Prince provides us a successor.”

“But D’Natheil has no children. Dassine did not let him breed,” said the hard old woman, Ce’Aret.

“All true, and yet… If we could produce one who could pass the test of parentage alongside our crippled Prince, would you not say we had found ourselves a ready Heir?”

“Well, of course, but that’s impossible,” said Y’Dan, the bald man.

No. Not impossible at all.

Exeget smiled, waved his hand, and the bronze doors swung open. Darzid and Gerick entered the room and stood behind Karon, who stared at the floor, unmoving save for the unceasing tremor of his hands.

Gerick was dressed in brown breeches and a sleeveless shirt of beige silk. A gold chain hung around his neck, and a wide gold armring encircled each of his tanned, bare arms. A knife hung from his belt, the sheath strapped to his leg with a leather band. His red-brown hair was trimmed and shining, and affixed to his left ear was a gold earring, embedded with jewels. In the two months since Covenant Day he had grown a handspan, but neither that nor his deep red-gold coloring nor his exotic adornment was the most profound change.

He was no longer afraid. All the false bravado, all the sullen temper was gone; how clear it was now that they had been products of his terror. Gone also was the child who had watched with curiosity and pleasure when I made things that he could recreate for the old nurse he loved. Gerick’s eyes were cold, and hatred, not love, gave life to his face.

I pressed one hand to my mouth and the other to my belly, trying to quell the dull, swelling ache just below my ribs. So profound a change in so short a time. What had I been playing at to allow this to happen? Who were these vile beings who could so easily and so determinedly corrupt a child?

“Who is this boy?” rumbled Gar’Dena. “We’ve been told nothing of a boy. And who are you, sir, who ventures so boldly into the Preceptors’ council chamber?”

“I’m an old friend,” said Darzid, “an Exile, like your Prince here.”

Damnable man! What I would give for a sword to end his cursed life! Was it possible that he was Dar’Nethi?

“An Exile!” said several of the Preceptors together, wondering.

“Indeed this man is an Exile, who has by a strange accident preserved for us the hope of our royal family,” said Exeget. “But here-before anything else is said-the test. The test will tell all. Once doubt is put to rest, then we can explain the happy circumstance.”

Exeget stood before Gerick and laid his hands on the sides of my son’s face. Gerick neither flinched nor changed expression. After a moment, Exeget took a position behind Karon’s chair and laid his hands on Karon’s broad shoulders. “Tell us, D’Natheil,” said the Preceptor, “who is this child that stands before us? What is his lineage? Do these shoulders bear the responsibility for his life?”

Karon closed his eyes and spoke softly, no tremor in his voice. “This is my son, and with Seri, my beloved wife, I gave him life.”

I pressed my forehead against the grate, gripping the iron bars. Tears welled up in my eyes, only to freeze on my cheeks in the bitter cold.

Gerick’s face did not change, except perhaps to grow harder. He was not surprised by Karon’s words, and he didn’t like them.

Exeget stepped back. Madyalar rose from her seat and swept from the dais, the rainbow stripes on her voluminous robes teasing the eye. She took Gerick’s hands in hers for a moment, examined his face carefully, and then, like a mother calming a fearful child, she stood behind Karon and wrapped her arms about his breast. “Tell us, D’Natheil, who is this child? What is his lineage? Is it this heart that beats in time with his?”

Through the aura of enchantment, Karon spoke again. “He is my son, and with Seri, my beloved wife, I cherished him from the day we first knew him.”

One by one they came, laying their hands on his hands, on his loins, and on his head.

“Did your hands build a dwelling place for him along the path of life?”

“Did your loins give fire to his being?”

“Is it this mind that speaks to his mind and listens for the word father?”

And he answered each of them.

“With my hands did I heal and restore life where it was damaged beforetime, and so in the days of my first life, I built a house of honor for my child.”

“Yes, it is my seed that called him from nothingness into the Light.”

“He is my son.”

“The bond of the spirit is proved,” said Exeget. “And, as you see, the bond of the flesh is also true, though the flesh was not that which our Prince wears on this day. Law and custom mandate that the bonds of flesh and spirit are the true witness of lineage, and who dares gainsay what Vasrin Shaper has provided? My judgment asserts that this child is the next Heir of D’Arnath. How say you all?”

One by one, the Preceptors agreed-only Madyalar hesitating. “I believe we should wait. Let the Prince recover from his ordeals. Place him in isolation for a while. He may yet father children with this flesh-D’Natheil’s flesh. Then there would be no question. Or perhaps-”

“No!” Karon roared, bursting from his seat. “Enough! You cannot make me endure this longer.” Reaching across the table, he thrust his shaking hands into Madyalar’s face. “There is no recovery from death. Ten breaths more and I will be unable to stop screaming. I am dead. I can do nothing for you. Care for my son. Protect him… please. Send for his mother to love and nurture him and teach him the savoring of life. Do not entrust Exeget with his mentoring… nor this Darzid who stands in the guise of an Exile, but is responsible for the extermination of a thousand Exiles.”

The Preceptors recoiled in horror. The old ones gaped; Gar’Dena, Y’Dan, and Madyalar jumped from their seats, their dismay not aimed at the cursed Darzid, but at Karon, who writhed and twisted, wrestling to loose Exeget’s hands that had grasped his shoulders to pull him away from the table. Then, Karon broke free and backed away from Exeget, a knife in his hand. Breathing hard, his skin gray and stretched, he held the unsteady weapon between himself and the Preceptor.

“My lord Prince, calm yourself,” said Exeget. “Your mind has been savaged by Dassine’s enchantments. Let us help you. I know of many things-”

“Stay away from me!” said Karon, brandishing the knife. “When I can no longer hold, you’ll not want to be within striking distance of this weapon.”

“Gerick… Your name was going to be Connor…Connor Martin Gervaise.” Though his gaze remained affixed to Exeget and the other Preceptors, Karon spoke to our son with an urgency, intensity, and tenderness that wrenched the heart. “I wanted to tell you about my friend Connor. I wanted to tell you so many things, but there was no time. That was the worst part of dying… to believe I would never see you. And now beyond all wonder, we are together, but again… there is no time.”

Gerick spat at his feet. “Murderer! I’ve sworn a blood oath to destroy you for what you’ve done.”

Karon shook his head, his lean face sculpted in pain. “So much blood on my hands-holy gods, I don’t deny it-but not that of which you accuse me. If only there was time”- he staggered backward a small step-“I’m so sorry, Gerick. So sorry. Look at me… look deep and search for the truth.” Then he closed his eyes, and with his trembling hands, my beloved plunged Exeget’s knife into his own belly.

“Karon! No!” I screamed, yanking at the iron grate as if to rip it from the mortar.

The chamber erupted in frenzy as Karon slumped to his knees. The giant Gar’Dena rushed forward bellowing and gathered him in his brawny arms. His cry of grief shook the walls of the chamber. “Great Vasrin, alter this path! What have we done? The Heir of D’Arnath is dead!” Madyalar and the two old people screamed for guards and Healers, while Y’Dan slumped into his chair and laid his head on the table, weeping.

Darzid stiffened and unsheathed his sword. Grabbing the wide-eyed Gerick, he backed away from Karon and the Preceptors.

An expressionless Exeget watched the madness and did nothing.

Fate could not be so brutal, so unfair. “Why did you do it?” I sobbed, gripping the iron bars. “I could have helped you. Oh, love, why? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

As if in echo of my words, there came a flutter in my head, a delicate brush of words… wait for me… Then, in a moment of grace, my mind was filled with Karon, without pain, without fear, whole, knowing everything of our life together… Seri, beloved, forgive me… Then he was gone.

The guards had to peel my fingers away from the grate as I hung onto the sweet echo, straining to hear more. But strangely enough, as Paulo and I were taken inside the Preceptors’ house, a different voice whispered in my head. Do not be afraid, it said. Say nothing.

I wasn’t sure about that voice. Certainly it was not Karon’s. I might have named it Dassine’s voice, though Bareil had told me that the old sorcerer was buried in his own garden. And, too, the tenor of it was not quite the same. This sounded more as my own father might have done were he able to speak in the mind-my grim warrior father, who thought nothing of leading a thousand men to their deaths in order to slay a thousand enemies, all for the glory of his king. Once, when I was a child, my favorite pony had been crippled in a fall. After commanding a servant to slay the suffering beast, my father had taken me on his knee and awkwardly dried my tears. “The world goes on, little Seri,” he said. “A soldier never dies. His blood makes the grass green for his children.”

Grief threatened to unravel me, all the more devastating after the hopes of the past summer-the love and grace I had been granted after so many years of bitterness. Yet this strange and sober voice reached through the storm that racked my soul and assured me that the universe was not random, not careless or capricious. The Way was laid down, and somewhere I would find a reason for its turnings.

Perhaps it was my imagination. Perhaps I was a fool. But when Paulo and I were brought before the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate, I said nothing, and I was not afraid.