Son of Avonar

CHAPTER 33

No hint of green could be seen in that ice-bound vale. Rather a thousand shades of gray and white lay one upon the other, as if the artist who had painted that particular canvas had forgotten to dip his brush in any other region of his palette. Massive stones lay jumbled about the water’s edge, and behind them steep, ice-clad slopes of crumbled rock footed jagged cliffs that soared straight into the iron-hued sky. A faint tread wound from where we stood through soggy tussocks to the lake shore, skirting granite slabs that stood two and three times D’Natheil’s height. It was hard to imagine anyone, man or beast, coming willingly to such a desolate spot. How could it be the refuge of the J’Ettanne? No life existed here, only rock and ice, dead water and silence.

The fifth clue was the most obscure of all. Though he cannot see it, the hunter knows his prey, for it speaks to his heart whether he turns right or left.

Nothing in that landscape spoke to the heart; nothing beckoned or charmed or seduced. The wind off the lake whined through the boulders, nosing at our cloaks like a mournful dog. I wrapped the scratchy wool close about my face and tried to remember it was summer.

Willing my blistered feet to take a few more steps, I joined D’Natheil and Baglos on the rubble-strewn edge of the lake. There was nowhere else to go. No passage, no trail. Nothing but cliffs and rocks. Journey’s end. I was so tired that I could not rejoice in the stopping, and so uncertain that I could take no satisfaction in the accomplishment. “Where could we have gone wrong?”

“We’re not wrong,” said D’Natheil, his voice hungry. “Can’t you feel it? It’s like the heat shimmer that rises from the desert.”

I felt nothing but my feet. “Are you saying that what we see isn’t real?”

“Not at all. It’s just there’s much more than substance here—layer upon layer hidden behind what we see. I’ve never felt such a concentration of life.” Was it anticipation or dread that dropped his voice to a whisper and colored his skin like burnished copper?

I wrenched my eyes away, sank to the ground in the lee of a rock, and wrapped the damp tail of my cloak about my freezing ankles. “I still don’t understand the fifth clue.”

“It’s doesn’t matter. The Gate is here.”

He was right, of course. And the fifth clue was no more obscure than the others. From somewhere high in the encircling crags a white-tailed hawk screeched the doom of an unlucky rock-mouse, the lonely call reflected once, and then again, and then again from the rocks, a perfect triple echo. Then, from somewhere beyond the three reflections of the hawk’s cry, a thousand other birdsongs teased at the edge of our hearing, the songs of birds that had never known this pocket of ice and snow: flamboyant birds of deserts and jungles, sweet singing birds of deep forests, majestic birds of the ocean’s edge, larks and pipits and magpies and loons. Indeed, enchantment existed here. And abundant life.

Hardly had the eerie music faded when I discovered the tiny yellow and white flowers, each no bigger than the head of a pin, packed together tightly in a rocky crevice just beside my hand. When I rubbed a finger across the miniature garden, I was enveloped by the scent of lilacs, roses, jasmine, and a hundred varieties of flowers that could no more live in the thin, cold air than those tiny jewels could live in lowland heat.

I was going to call D’Natheil to come and see, when I was startled by a booming, “Hello!” rolling across the lake.

He was standing on the lake shore, and he turned to me, his eyes piercingly bright. “Do you hear them?”

“Hello… hello… hello,” rang through the air, accompanied by a chorus of innumerable voices: cries of greeting, of joy, of farewell. Voices without bodies. Memories of life.

“Yes. Yes, I hear them.”

“The Gate must be somewhere beside the lake,” he said. “Come on.” He set off along the narrow shoreline, his steps as vigorous as if he were just beginning the journey.

“What of pursuers, my lord?” asked Baglos anxiously, hurrying to match his short steps with D’Natheil’s long stride.

“They’re holding back. They should have been on us by mid-morning.”

Waiting, I thought, as I hobbled after them. They’re waiting for you to show them the Gate. The Zhid didn’t know the way. I shivered, but not from the frigid wind. These Zhid were not heedless, hotheaded bullies, rushing after us ready to pounce and fight. I thought back to Montevial, to the forest, to Tryglevie. Even back to Ferrante’s house. They had stayed just close enough to follow, to prevent our escape, pushing us… herding us… to the ending. Much more dangerous. And yet we could not stop. Not now.

We examined every slab and boulder around the lake shore for a passage or entrance. Hundreds of people would have lived in the stronghold during the Rebellion: women, children, old people. No matter what destruction had overtaken them, there had to be some remnant of the space where they had slept and sheltered from the harsh winter that would settle here for all but a few weeks of the year. But in many places the ice extended right down to the water, leaving treacherous footing, or the way was blocked by boulders from ancient landslides and we had to clamber over them or slog through the icy water. Halfway around the lake from our observation spot was a long, narrow strip of sand fronting an expanse of barren cliff face, but we found no breach in the rock.

When we returned to our starting point, D’Natheil picked up a rock and slung it into the water, breaking the gray wind-ripples. “We’re missing something.”

“Four hundred and fifty years,” said Baglos. “Perhaps there’s nothing left.”

“No, it’s here. I’m sure of it. I’ve been here before…” D’Natheil’s voice trailed off, as if he weren’t quite sure what he was saying. “As far as this wooden head of mine can tell me, I was born on the shores of this lake. Here I began running, from terror and confusion and because I was so cold, I thought I would die before I had a clear thought. My clothes had been torn off me in a violent storm… darkness, lightning, fire, screaming… and I had only the knife in my hand. I dared not stop”—he dragged the words out of himself—“and then sometime, though not at first as we believed, but later, in the lowlands, past the end of the meadow with the flowers, I knew I was pursued by servants of… I didn’t know what it was… this shadow that wants me. I believed that if the pursuers caught me, I’d never find what I was looking for.” His bleak face yearned for answers. “I was looking for you.”

I wanted very much to give him what he needed. But I was a plodding mundane, as Baglos had told me so often. “Let’s look at the journal again. As you said, we’re missing something.” I pulled the fragile volume from my pocket, trying to shelter it from the blustering wind. Baglos huddled beside me, while D’Natheil leaned against a boulder and stared at the lake. The page with the diagram held nothing new, and the following entry was a long description of the Writer’s difficulties with spring planting.

“Turn back to the riddles,” I said. “Maybe we missed one.” Baglos and I pored over the page in the gray light, searching for any that might have been written later than the original description of the little girl’s game. The later entries were written with a pen slightly wider at the tip than the originals. Still only five, plus the additional phrase the Writer had inserted with the telltale pen. Not phrased as a riddle, it had never seemed significant. “What is this again, Baglos? He asks if his daughter is not a marvel, but I don’t remember the exact words.”

The Dulcé read, “The day will come when men proudly cry out the name of our race, and it is my Lilith that will shine in their memory.”

“Cry out the name of our race…” My gaze met D’Natheil’s. With a trace of a smile, he bowed and returned to the edge of the lake.

Baglos whispered to me anxiously. “Will the name of the Dar’Nethi show us the Gate, then?”

“No. Not Dar’Nethi . …” Would D’Natheil think of it?

The Prince stood for a moment, eyes closed, the wind ruffling his light hair and the shabby cloak that could not obscure the truth of him. Then he opened his arms wide and cried out in a voice that thundered through the desolation, “J’Ettanne!” And as his voice called back to him through the thin, cold air, I felt a great release, as if the very stones had let go a monumental sigh at the command to share their long-held secret. Whispers and murmurings were all about us just beyond the range of hearing, quiet laughter, tears, whispers of pleasure, of love, of sorrow and grief and prayerful wonder, buzzing unseen like tiny insects about our ears, chaos existing in tandem with the wintry silence. But any expression of amazement was stilled in deeper awe of the doorway that now stood open in the stone cliff across the lake, an opening no less than fifty paces wide and three stories in height.

Without speaking, we repeated our journey around the lake, never taking our eyes from the incredible sight, never giving thought to pursuit or danger or anything beyond our moment’s wonder. The twin columns supporting the massive stone lintel were covered with the most graceful and intricate carvings: birds, beasts, flowers, all so perfectly worked that one could feel the life of them as they crowded the white stone. In the center of the rectangular lintel was carved an arched triangle, with a floweret in each sector it scribed.

The Prince stepped first through the gaping expanse. It was only right. The stronghold was part of his realm, marked with the emblem of his family. Baglos and I followed close behind. It was dark inside, but the Prince whispered the word illudie and torches blazed on every wall. I caught my breath as the great cavern came to life. Never had I seen a space of such beauty.

The cavern was so enormous, we could not see the roof of it. It was as if the whole mountain had been hollowed out and the stone walls polished smooth, displaying the mountain’s embedded treasury of tourmaline and jasper and lapis as magnificent waves of rich blues and greens, dazzling murals no human artist could replicate. Shining veins of quartz glittered in the torchlight like faceted gems, and a wide staircase with no visible supports twisted its way up through the center of the gleaming air to reach at least four levels of columned galleries carved from the cavern walls. The stairway and the galleries were connected to each other with a series of arched bridges, so delicate and graceful they could have been spun by a magical spider. And the bitter wind of the iron-gray lake was left behind, the air inside the cavern fresh and pleasantly warm.

A raw and desperate longing scribed D’Natheil’s face, even as he turned to the task in hand. “I need to explore the place a bit. A wall of fire shouldn’t be difficult to find.”

“I’ll stand guard, my lord,” said the somber Dulcé, drawing his sword and taking a position near the gaping doorway to the outside. “Do as you need.” With his ferocious glower, he looked quite small and foolish.

The Prince nodded graciously. “Thank you, Dulcé. We shouldn’t need your warding for long,” he said. “If I can’t do what I’ve come for within the hour, I don’t think it will matter.”

Then, like a desert-bred child visiting his first garden, he began to wander. All my own weariness was forgotten as I trailed after him into room after room of marvels: an amphitheater whose dark-painted ceiling was inlaid with bits of faceted quartz, so that the flickering torchlight gave the illusion one stood under star-scattered skies; an immense refectory, its gigantic wooden tables perfectly free of dust, crockery bowls and neatly laid spoons awaiting the next feast; the kitchens, huge stone hearths and chimneys bored into the mountain’s heart. We explored workrooms, granaries, storerooms of all kinds, sewing rooms, map rooms, a library with so many shelves of books and scrolls that wooden-railed walkways spiraled up six men’s height or more in front of us—everything needed to support a population of many hundreds.

Climbing the wide staircase took us to rooms of all sizes, sleeping chambers, I guessed, though all were empty of furnishings. On the uppermost level, the gallery that overlooked the central cavern did not make a full circuit of the walls as did those at the lower levels, but instead opened into a long, narrow passage that delved deep into the back wall of the cavern. The torches were smaller there, and the walls rough-hewn and very much older. Promising. While D’Natheil was still opening doors off the main gallery, I explored the narrow passage. A hundred paces in, the passage ended in a wall of rock.

Disappointed, I started back, only to find D’Natheil just coming into the passage. “Nothing here,” I said.

But he shook his head, and I followed his gaze over my shoulder back toward the aborted way. The light nickered and the rock… shifted… and a pair of massive wooden doors stood in the center of the wall that had appeared to be solid stone only moments before. The doors were smooth and undecorated and dark with age. I could easily believe that no one had touched them since the days of J’Ettanne himself. No handle or latch was visible, but at the Prince’s first touch they swung open, silently and easily as if the hinges had been oiled just the previous day.

The passageway beyond the doors was chilly, and the light emanating from the arched opening at the far end was an odd bluish-gray. Another hundred paces and we entered an immense chamber, its walls, ceiling, and floor colorless and obscured by swirling, icy fog. A constant low-pitched rumble, unlike anything I’d ever heard, caused my hands to clench and my jaw to tighten. And so instantly confused were my senses of perspective and direction, only the stone beneath my feet gave me anchor. I felt as if I had stepped off the edge of the world.

But the moment’s sensory uncertainty vanished when we walked a few steps farther into the chamber and saw the curtain of flame that reached from the colorless floor all the way to the murky heights. Flame was the only name I could put to it, though its color was a bruised blue, darker than the coldest heart of a dying hearthfire.

“The Gate,” I said, raising my voice a little so as to be heard over the deep-pitched rumble.

“Yes.” D’Natheil’s voice was scarcely audible.

“And the Bridge?”

“Just beyond the wall of light.”

“Then we’ve truly reached the end of our journey.”

The Prince gazed upwards, face shadowed by the dark magnificence. “When we first entered the cavern, the image of a city passed through my mind—a glorious city of graceful towers, of gardens and forested parkland, encircled by mountains sculpted of green and gold light. Here will that city, that world, and all that exists in it live or die.”

“So what must you do?”

“I don’t know.” His grief was wrenching. “Were you to offer me the entire wealth of the universe or a thousand lives to fill my empty head, I could not tell you.”

“That’s why it’s time for those who know such things to take charge of this most delicate venture, is it not?”

We whirled about, as five men with drawn swords stepped out of the fog and quickly surrounded us. Three were brawny, well-armed fighters. The fourth, the sneering speaker, was Maceron, the fish-eyed sheriff. But it was the fifth, the one who held an unwavering swordpoint at my belly, that caused my soul to freeze. The fifth was Baglos.

“Dulce?” D’Natheil’s query was quiet.

“I am most abjectly sorry, my lord Prince. There is no other way.”

“Did you never learn to look under your bed for snakes or in your boots for spiders, oh, Prince of Fools?” said the gloating Maceron.

The fish-eyed man might not have existed for all the notice D’Natheil paid him. “What means this, Dulcé?” No anger marred the Prince’s speech, only questioning and sorrow.

“It means the salvation of Avonar, my lord. If you could remember its beauties, you would agree.”

“How do betrayal and treachery become the salvation of beauty?”

“A bargain has been made, my lord. You’ll see. You are to be given exactly what you desire—the chance to save your people with honor and grace.”

“Do you understand who these people are, Baglos?” I asked, dismay swelling to outrage at his choice of conspirators. “This devil has done his best to exterminate the descendants of J’Ettanne. And now he’s serving the Zhid.” Giano, Darzid, Maceron… my certainties were unproven, but certainties nonetheless.

Maceron bowed mockingly to me. “Not at all a polite introduction, my lady, but what can we expect from one who has such a dangerous habit of involving herself with perverse wickedness? I thought you’d learned your lesson ten years ago.”

“You made the mistake of leaving me alive. Were you working for these same soulless villains even then?”

“My master is no devil sorcerer, but a noble warrior who works to rid this world of these perverted creatures who would enslave us and the traitorous scum like you who welcome them. He works with the priests of Annadis. That’s good enough for me.”

His master… dared I say the name I was so sure of? My tongue stubbornly refused to pronounce it, as if the very word were some evil incantation that would precipitate our doom. And the priests… “You’re a fool,” I said.

Baglos frowned, looking from me to Maceron. “How is it you know this woman?”

“It’s many years past and has nothing to do with our present transaction. You’ve done well, ensuring the priests kept on your trail. Now, we must ensure that your prince will not disrupt the smooth completion of our business.”

The three men moved in, and D’Natheil at last paid them a full measure of attention. The Prince grabbed one of the brutes by his sword arm and neck and slammed him into a second man. The two crashed to the floor in a tangle as D’Natheil tried to wrest the weapon from his remaining attacker. He spun the man about and pressed him to his chest, the screaming villain’s arm bent into an unmaintainable angle.

When Maceron raised his sword above the Prince’s head, I yelled and reached for the sheriffs arm. But one of the fallen men stumbled up from the floor and crushed me to the wall. While I fought to get a breath, he shoved Baglos and his sword at me. The Duke’s sword tip pricked the flesh under my breast. I dared not move. His small face was frightened, but his hand was steady. Determined.

Maceron slammed the hilt of his wide, heavy blade into the Prince’s head. D’Natheil staggered, tightening his grip on his opponent, but the disputed sword clattered to the floor. Seizing their opportunity, Maceron’s two shaken henchmen pounced and wrestled the Prince to the floor, freeing their fellow and pinning D’Natheil on his face. Roaring in pain and fury as he clutched one arm to his side, the Prince’s freed opponent ground his thick boot into D’Natheil’s neck. A comrade stomped on the Prince’s right forearm and stabbed the point of his sword into the Prince’s outflung wrist, pushing down slowly until blood flowed freely from the wound. D’Natheil continued to writhe, lashing out with his feet and twisting his torso to get free. But the third ruffian kicked him in the side, leaving him flat and gasping.

Maceron grabbed my arm so tightly that his fingers bruised the bone, and he growled into my ear. “I would recommend, my lady, that you inform your testy friend of what we do to sorcerers. I’ve heard he can’t do much in the way of sorcerer’s magics, but I’ll cut off his hands if he so much as waggles a finger and remove his tongue if he utters a whisper. You remember. The priests prefer him undamaged, but they do most certainly want him. I’ll take no chance—no chance at all—of his escape. We’re going to destroy all of this.” He jerked his head toward the fiery Gate.

“You see, Baglos,” I said bitterly, as the men continued to kick the Prince in the side and the legs and the head. “This is the devil with whom you’ve made your bargain.”

“It is necessary,” said the Duke, refusing to look at what was going on behind him, even as he flinched with every thudding blow. “I do not wish it to be this way.”

When D’Natheil at last lay still, Maceron put me in the custody of the man with the damaged arm, a snarling brute with a drooping mustache and broken teeth. “You and the little vermin take the woman, while we get the sorcerer properly restrained. Have Kivor make sure she is secure.”

Disappointment and self-recrimination were lead weights in my boots as Maceron’s thug shoved me down the passageway toward the cavern. I stumbled and Baglos reached out as if to steady me. I jerked my arm away.

“You cannot understand, my lady.”

“I thought you loved him. I thought you were sworn to his service. The honor of the Dulcé and all that. Where’s the honor in betraying him to his enemies—your enemies?” We started down the circular stair, the ruffian’s knife pricking my back. Baglos walked beside me, his short legs hurrying to keep up.

“D’Natheil does not know the things necessary to save Avonar,” said the Dulcé. “It is not his fault. He was never meant to be the Heir and was not suited to it, especially after his injury. But on this day he will accomplish that duty anyway, because those who are wiser than we have devised this plan. His duty is more important than anything. He must understand that. We have no other hope.”

“You’ve given him to the Zhid… you’re risking the destruction of the Bridge… for what?”

“Just before we stepped through the Gate, our Preceptors took possession of D’Arnath’s sword and knife, held by the Lords in Zhev’Na since the Battle of Ghezir. As long as the Dar’Nethi hold the sword, Avonar cannot be defeated. The knife should have remained with the Preceptors, too, but the sword alone is enough. I was commanded by my bound master to complete the bargain by delivering D’Natheil as soon as we came to the Gate.”

“You’re not stupid, Baglos. They’re going to kill your prince and destroy the Bridge. How can good come from that?”

Baglos averted his eyes. “Avonar will live. If D’Natheil is to die, then that is his destiny.” He hurried down the steps ahead of me.

And he would die. I was complicit in the murder. In my confidence, in my everlasting pride, I had ignored every warning, sure that no evil would befall because I willed it so, sure that we would unravel the puzzle successfully because my intelligence and determination would allow no other outcome—unlike the last time. And now, for a paltry piece of sharpened steel, D’Natheil was to be given to the Zhid. He would be dead. My reawakened soul shriveled at the understanding. My veins felt parched. Who would ever have believed that I would care so much?

We descended into the main cavern. The enchanted flares had gone out, leaving a few mundane torches as the only light. The yellow flames illuminated a circle of cracked stone flooring, tracked with mud and littered with packs and saddles. The lovely walls and bridges and staircase were lost in the darkness.

Maceron’s men bound me to a slender column just beyond the pool of torchlight. A sallow-faced young man with a shaven head, bright, darting eyes, and bloodless lips ran his bony ringers over my arms to check my bindings. I shuddered at his touch. He grinned, making his head look even more like a skull. But even his presence was benign beside the three robed figures who now walked into the circle of yellow light. Giano’s voice was an icy claw scraping steel. “You have what we want?”

Maceron had arrived at the same time. “We’ve got him. You are quite trusting of this little vermin.”

“You needn’t worry. A Dulcé‘s bound service is quite reliable. We can afford to be trusting.”

Giano strolled over to Baglos standing stiffly between two of Maceron’s men. The Dulcé would not look at the Zhid, who stared at him with his empty, unblinking eyes. “Though we still have a portion of our contract to fulfill. Somehow the lesser talisman was left with the Prince. The Dulcé will have to risk the Bridge passage to return it to his masters,” said Giano. “Who would ever have thought these little oddities would take such a large part in great affairs?”

Baglos flushed. “But the Preceptors have the sword.”

“Indeed, D’Arnath’s holy weapon will likely serve the sad Dar’Nethi better than D’Arnath’s Heir ever did. We have no objection to the pitiful little city continuing to exist for a while, if the talisman holds the power you believe. We may even find it amusing. The prize is ours. The victory is ours.” Giano spun on his heel. “It’s time I examined our prize. I’ve heard his mind is damaged, and I’ll not be generous if it’s too much.” His cool manner failed to disguise his lust.

Maceron snapped his fingers, and the sallow-faced young man disappeared into the gloom. “I was told that some damage was done ”at the crossing,“ whatever that means. But he’s all of a piece, more or less.”

“And the woman?” asked the Zhid.

Maceron swept his hand toward me. “The lady awaits your pleasure.”

The cool smile fell away from Giano’s face as he sought me out in my shadowy niche. The Zhid stood close enough to breathe on me, and quicker than I could see, his murderous knife appeared in his hand. Ever so delicately, he traced a line across my neck with the knife point. I shrank back against the cold pillar. “Oh, madam, it is most tempting to make a permanent end to your meddling. Rarely have I been thwarted in so blatant a fashion, and I do not care for it…”

His gray eyes seemed to grow larger, sucking away reason and breath. The stench of decay, of burning flesh, of hot blood on stone filled my senses. I was drowning, suffocating in horror. It took every bit of will I possessed to pull my eyes away from his, and even as I accomplished it, I was not sure whether it was my own act or Giano’s consent that released me.

“… but your life is of interest to someone of importance. I’ll have to be content that your interference is at an end, as is that of your rustic allies. I’ve brought you a fond remembrance of one of them.” He motioned to one of his gray-robed companions, who brought him a dark-stained bag of burlap. With a mirthless grin, Giano reached into the bag and pulled out a severed human head. The hair was white and wispy, the wide brown eyes staring. Terrified. Jacopo.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip until I tasted the salty blood, withholding the cry of grief and horror and outrage that would feed Giano’s pleasure.

The Zhid’s thin lips widened into a grin. “The other three who led us astray so briefly have met a similar fate. A pitiful crew they were.”

“No,” I moaned, as the chill of death crept from my feet to my wobbling knees to my hollow belly, paralyzing my heart. Not all of them. Not again.

The torchlight glittered on Giano’s gold earring, and his cold fingers stroked my jaw, as he whispered his morbid litany. “Oh, yes, we left them quite dead on the rocks of Mount Kassarain. The vultures have most likely picked their bones clean by now. Unfortunate in a way. The Dar’Nethi girl could have been amusing. But the noble sheriff had become annoying, and the cripple is no loss to anyone.” The cold fingers on my face then brushed my mind, galling… filthy… detestable… depraved… No matter how I twisted in my bonds, I could not escape his touch.

“Well, enough of that,” he said, removing his touch abruptly, leaving me limp and numb, sagging in my bindings. “We’ve a few surprises yet in store. I hope you enjoy the culmination of your adventure.” He leaned toward me, so close I could not escape him, and pressed his cold lips to mine, his tongue licking away the blood where I had bitten them. I fought not to vomit.

Giano’s attention was diverted by the return of the sallow-faced man and another guard, pushing D’Natheil ahead of them into the circle of light. The Prince was gagged and blindfolded, his feet close-hobbled, his arms and hands twisted awkwardly behind his back, wrists fastened so tightly to a loop of rope about his neck that lowering either head or arms would strangle him. His shoulders bulged with the strain. The left side of his face was mottled with blood and bruises.

Maceron gestured to Giano. “You may inspect the merchandise.”

“Remove its coverings,” said Giano harshly. “All of them. I will see what lives in this body.”

One of the gray-robed Zhid removed the Prince’s blindfold and gag, warning him not to speak unless he wanted a knife in his tongue. D’Natheil coughed and shuddered when the wadded cloth was yanked from his mouth. While one guard held the knife point to his neck, another cut away his clothes, until the Prince stood bound and naked, his body covered with darkening bruises. I stared at his face. The light was so poor. The brow, the jaw. What was it that made me tremble so? He could not have seen me in the shadows, for his eyes were only slits, blinded by his captors’ torches.

Giano walked around D’Natheil, inspecting him like a prize horse. “So, it’s come at last. After a thousand years, the Heir of D’Arnath confronts his enemies face to face. Did you ever think it would be you, or that you would be the last of them? Has the little seed of doubt begun to sprout in your starveling brain, the most minute scrap of understanding that the faith your wretched kingdom has lavished on your family is soon to be put to the test, and that you are quite inadequate?” He stroked the Prince’s straining arm, and as D’Natheil tried to jerk away, growling in fury, the guards tightened their hold. “What a pitiful end to a line of such great promise, no better than any other naked slave. And yet”—he stopped and stared into the Prince’s face, cold and haughty even in his captivity— “something is distinctly odd about you. Dassine, the wily bastard, what has he done? You have so little mind as it is, why would he bother to mask it? It’s made you very difficult to follow; I’ll give him that. You are not the same as you were half a year ago and not even as you were when you made the crossing.” Giano put his hands on the sides of D’Natheil’s head. “So, one closer look to be sure, then we can send these bloodthirsty mundanes on their way.”

The light of the torches dimmed, and a cold wind swept through the cavern, bearing a hideous certainty of death and desolation, cruelty and loathing, unending pain without hope. Even the impassive Maceron looked wan and sickly. His men held their heads and moaned. I shivered uncontrollably.

All color drained from D’Natheil’s face, sweat beading his forehead. His stance wobbled briefly, but he clenched his jaw and held… and in a moment’s breath, the shadow was gone, the air clear again. Giano snatched his hands from D’Natheil as if they’d been burnt, his smirk erased. The Prince’s eyes flew open, bright and disdainful.

“He is the one,” snapped Giano. “Let us proceed. You have his knife?”

Maceron handed D’Natheil’s silver dagger to Giano. The Zhid held it to the light and examined its markings. “The lesser talisman,” he said. “With this and the sword, the Dar’Nethi believe they have ensured their future, abandoning this useless prince and this Bridge that has brought them nothing but grief.” He tossed the knife into the air and caught the spinning weapon by its hilt. “With the return of this dagger is our bargain done. The Gate fire yet burns, and, now, before we quench it forever, we will allow you to venture its dangers and return to your masters. Is that your wish, Dulcé?” He presented the knife, laid across his palms, as if he were a servant delivering a favored dish to his master.

“It is.” Baglos, his hands trembling, his complexion jaundiced, took the weapon, quickly bundled it in a cloth, and shoved it into the pack he carried on his shoulder. “The bargain is complete.”

“Do you recognize these bindings, my lord?” Giano ran a finger along the silvery cord that circled the Prince’s neck. “Dolemar is far stronger than rope or chains. As you may have noticed already, it gets tighter as you struggle, and the least touch of sorcery will cause it to burn. Too much and your flesh will turn black, and you will beg us to sever your limbs.”

He hissed a word that made the firelight dim and tweaked the cord that attached the Prince’s wrists to his neck. Though he made no sound, D’Natheil arched his back as if the binding had been pulled tighter.

Giano smiled. “Happily, you’ll wear your bonds only a short time. At dawn tomorrow the line of D’Arnath will end. The Bridge was created with D’Arnath’s blood and sweat, and the last of D’Arnath’s blood will destroy it. Simple, is it not? Ridiculous that it took a thousand years to discover that it takes only your life’s essence—the blood of D’Arnath’s anointed Heir—sprinkled in the Gate fire to finish this matter.” There could have been no words more filled with hate since the world began.

Giano beckoned his two Zhid companions. “Put him away until morning.”

As two Zhid grabbed D’Natheil’s strained arms, Baglos turned to Giano and bowed stiffly. “Before I go,” he said, “I would request one consideration. My master has neither eaten nor drunk anything for near a full day. It was part of the agreement that, although confined, he would not be cruelly treated before he discharged his duty. May I, as a last service, offer him food and drink?”

Giano laughed. “If you think he’ll take anything from you, Dulcé, then by all means proceed. We must wait until morning for the last chapter in this saga, and I’d not wish his strength compromised. D’Arnath’s Heir must champion his people with his full capabilities. I would have him know what it is he does.”

Baglos reached into his leather bag, genuflected before the naked prince, and extended his silver wine flask. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord prince. I did not know you when we began. In these past days… your kindness… You are not the person of whom I was told. Though it has not shaken my belief in the necessity of my course, our companionship has made my grief the weightier. Would that it could be different.” Tears rolled down the Dulcé‘s round cheeks. “Ce’na davonet, Gire D’Arnath.”

I understood the words, as I had not when Baglos first greeted D’Natheil with them. All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. And I remembered D’Natheil inspecting the scars on Tennice’s back, struggling to comprehend the relationships of honor and treachery and forgiveness. Perhaps the Prince believed Baglos had been given no more choice in his treachery than had Tennice, for in a movement that was scarcely more than a blink of his eye, he nodded. Baglos stood and raised the flask to his master’s lips. The silver glinted in the yellow torchlight.

The flask… What was it? It was not the same as the Dulcé had shared with us along the journey. This was the other one, the ornate one that was only for dire circumstances, and yet the Dulcé‘s own near drowning had not been dire enough. Baglos’s duplicity was so hard to accept. Now that I knew, I could recognize so many signs I’d missed. Yet, Baglos honored D’Natheil—loved him. I could not doubt that, for I had seen his grieving when he didn’t know I watched. I looked at the weeping Dulcé and the flask in his shaking hands, and in an instant I was filled with horrific certainty.

“No!” I screamed. “D’Natheil! My lord prince! Don’t! Oh, gods, don’t drink it!”

D’Natheil looked up in shock. He couldn’t have even known I was there, hidden in the shadows.

Baglos did not turn, but held the flask to the Prince’s lips. “Please, master, I beg you… before it is too late…”

But the silver flask clattered to the paving when Giano yanked Baglos away from D’Natheil. Giano shoved the Dulcé to the ground, then motioned to the gray-robed Zhid to take the Prince away. The two Zhid quickly wrapped the blindfold about D’Natheil’s straining eyes and dragged him into the darkness.

“Foolish, mundane woman!” cried Baglos. “Now they will use him to destroy the Bridge. We could have prevented it. You’ve ruined it all. I am forever cursed.”

“Oh, Baglos, was betrayal not enough?” I said. No matter how hopeless the day, I could not keep silent and watch murder done.

Baglos could not reply. Giano had turned his impassive gaze on him, and with no more feeling than a man crushing a gnat, flicked his knife across the Dulcé‘s throat. The blood of the Guide soaked quickly into the dry stones.