The Soul Weaver

CHAPTER 30

Karon

D’Natheil hated waiting. His irritation would begin as a tightness in the jaw, proceed through nervous chewing of lips and fingers, leak out into restless movements of increasingly destructive tendency, and finally explode in some verbal or physical violence that served no purpose but to grow the dark and bitter core of anger that lived inside him. Inside me.

There had once lived a Gardener in Avonar, my lost Avonar, who enchanted the city gardens to bloom for one day longer each year, so that after thirty years the city was known for its marvelous climate that allowed flowers to bloom a full month longer than others. His was a story told to J’Ettanni children to teach them patience. In a life where any oddity could get you burned alive, and among a people where the savoring of every moment, every sensation, resulted in an increase of the glorious power at the root of being, patience was very near the pinnacle of the pyramid of virtue.

The necessity for patience was one of the fundamental conflicts between D’Natheil and me, the reason he had never been able to summon the power he wanted to wield, the reason I could no longer heal, and the reason I would never be able to lead the Dar’Nethi as they needed. This was, perhaps, the hardest truth revealed by the Rite of Purification. I had emerged from the Pool of Rebirth renewed in spirit and found Seri living and herself again, the most precious gift I had begged from life standing before me, yet I could not savor the moment for needing… wanting… craving to get on with the business of executing my son. I was as much myself as I could ever be, and it was not enough.

So, as I lay hidden just beyond the Gate of D’Arnath’s Bridge, watching through the wall of white fire as my friend Ven’Dar knelt in serene meditation waiting for someone to murder him, I found myself with jaws clenched, plunging my dagger over and over again into the cold mud in front of my face. Cold mud was the current aspect of the small island of stability I could create from the constantly shifting chaos behind the Gate. After today… no more. No more blood on my sword. No more feeling the exhilarating surge of enchantment when I slipped through the roaring Gate fire. No more of this unending dispute between the man I was and the man I wanted to be. No more of anything, if all went as I planned. As I ground my dagger into the gritty slop, I almost laughed aloud at the word. Planned. A comet streaking through a conjunction of the planets was more under my control than the hours to come.

Ven’Dar had been kneeling on the pearl-gray stone for hours, motionless, his arms outstretched to embrace D’Arnath’s fire. He was most likely freezing. His white robe was thin, and the chamber of the Gate was chilly, the Gate fire a manifestation of enchantment rather than flame. But the cold, and the creeping dread of a knife in the back, and the nagging anxiety as to whether his friend, the Prince of Avonar, was still there behind the roaring curtain, still awake, still watching, still sane, had been stitched with patience into the tapestry of Ven’Dar’s life as he took his next step along the Way. I envied Ven’Dar his patience and his cold and his fear. D’Natheil didn’t understand the Way and did his best to keep me from feeling anything but his anger.

Think. Use this time. Plan. What if Men’Thor doesn’t take the bait? What if dawn comes and Ven’Dar is unthreatened? You’ll have one hour to take Seri. and Ven’Dar and Paulo before the Preceptors, confirm Ven’Dar as the successor, and convince the Preceptors that Men’Thor and his son are murderers. Risky. Uncertain.

A weapon snatched from an assailant’s hand, imprinted with his will to do murder, would be so much better. Even Ustele would not be able to argue with it. Then I’d have done all I could do for my people’s future, and I could safely move on to the day’s other matters: my son and the Lords of Zhev’Na and dying.

You could have left yourself more time. Yes, speed was necessary to keep them off balance, but so many things could go wrong. I had just wanted it done.

To my relief, it was only a short time later that the door to the chamber of the Gate - purposely and publicly left unwarded as Ven’Dar began his vigil - swung open. Men’Thor, still arrayed in his elaborate finery, strode through. I wiped the mud from my dagger, drew my sword, and crouched low, ready to spring. Timing would be everything. Ven’Dar’s life and Men’Thor’s guilt must both be preserved. I felt neither satisfaction nor fear, only the urgency to get on with it.

Men’Thor was alone and his hands were empty as he stood glaring down at my friend like a stern father ready to mete out judgment to an errant child. “What winding did you cast to place the ruin of Avonar in your hand, Ven’Dar? What enchantment did you conjure to force the mad Prince to waste this magnificence - D’Arnath’s holy fire - and leave it blazing at the feet of a minor magician?”

I could scarcely hear the brittle words, squeezed through Men’Thor’s icy composure. Ven’Dar, lost in his meditation, showed no awareness of his companion.

“Of all the obstacles in my path, I never thought you would be the one to cause me to stumble. I never gave you credit for artifice. Why aren’t you dead?” He walked around Ven’Dar like a disdainful tailor inspecting his client’s worn apparel. “And now what am I to do with you? Will we be forced to make do with our mad Prince, and have you constantly at his ear encouraging his unhealthy yearning for these mundanes? At least you are one of us… ”

If sound had any meaning behind the roaring Gate fire, Men’Thor would have heard my sigh when he pulled the dagger from beneath his gem-studded belt. Soon… soon it would be done.

“… but you’re a coward, aren’t you?” He waved the knife before the Preceptor’s unseeing eyes. “You and your discredited philosophies that have left us at the mercy of our enemies, denied us the advantages of our power, reduced us to tricksters, hardly better than these shallow, ignorant creatures from the other world. I’ll not have it. Do you hear me? I’ll fight you with every voice and heart I can muster to my cause.”

“Voices and hearts are not enough, Father. We need more forceful, more visible weapons in this particular war.”

I’d been so intent on watching Men’Thor’s knife that I’d not seen Radele appear in the doorway. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his breast, smiling. “Even now the witnesses gather to watch the Prince invest his successor, but how much faster would they come and how many more of them, if they knew they were to witness our first true victory over the Lords. At last they’ll see what viper has been nurtured in their midst and how close we’ve been to a second Catastrophe, a final Catastrophe. Then shall the people of Avonar decide who is to bear D’Arnath’s sword.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. You will have everything you deserve, Father, and more.”

The smiling son gave an exaggerated bow and held the door for his father. His laughter echoed across the Gate fire as he followed Men’Thor from the chamber. Men’Thor’s knife was safely - annoyingly - back in its sheath.

No sooner had they gone than somewhere beyond the palace walls the sun broached the horizon. I knew the time, for Ven’Dar’s arms fell heavily to his sides, and he began to stretch the cramps from his neck and shoulders, easing himself off the floor.

“I gather I’m still alive,” he said, grimacing as he rubbed his knees, while at the same time trying to huddle his arms into his thin robe. “Though I’m cold enough to be a corpse, I don’t think a dead man’s knees would ache so much. Did our honey catch any flies?”

I stepped through the Gate fire, sheathing my dagger with such force that I split the leather. “My plotting’s been no more successful than anything else. But it’s not over. They’re up to something. Come. Paulo is to meet us at the council chamber, and I’ll send Bareil for Seri.”

I started for the door, but Ven’Dar lingered, letting his gaze dwell on the towering wall of white fire, its full extent unseeable in the brilliance far above our heads. “It is magnificent, is it not? Such purity. Such power. I close my eyes and see it still; everything I look on is made more than it was. To have it be a part of me… it’s as if I’ve been given new eyes. Is it that way for you?”

“Now is perhaps not a good time to ask me,” I said and slammed my palm against the door, careful to watch for any ambush along our way.

As I had commanded him, Bareil was waiting for us in the small, book-lined anteroom off the council chamber. Ven’Dar sank into one of the enveloping chairs and dived most appreciatively into the steaming saffria and crusty bread Bareil set out for him. I had no time for such - and no need.

“Paulo?” I asked.

“Asleep in your private chamber, my lord,” said the Dulcé. “He arrived two hours ago.”

“And his report?”

“He said to tell you that all went just as planned and to wake him if you needed to know more. The lad was asleep on his feet.”

One success. Good to know that something had gone right.

I nodded toward the door of the council chamber. “Is everyone present?”

“The Preceptors, the Archivists, Master Men’Thor, your commanders, the witnesses from ten families as Mistress Ce’Aret specified - all are present,” said the Dulcé. “She says that when you are ready to proceed, each Preceptor will take an imprint of Master Ven’Dar, then lay hands on you for acknowledgement, much like the test of parentage.”

“I remember it.” An adoption rite, in essence.

“A quarter of an hour - no more - and it will be done.”

“Good” - I lowered my voice - “and have you brought what I told you?”

The Dulcé looked at me solemnly and matched his tone to mine. “Yes, my lord, but - ”

“You will speak of it to no one. No one. Do you understand me, Dulcé?”

“Of course, my lord.” He dropped his eyes.

“So, give it to me.” Into my hand Bareil slipped a red silk bag about the size of my fist. “Now you must fetch Seri. Keep her in here until I call for her.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He bowed very low, and turned to go without looking at me again.

I laid a hand on his arm. “There are not thanks enough for all your good service, madrissé, nor for your kindness and care that the madris cannot compel. You’ve never failed me. It is I who lost my way, not my Guide.”

Silent, eyes averted, Bareil kissed my hand and hurried away. Ven’Dar raised his eyebrows, but I left him ignorant and shoved the small heavy bag into the leather pouch I had fastened to my belt that morning. Already in the bag was a second object, retrieved from the vault in my bedchamber last night, where it had lain for the past four years, an artifact of the Lords that made my soul shrivel to touch it. I was as prepared as I could be for the eventualities of the morning. Laying my hand on the latch of the council-chamber door, I said, “Shall we see what surprises our friends have readied for us?”

The three members of the Preceptorate were seated at the long table on a raised dais at the far end of the huge windowless room. It might have been a winter’s night instead of a summer morning, for the lamps were lit and a fire crackled in the wide hearth behind the Preceptors’ table, burning off the chill of the eternal stone. My stomach never failed to give me a twinge when I walked into this room. The first time I’d sat in the Prince’s chair facing the dais was the day I’d stuck a knife in my gut to convince the Lords of Zhev’Na I was mad. On that day death had been but a painful feint. The paths of life were uncompromising.

“Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath,” intoned Ce’Aret as I entered. The greeting was echoed by the others in the room, and I extended my hands, palms up, as ritual demanded.

The air of the room was thick with anticipation. Perhaps fifty people, dressed in their finest and fully aware of their privilege, were in attendance. Their eyes were wide and alert for the least nuance of expression from the principal players, ears pricked, shoulders straight, voices kept low. Every whisper was cause for excitement; every sound quickly hushed lest it distract from full perception of the historic event.

The old woman spoke with the authority of age and righteous power. “What business have you with your Preceptorate this day, my lord Prince?”

“I bring my chosen successor, Ven’Dar yn Cyran, to be acknowledged before the Preceptorate. As you have instructed me, I have taken him onto D’Arnath’s Bridge and touched his mind with my own, imprinting him with my family’s patterns of thought and all that I know of the Bridge and the Gates. Then did he open himself to the Gate fire for the time allotted to attune his power to the Gate and the Bridge. I have judged him worthy and capable, and as the Preceptorate witnesses my choice, so shall the secrets and the power of D’Arnath be unlocked in him, ready for his anointing.”

“Why such hurry, my lord?” asked Ce’Aret. “Is it not a risk for the successor to be privy to all the Heir’s lore so soon after his accession?”

“Our times are dangerous, Preceptor, and the deeds I must do today and in the days to come carry risks that are unknown. Ven’Dar is not a child to be protected and nurtured before he can shoulder his responsibilities.”

“Reasonable, I suppose. Yes. Very wise. Please be seated, and we will proceed.”

I settled in the Prince’s chair, facing the Preceptors. Ven’Dar took a position somewhere out of sight behind me. Ce’Aret spoke to the assembly to explain the ritual.

The most difficult part had already been accomplished, she said, and the acknowledgment was little more than a formality, a key to unlock the knowledge that had already been passed along to the chosen.

While the Preceptor droned on about my family and my unique inheritance of D’Arnath’s chair, I kept thinking of Seri. She would be watching from the anteroom through a myscal - an enchanted glass. It was all I could do to keep from looking up, from trying to express… something… of what I felt for her. But I had already slipped once. I had not intended to go to her in the night. She would do what was necessary, no matter if I told her or not, and if the Lords caught the least hint of my intent, we would fail. But I had not been able to leave her without a word or a touch. She was my foundation. My fortress keep. To share such a life as hers was a grace few men were given. And no man but I bore such hatred for the Lords of Zhev’Na, who had forced me to this day. Ah, gods, I would crush their bones in my teeth if I could.

Ce’Aret finished her recitation, stepping from the dais with the brisk movements of one half her age and disappearing behind me. She would be standing before Ven’Dar, splaying her fingers across his face, using her power to carve an image of his soul upon her mind. And soon after, she would transfer that image to me. An intrusive rite for the one whose image was being taken, exposing emotions and convictions one might prefer remain private. I was happy she was not probing my soul at the moment. All I had to do was read what she gave me and reflect my response to it. I shoved my murderous cravings aside and tried to unclench my fingers, which threatened to break the ancient wood of my chair, and focus on the rite.

Small hard hands settled on my shoulders. In an instant, I was infused with the image of Ven’Dar, not merely his physical aspect, but his essence: the joy that permeated every moment of his life, his love for our Way, for our land, for me.

“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” Ce’Aret’s voice was as clear as a brass trumpet. “The one who will follow your steps onto D’Arnath’s Bridge, whose hands shall serve the people of Avonar and all of Gondai, leading us and guarding us with their skill and power?”

“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my mentor, my heir,” I said.

Ce’Aret removed her hands, and the image dissolved.

Mem’Tara brought me another image of Ven’Dar, this time the sounds of his voice, rich and clear in its timbre, honest and gentle in its tenor, powerful in its articulation of the words that were his life. She gave me the image of his eyes that could see so far beyond the moment and so deep into the past, and his hands that had calmed my anger as skillfully as they smoothed and shaped rough bits of wood into articles of use and beauty. She brought me his laughter, and his raucous baritone, singing a bawdy song. “Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil? The one who shall assume your place in the life of this world when your span of days is complete?”

“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my comforter, my heir.”

Then it was Ustele’s turn. Slowly, leaning on a wild-wood cane, he hobbled from the dais and passed by me without meeting my gaze. I wasn’t worried about Ustele. The ritual was strict. He could refuse to participate, and I would remove him from the Preceptorate, appointing another person of my choosing to his place. But if he wished to retain his position as my counselor, he could only do as the ritual prescribed, take the image and present it to me.

My bones ached. A chill draft made me shudder. When had I last slept? My gritty eyes stung, and I rubbed them, causing a moment’s shift in the light, smearing faces and colors… red… green. The hour was speeding by. I flinched when Ustele laid his cold, bony fingers on my head.

“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” The old sorcerer’s voice quavered in my ear, filled with bitterness. “The one who shall wield the sword and the power of D’Arnath and be privy to the innermost secrets of the Dar’Nethi? Is this the man to whom you would entrust the fate of the worlds? Consider well, for with your word will your successor be proved.”

Even dull-witted with exhaustion, I knew this one thing was sure and right. “This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my brother, my heir.”

But no sooner had I spoken, delivering the future of Gondai and the Bridge into his hands, than I glimpsed the flaw in the image that lingered in my mind. Ven’Dar, yes, his courage in battle, his unyielding devotion to justice and truth. In all things honorable. Yet, behind the image, lurking in the midst of everything I expected to see… what was it? A shadow. A scar. Alien. A flash of gold, a glimmer of ruby, of amethyst, of blue-white diamond… and familiar horror…

“No!” I slapped Ustele’s band away and burst from the chair, whirling about to see Ven’Dar’s eyes grow cold and his smile harden.

“First friend, then brother, then heir. I’m dizzy from coming full circle - for I believed myself to be your heir to begin with. Family, yes, but not brother. And never friend. Most confusing. And even more so for these others who cannot see what you see or know what you know. Tell them who I am, my lord Prince. Tell them who will reign in Avonar in three heartbeats from this moment, when their mad Prince lies dead on the floor. Say my name, and let them shudder and curse your failure.”

It was impossible, but there was no mistake. “Gerick!”

“No, no, good Father. Call me Dieste.”