Son of Avonar tbod-1

by Carol Berg

  “You see why I believe you’ve been sent to me? It’s possible there’s no other soul in the Four Realms who even knows the name J’Ettanne.”

  “That seems indisputable.”

  “And you see why D’Natheil must do no magic where anyone can see? Make sure he understands that. Our law is absolute.”

  “Much is now explained. Will you not tell us more, woman? About J’Ettanne’s people, about their life in this land? Why did they no longer come to the Bridge?”

  “I told you, they had no lore of a Bridge or of a kingdom such as yours. I’ve no answers that can help you. As for their life—it doesn’t matter anymore.” The past was done. Karon and the J’Ettanne were dead. Dwelling on their stories would not repair that. I hated speaking of them.

  When Baglos told D’Natheil all of this, the Prince indicated that he remembered my teaching. He displayed no fear, of course. Bullies never believe they’ll experience the kind of wickedness they parcel out. He retrieved his birchwood—now a slender chip the size of his palm—sat himself in the light spilling from the cottage doorway, and began carving on it with the tip of his silver dagger. Once I felt the slightest stirring in the air, a faint sigh that was not the cooling breeze, and I looked over to see him running his fingers over the blade of his knife. I wondered if he was invoking some enchantment, but I wasn’t about to ask.

  Baglos and Paulo moved the table back into the cottage. Paulo mumbled something about seeing to the horses and strolled into the night with his hands in his pockets. The boy would not consider taking Thunder down to Dunfarrie. The sheriff had told him to ride the horse as far as Jonah’s cottage, and Paulo was unwilling to jeopardize his privilege by straying one finger’s breadth from the instruction. A fine meal, responsibility for Rowan’s horse, mysterious princes, and talk of sorcery—Paulo had likely never had such a day in his thirteen years.

  A short while later, as I dumped out the water we had used to clean the dishes, D’Natheil suddenly jumped to his feet, dropping his woodcarving into the dirt. Grabbing my pail and throwing it aside, he shoved me toward the doorway of the cottage, and then, with vehemently expressive hands, demanded to know where Paulo was. Just like him not to notice anyone else until he wanted something for himself.

  “What do you want with—?” Before I could finish my question, D’Natheil bellowed in frustration, waved his hand to the sky and the meadow and the wood, and then slapped his fists together ferociously. Danger. Even as I squinted at the darkening edge of the trees, trying to see what bothered him so, a gray haze shadowed the moonlight, and the cheerful nickering of candlelight faded, though the moon was unclouded and the candleflame yet burned. An alien wind swept through the valley, leaching the warmth from the summer night, bearing on its back the scents of smoke, ash, and decay. “He’s with the horses.” I pointed to the copse.

  With long, graceful strides D’Natheil dashed across the stretch of grass to the dark grove, and soon returned with a squirming Paulo over his shoulder. The young man pushed me farther into the house, dumped Paulo on the floor, and slammed and barred the door. Breathing hard, he leaned his back against the door, and his defiant chin challenged me to argue.

  Baglos said, “What is it? Wild beas—? Holy Vasrin! The Zhid!” He cast his almond-shaped eyes to the roof and the walls, climbing onto my bed to close and bar the shutters.

  Paulo picked himself off the floor, rubbing his arms.

  “He’s balmy.”

  “Never mind it, Paulo,” I said, urging the boy away from the Prince and toward the fire. “There’s danger about, and he wants you safe. It will pass.”

  “What of the sailor?” said Baglos. “How far had he to travel? I pray Vasrin he is not out.”

  My heart stopped for a moment in fear for Jaco, thinking of him on the exposed lower slopes of the Dunfarrie path, but then I considered the time and shook my head. “No, it’s only an hour’s walk to the village, and it’s been at least two—”

  “—and he is not the one they seek,” said Baglos, patting my arm. “Build up the fire and do not think of what passes outside the door. In Avonar, we would tell stories when the Zhid were seeking, hoping to bar them from our thoughts.” The wind gusted and howled and pawed at the cottage, rattling the door and shutters, seeping through the log walls. Beneath its bluster was an undertone of uttermost desolation, a song worthy of a world mourning for a dead sun or a race lamenting its lost children. I needed no urging to build up the fire. “If there are to be stories, someone else will have to tell them,” I said, pulling a blanket about my shoulders. “I don’t think I can.”

  D’Natheil sat on the floor beside the hearth, eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side, his senses fixed on something far beyond the fire. As the rising flames gnawed at the logs, his expression gradually lost its intensity, as if he were mesmerized by the play of light and colors.

  “Mie giro.” Baglos sat down on the worn woven rug beside his master and plucked the Prince’s sleeve. “Mie giro, ne pell don …” D’Natheil ignored him. His narrow face tight, the earnest Dulcé persisted. He spoke softly to his master, shaking his head and pressing a fist to his heart, coaxing and cajoling until D’Natheil dragged his gaze from the fire, blinked, and nodded.

  “The Prince has agreed that I may tell a story of his childhood to distract him from the Seeking. I hope it might make him remember.” Baglos spoke first to me and then to D’Natheil, as before.

  “When my lord was six years old, he was a wild boy, who wished to do nothing but fight. He greatly admired his older brother, Prince D’Seto, a young man both honored for his courage and fighting skills and beloved for his great good humor. One day D’Natheil stole a sword from Prince D’Seto, not understanding that it was only a flimsy ceremonial sword that his brother had enchanted so as to make the one who carried it irresistible to the ladies and tireless in… ah… adventures of the heart. D’Natheil was so small that the strength of the enchantment acted on him like an excess of wine…”

  Baglos proceeded to tell us a long series of D’Natheil’s embarrassing adventures among the warriors and ladies of Avonar. The Dulcé was a fine storyteller. I found myself shaking my head in amused disbelief, Paulo giggled, and even D’Natheil was flushed and smiling. And amid the humorous escapades, I caught vivid glimpses of a cultured city and a courtly people bitterly scarred by war.

  After a while, however, Baglos’s tale flagged. He struggled to continue as if a lead weight were attached to his tongue, and as his voice faded, so did our laughter. I huddled deeper in my blanket, cursing my foolish imagining that I might be able to help anyone avoid horror. I hadn’t even been able to keep my own child alive. D’Natheil took up his listening posture again. He watched the fire, and Baglos watched him, gingerly touching his sleeve or his knee, whispering in his ear, but unable to distract him. Only Paulo remained serene. He fell asleep, curled up on the wood floor.

  After perhaps half an hour more, the Prince startled me by leaping to his feet and yanking open the door. The moon was bright, casting silver-edged shadows over the meadow. The wind was gone along with the morbid chill. Evidently, the Seeking had passed.

  The past two days had been exhausting. I had been awake since well before dawn, and I managed to keep my eyes open only long enough to tell the others that they should remain in the house. “This won’t hurt my reputation,” I said, when Baglos expressed concern at three men sleeping in the house with an unmarried woman. “I’ve none to worry about.” It would be crowded, but only for a night. “Tomorrow we leave for Valleor. I know someone who may be able to help you.” Then I curled up on my bed and knew nothing until dawn.

  Paulo was off to Grenatte with the sunrise. As he proudly mounted Rowan’s black horse, I loaded him up with jack and hearthbread. “Whatever the sheriff asks you, tell him only the truth. But carefully, Paulo. You’ve heard some strange talk here, and you must be cautious about what you repeat of it… lest someone get wrong ideas.”

  “I mostly hear more�
�n people think,” he said, “but my head’s too thick to keep hold of much.” The boy gave me a sideways grin, and then he and the horse were racing down the trail to the south.

  I set off for the village shortly after, trying to decide how to broach to Jaco the news that I was leaving Dunfarrie. He was limping about the shop and grumbling about the mess Lucy had left him. “Busybody,” he said, before I’d even had time to wish him a good morning. “Don’t have nothing better to do than try to set everything to rights. Junk shops aren’t supposed to be set to rights. Who’ll ever think they’ve found a treasure if it’s all laid out in front of them like I’ve looked at it careful? She even cleaned the window. Fool woman. If I wanted more light in here, I’d of lit me a lantern. Blasted leg is seized up good this time or I’d be up there smoking up the glass again.” He pointed at the clean window with his walking stick.

  “Jaco, stop this. Listen to me. Did you see anything strange on the way down last night?”

  He wouldn’t stop fussing about. “Nope.” He limped slowly to the back room and returned with a roll of chain.

  “The shadow came again after you left. Like we saw on the ridge, only worse. Closer. The night went dark even though the moon was up. The wind was cold and smelled like death.”

  “I saw nothing like that. It was a fine night. I walked down, sat and smoked a pipe for a while, stopped in at the Wild Heron. It’s your imagination all roused up by these two strangers. I’ve a hard time even remembering what it was like that day on the ridge. The more I think on it, the more I believe all this magical business is just foolery, and we really didn’t see nothing at all. This Aeren—or whatever his name—is addled from his fever. And there must’ve been a crack in the rock.” He dumped a barrel of neatly folded clothes on the floor, kicked them into a muddle, and then stuffed them back in the barrel.

  “No. It was real then, and it was real last night. We stayed in the house as Baglos said, and he told us stories to take our minds away from it. He says these Zhid feed on fear.”

  “Listen to your foolish talk. You must be rid of those two, Seri. Send them away.” He unstacked a nest of iron pots. Into one he threw some bits of rope. Into another he dumped a wadded cloak, three spoons, and a battered tin of tea.

  “Exactly so. I’m taking them to see a man I know in Yurevan. Jaco, you—”

  “Taking them? Yourself?” For the first time I seemed to get Jaco’s attention. His head shot up from his puttering. “Never heard anything so foolish. Why would you do that? Who is this man?”

  “Someone who might be able to help unlock D’Natheil’s confusion.”

  “You need to tell me… who is it? What’s his name?” His brow was creased, his face red. “So’s I can find you if need be. Maybe I ought to go with you. Yes, that’s what I must—”

  “His name is Ferrante, a professor at the University who knows about the J’Ettanne. He used to live just outside of Yurevan. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

  Only after I so stupidly blurted everything out did I think what a predicament I was leaving Jaco in. “Listen, I know the sheriff is your friend, but you mustn’t tell him any of this. Rowan fought at Avonar. Leiran soldiers slaughtered everyone in the city just because some of the citizens were sorcerers. They burned the sorcerers and their families and friends. Even their children, Jaco. Rowan helped them burn the J’Ettanni children.”

  Jacopo stopped his work and pulled out his pipe. His fingers were shaking as he worked to fill it, spilling the fragrant tobacco all over the floor until he threw pipe and bag down in annoyance, and sank onto one of his wooden stools, his back to me. “No. I won’t say aught to him. I’ve been thinking you’re right. It’s not such a good idea to bring in Graeme. He’s still got to take you to Montevial in the autumn, and I don’t know he could lie to the king.”

  Though he had finally yielded to my opinion, I was astounded. Jacopo had been after me for ten years to trust Graeme Rowan. He must be truly afraid. I laid a hand on his hunched shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. Perhaps he was weeping or embarrassed to show his fear. “Autumn is months away, Jaco. You mustn’t worry so much. This mystery has got my blood running again. That can’t be a bad thing, no matter what comes of it.”

  “Give up this sorcery business, girl. It’s vile. Wicked.” His plea was a plaintive chant such as a child might use to ward off evil spirits. “Send this prince away. He’ll be the death of you.”

  “I detest D’Natheil,” I said to Jacopo’s back. “He’s a bully and a brute, and I can’t get rid of him soon enough. But I won’t give him over to Evard or Darzid or the sheriffs of Leire. And that means I have to go with him. He and Baglos would be lost or arrested within a day, and Ferrante won’t trust messages—not in this matter.” And now for the awkward part. “I do need your help, Jaco. I’ve got to have two of Emil Gasso’s horses.”

  “The horses”—Jacopo scratched his head slowly with his wide fingers—“yes, I’ll get you the horses. A loan, mind! But you’ll have to wait a day, as I can’t deal with Gasso until tomorrow. Too much to do here; boat due within the hour.” He glanced toward me, and then stood up and went to work again, sticking his head deep in a barrel of rusty tools and tossing one after another onto the floor. “I’ll bring you the horses tomorrow midday. It’ll do you good to rest up before traveling so far.”

  To wait another day was a dreadful risk, but I couldn’t press Jacopo’s generosity any further. “You’re a good friend, Jaco. We’ll meet you tomorrow at the spring on the ridge. We can’t be at the cottage when Rowan returns.” I waited for him to answer, but he only grunted and dropped an old pump handle on the floor. “Tomorrow then.”

  I had to pass Emil Gasso’s stable on the way out of town, and on a whim decided to stop in. Gasso was a small-time horse breeder who had been hit hard by the constant levies for the Isker war. When I told him that Jaco would buy his horses and tack for a reasonable price, he was so delighted that he said I could take the horses with me. He would trust Jacopo for the money. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

  One of the horses was a huge chestnut with powerful legs and fire in its eye. The other was a smaller roan who nuzzled my hands and my pockets. “I think we’ll let D’Natheil ride your friend, and you’ll stay with me,” I said to the roan. I considered going back to tell Jacopo about Gasso’s generosity, but the morning was escaping. So I started up the trail to the cottage, riding the sweet-tempered roan and leading the chestnut.

  CHAPTER 16

  Less than an hour after my return from the village, I led D’Natheil and Baglos onto an obscure track that led over the ridge and down into the deep forest. D’Natheil rode as I knew he would, as if he’d been born in the saddle, a primitive exuberance in the man matching that of the fire-eyed chestnut. As for me, what I had told Jacopo was the truth. My blood raced as it had not in ten years, and I spent a great deal of the day marveling at what a short time it had been since Midsummer’s Day, when I’d believed I would never feel anything again.

  By early afternoon we came to the crossroads at Fensbridge. At Fensbridge market Baglos traded an unmarked coin of silver for boots and sword for D’Natheil, the latter old-fashioned and dull, but decently made. The young man hefted the weapon and grunted in satisfaction, if not pleasure.

  From Fensbridge you could cross the river and travel the main road south back to Dunfarrie and Grenatte or ride north to Montevial, as Rowan and I did every fall, or you could take one of several roads west into the foothills of the Dorian Wall. Straight west would lead to the high, rugged country at the base of the mountains. Our northwest route would take us through the forested, rolling borderlands all the way to the Valleor highroad, a well-traveled way across the border. Those who wished to avoid border checkpoints could leave the highroad and find innumerable secondary paths into Valleor. Karon had often used them on his private journeys, and such was my intent.

  By nightfall the morning’s excitement had long dissipated. I was saddle-weary, and a day
’s contemplation had convinced me that my plan had more holes than a moth-eaten cloak. I had no assurance that Ferrante was even alive, much less residing in the same ivy-covered country house where Martin had first met Karon. And I had only the most faint supposition, entirely unsupported, that Ferrante knew whether there had been more than one J’Ettanni survivor of the slaughter at Avonar. And yet, the history professor had been a close friend of Karon’s father, the one person outside of Avonar that any of the sorcerers would go to for help. I hoped he would tell me what I needed to know without my having to recount Baglos’s fragmented stories of Heirs and enchanted bridges.

  We camped for the night in dense forest. The air was humid and still, smelling of old leaves and moldy earth. We would see rain before morning. D’Natheil worked at sharpening and polishing the battered sword. After some rapid speech and hand gestures from Baglos, the Prince began to run two fingers over the weapon slowly, touching every part of the dully glowing surface. I believed enchantment flowed from his touch.

  Watching the Prince intently, the Dulcé retreated to the log where I sat by the fire. I leaned toward him and whispered, “What’s he doing?”

  Baglos jumped, as if he had forgotten I was there. “Oh, I told him—It’s just—to keep its edge and strengthen it… to enable it to serve him, a Dar’Nethi warrior can give a weapon his blessing. He has lived his whole life with swords,” he said softly, “and wielded them as a man when he was scarce taller than the weapon. But never before has he managed to do this. It was said that he would try too hard, get angry, and stop before he could get the rhythm of it. Now… I’m not sure he understands what he does.” After a while, Baglos sighed and set about cleaning up the supper things and laying out D’Natheil’s blanket.