by Carol Berg
His poignant hope pried open a corner of my heart. Nothing could witness more clearly to his Dar’Nethi heritage. “It is indeed a blessing and a wonder, Marcus. Unfortunately, I don’t know what we’re to do with you now. The Prince cannot help you for a while, and I’ve no idea how to get you home.” Why hadn’t I asked Dassine what to do with them?
“Aye. That would be a boon. To go home, that is. My wife must be a pot fearful, left for who knows how long. If she thinks me Zhid… ah, Vasrin, guide me on this path…” The man closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands for one moment. When he had composed himself, he dropped his hands to his sides and bowed respectfully. “If it please, madam, I must tell my companions of your words.”
I watched the same range of emotions play out on the faces of the bewildered man and woman as Marcus spoke to them. A short time later Marcus returned, his face gray and his fingers knotted again. His speech stumbled and faltered. “One more question, madam, if you please. The Heir—we think we must be confused. Please to tell me what is the name and lineage of the Heir who has saved us?”
“D’Natheil, third son of D’Marte, sixty-third Heir of D’Arnath.”
Marcus expelled a sharp breath, then ducked his head and returned to his companions. A moment later, they all came to me.
“These are Nemyra and T’Sero,” said Marcus, a thin layer of composure regained, as he presented the tall angular woman and the broad-shouldered man. “Is there aught we can do for you, madam? If your facts be true, then the matter of our return to our homes is not important. Those who would welcome us have long ago made their way to L’Tiere. I was taken in the time of Z’Ander, the twenty-seventh Heir, and these two in the time of Nikasto, the thirty-fourth Heir. Our time is long past. But if we could aid you in some way, or some other who serves our blessed prince…”
What to do with them? Their lives were irretrievable. But I, of all people, should understand their need to give their loss some meaning. “I suppose… you must learn the ways of this world, so you can be ready to serve the Prince when he’s able to return. I await him, also. I can teach you what you need to know. But, for now… I’ve things to do. Come along. You might want to look around the place. See a part of your history.”
As I smoothed Tomas’s covering, the three removed their gold earrings and threw them into the fire, each small missile causing an eruption of gold flame as it vanished beyond the Gate. Then they helped me carry my brother out of the chamber of the Gate. The wooden doors swung shut behind us and vanished into the stone.
I broke the news of Tomas’s death to his three anxious soldiers, telling them that, because of the intervention of the mysterious prisoner and the strange conversion of the three priests, the challenge to Leire and King Evard had been successfully countered anyway. Thanks to my family resemblance to Tomas, they accepted what I said. Or perhaps they would have accepted anything to remove themselves from the haunting quiet of the cavern. But they were kind and offered Marcus and the others a share in their provisions. Then I enlisted their help in the sad duties that remained.
While the soldiers set to digging at the place I selected by the lake, I sought out Kellea, Paulo, and Graeme Rowan. The sheriff was awake with easy breath and good color, and no sign of his wounds save his bloody clothing. Even the scar from D’Natheil’s ill-judged blow to his head had vanished.
At sunset we laid Tomas in the frozen tundra by the lake. Before we covered him over, I took his signet ring and a lock of his hair, and I replaced his sword with a lesser one, wrapping the Champion’s sword in a cloth so it could be returned to its proper owner. Tomas’s soldiers built a cairn over the shallow grave so that wolves could not disturb it. At his feet we buried Baglos, face down as was the custom for traitors. In a small third grave, I placed the dark-stained burlap bag that had been tossed aside by the Zhid. The soldiers were curious, but I had used the last of my strength to bring the grisly bundle and lay it in the ground. I wept for my dear old friend, but I could not speak of him.
On the next morning we set out on the long journey home. I was the last to leave the cavern. The enchanted torches faded behind me, and when I reached the far side of the lake and turned for a final look, only a bare cliff face stood where the doorway had been. I followed the others past Tomas’s resting place and down the sloping tundra.
Three days after leaving Vittoir Eirit, we camped at the ruined castle south of Yennet. On that night Dirk, the older man who commanded Tomas’s soldiers, said that he and his men would leave us on the next morning. They planned to report the tragic result of the “chieftain’s” challenge to the duke’s aide, Captain Darzid, and give him the Champion’s sword so it could be returned to King Evard.
In the quiet travel of the preceding days, I had thought a great deal about Darzid, the mysterious spider lurking at the edge of my life’s web. Was he a pawn like Maceron, a victim like Jacopo, or some vile transformation more like these three poor Dar’Nethi had been? Was he pursuing sorcerers to rid our lands of them, as Maceron claimed, or was he an ally of the Zhid? None of those things seemed to fit. My instincts told me he was something different yet.
“I’ll return my brother’s sword to the king myself,” I told Dirk. “Your duty is at Comigor. The young duke must be protected when word goes out of his father’s death, and it is the faithful Comigor retainers like you, not the… outsiders… who must see to his safety. Inform the Lady Philomena that I shall come to pay my respects to her and her son as soon as I’ve spoken to King Evard.”
The old soldier touched his forelock, approving my concern for Tomas’s son. When I awoke the next morning, he and his men were gone.
At Fensbridge, Graeme Rowan, Kellea, and Paulo turned south, accompanied by Marcus, T’Sero, and Nemyra. The three Dar’Nethi would stay in my cottage until someone came to take them back across the Bridge to Avonar. Rowan and Kellea promised to see to their welfare.
Graeme Rowan hung back for a moment as the others rode away. “You’re not coining back to Dunfarrie, are you?”
“I don’t belong there.”
“For ten years you did. You made a place for yourself.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Where then?”
“I’m not sure. It depends on the pardon. If it’s real, there are several possibilities. I once had dreams of the University. I might be able to live better on my knowledge of history, philosophy, and languages than I ever could on my skills at farming.”
Rowan laughed with me, but we soon fell silent, thinking of Jacopo, who had made it possible for me to live in Dunfarrie.
“I’ll send word of my plans,” I said, then clasped his hand briefly and rode north toward Montevial.
A fortnight after the opening of the Gate, I sat in the royal palace in Montevial, awaiting word that the king would see me. My hair was clean, my fingernails free of dirt, and I was dressed in a new gown of dark green, simple but well made, bought with silver from Baglos’s purse. I felt more myself than I had in ten years. The guards had demanded to see what was wrapped in the long bundle of red silk I carried, but I told them it belonged to His Majesty, and none could look on it without his leave. The king would either give his permission for me to enter with the wrapped bundle, or I would await a time when he would.
Eventually a footman escorted me into a gaudy little sitting room. Evard sat by a blazing fire despite the warmth of the late summer day. On a footstool beside him perched a dainty, fair-haired girl of eleven or twelve in a heavily embroidered red satin gown with a white ruff about the neck. As I made my curtsy, she looked up at Evard and closed her book. But he laid a hand on the child’s shoulder. “This won’t take long, my treasure.” His eyes rested on me. “Lady Seriana, my daughter, the Princess Roxanne.”
I understood the trace of gloating in the introduction. His daughter was a princess, and she could have been mine. Yet of far more importance to me was the fact that he had a living daughter, whereas I had no living son. Perhaps he understoo
d that, too, and that’s why his eyes darted away so quickly. I curtsied to the girl, who condescended to tip her head.
“Now what is it that my guards are not allowed to view? You would not slay me before my child, I think.” His laugh had a decidedly anxious edge.
“I’ve brought you that which properly belongs to the King of Leire. Since there is no other king, it must be returned to you. I trust you will find meaning beyond the artifact itself.” I laid the bundle on a polished table and unwrapped the red silk. With reverence and care, I lifted the sword in my hands and presented it to Evard.
Slowly, reluctantly, he took it from me, scanning my face for the whole of my ill tidings. When he finally spoke, his voice was quietly harsh. “How did you come by this, lady? I know of no challenge to me, and who would dare challenge him directly?”
So he didn’t know. And his grief for Tomas was real. I had believed it would be so. Evard possessed little enough of love or grace, but I had never doubted his affection for my brother. My multitude of offenses had never altered it. It had produced the unconditional pardon that Tomas had requested in his desire to have me return to Comigor and that I had carried in my sleeve since my meeting with a curious Garlos an hour before. It had preserved my life, for which I had never been grateful until I saw the reflection of Karon’s soul in D’Natheil’s eyes.
“If Your Majesty please, I’ll tell you a story,” I said. “It’s quite a long story, and much of it will defy reason. You may accept it or dismiss it as the fantasy of a deluded woman, as you have judged me. But if you accept it as truth, then you will learn of a danger to your kingdom that is more insidious than any Isker spy, and you will learn how your friend and champion was used and then murdered in an attempt to destroy us all…”
Three hours later I left the king’s chambers. I could not tell whether or not Evard gave credence to anything I’d told him. My tale was alien to everything he believed of the world. But he had neither ridiculed me nor had me arrested. My voice had always carried weight with him. That was the reason for his unrelenting fury at my rejection of him. Evard would never stop hating me, but he might listen and be wary.
On that same evening, it was proclaimed throughout the kingdom that the Duke of Comigor, the Champion of Leire, was dead, having been lured into an ambush by unknown traitors. He had died as he had lived, with honor, defending his king with his mighty sword. A day of mourning was set.
Two notes were added to the proclamation, though rarely were they announced publicly, being minor matters as they were. In gratitude for the late duke’s long service to the crown, his sister, the Lady Seriana Marguerite, was restored to full citizenship, all rights and privileges of rank restored to her under a full pardon for all crimes with which she had been charged. The second note stated that an investigation into the slaying was to be carried out by His Grace’s military aide, Captain Darzid of the Royal Guard. The captain was to produce an explanation of the death of the Champion six months from this day. The appointment had been my suggestion, and Evard had promised to inform me of whatever story Darzid might produce.
Our world lay mired in misery; my husband had been brutalized, my child murdered, and my brother’s life twisted into horror and ended too early. Somewhere in a desert fortress, three corrupted sorcerers who called themselves the Lords of Zhev’Na sat on thrones of black stone and feasted on our grieving, and I prayed that fate or gods or destiny would give me a role to play in their ruin.
One more duty awaited me before I could settle myself to listen for Dassine’s call. I bore a message for my ten-year-old nephew. And so, a few days later, my carriage rattled over the ancient cobbles that fronted sprawling, thick-walled Comigor Keep.
Midsummer was three months gone. The angle of the morning sun and the touches of gold on the barren green hills that stretched in every direction from the windswept hilltop already spoke the waning of the year. The morning air bit sharply through my light cloak, whispering of storm and blizzard and the elemental purity of northern winter.
Thirteen years had gone by since I had left Comigor to attend Martin’s judgment before the Council of Lords, thirteen years since Karon had revealed his secret in the study at Windham and I had chosen the course that had barred me from the home of my childhood and led me into love and mystery and grief. The seasons pass. As my driver rang the bell and waited for someone to answer it, I rubbed the rose-colored stone that lay cool and secret in my pocket, and I breathed deep of the sweet morning.
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