by Carol Berg
The parapet of the wide royal balcony had been carved with the arch and stars and rampant lions of D’Arnath. On tall posts at its corners hung lamps shining with pure white light, their fiery brilliance reflected and multiplied a hundredfold by the tall, many-paned windows behind the balcony.
Three people in the formal robes of the Preceptors filed out and took seats on the balcony. My vantage was close enough that I could recognize them: tall Mem’Tara whose long, bony face and heavy braid I had glimpsed earlier in the Precept House, the fiery little Ce’Aret, and the stoop-shouldered Ustele who crouched low in his chair. Radele, attired in magnificent robes of green, trimmed in gold and gems, followed the Preceptors. The imposing older man that accompanied him could be none but his father Men’Thor, even more resplendent in red. I had met Men’Thor, they had told me, but not in any state where I could remember him.
“The Prince comes,” said Aimee from behind me. “His presence fills the city.”
The Preceptors stood and the crowd hushed when Karon stepped onto the balcony from the doorway and walked to the center. The night wind gently shifted his plain silk robe of dark blue, so that the narrow silver trim at its hem and sleeves glinted in the lamplight. In the traditional fashion for a Dar’Nethi Healer, a silver band bound up his left sleeve, exposing the scars on his arm. The open front of the robe revealed the sword and dagger of D’Arnath sheathed at his waist.
“People of Avonar, brave warriors, defenders of the Vales, of the city, of the last hope of the worlds, I have called you here in grief and in hope, to tell you of great changes in the world.”
The hair rose on the back of my neck. Though his speech was not shouted in the usual harshness of public oratory, I could hear him as clearly as if he stood three paces from my seat.
“Four years ago I swore an oath to break the bonds of terror forged by those who rule in Zhev’Na. I promised to serve you in the ways laid down for D’Arnath’s Heirs, to heal the wounds of war, and to nurture my son to follow after me, so that life could thrive in all the worlds that have been given into our care. In all of these things I have failed.”
No breath, no cry, no whisper of sound muted the stark clarity of his judgment.
“Every man and woman within sound of my voice has lost someone to the evil that is Zhev’Na; you have seen your sons and daughters, your parents, brothers, sisters, and cousins enslaved, tortured, driven mad, or slain. You know that my family has suffered alongside yours, and that only by the talent and skill of your Preceptors do I live to walk the beauteous hills of Avonar. Tonight I have come to tell you that with me, the line of D’Arnath will end.”
My body, mind, and spirit turned to stone, while throughout the commard the long-held breath of rumor and speculation was released at last. From here and there a mournful wail arose, only to be quickly hushed when Karon began to speak again.
“My son, who was acknowledged five years ago before the Preceptors of the Dar’Nethi, has been corrupted by the Lords of Zhev’Na. By his own hand was his mother, my beloved wife, struck down, and by his acts were the Preceptors Jayereth and Gar’Dena and the Circle of our most brilliant Talents destroyed. His guilt is clear, his subjugation to the Lords indisputable, and at one hour past dawn tomorrow, he will die for these acts. My own hand must accomplish this terrible deed, for only the Heir of D’Arnath can judge a Dar’Nethi life too evil, too dangerous, too broken to continue. This is a bitter sorrow for Gondai as well as for me, and I will need all of your strength to enable me to encompass such grief.
“But you must not lose heart, for the crooked paths take us to the most unexpected places, places beyond our dreaming, and for those who follow the Way, our sorrows bring us power. In the choosing of my new successor have I been forced to give thought to all our troubles, our life, our history, our strengths, our failures, all that I - and you - have become in this interminable war, and I have come to the conviction that the changes thrust upon us by these dread events will be the key to our future. For too long I have been so absorbed in my own distress, in my anger, and in my determination to right every evil according to my own lights that I lost sight of the Way, lost the clear vision that it offers us. Many of us have lost the Way over the past thousand years. It is the greatest evil the Lords have done to us - to make us destroy our best selves.
“The Preceptor Ce’Aret has taught me how the Heir can name a successor not of his own blood, and at dawn tomorrow so I will do. Avonar is graced by a community of worthy men and women, every one of whom has the welfare of our people at heart, every one of whom is unyielding in vigilance against the depredations of Zhev’Na, every one of whom is undisputed in courage and devotion. But only one man’s vision has allowed him to see the true threat and to hold steadfast through slander and dishonor and false accusations to prove his mettle. He it is whom I have judged most worthy of D’Arnath’s legacy.”
Those seated on the balcony had been nodding solemnly all during Karon’s words, but now several of them began to shift uneasily. Old Ustele leaned toward Men’Thor, poking at his son’s chest while he whispered in his ear. But Men’Thor pushed the old man’s hand away and arranged his robes to his liking once again, looking as if he were already breathing the rarefied air of royalty.
Karon took no note of those behind him. “When my day is over and a new Heir must take my place, his hand will guide you with wisdom and serve you with grace, and he will lead you to the renewal, not only of the Wastes, but of yourselves. Thus from all of us, not from the Heir alone, will come the power to maintain D’Arnath’s Bridge and restore our world. From midnight tonight will my successor stand alone in vigil at the Bridge, and at dawn tomorrow will he be invested with the knowledge of the Heir, to hold in trust until such time as I can no longer serve. On this night, in the presence of the host of Avonar, do I, D’Natheil, the only legitimate Heir of the mighty D’Arnath, name as my successor Ven’Dar yn Cyran. Ce’na davonet, Ven’Dar, teca Giré D’Arnath!”
From the crowd swelled murmurs of wonder, of disbelief, of confusion and dismay that the Prince had gone mad to name one that two days of rumors had claimed dead or disgraced. But when Ven’Dar stepped through the door at the back of the balcony, opened his palms, and knelt to Karon, the murmurs erupted into cries of joy and approval, of hope long held close and faith renewed, until the sound rolled through the city like a hurricane. Discontent rumbled beneath the wind, not a few jeers and shouts of anger invoking the name of Men’Thor. But when Karon raised up Ven’Dar and embraced him, the roar from the people came almost as one, “Ce’na davonet, Ven’Dar, teca Giré D’Arnath!” All honor to you, Ven’Dar, next Heir of D’Arnath. “Ven’Dar! Ven’Dar!”
Mem’Tara rose immediately and bent her knee to Ven’Dar, and Ce’Aret, after a stunned moment, embraced the Word Winder as if he were one of her long-lost sons. But Ustele folded his arms and maintained his seat, while Men’Thor and Radele and two or three others abruptly disappeared from the balcony through the doors at the back.
“He’s killed him,” I said to no one and everyone.
“Did he not say tomorrow?” said Bareil, softly, from behind me.
“No, not Gerick - not yet - but Ven’Dar. He has purposely humiliated Men’Thor before the host of Avonar. He cannot believe Men’Thor will accept it. Ven’Dar’s life is at terrible risk.”
“Surely then, the Prince will watch.”
Surely… Of course. Enrage Men’Thor so he’ll make a mistake. Remove his threat by catching him in undeniable treachery. And name Ven’Dar as the successor, so that when Gerick is dead…
As thunder follows the lightning flash, I saw the truth at last. I did not know Karon’s plan, but I knew what was to be its result. He was going to die, too - and not just the part of him that was my husband. At some time in the past hours, he had decided he was not going to leave D’Natheil behind to destroy Avonar.
“My lady, I must… are you all right? You look unwell.”
Wordless, I waved off Bareil’s
hand. I was very much not all right.
“I must go to the Prince, my lady, as I was commanded. Is there a message I could carry for you?”
There was far too much, even for a Dulcé, who could bear the knowledge of a hundred libraries at once. What could be said?
“Just tell him… I understand the implications of his choice.”
And at last I also understood why it was so important that I remain hidden. I was evidence against Men’Thor. If Men’Thor detected Karon’s trap or decided to bide his time, Karon needed evidence to indict him anyway. He would want to leave Ven’Dar free to teach and to guide the people of Avonar without the threat of Men’Thor’s meddling. And I had left Roxanne in the Precept House, carrying the knowledge of my existence and my whereabouts. Fool of a woman, why didn’t you think?
And in all my newfound understanding, I found no hope for Gerick. In his attempt at Calle Rein, Karon had discovered something that precipitated this convoluted strategy, and I could unravel no twisting of plot and no cleverness of words that was going to keep Gerick alive. Vaguely I considered making my way down to his prison again, but his cell had no visible lock, and I had no shred of power. I had come to the limits of my abilities and understanding.
So I did nothing. As the excited crowds wandered back to public salons or their homes, I sat in the window seat, still envisioning Karon on the deserted balcony, the wind caressing his long hair like a lover’s hand. Gentle Aimee brought me a shawl and a cup of tea, thinking to quiet my shivering, but though the nights of the waning summer were indeed growing cool, a blanket of goose down would not have warmed me. So the girl led me to the candlelit bedchamber and took off my shoes and covered me with the soft blankets she had chosen just for me. “Try to sleep, my lady, while I fetch the princess. I’ll wake you before dawn.”
Curled up in the dark nest of the great bed, I had no choice but to let go of everything. I couldn’t think any more, for there was nothing I could bear to think on.
Sometime deep in the night, long after the vigil candle had burned itself out, I was roused from my exhausted half-sleep. A wide hand lay on my cheek, gently brushing away my dreamer’s tears. “Do not weep, beloved,” came a voice in the dark. “All that can be done, I will do. Listen carefully to me. You must not give up, even in the depths of sorrow. I need you to play the part that only you have ever been able to play. Follow the Way, my love, and know that you will be with me forever.”
Before I could shake off the heaviness of sleep or open my eyes to see his face, he kissed my eyelids softly, and I sank into a peaceful, embracing slumber. When Aimee shook me awake in the dark hour before dawn to report Roxanne still missing, I might have thought it was all a dream, save for the rose of blazing scarlet that bloomed at my bedside.
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.
