by Carol Berg
Of course, I knew. I remembered the steep, narrow flight of worn steps from carrying my father's litter from the Gate. But I said, "Another of your childhood hiding places?"
She laughed, and before I knew it, we came to the lower end of a sloping passage—nothing more than a massive wall of seamless, square-cut stone, darkened with age and smoke. D'Sanya stretched her hand toward the wall. The stone shifted and shaped itself to reveal a pair of wooden doors three times my height. They swung open to reveal the vast chamber, filled as always with cold white fire and billowing frost plumes.
"Now stay close. I am taking you through the Gate and onto the Bridge, where I will show you the most wonderful sight you will ever see! Not even Prince Ven'Dar knows of it. I've been saving my first venture for a special occasion—and what could be more special than being alive and free and keeping company with my bosom friend and dear protector?" She raised her arms, lifted her face, and danced through the doorway, spinning on her toes until she was out of sight.
I made it no farther than the doorway, where I stopped dead and clapped my hands over my ears. Unfortunately the horrid, scraping sensation was inside me, not outside.
The last time I stood in the Chamber of the Gate, I had just returned to my own body after our journey from Windham. I had thought the feeling that my spirit was an open wound immersed in salt water was the inevitable result of soul-weaving with my father's diseased body. But the chamber didn't feel so very different on this morning. Only to be expected, I supposed, as every other Dar'Nethi enchantment seemed to be having this effect on me.
I gathered control and shook off the disturbance as much as possible before D'Sanya could notice. Suffering ill effects from proximity to D'Arnath's Bridge had always been considered evidence of corruption.
When I entered the chamber, the Lady was kneeling on the smooth tile floor in front of the bronze lion, her head bowed and her palms spread wide. After a moment her eyes lifted to the lion's head and the gold and silver globes that some enchantment balanced far above us on the beast's upraised paws. I held back, knowing how she revered her father—the Lion of the Dar'Nethi, his people had called him. The Tormenter, the Talent-binder . . . those were the mildest of names given him in Zhev'Na.
In moments D'Sanya was on her feet again and beckoning me to join her. "Come see. Is this not a formidable lion? I commissioned it as soon as I was permitted to enter the chamber and view the Gate. I had it placed here after they anointed me, and I added the two orbs shortly after—to represent Gondai and the mundane world. It seemed only just that Papa should be remembered forever here beside his greatest work."
"It's a fine piece," I said, knowing nothing about it whatsoever. I would be doing well to keep from banging my jangling head against the thing. The light of the shifting Gate fire reflected off the metal globes—each of them an arm's length in diameter—so that beams of gold and silver light shot randomly across the chamber. The first one that struck my eyes came near boring a hole right through my skull.
D'Sanya tilted her head and examined me, tracing a finger along my cheek. "Are you well?"
"When you do that . . . yes," I said. Wholly the truth. Surely to bury my face in her breast would make the grinding illness inside me go away as well.
"Oh, holy Vasrin, I've dragged you down here on my silly whim, and your poor bones could be fractured from those vile firebursts! Prince Ven'Dar told me you refused a Healer last night. We must go up at once and see to your injuries."
If I had not already experienced the Bridge, my curiosity at her planned adventure might have overruled any physical ailment. But my previous crossings had shown me nothing so marvelous that it could persuade me to remain another moment in that chamber.
"I suppose I'm a little more bruised than I thought." I pulled open the door, wincing as even the vibrations of speaking lanced my spirit. "Will you bring me here another time and show me your wonder? Tell me about it."
"Of course, I'll bring you again!" We started up the sloping passages that took us back to the steep stair. "Papa took me to the Bridge only once. I was so angry with him—I told you that—and he said that to appease me, he would show me something that he would never show my brothers or my Uncle J'Ettanne or anyone else in the world. Something that would be our secret forever. First he showed me how he shaped the chaos beyond the Gate into a landscape of his own choosing, how he reached out with his power and opened a way through it. Then, he shaped a mountain from the matter of the Breach, and he forced the Bridge to lead us up to the very pinnacle—a place like Skygazer's Needle, where we could look out and see the worlds spread out before us, poor wasted Gondai, the mundane world—so marvelous in its variety—and even the horrid chaos and random matter of the Breach. He said that when I came into my power, I would be able to do exactly as he had done. I so much wanted to try it with you beside me … to share it with you."
Intrigued at the thought of such a view, I almost bade her take me back. But indeed as my spirit eased with our distance from the Gate, my bones and gut reminded me of the two concussions they had suffered the previous day. I again refused a Healer, though, as well as D'Sanya's offer to see to my injuries herself. I wished to experience no more Dar'Nethi enchantments than necessary that day.
We met Ven'Dar in a remote corner of the palace. He strode out of a columned walkway and joined us in a small cobbled courtyard, where a fountain centered a bed of fragrant herbs. Two men wearing the jewel-colored robes of the court accompanied him. One of them bowed to the prince and remained at the entrance to the walkway. A sword hung beneath his flapping robe. The second man stayed at the prince's elbow, his eyes scanning the upper-floor windows that overlooked the yard. Ven'Dar must be worried.
"My lady." The prince extended his palms but did not bow. "I hope the night has revived your companion?" I garnered neither palms nor bow, but only a polite nod.
D'Sanya mirrored his gesture of respect, which named them equals, then gestured at me and smiled proudly. "Indeed my dear friend and noble protector finds Avonar more dangerous than his quiet Nimrolan Vale."
"My good lord," I said, bowing deeply with palms extended, as would be expected. My gloves had, of course, long found their way back onto my hands. "Gerick yn K'Nor. An honor to meet you, Your Grace."
Ven'Dar nodded to Na'Cyd as well. The consiliar had been waiting in the courtyard when D'Sanya and I arrived.
Ven'Dar returned his attention to the Lady, expressing polite concern over her safety, offering some of his own guards to accompany her until the Zhid threat was under control. Though I listened to their talk, I retreated a few steps so as not to be too obvious about it. Na'Cyd did the same, ending up at my side.
"Master Gerick yn K'Nor," he said softly, his expression impassive, his eyes fixed on the Lady and the prince. His free arm was at rest behind his back, his back straight as always. "I need to speak with you, sir. Alone."
"In what regard?" I said, maintaining a similar posture, uncomfortable with the intimacy in the consiliar's tone.
"Last night's events. Your mission in the hospice."
My mission ? "My father is a guest of the Lady, Na'Cyd. I don't think—"
"I am aware of who your father is." His tone did not change. His gaze did not stray from his mistress, who was unsealing a folded paper just delivered by one of Ven'Dar's guards. "It is urgent that I speak with you in private, young Lord."
I snapped my head around. Young Lord . . . Earth and sky, he knew. He, too, was one of the Restored.
"Na'Cyd!"
The Lady's call startled me. She clapped one hand to her breast, staring at the unfolded paper as if it carried plague. "Something dreadful has happened!"
The gray man dropped his free hand to his side, all attention. "My lady?"
"Cedor was found dead last night in the hospice paddock. Gen'Vyl says it appears that his heart stopped, though he's found no cause for it. The staff is upset . .. the residents hearing rumors . . . We must go back at once."
&nb
sp; "Of course there is no need for you to go back, my lady," said Na'Cyd smoothly. "Your business in Maroth is urgent. The new hospice could shelter so many more who need your care. I shall go back and take care of these matters. It is my place."
"If you're sure . . . and you'll call on me if you have any difficulty. Poor Cedor . . ."
"Of course, my lady. I'll leave at once."
"… and you must find the kindest, most careful attendant for Master K'Nor." She beckoned me close and examined me carefully. "Do you need to go back, as well, dear friend, to see to your father? Will he be afraid? I would miss you so, but—"
"He will accept it as part of Cedor's Way," I said. "After yesterday, I think I should stay with you."
In a flurry of suggestions, good wishes, and warnings to be careful, Na'Cyd set out for the hospice, and D'Sanya and I for Maroth. As the consiliar had not told anyone of my identity as yet, I presumed he had no intention of doing so. But over the next three weeks, I constantly debated my decision to continue the journey. On one day I felt reckless and cruel to abandon my father and his failing instincts to chance. On the next I played my calculation game again: If D'Sanya was innocent, then she was in more need of protection than my father, and if she was guilty, then I would only discover it in her company. The only fact that gave me solace was that the danger of exposure was more mine than his.
In truth, I had little time to worry about Na'Cyd or wonder what he had been so anxious to tell me. But I sent a letter to my father by way of Paulo, warning him to be wary of the consiliar and to mistrust whatever new attendant was assigned him.
Chapter 14
Seri
Never in all the years since I first entangled my life with the Dar'Nethi sorcerers had I felt so useless, so unnecessary, so absolutely incapable of affecting the outcome of events. Even in the ten years between Karon's execution and the day he came back to me in the body of a Dar'Nethi prince, I had been in control of my own survival. Even in my despair as I had watched Gerick's transformation into a Lord of Zhev'Na, I had refused to let go of him, and my words had woven a thread that helped draw him back from the abyss. Even in these past months while watching Karon die, my days had been filled with purpose—to gather him close and give him what comfort love could provide.
But now Karon was gone, spending his last days in an exile I could not share, and Gerick was off with him pursuing truth and forgiveness. No matter how often Ven'Dar spared a quarter of an hour to ask my judgment of Karon's letters or so kindly inquired what word I'd had from Gerick, I knew I wasn't needed. What use had anyone in Gondai for a middle-aged woman with no talent for sorcery?
I slammed my book onto the table, causing the lamp to flicker dangerously and my young hostess to stick her head into the sitting room. "Is all well with you, my lady? Is there anything I may—"
"No, Aimee. I'm sorry. I'm just unpardonably rude and impossibly restless. No one can do anything for me until I decide on what, in the name of heaven, I'm going to do with myself."
I didn't want to be "done for." I wanted to do something—anything—to get this over with. And, of course, even as I wished it, I understood that I was wishing Karon back to his dying. If I could just be with him . . . But a casual touch by any Dar'Nethi could reveal that I was mundane. My face might be recognized. The sight of the three of us together might trigger a question that would lead to discovery, wasting all these weeks' work.
"A plague on that woman!" I said.
"Surely these matters will not take long to resolve," said Aimee. "With Master Karon's wisdom and your son's power . . . and their friend, Master Paulo, is so capable and devoted. . . ."
"My husband writes that no conclusion is in sight. They've found nothing to prove that the Lady D'Sanya is not everything she appears to be, yet clearly doubts remain. And with these vicious happenings in the north, they must be sure of her."
"Would you like company for a while, my lady? I've slept so ill of late that I keep drowsing over my work. I'm on the verge of feeling entirely useless."
"Of course." I couldn't seem to concentrate on anything.
Aimee carried in a large basket of yarn, sat on the couch beside me, and began winding the yarn into spools. "The Lady D'Sanya seems to have done only good deeds in all these months. My sister writes that she has reforested the worst devastation in Erdris Vale, where the Gardeners believed ten years would be required. And my father's older brother, blinded by Zhid sorcery in his youth, was hired to do the water-seeking for the Lady's new hospice in Maroth. When she saw him struggling to mark his plans so the Tree Delvers would know where to set their saplings, the Lady brushed her hands on his eyes and he could see for the first time in thirty years. He told my sister that he would happily be blind again if fate ordained, for he'd had the chance to look upon the beauteous daughter of D'Arnath and found her worthy of her father's name. Everyone in Maroth marvels at her kindness and her good works."
Perhaps it was my general irritability or just the fact that I had never known anyone to live up to such a singularly virtuous reputation, but as I listened to Aimee's glowing report, I set myself the task to find Lady D'Sanya's flaw. I could not confront the woman, lest Karon and Gerick's subtler efforts come to naught, but I would investigate everything she'd done since she appeared so abruptly. She could not be so perfect as everyone believed.
"So is the Lady a Gardener or a Healer?" I said. "What true talent enables her to do all these things?"
Aimee wrinkled her brow, her fingers pausing. "I don't know that I've ever heard it said. It is most unusual for anyone to display such skills in so many disciplines. Though she cured my uncle's blindness and has healed the souls of many who were Zhid, I've never heard that she uses the healing rite as T'Laven or Master Karon does."
The girl felt through her basket for another length of yarn, and a tickle of enchantment feathered my skin as she tested one and then another until she found a color that matched the rest of the spool she was winding. "Have you asked D'Sanya about your own sight, Aimee?"
"Ah, well. . ." Aimee closed her eyes and dipped her head a little as if to dismiss my question. Speaking of herself always gave her pause, yet she had never been awkward about her infirmity.
"Come, tell me. Have you?"
"My blindness is of nature, not enchantment, and long before I could remember, my dear father tried every Healer in Avonar with no result. Though I've never been other than content with the Way laid down for me, my sisters urged me to speak to the Lady after our uncle's change. And so, one day when I met her at the palace, I asked her to examine me. She neither spoke the Healers' invocation nor used the blood-rite as she tested me, and so I suppose we must conclude that she is not a true Healer."
"And what did she say?"
"She was most profoundly grieved. When she laid her cheek on mine, I could feel her tears. 'Would I could remedy nature's cruelties along with those of men,' she told me. I assured her that it was truly of little matter to me. I could not deem nature cruel, but rather immensely generous to make me an Imager, who could envision things so vividly in my mind, and to give me a talented and loving family to help me develop my skills and put up with my clumsiness."
Aimee—who could not be certain of a person's presence or identity if that person had not spoken to her— was unaware of the new arrival who stood in the doorway of her sitting room, listening as she expressed her contentment with her life. She could not see the thin, freckled face and understand instantly that she need never suffer a moment's unhappiness that a sworn worshipper could prevent. The poignancy of the scene was almost enough to soothe my irritation.
Aimee paused thoughtfully. "The good Lord Je'Reint once said that—"
"Paulo," I said, interrupting before the girl's good-hearted affection for the whole world—and her frank admiration for Ven'Dar's deposed successor—drove another stake into poor Paulo's heart. "A perfect time for you to join us."
"Master Paulo!" As with every visitor, Aimee jumped up to greet th
e newcomer as if he were the one person in the world she had been yearning to welcome. Three balls of yarn rolled from her lap to bounce and unwind themselves in colorful disarray across the floor.
"My lady. Mistress Aimee." Paulo bowed to each of us, allowing no hint of either awe, admiration, or hopeless dejection to touch his voice. From the leather pack hung over his shoulder, he brought out a single folded sheet of paper and gave it to me. "I've only the one today, ma'am."
Knowing that Paulo and Aimee would forgive my rudeness, I read Karon's letter right away. Two short paragraphs. Nothing he hadn't said five times before. Even his handwriting was listless and straggling. Blinking away the pricking in my eyes, I stuffed the letter in my pocket and turned back to the others.
Paulo had retrieved Aimee's yarn, the colorful mass looking odd in his hard, bony hands. "Here, miss." He thrust the tangle into her graceful fingers. "Sorry. I seem to have made a mess of your thread."
Aimee frowned, plopped the yarn into her basket, and wagged a scolding finger at Paulo. "Never try to fool me, sir, thinking a blind woman cannot see the truth of her own mistakes. My friends know better."
Paulo's breath stopped, and his cheeks paled as if a headsman had just raised an ax aimed at his neck. Though his lips worked, they produced no sound . . . until Aimee covered her mouth with her hand and broke into merry laughter. "I'm sorry," she said, after a moment. "You are just so serious and so very kind . . . and I am a terrible, wicked tease . . . please, come sit and rest yourself from your journey."
Though his face told me he might prefer to bury his head in the cushions piled in the corner of the room, poor Paulo sat down in a straight wooden chair across the low table from Aimee and me. Setting her basket aside, Aimee poured a cup of cold saffria from a pitcher on the table in front of us and offered it to Paulo. A peace offering, I thought, though she could not see that he took the cup with his eyes fixed somewhere in the region of her gold-link girdle and thus could not observe her smile of apology. She tilted her head as if searching or listening, and, after a moment, bit her lip uncertainly.
