by Carol Berg
Chapter 28
Qis'Dar had told me to wait at the bookshop and he would bring the carriage around as soon as the blockage was cleared. And so when I peered out the door of Fel'-Tiega's shop and saw naught but night and rain, I pulled up a chair where I could keep an eye on the street through a small round window. No point in fidgeting. I unwrapped the book.
The elaborate lettering of the title, Ancients , was worked in gold inlay that was almost entirely worn away. I traced the patterned leather with my fingers, marveling at the finely detailed tooling and at a work so old that proclaimed its subject matter far older yet. In Leire our oldest artifacts were fortresses and weapons, nothing of such exquisite fragility.
The Dar'Nethi Archivists had done their job well. The edges of the fine vellum pages were quite smooth, the pages themselves only slightly yellowed with a few brown stains here and there. Though the book's text was unornamented and unillustrated, the sweeping script was bold, elegant, and quite readable.
Leiran scribes had crammed the pages of our oldest books with tiny characters to conserve precious paper, but the Dar'Nethi copyist had bowed to no such restriction. Or perhaps the subject matter had justified the expenditure. The brief opening text indicated that rather than a historical narrative, this work was a compendium of short biographies of important personages in Dar'Nethi history, each cross-referenced to pages on other subjects who were related by blood or particular events.
The entries had been organized by the twelve kingdoms of Gondai, though the author allowed that these designations would likely lose their meaning, as only the kingdom of Avonar had survived the Catastrophe. A fierce and sad determination infused the author's declaration that future generations of Dar'Nethi must not forget those who had made their world and its people marvelous.
I thumbed through the pages quickly, unwilling to expend the concentration necessary to parse more of the archaic language until I came to the entry headed D'Arnath yn D'Samos, Avonar Regirй, Gondai Audde Regirй —D'Arnath, son of D'Samos, King of Avonar, High King of Gondai. Even then I did not read the pages devoted to the most famous son of Avonar, but turned immediately to the end of the passage, where the cross-references were noted.
Excitement quickened my breath as my finger touched the list of names. Just below Maroth yna L'Tonil, Avonar Resinй , D'Arnath's wife, was J'Ettanne yn D'Savatile , D'Arnath's cousin and Karon's ancestor, who had led the Dar'Nethi Exiles into the mundane world. And then came D'Leon yn D'Arnath, Girй D'Amath, Avonar Regyn . D'Arnath's eldest son, the first to bear the title Heir of D'Arnath and Prince of Avonar rather than King, was followed by his younger brother D'Alleyn yn D'Arnath, Girй D'Arnath, Avonar Regyn . And then, glaring from the page as if waiting for me all these years, was the name I was looking for: D'Sanya yna Zhulli . Odd.
Dar'Nethi women were given a patronymic just as men were, their family connections designated by their fathers' names, not by their fathers' estates as we did in Leire. So D'Arnath's daughter should have been listed as D'Sanya yna D'Arnath. Zhulli wasn't even a name; it meant . . .
"Excuse me, please," I said to a refined-looking woman who sat in an adjoining nook of the bookshop leafing through a large folio of drawings. "What does it mean when zhulli is used in a name, such as T'San yna Zhulli?"
The woman glanced up briefly from her book. "Means exactly what it says—daughter of no one. Means the girl has been disowned. Have you lived all your life in a cellar?"
Fires of heaven!
Dar'Nethi kinship was more elastic than family relationships based solely on blood. Gerick had been acknowledged as the successor of D'Arnath's Heir and would have inherited all powers reserved for that Heir, because he was the son of the man whose soul occupied D'Natheil's body, even though he was not born of Prince D'Natheil's own flesh. Ven'Dar was now the Heir of D'Arnath because Karon had acknowledged him as his spiritual successor in a ceremony that paralleled Dar'Nethi adoption. Family kinship was a matter of spirit as well as blood and flesh, and Dar'Nethi inheritance involved much more than titles or land or blue eyes. Inheritance was talent for sorcery. Inheritance was capacity for using power. In some families, inheritance meant property or land or wealth. In the royal family of the Dar'Nethi, inheritance was the Bridge.
I leafed rapidly through the book to the page indicated and found the passage relating to D'Sanya. It was brief, detailing the date and place of her birth, the participants in her coming-of-age celebration at twelve, a list of her childhood accomplishments—riding, drawing, singing—and the popular perception of her: a child blessed with bright virtue and a sweet cheer who brought joy to all . She had been tutored alongside her brothers, but in the author's view had not been merely equal with them: For after the Catastrophe made grim the days, the King's favor rested upon his youngest heir above all others in his realm for the solace she brought him and the hope for the future .
In a few short paragraphs Mu'Tenni sketched out the story of her rebellion and abduction, much as Gerick had reported it. But here the author revealed the rest of the story—a dreadful miscalculation on the part of the High King of Gondai.
. . . The very structure of the Bridge was to be forged of D'Arnath's power and blood so that he and his three heirs would be the supports on which it rested, bound to each other by oath and enchantment, their fates forever linked, their power shared and grown and passed on to their children, a mighty shield for Gondai and its mirror world beyond the Breach of chaos. When the time came for this link to be forged, his sons had come into their own power, and they had learned to wield their father's enchantments as would be their right and duty when the King was dead, one following the other in orderly succession. The girl child, though, had not yet come into her own gift, yet the King would not leave her out of his design. To proceed before she was ready was a risk, yet he believed her joyous spirit would give birth to talent beyond his own and was confident that her good heart would grow into the mature power essential to his plan. But he hid the girl away, depriving his own heart of her sweet company, to keep her safe until her power should arise, lest the design of the Bridge be compromised .
On the day the Lords lured his daughter from her hiding place, D'Arnath's great gamble was lost. He could strike no bargain to free her, for her price was the safety of two worlds. And after two failed attempts, his weakened kingdom could afford no more lives to steal her back. Yet the King dared not allow the Lords' captive to inherit his power and the fate of the Bridge. Indeed her talent had come mightily as he had foreseen, and she had become a sword in the Lords' hands, striking at the very soul of the Dar'Nethi. Came the day when D'Arnath saw the vile neck binding the Lords used to enslave his people and reive their souls, and knew that his own child had devised it, he wept bitter tears for that child of his heart and struck her name from his life and descent forever.
All this have I learned from Prince D'Alleyn on his deathbed, revealed when I asked him of the girl child lost in the great war. He called on an aged serving woman to
reveal the girl's name, refusing himself to speak it. Thus even in death the child remains outside the embrace of family. May holy Vasrin maintain the Heir and his successors forevermore.
Only the girl child had not died. She had remained a sword in the Lords' hands . . . just as they had intended.
I bundled the ancient book in its wrapping and dashed out of the bookshop into the rain, heading back the way I'd come. Ven'Dar and the Preceptors had to know that D'Sanya was not the legitimate Heir of D'Arnath. If need be, I would unhitch one of the carriage horses and ride to the palace to deliver this news. Fortunately, Qis'Dar and the carriage materialized out of the rainy night before I was halfway to the corner.
"We must return to the palace," I said to the lad. "To the western gate, I think. I'll explain later. We've no time to waste."
"Whatever you want, ma'am." The sodden youth gave me a hand up into the cab and climbed back to his seat.
We took a different route back through the city, avoiding t
he mob at the Sillvain Bridge. Though the weather had not relented, and the hour was late, even more people were abroad.
The western gate was smaller and more private than the grand southern entry to D'Arnath's palace. Friends, family, and close associates of the prince and the Preceptors would enter here, people well known to the guards. Yet even as the carriage rolled to a halt, I wasn't sure how I was to gain admittance. I had no assurance Ven'Dar had returned to answer the Preceptors' summons, and too many questions at the gate would cause more delay. Aimee had too little influence to get me inside, and to explain my presence to the Preceptors or any other influential person would take far too long and betray Ven'Dar's confidence besides. Only one person I knew would have the influence and willingness to get my information in front of Ven'Dar quickly and would know who could be trusted if Ven'Dar was not here.
"Tell the gate guard that Commander Je'Reint's mother is here on a critical matter and will see no one but him," I told Qis'Dar when he popped his head in the window to get my instructions.
I knew Je'Reint was in the palace tonight because Aimee had been expecting to work late with him, mapping out supply routes for the coming battle in the north. As I watched Qis'Dar being shuttled from one guardsman to the next, I clutched the book and prayed that Je'Reint would forgive my impertinence at impersonating his twenty-years-dead mother. That lifetime ago when he had stayed with us at Windham, he had joked that I was very like her.
"They've sent a messenger inside, ma'am, so we just have to wait," said Qis'Dar, propping an elbow on the carriage window. "The guard is tight here tonight, I'll say. Thought they might strip me naked just so I could give a message. It helps that I'm sizable. I had to bluster a bit." He examined me quizzically, his round face reminding me in that moment of his uncle, Aimee's ebullient father Gar'Dena. "You're not really . . ."
Though avowing that her young cousin was trustworthy and discreet, Aimee had not told him anything of our secrets. I managed a smile. "No, I'm not Je'Reint's mother. And anyone who sees me in the flesh won't believe it for an instant. But I've discovered something that Prince Ven'Dar must know right away, something I can't trust to just anyone, and I think Je'Reint will help me deliver the news. Once I've done that, we'll be back on our way to Gaelic."
The rain slacked off from downpour to drizzle as we waited. I invited Qis'Dar to sit inside the carriage with me, but he said he couldn't get any wetter staying out, and he'd as soon not have to dry out the carriage so much before he returned it to its owner. He waited beside the carriage door.
Without light enough to read further in the book that sat so heavily on my lap . . . and on my mind … I watched the armed Dar'Nethi stream into the sprawling courtyards. They mustered in small bands here and there, and once a group reached a certain size—twenty or twenty-five—they marched into a brightly lit, cordoned-off area in front of the main gates. Fifty, a hundred, two hundred fighters. Where were they all going? The palace gates never opened. But, of course, we were in Avonar, a city of sorcerers. Someone in that brightly lit area must have opened a portal and be transporting the fighters out of Avonar. Into the northern Wastes? East to Lyrrathe and Astolle? I shivered. Waited. And still the warriors came.
"I think we've got our answer," said Qis'Dar, softly, through the window.
I returned my attention to the west gate. A small party of men, clad in the white-and-silver tabards of the palace guard, marched purposefully toward the carriage. All were armed. Je'Reint was not among them.
"Qis'Dar, perhaps you'd better . . ." But before I could send the youth away, the leader of the party shouted at him to hold his position.
"Your name, boy," snapped the soldier as soon as he arrived.
"My name is Qis'Dar yn Gar'Feil," said my young friend, his head held high, "and I do yield that name willing to a servant of the Heir. I'll say, though, as a citizen of Avonar, having it demanded so rudely in sight of D'Arnath's house tempts me to refuse."
The soldier, a grim, spare man wearing the silver chain of a guard captain, was not chastened by Qis'Dar's dignified protest. The captain nodded to one of his companions, who yanked open the carriage door. "You, madam, will please step out."
I had little choice. The cab had no secondary exit, and I couldn't see anything to prevent these men from coming in after me. Cursing my naive assumption that Je'Reint would either hear me out or send me discreetly on my way, I took the soldier's proffered hand and climbed out.
"Your name, madam?"
I considered giving the Dar'Nethi name I had been using, but I believed this man already knew who we were. "My name is Seriana Marguerite, widow to your late Prince D'Natheil."
As I had surmised, the guard captain was not at all surprised. He nodded, but neither extended his palms nor bowed. An ominous sign. "Lady Seriana Marguerite, by order of Commander Je'Reint on behalf of Her Grace, the Princess of Avonar, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the kingdom of Avonar and its sovereign Heir. You will follow me."
While I grappled with the implications of his warrant—Her Grace, the Princess of Avonar —his men quickly positioned themselves on either side and behind me.
The captain was not yet finished. "Qis'Dar yn Gar'-Feil, you are dismissed, remanded into the custody of your parents. Get yourself home immediately, and do not stray. Be warned that if you are seen again in the company of these certain conspirators, you will be liable for criminal charges. If you are found in company with the Fourth Lord of Zhev'Na, you will be executed."
"But I've done nothing wrong!" protested the youth. "Only driven this lady—" He turned to me, eyes wide in his pale complexion. "Prince D'Natheil's lady . . ."
"You've been coerced into matters far above your head, boy. Give us the lady's belongings, then take your rig and get yourself home."
One of the guardsmen nudged Qis'Dar away from me and toward the carriage. The youth unloaded my case and the small bag holding my journal and passed them to the guard. "My lady, I'm sorry. I didn't know. Did you have anything else in here?" He stuck his head inside the cab.
"It's all right, Qis'Dar. You've done nothing wrong. I'll have this straightened out soon enough. Oh, and the book on the carriage seat is one I borrowed from your cousin to read on the journey. Please see it's returned right away before it's damaged by the damp."
"Of course, my lady," he said. He stood alone and forlorn beside the carriage as the soldiers grabbed my two bags and marched me toward the gate.
I'd not considered being arrested as a way to get inside the palace, but as the iron gate clanged shut behind me and I hurried my steps to keep up with the guards, I decided it was as good as any. At some time I would be taken before someone in authority and could tell what I knew. If D'Sanya was present, she would have to explain in front of other people what it meant that her father had declared he had no daughter, and how it could be right that she had taken what her own father would forbid her.
We emerged from the wide tunnels under the gate towers into a broad, bustling courtyard. Torches blazed on every side, hissing and smoking in the continuing drizzle. A small party of armed horsemen clustered at the far end of the court, while aides and armorers splashed through puddles, carrying newly polished weapons and breastplates. Grooms led more horses from another gate and other men and women loaded panniers and packs. A hundred or more soldiers formed up in ranks, water cascading from helms and shields. Across the courtyard was a columned doorway into the palace proper, but instead of leading me there, the guard captain halted beside a carriage with horses hitched and motioned me to climb up.
"Wait!" I said, dismayed as the guardsmen surrounded me and forced me into the carriage. One of the soldiers tossed my luggage in beside me and slammed the door. "Where are you sending me?"
"To the Princess D'Sanya's hospice," said the captain. "The princess has graciously forbidden retribution on those who have conspired against her. As she herself was so thoroughly duped by this inheritor of Zhev'Na, she refuses to condemn others who were take
n in by his wiles, especially those of his blood who are understandably blind to his evils. She cannot, of course, allow you to roam freely, lest you persist in your support of Avonar's enemies. But Commander Je'Reint has vouched for your character and suggested the hospice as your place of confinement. He says that your sworn word that you will not leave the hospice grounds will be sufficient bond to keep you there. Do you so swear or must we constrain your movements in some other fashion?"
They were sending me to Karon. But I couldn't go … not until they knew about D'Sanya. "Captain, I must speak to Commander Je'Reint or Prince Ven'Dar before I go, or to one of the Preceptors. Please, I have information of vital importance to Avonar."
"Commander Je'Reint is on his way to the battlefront. No one else is available." The captain stepped aside and spoke quietly to the man who had climbed up to the driver's bench. The other soldiers had withdrawn.
I scanned the busy courtyard for some familiar face, someone I could entrust with what I knew, but everyone had hoods drawn up against the rain . . . except a small group silhouetted against the now-open entry to the palace at the top of the steps. A tall, graceful man with skin the color of mahogany genuflected before a statuesque woman. The woman's hands were extended palms up, offering her service and support to her subject. And in acceptance of her trust and her commission, Je'Reint laid his hands atop hers, a pledge of fealty the Dar'Nethi considered as binding as the presentation of a sword in Leire.
Je'Reint rose, bowed, and sped down the steps to a horse held by a waiting groom. He bounded into the saddle, wheeled his mount, and shouted an unintelligible command, then led the horsemen and the ranks of soldiers through the gates.
"What of Prince Ven'Dar, Captain?" My voice sounded weak. Defeated. Somehow the small ritual I had just witnessed riveted my heart with fear . . . for Gerick, for Avonar, for the Bridge. For all of us.
