Daughter of Ancients tbod-4

by Carol Berg

  Ah, good Sefaro, you fathered an idiot ! I had forgotten to set the door wards as I'd promised Aimee. Anyone in Gondai could walk into this house without warning or hindrance. Leaving Gerick to his work, I ran through three dining rooms and the silent kitchen, where tall ovens and broad tables, ghostly in the dark, stood sentinel for their brave mistress. Not daring a handlight, I hurried to the end of the back passage. There I passed my hand over the thick wooden door—two half-doors, as it happened—hunting for the ring or knob or swatch of fabric that would hold the protective enchantments. During the war years every householder in Gondai had ready door wards, available for the least talented occupant to set. There … a loop of braided silk that felt cool and prickled my arm when I touched it. A tug, a word of attachment, and it was done.

  I raced back through the house, glancing through the sitting-room doorway as I passed. Gerick's dark form was scarcely visible in front of a dark oval outlined by a silver thread. His hands stretched toward the developing portal, palms facing each other and slightly apart. Not long now.

  But too long perhaps. Fists hammered on the great double doors that led to the street. Frantically I searched for the ward trigger.

  "Open in the name of the Heir of D'Arnath!" yelled a man outside the door.

  "Just push in," snapped a woman with a voice like a stone grinder. "She's harbored the devil."

  While one of my arms swept carefully over the expanse of the door, my other hand fumbled around the elaborate door frame. Ridiculous, I'd thought when I first saw it: birds, beasts, dips and swirls carved into the wood; smooth pieces of ivory, faceted gems, and rounded nubs of brass, inlaid as eyes and tusks and the contents of magical treasure chests. Come on, Jen, where is it ? Surely they wouldn't have put the trigger at the top of the door, out of my reach. The metal inlays were cold, chilled by the outside air leaking around the doors.

  "But this is Gar'Dena's house," the man protested, "one of the oldest families in the city. Just one of his daughters—the blind girl—lives here."

  "The devil was seen here," said the harsh-voiced woman. "His mother, too. Old families can be turned, and the Lady commands us search this house in particular."

  My hand stopped on a small faceted knob that felt like glass or gemstone, colder by far than all rest of them. It moved at my touch.

  Hands rattled the door latch.

  I slid the glass knob left, spoke an attachment word, and the door panels grew warm.

  "Ouch! By the holy Way, it's burnt my skin off!" The man outside was growling. "Bring G'Ston to deal with the door wards."

  I relaxed, sighing with relief and resting my back against the doors, just warm to one on the inside. Now if Gerick would just hurry.

  "We don't need G'Ston," said the woman. "See who's coming!"

  "Make way!" someone cried amid a welcoming clamor.

  "Your Grace, the door is warded. It will burn—"

  "Is anyone inside?" You could not mistake the Lady's voice. Her speech floated through the air like gossamer, telling every listener that he or she was the most important person in the world.

  "We've had no answer, Your Grace. But I've—"

  "Stand aside." Her mind's fingers reached through the door and through my skin and bones, searching for a beating heart or thinking mind—powerful, angry fingers, belying the kindness in her voice. My spirit drew up into a hard little knot and shrank into the darkest corner of my soul as if I were a slave child again. The fingers grabbed nothing and passed on. But Gerick was focused on enchantment, not defense. She would find him.

  I wrenched my back from the door and ran, resisting the urge to scream for Gerick to hurry. Distracting him at this point was the last thing I wished. He just needed time to finish. I paused for a moment, peering about the dark entry hall. Across the cavernous place stood a bronze statue of Vasrin, a sinuous body half again Paulo's height, the head cast to show the traditional opposing male and female faces. In the right hand was uplifted the flame of the Creator and in the left was the distaff of the Shaper—a nice long rod that stood loosely in the graceful bronze hand. The bronze winding of "wool" at one end would make a nice club.

  I yanked the distaff from the curled bronze fingers and sped to the sitting room. The oval portal boundary shimmered in the darkness; objects in the distant place . . . trees, shrubs, a brick wall . . . were just beginning to take form in a whirling murk. Gerick stood with his hands upraised.

  From the front of the house, the entry doors rattled and thundered in their frames. Gerick's head and shoulders jerked slightly, and his arms stiffened, but his hands did not fall and he did not turn around.

  Good! Hold your concentration . I stood where I could see both Gerick's portal and the passage from the entry hall, raised the bronze shaft, and . . . felt ridiculous. What did I think I was going to do with my weapon? Bludgeon D'Sanya in the head after her fingers had torn into Gerick's mind? Cursing my foolishness, I closed the sitting-room doors carefully and jammed the bronze distaff through the door handles. Then I pressed my body against the doors, gripped the staff firmly with my hands and my will, and prayed Gerick to be done quickly. I hadn't power to hold a hiding spell for more than moments.

  "The Fourth Lord is here! Find him!" D'Sanya's command could have pierced the prison walls of Feur Desolй.

  Clattering boots. Shouts. Jangling chimes and crashing pottery. A quick probe of sorcery pushed into my enchantment like a sword tip bulging a tent canvas. And my shield gave way just as quickly as that canvas would succumb to a honed blade. All I could do now was hold the door shut.

  "Now!" shouted Gerick from behind me. "Come on!"

  A crash shook the door, jarring my head and neck. "Step through," I said through my teeth. "Start shutting it down. Remember the count. Do it!"

  Remember the steps. For speed, keep the rhythm steady and fast. One, encompass the portal. Two, sweep the hand. . .

  "Move aside." The woman's voice on the far side of the door was deadly.

  Five, draw power . . .

  Cracks appeared in the fine wooden door, and my bones felt as if they must crack as well. My will softened like hot wax. The fingers of enchantment reached through me, but Gerick should be out of range by now.

  Six, infuse the enchantment. . .

  On seven, I released the bronze staff and bolted for the fading portal. My stomach lurched as I passed through. The new reality slammed into my mind. Thorny branches entangled my flailing limbs. And as I glanced over my shoulder at the fading image of Aimee's favorite room, a livid Princess D'Sanya swept into the sitting room and screamed, "Destroyer!" Then the image winked out.

  I sagged into a heap. My ragged mind whirled: scratched skin, hammered head, torn clothing, unlikely scents of roses, of smoke, of wine, of night air. Indoors, outdoors. Tangling branches, cracking wood, smooth bronze . . . cold . . . hot . . . My face was very near damp earth. A lovely smell. And faded roses. Thorns stabbed my stomach and my neck. I seemed to be suspended in a giant rose bush.

  "Ow!" Someone ripped away a thorny branch that took part of my sleeve with it and then another that took some of my hair, evoking tears that dribbled across my forehead. Long past time to hack the hair off again. Gets tangled in everything . Hands reached under my arms and effortlessly hauled me to my feet. Why couldn't I haul people out of tangled messes without effort?

  "A good job, do you think?" He spun me around and picked the dead leaves from my wretchedly filthy, and now ripped, tunic. "Tight circle to make it short-lived. Oval for fast closure. Counted the steps. Steady, as you told me. Brilliantly done on your part, I'll say. I don't think she saw where we were going."

  "A good job," I said, trying to step backward to distance myself from the formidable enchanter who was brushing the dirt and tears from my face with a gentle hand. The rosebush pricked steadfastly at the back of my soggy knees. "The closure was perfectly timed, but a faster opening would have saved us some bother."

  His laughter was genuine, but brittle-edged, his bod
y as tight-wound as a soldier's on battle's eve. His eyes roamed the dark little garden—a garden that smelled like old leaves and fading blooms, withered and dry though it was only summer's end. Behind him rose the charming brick edifice of D'Sanya's house, where an oculus spun out its web of corrupt enchantment. The moon bulged above the hills behind the house, gleaming as if the vile implement itself were coming out to meet us.

  "We should find a place to rest," I said. "I could catch my breath while you go warn—"

  "I can't warn him." His movements as brisk and tight as his speech, he stepped aside so I could detach myself from the rosebush. "My father can't hear me speak in his mind, and we daren't delay. D'Sanya could be here at any moment."

  "But—"

  Before I could articulate my disagreement, a long thin hand fell on Gerick's shoulder from out of the rose bower. "Indeed, young Lord, the Lady has sent word for me to be vigilant and notify her immediately should I see her one-time lover sneaking into her house. And now here you are!"

  The shadowy figure was tall and lean—Na'Cyd, the consiliar who once was Zhid.

  Chapter 32

  Having watched Gerick's training in Zhev'Na, I was not surprised to see how fast he took down Na'Cyd. He clamped one hand on the consiliar's wrist, spun, and ducked under their linked arms. A firm two-handed lock on Na'Cyd's arm and shoulder, a violent shove, and the lean, gray man was on his belly before I could ensure my toes were out of the way. Gerick straddled his back, twisting the consiliar's arm upward at a wholly unpleasant angle.

  "Tell me the name of your master," Gerick said, as he locked Na'Cyd's neck in the crook of his elbow and wrenched it backward.

  Gerick would not be able to see Na'Cyd's thin lips stretch into a smile. "You've given me an unwinnable test, young Lord," he wheezed. "You are the Fourth Lord of Zhev'Na. If I name you as my master, does it not prove I have no soul? On the other hand, if I name D'Arnath's Heir as my . . . mistress . . . will it prove I am restored? I am not a good liar. So, if I say I serve only Gondai, you will detect the lie and will not trust me. If I say that I serve only my own purposes, you will detect no lie, yet you will not trust one who cannot declare loyalty in this war. A conundrum to be sure."

  "You twist words."

  "But Zhid are not allowed to twist words in answer to your particular question, are they? And so, my twisted answer proves me. I am not Zhid. Who is your master, young Lord?"

  Gerick dragged the consiliar's head back even farther and jerked it sideways, so that I could see the sinews in the man's neck straining even in the dark. "Look into his eyes, Jen," said Gerick through clenched teeth. "They cannot mask their lack of a soul when they're this close to death."

  I knelt in front of them. The rising moon lit Na'Cyd's face. Though he struggled to breathe, the consiliar's expression remained unafraid. And from his light gray eyes, an angry and defiant soul stared back at me.

  "He is not Zhid."

  "Then what are you, Na'Cyd?" Gerick loosened his grip only enough that the man could speak.

  "I am a man who should have died in his bed six hundred and fifty years ago. The universe, in its perverse humor, did not permit that. Allow me to get up, and I'll tell you more. Or kill me. It's all the same to me."

  "You killed Cedor."

  "Yes."

  I was still trying to remember who Cedor was as Gerick released Na'Cyd's hands and head and climbed off his back. "Was that what you were trying to tell me after the attack in Avonar?" asked Gerick.

  The consiliar rolled over and sat up, his face impassive as he gazed up at Gerick. "I owed your father a favor. I thought that killing his attendant, whose reclaimed soul was reverting to its corrupted past, was fit recompense for your father's reversal of my own vile state. And I wanted him to know why the killing was done."

  Gerick was startled. "Then my father … not D'Sanya . . . restored you."

  "In the first year of his reign in Avonar." Na'Cyd rose and briskly brushed the dead leaves from his dark jacket and breeches, seemingly none the worse for his encounter. "I had hoped to share two pieces of information that morning, the first, as I said, for your father, the second for you. You, or at least your horse, saved my life in that same attack. You had no way of knowing I valued my life so little, and so, you, too, had earned some compensation. I had observed you besotted with a woman who never bothered to speak your name, and thus blind to certain truths that lay in front of your nose."

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out something that he dropped into Gerick's hand with a faint chinking noise.

  With one finger Gerick lifted up a thin chain from which dangled a gold pendant, shaped like an animal. "D'Sanya gives these to the Zhid she heals," he said, puzzled.

  "Indeed;" said Na'Cyd. "And this particular one I yanked from the neck of the man I fought that night in Avonar."

  Gerick let the chain drop into his cupped hand. "So those who attacked us were more of D'Sanya's Restored who had reverted."

  "Perhaps, perhaps not," said Na'Cyd, folding his arms in front of him.

  The two of them might have been discussing next week's dinner menu at the hospice.

  "Actually I don't think the fellow had ever been restored," said the consiliar. "His emptiness was . . . profound. What I tried to tell you was that when I hung this pendant about my neck later that night, trying to understand its decided allure, I felt an immediate compulsion to retreat … to regroup … to take a position with the rest of my cadre on the north road out of Avonar for the purpose of taking the Lady prisoner if she should ride out of the north gate. Do you understand? The need to obey this instinct was very difficult to resist. It took my entire being … my soul, if you will . . . to refuse."

  "And when you removed the pendant . . ." said Gerick, eager now, obviously comprehending something I did not.

  "I no longer felt obliged to obey."

  "The commanders are marshaling the Zhid through the pendants," Gerick said. "They can issue orders to each general, to each cadre, to each warrior if they choose."

  "That's why they wanted her prisoner: to make even more of the pendants for those Zhid who do not yet have them. For Dar'Nethi they plan to turn." Na'Cyd pulled a sharpened bit of wood from his pocket and scraped dirt from under his fingernails. "I felt that compulsion . . . understood it . . . while I wore the pendant. She enables the revival of the warrior legion."

  Indignation rose up in my chest like steam in a spewing geyser as I grasped the enormity of this news. I wanted to throttle the man, so coolly grooming himself while Dar'Nethi fought and died in the desert. "Why haven't you told someone, you bastard? It's been months!"

  Na'Cyd tilted his head to the side. A smile played around his lips as if I were some toy, wound up for his amusement. "You don't grasp my intentions even yet, Mistress Jen'Larie. I care nothing for Avonar or Gondai or the Bridge or the mundane world beyond it. Once, long ago, I lived a life that I believed was of some value, and the universe proved to me that what I valued did not matter. Through no choosing of my own, I became everything I loathed for more than six lifetimes. I owed Prince D'Natheil a debt because he ended that loathsome part of my life. And I owed this young man some small thanks because he offered me a mortal service even though I did not want it. Beyond that, I owe nothing and desire nothing."

  "But you care for the people in the hospice. I've seen you do great kindness. . . ."

  "I keep order in the place I've chosen to live out my days."

  Gerick snatched the little nail scraper from the consiliar's hand, tossed it aside, and gripped the older man's jacket at the shoulders, almost lifting him off the ground. "Do you know how power is fed to the avantir and the pendants?"

  "No."

  Gerick's voice remained deadly calm. "But you know of the oculus that creates this hospice, don't you? You know how and why the Lords used such devices. Does the oculus in this house channel the Lady's power to an avantir?"

  Na'Cyd did not change expression. "I've seen the oculus, yes; I was to
head the hospice at Maroth, so, of course, I had to know of the device that holds the enchantment and links it to the insets in the hospice walls. And I recall that the Lords used such devices to enhance and focus their power. As to whether some of Lady D'Sanya's power goes astray as it passes through this particular device . . ." He inhaled deeply and shrugged.

  "I must know," Gerick said, shaking the consiliar. "If you can't tell me yes or no, then I have to destroy it and everyone in this place who depends upon it. Tonight."

  Na'Cyd shook his head without sympathy or regret. "I don't know."

  "Then live or die as you choose." Gerick thrust him away and stepped back.

  "Wait!" I said. "You can't allow him to—"

  Gerick plowed a fist into the man's head. The consiliar toppled to the ground.

  Gerick crammed the lion pendant in his pocket. "We need to get on with this if you're still willing."

  "I'm ready," I said. Why was I shaking? As we hurried through the garden and up the steps, I tried to get my thoughts in order. Knife, sheath, ring, measuring cord … I had lost my scarf, but could use the soft leather purse looped onto my belt. "We'll need a tool or weapon to damage the oculus. We don't have Aimee's hand ax."

  "The Lady has all manner of tools in her lectorium. You'll have a good selection." He tried the door latch and it opened readily at his touch. D'Sanya must not have expected him to visit her again.

  The inside of the house was as dark as a Zhid's heart, the shuttered windows of the lower floor barring even the moonlight that had enabled us to see each other in the garden. Gerick took my hand and led me through the rooms and up the stairs. His hand was cold, his movements sure. A terrible thing to be sure of such dreadful doings. I was porridge on the inside.

  The lectorium was as I remembered it: tall casements opposite the doorway where we stood, dark mirrored walls on right and left, the cluttered worktables, the hearth and its forge looming in the far left corner. She hadn't even removed the chain in the near left corner where she had hung Gerick to suffer and bleed.