by Carol Berg
Dassine had masqueraded as a Zhid for three months, joining a Zhid war band, a feat of enchantment and courage that was unprecedented. Before he could learn the route to Zhev’Na, however, he had been discovered and taken to the fortress as a prisoner, tortured until he could not walk properly. But over the period of three terrible years, even constrained as he was with formidable enchantments, he had hoarded power enough to restore the soul of his Zhid interrogator—the most difficult of all healing enchantments. The warrior had then helped him to escape.
The Dulcé’s cache of information was indeed massive: observations of Zhid behavior and training, weather and landforms, detailed descriptions of enchantments and theories on how certain ones of them were created, snatches of conversations, relative locations and sizes of Zhid encampments around the fortress. But the bits and pieces were dreadfully disorganized. We didn’t know what questions to ask, and the answers Bareil provided were tangled in the old Healer’s speculations on the nature of the Bridge and the Lords of Zhev’Na. Little of immediate value. Nothing of how we might broach the fortress. Nothing of what the Lords might have planned for Gerick. Nothing of how we might snatch him back.
By midnight, Karon had withdrawn from the discussion and stood gazing out of the window into the snowy night. His silence grew so lengthy that the rest of us were drawn into it like flotsam into the strong current of a river. “My lord?” said Bareil, at last. “What is it? Have you thought of something?”
Karon did not speak either to our disputes or our agreements, and most certainly not to our curiosity. His broad back was straight. Unmoving. We could not see his face. All he said was, “Impossible as it may seem, you and our friends must rest for a while.”
Paulo was already asleep, and Kellea’s eyes were drooping. But I could conceive of no circumstance that would let me sleep. My cheeks hot, my soul agitated, my body a series of knots like those that little girls tie in ribbon to tell their fortunes, I sat on the floor leaning against the wall, shredding the already frayed ends of my cloth belt. “I’ll take the first watch,” I said.
Karon left the window and crouched down in front of me, his face on a level with my own. I tried to turn away. But he gently took my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs to my pounding forehead, just between my eyes. “Sleep, my lady,” he said softly. “We will need your strength. He will need your strength. I’ll watch tonight.”
As on the Bridge, his presence enfolded me. But comfort, even of so generous a giving, was not what I needed. Why couldn’t he see it?
I thrust his hands aside, looked up, and saw in front of me a stranger’s face. Not Karon’s fine bones and slender jaw—the face I wanted and needed and yearned to see—but D’Natheil’s square chin, wide-set eyes, and hard, carved cheeks. “Why should I trust you to watch?” I said, disappointment and grief and exhaustion bursting from me all at once. “I hold the Dar’Nethi responsible. I’ve found little in the people of Gondai save treachery, self-importance, and greed, all of which I can find in abundance in my own people. I’ve seen nothing to refute the argument that we would be better off if the Bridge had been destroyed four months ago. So while you watch, you might give serious thought as to why I shouldn’t act as one of your own would do—stick a knife in you and trade your body for my son.”
Bareil gasped. “My lady!”
My lips stung with the hateful words. They had come out all wrong. “I didn’t mean—I’m—” I stammered, trying to think whether some apology or attempt at modification might be worse than letting the words vanish into the exhausted temper of the wretched day.
But Karon laid a finger on my lips. “You can be sure I’ll give your idea my utmost consideration.” He wasn’t even angry.
I fell asleep before I could make an answer.
Someone laid me on the bed while I slept, for I was on the bed when I woke to see Bareil standing in a square of sunlight, looking out the window. Kellea was curled up in the room’s only chair, and Paulo was rolled in a blanket on the floor. Smoothing my rumpled clothes, I crossed the room in stockinged feet, so as not to wake the sleepers, and poured myself a mug of saffria from the still-warm pot.
“He’s done it,” said the Dulcé quietly, his eye not leaving the view from our window. “I thought he would wait— explore the other possibilities—talk it over with you—devise an alternate plan to allow us some recourse if Master Dassine’s expectations were ill-founded . . .”
“The Prince . . . what’s he done? Where is he?”
Bareil motioned to me to the window.
The morning was glorious, the pale spires of the city glowing in the dawn light. Snow lay like a white veil over the city, freshening its face for the new day. But I lost interest in the view when I saw the tall figure walking slowly across the vast commard—surely the heart of the great city. Already passersby had noticed him; several knelt and he raised them up. Others bowed or curtsied or scurried across the great square, past fountains and trees and statuary, dragging others from their houses. Karon nodded his head in return, but did not slow his progress toward the palace gates that fronted the commard and gardens. From shops and houses sleepy residents emerged wearing shifts and nightsmocks and caps. From the lanes and streets of the city trickled twos and threes, then tens and twenties, then throngs of people, in moments transforming the quiet city into a joyous mob, shouting, waving, cheering, calling out to each other and the one who moved through them, almost invisible now.
“What is it they cry?” I said, my heart as cold as first frost.
“They say, ‘Our Prince has returned. Our Prince is healed. D’Arnath’s Heir walks among us.’ “
“They recognize him?”
“Easily. He has spoken his name to someone, and the truth of it wreathes him like the sun’s aura. Everyone in Avonar will know on waking that the Heir walks among them. He tells them to be of good heart.”
“I didn’t think he was ready to assume this role. Has he decided to refuse Dassine’s charge? Is he off seeking vengeance or royal glory?” Confused and angry, I believed what I said no more than I had meant the horrid jibe of the previous night. But when Bareil turned his distraught face to me, all other emotion was drowned in fear.
“He is not ready, but he has seen no choice in his course. Nor has he rejected Dassine’s charge, but rather submitted to it despite his profound misgivings. He goes to the Preceptorate.”
“The Preceptorate . . . He’s going to murder Exeget. Is that what the old devil told him to do?”
“No, my lady. He has no means to do such a thing.” The Dulcé’s eyes dropped to the tangle of leather and steel in his hands—D’Natheil’s sword belt, and the sword and dagger of D’Arnath. Bareil raised his eyes again, awash in grief. “Master Dassine told my lord that if the child was taken to Zhev’Na, then he must give himself to the Preceptorate for examination—and that he must go to them defenseless. When they examine him, they will probe his mind—question him without restraint. I do not know how he can possibly survive it.”
By the time Karon reached the broad steps before the palace gates, six robed figures awaited him. Even at such a distance, I could pick out the giant Gar’Dena, the scarecrow-like Y’Dan, the short wizened figures of the two eldest, Ustele and Ce’Aret, all as Bareil had described them. The two other figures, less easily distinguished, would be Madyalar, “the Mother,” and Exeget, traitor and murderer and abductor of children. The six bowed to their prince.
“What is it he does?”
Karon had removed his cloak, his tunic, and his shirt. Now he sat on the steps in front of the six and motioned to an onlooker, who proceeded to remove pull off Karon’s boots. When he rose again, clad only in breeches and leggings, doing something with his hands, the crowd was instantly hushed.
“He surrenders himself,” said the Dulcé, laying aside the Prince’s weapons. “His actions tell his people that he is their servant and that he will abide by the results of examination by their Preceptors. In essence, he states
his willingness to risk everything—his freedom and his rightful inheritance—to erase all doubts as to his lineage and capacities. The silver ribbon she wraps about his wrists symbolizes his submission to their authority.” His chin lifting a bit, he pointed out the window. “Note that it is to Madyalar he has surrendered, not to the head of the council—Exeget— as would be expected. A clever move, but a terrible insult to Exeget. All will understand it, of course. Everyone in the city knows of the bitterness between them.”
The six turned and walked slowly up the steps to the palace gates, which swung open before them. Karon followed, shirtless and barefoot in the cold, bright morning, and a phalanx of guards fell in behind him.
“Why?” I said. “Why would Dassine tell him to do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I wish I could answer, my lady. My late master was a wise and clever man, and I knew him better than anyone living save the Prince, who cannot yet remember how they existed as one mind in the years when he had no body. Master Dassine did many things in his life that were tangled and obscure, yet—please do not think that I boast—I have always been able to unravel his plots. This one, though”—he clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “I cannot piece together any strategy requiring the Prince to present himself defenseless to those who were willing for him to die on the Bridge only a few months ago.”
The crowds dispersed quickly, leaving the commard almost deserted. Kellea and Paulo had wakened and joined us at the window, and we explained what we’d seen and Bareil’s misgivings.
“What are the possible outcomes of this examination?” asked Kellea.
“If he is found to be the Heir and sound of mind, then he will be able to assume his throne and do as he pleases. If it is determined that he is an impostor, he will be executed immediately. If he is found to be the true Heir, yet of unsound mind—which is what I fear—I do not know. In a thousand years such a thing has never occurred.”
“I say we move ahead,” said Kellea, turning her back on the window. “It sounds as if we can’t count on the Prince to be of any use. If he can, then all to the good, but we can’t wait to find out. We must go after the boy now—on our own, if that’s the only way.”
Kellea was right. The Prince—Karon—was on his own. I had to put aside fear and anger, to crush and bind the emotions that had been driving me to lash out so thoughtlessly. Our opponents were sorcerers whose powers I could not imagine. I would fight for my son, but I doubted this battle would be fought with swords and troops. “How long until the results of the Prince’s examination are known?”
Bareil settled on the stool by the fire. “Days, certainly. More likely many weeks. In such a state as he is in . . .”
“Then, as Kellea says, we must prepare to do this ourselves,” I said. “But I’ll not risk Gerick’s life by acting without thought. You’ve said they’ll want to teach Gerick . . . train him . . . raise him in their ways . . . is that right?”
“That is the only plan that seems likely, though, of course, I cannot say—”
“That will take time. So we must take advantage of it. We have to find aid we can trust and a plan that will work. We must learn how to live in this world: the customs, the language, the geography, whatever else Bareil can teach us of the Lords, the Zhid, and Zhev’Na. We’ll need clothing that will not be remarked. If it means six weeks instead of six days until we’re ready, then that’s the way it must be. Proceeding rashly could cost us everything. Will you help us, Bareil?”
The Dulcé bowed to me. “It will be my pleasure to share all I can bring forth. The Prince commanded me to be of service to you during his absence.”
My anger threatened to break loose again. “Do you mean he told you he was going to go through with this? Knowing the risk, you let him go without waking me?”
“He saw no alternatives and no benefit in further discussion. Though he did not understand Master Dassine’s reasoning, he said he sincerely hoped it did not involve the Preceptors putting a knife in him and trading him for the boy, for such was the only rational plan he had heard.” The Dulcé buried his grief in his sweet smile. “It was a jest, my lady, and he did not forbid me to tell you of it.”
CHAPTER 20
Gerick
The sun on my face was bright and hot. I pushed back the blanket, only to pull it right back up again when I realized I was naked. I sat up instead. The bed was huge and high off the floor, but hard, more like a table than Mama’s bed with its piles of pillows. The bedchamber was as big as Papa’s room at Comigor, though this one looked even bigger because it didn’t have much furnishing: a few tables, a giant hearth, some straight chairs of light-colored wood, and a few lamp-stands with copper oil lamps hung from them. Along one side of the room were the window openings where the sun shone in so fiercely.
I didn’t remember coming here. Darzid had taken me off the horse and carried me through a doorway in a rock, but that was the last thing I knew.
Clothes that looked my size were laid out on the end of the bed. As I couldn’t see any of my own things, I assumed these were meant for me. I pulled on a linen singlet and underdrawers, and then climbed out of the bed so I could look around. Some of the windows were actually doors opening onto a balcony that looked out over courtyards, lower buildings, and walls. Beyond the walls lay desert—red cliffs and dirt all the way to the horizon, smoke and dust hanging in the air. The sun that was still low on the horizon was red, too.
I had never seen true desert country. Papa had taken me to eastern Leire once to visit his favorite swordmaker. The land there was dry and flat and ugly, but Papa had said that true deserts were beautiful, with fine colors, and their own kind of odd plants and interesting animals, and mysterious water holes where everything lived together. As far as I could see, nothing grew in this place, and nothing was at all beautiful.
I turned back to the room. The bedchamber didn’t have long solid walls like the rooms at Comigor. The rooms were divided by ranks of thin pillars forming arches. Metal grill-work holding candles sat in some of the arches. Strips of woven cord hung in others, moving in the hot air coming in from the balcony. Each wall had one archway that was wider than the others and didn’t have anything else in it. These were the “doors,” I supposed.
Beyond one of the doorway arches was a room entirely filled with clothes and boots. At Comigor I had a clothes chest where my things were folded and put away, and Mama had a huge clothes chest and a carved wardrobe taller than Papa to hang her dresses in. I had never seen so many garments at once, and they were clearly for one person, as they were all the same size. Shirts and tunics were hung up one after the other from long poles. Leggings, hose, breeches, and singlets were folded on shelves that extended higher than I could reach. Short and long cloaks hung on hooks. And rows of shoes stood under the hanging shirts—riding and walking boots of every cut and soft shoes to wear indoors. The clothes were not colored silk or ruffled, embroidered things like Mama had made for me. Most seemed to be plain, sturdy shirts and breeches and tunics like Papa wore when he went to war. On one shelf was a wooden case that held buckles and belts, and some jewelry—a man’s jewelry. I didn’t touch any of it.
Through another archway I found a bathing room. The floor and outer walls were covered with painted tiles of dark blue and green, and a deep pool was built right into the floor. I touched an ivory handle and steaming water gushed out of a gold pipe that was shaped like a screaming man. I’d never seen anything like it. When I pulled my hand away, the water stopped.
Other archways led to a sitting room with more tall window openings and another hearth. In front of the hearth was a table big enough to eat on and a number of straight wood chairs. Across that room, beyond another arched opening, was a wide staircase that curved downward. I thought I’d better get some clothes on before going downstairs, so I returned to the bedchamber and put on the clothes that lay on the bed: a gray linen shirt, black breeches and tunic, gray leggings and black leather boots that reached
over my calves.
Laid out right next to the clothes were a sword belt and a knife sheath. They were wonderful. The knife was polished like a looking glass, and so sharp it took a sliver of wood off the edge of the table as easy as cutting a peach. The hilt was engraved with all manner of strange beasts, and fit my hand perfectly. The sword was a real rapier, every bit as fine as the knife. Even Papa would have approved the point and the finish. Best of all, the length was perfect for my height. My fencing master at Comigor, Swordmaster Fenotte, had insisted I use wooden weapons or old brittle swords that had been cut off short, so dull and nicked and blunt that you couldn’t stick a hunk of bread with them. If the clothes were meant for me, then surely the weapons must be intended for me, too, or else they wouldn’t be next to the clothes. Just at that moment, I heard footsteps on the tile floor behind me. I spun about, dropping the sword belt with a loud clatter.
Captain Darzid walked in through the archway that led to the sitting room and the stairs. He was followed by a man wearing almost nothing. “No, no, Your Grace,” said Captain Darzid, smiling and waggling his finger at the sword belt. “The weapons are certainly yours, just as you guessed. Wear them as a young duke should. In Zhev’Na, a noble with a sworn blood debt is not treated as a child, but given his proper respect. You’ll find life here very different than in a household run by women.”
“Is Zhev’Na the name of this country?” I said. I didn’t want to tell him that I couldn’t even remember how we got here. A duke with a sworn blood oath shouldn’t be stupid enough to lose track of himself the way I had.
“This land is called Ce Uroth, which in the local language means ‘the Barrens.’ “ Darzid stepped to the windows. “And it is indeed a barren land—stripped of softness and frivolous decoration, its power exposed for all to see. If he wants to accomplish his purposes, a soldier must be hard like this land, not decked out in a whore’s finery, or wallowing in weakness or sentimentality.”
