by Carol Berg
So that was why the Lords didn’t answer my questions while we were in the chamber. But then—I thought back carefully—who kept telling me to have courage and not to be afraid?
Who was what? whispered Notole.
“Nothing. It was just confusing. Everyone was shouting.”
You were afraid?
“No. Not really. I didn’t want to see the Prince or listen to him. But I wanted to learn about him, and why he does such terrible things.”
“Well, there’s no need any more. We’ve had a great victory this day.” Darzid was leaving, beckoning my slaves to fill my bath. He didn’t sound happy. “D’Natheil is dead. And it was so much easier than we could ever have guessed it would be. Only one regret. The mad Prince has robbed you of your revenge. We were going to let you kill him tonight.”
From the next day my training took up again as if nothing had happened. With Parven helping me feel how to move and how to see my opponents openings and strategies, I improved rapidly at swordplay and hand combat. Two different slave boys had to be taken away when I damaged them. I asked Calador if they were all right after, but he said it was none of my concern. When I said that perhaps he should let my partners wear leather armor like my own, now that I was getting more skilled, he said no. The Lords had commanded that my partners would wear no armor.
Parven came into my mind, then, and said that a warrior had to know that every stroke meant something. Your hand must know the sensation of steel on flesh, and not quail from it. Your eye must see beyond blood and determination, knowing clearly which strokes will damage and which will not. These slaves could have no higher value than to aid in making their new Prince invincible. Now, continue, and do not even think of holding back, for I will know of it. The opponent you spare will be dead before another dawn. And so I told Calador and Harres to look for more skilled opponents for me. Then I’d be less likely to injure them.
Some of my opponents were Zhid, and some were slaves. There was a third kind of servant in the fortress called Drudges. Drudges were stupid and dull and never spoke, even though they weren’t forbidden it like the slaves. Drudges never fought as practice partners. They weren’t allowed to touch weapons, because they didn’t know what to do with them.
“They’re not Dar’Nethi, thus have no true power,” Ziddari told me, “so we have no need to collar them. They breed, and so make more of themselves. That can be useful. If they don’t work, we kill them. They have so little intelligence that it’s better for all. A mercy, in fact. They are nothing.”
I’d never thought of killing people as being a mercy, but if the person was too stupid even to know what to do with a knife, it made more sense.
My training in sorcery continued, too. Notole taught me how to call my horse from anywhere within the training grounds, how to prevent my sword from getting dull, and how to make my knife cut into a rock. I asked her how I could get more power for sorcery, and if it could enable me to do bigger things. She said that someday I would be able to do anything I wanted.
CHAPTER 27
Seri
Fourteen days, Gar’Dena promised, only fourteen days of living under the very noses of the Lords of Zhev’Na. Time enough to learn where Gerick was being kept. Time enough to let the other players work their way into position. Then would come a signal I could not mistake, even though I could not be told of it in advance, and together these other players and I would snatch my son to safety. I could survive Zhev’Na for fourteen days. For my son and the future of the worlds, I could do it.
The venture would be dreadfully risky. There existed only three ways to enter Zhev’Na, Gar’Dena lectured us as we sat in his exotic sitting room on the day after the terrible events in the council chamber. The first was as a Zhid. Of course, to retain enough of one’s soul to perform a selfless deed after being transformed into a Zhid was an all but impossible hope. And only the most powerful of Dar’Nethi captives were made Zhid. It was not a practical way to sneak spies into Zhev’Na.
“Unless one could counterfeit a Zhid,” said Kellea, eagerly abandoning our aimless activities of the past weeks in favor of Gar’Dena’s plot. “Is that possible?”
“I know of only one man who ever has managed such an impersonation,” said the Preceptor. “To live as one of them, performing acts of cruelty and vileness every hour . . . how does a person with a soul reconcile it? Only a person of tremendous strength and dedication. And only one who was once a Zhid himself. No one else could know the life they lead, the words they speak, or how to work the Seeking or transform another into a Zhid.”
“So, what are the other two ways?” I asked.
“The second is as a captive. Dar’Nethi of lesser power or those considered expendable are made slaves. The Zhid use weaker slaves as a source of power, leaching away the poor souls’ life essence to augment their own power. They forbid the stronger slaves all use of their true talents and force them to spend their lives in unending degradation. . . .” He faltered. “You are not Dar’Nethi, and so that way is not for you.”
“And the third?”
“The third possibility is yet another kind of servitude, for the Lords of Zhev’Na permit no life but servitude. Before the Catastrophe, when our worlds were closer linked, people from your lands occasionally wandered into ours. Those trapped in Ce Uroth by the Catastrophe fell under the sway of the Lords. Unlike the Zhid, who have lost the ability to reproduce, and the Dar’Nethi slaves, who are forbidden it, these unfortunates beget children. They now number in the thousands, but they have no power, nowhere else to go, and have been in the Wastes so long they know no other life. They live in desolate villages throughout the Wastes, breeding horses or food beasts for the Zhid, or they serve in the war camps or the fortress.”
“And I am to be one of these?”
“We are in contact with a brave man, the one I referred to earlier, a Zhid who was restored to himself by Dassine during his imprisonment in the Wastes. This man has chosen to remain in Ce Uroth all these years, living as a Zhid in order to aid our cause as he is able. He can get you a place in the fortress of Zhev’Na itself, an ordinary duty assignment that will not be remarked. From this position you should be able to discover the whereabouts of your son, his daily routine, how he is guarded, and what possibilities exist for removing him. If we train you well before you go, and you play your part with the same courage and intelligence we’ve seen in you thus far, then you should be able to do what no Dar’Nethi could ever accomplish.”
“This is why you needed someone from my world—a mundane,” I said.
“Exactly so.”
“That means I can go, too,” said Paulo. He had been listening intently while munching raspberries from a silver bowl.
Gar’Dena was taken aback. “We’ve no plans to send anyone else. The dangers—”
“The Prince and the Lady Seri saved my life twice over. I’ve sworn to pay ’em back for it, and the only way I can see is to get their boy back safe. I’ll go, if I have to walk all the way on my two good legs.”
The giant sorcerer did not laugh as many might have done at a boy of thirteen whose ferocious loyalty was sworn with red juice smeared over his freckles. Rather he laid his wide hand on Paulo’s knee and responded soberly. “The success of the plan can be our only consideration. For now, that requires the lady to go alone. But we will think on how best to use such courage as yours. As for you, young woman”—he glanced tentatively at a thunderous Kellea—“you must see that your road cannot lead to Zhev’Na. Not yet. You are Dar’Nethi, a fact that cannot be masked. Any Zhid can lay his hand on you and know what you are. But, as with this daring young man, I promise we will find ample use for your skills.”
Over the next days, Gar’Dena set me to work in his kitchens, scrubbing and washing up, and to digging in his garden so as to roughen my hands. As I worked, he helped me build a new identity, to forge new habits and thoughts and patterns of speech, tempering them with constant review. I asked Gar’Dena if Bareil cou
ld perhaps be brought in to help me learn my role, but the sorcerer scoffed at that idea, saying that the Dulcé had taken no new madrisson and was therefore useless. “A Dulcé unlinked is little more than a child, you know. Young Paulo here has more knowledge at his bidding than would Bareil.” I disagreed, but Gar’Dena would not budge.
Paulo grumbled that he would be happy if he was but allowed to use what knowledge he had.
“I don’t know that I trust these Dar’Nethi or their schemes,” I told the boy privately. “I may need you to come rescue me.”
I spoke half in jest, but Paulo did not. “I’ll do it,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Be sure of it. I’m watching your back.”
On the fourth day of my stay with Gar’Dena, Aiessa burst into our workroom with the terrible news that a Zhid raiding party had attacked three outlying settlements, killing or capturing all who lived there.
Gar’Dena practically pounced on the girl. “The names, child. What are the names of the settlements?”
“Vilkamas, Sen Ystar, and Nithe.”
At the names, the sorcerer clasped his huge hands, pressed them to his brow, and closed his eyes. “Have your sisters light the war flame, my Aiessa. Remind them to take into their hearts those who have fallen and more especially those souls who find themselves this night under the yoke of the Lords. May their courage and honor light our Way.” The girl nodded and hurried away, and Gar’Dena turned back to my lesson. “You must be ready to go at any moment.”
We drilled for two more hours, Gar’Dena trying to trip me up with questions about the squalid work camp where Eda the sewing woman had spent her whole life, and how she had come to be in service at the fortress of Zhev’Na. “. . . And when was your mate killed?”
“The people of our work camp were honored to serve the Lords in a battle exercise a twelvemonth since. My mate did not return.”
“And why were you not returned to your work camp?”
“Only I and three others survived the battle exercise. It was not in the best service of the Lords to send so few back to the work camp.”
“And how did you come to Zhev’Na?”
“I’ve worked for these past months in the war camp of the Worships, but I was not suited to tent making. The keeper said I should perhaps be killed because I was useless, but then he heard that there was a lack of sewing women at Zhev’Na. I am greatly honored to be allowed to serve the Lords here, and I work diligently to improve myself.”
“And what is your present service?”
“I sew, Your Honor, linens and tunics for the Worships, for such is simple work suited to my poor skills. I repair what needs it and change the linens in the rooms where I might be assigned. On occasion I am called on to stitch tunics for slaves, though only for the glory of the Lords of Zhev’Na would I perform any service that might benefit vermin slaves.”
On and on we went, until Gar’Dena’s head jerked up. A streak of blue light creased the air—a message had arrived. The Dar’Nethi would drop an enchanted stone into a flame to alert a distant correspondent that he wished to speak in the other’s mind. “It is done,” he said, almost reverently, after a moment’s quiet as the sender communicated the message. “The first move is made. You go tonight. You may wish to sleep for a while now, my lady, as it will be many days until you can rest in safety. I will assist you to sleep if need be.”
“I couldn’t rest well anyway,” I said. “Tonight is my husband’s funeral procession. As I cannot attend”—Gar’Dena had declared it too dangerous—“I intend at least to watch what I can of it.”
The people of Avonar had at last been told of the death of the Prince D’Natheil. The Preceptors’ examination had revealed that his mind was too damaged by his summer’s battle on the Bridge to allow him to assume his duties, so they told the shocked populace. Cast into despondence, he had taken the sorrowful step that was the final proof of his illness—taking his own life. The Preceptorate would deliberate on the succession, but, of course, nothing could be done until the Prince’s son came of age.
And so in the last hours before I was to go to Zhev’Na, I stood on Gar’Dena’s balcony with the Preceptor and his daughters and watched the funeral procession of the Heir of D’Arnath. Karon’s funeral. As the sun slipped behind the peaks of Eidolon, the Dar’Nethi spilled out of houses and shops. Dressed in white, each carrying a glowing white sphere, they converted every lane into a river of light.
As the procession passed slowly through the grand commard, they began to sing, first the men, then the women, and then the children. They sang the story of Vasrin Creator and the dawn of life, and of Vasrin Shaper who set men and women free to walk their own paths through the world. And then they sang of D’Arnath and his Bridge and his oath to sustain it, and of the sad young Prince who had lost his father and brothers and been thrust onto the Bridge too early in the desperation of his people. They sang of the unknown Exile who had opened the Gate, and of the Prince’s mysterious journey to the other world that had resulted in the renewal of life in the Vales of Eidolon.
The rite was heart-wrenching and exhilarating. Only when they carried the white-silk-draped bier past the window did I falter. But I closed my eyes and prayed that the songs of the Dar’Nethi would echo far from Avonar. “Wherever you are, my dear one, listen well,” I whispered. “Let the beauty of this night give you comfort.” I would not grieve. I would not.
Even after the procession wound out of sight, the singing rang through the frosty air, echoing off the mountain peaks well into the night. But time for my departure had come, and I could no longer permit my thoughts to linger on either beauty or sorrow. I donned the shapeless garb of black and brown and allowed Gar’Dena to tie a red kerchief over my eyes.
“Please forgive this,” he said. “Each piece of our mosaic must remain separate lest we reveal the whole picture too soon.” He led me through his warm house, scented with spices and flowers and baking bread. And then we stepped through a magical portal, so the chilly prickle of my skin told me, into an echoing room with no scent but cold stone.
“Now, my dear lady”—Gar’Dena spoke loudly into my ear, as if my blindfold might be hampering my hearing—“our honor and blessings go with you. In fourteen days you will be contacted, and shortly after, the good Vasrin willing, we shall be together again, rejoicing at our success, your son safely in our care. Until then . . .” He grasped my hand in his meaty one and kissed it. “Now, take three steps forward, turn immediately to your left, and then left again.”
Three steps forward. A tremulous disturbance of the air. Another chilly ring surrounding me. As I turned left and then left again, a grim voice spoke in my head. Do not be afraid. You are not alone. . . .
One more step and the air and space around me changed dramatically. Hot. Dry. The scent of smoke and ash and seared stone. Air, stale and close. I believed I could reach out and touch walls on every side. Cool, damp hands grasped my own, and a man whispered in my ear, close enough that I could feel his warm breath. “Quickly, step forward. One moment . . .” I stood in the hot, airless darkness for a moment and felt the quivering boundary of the portal vanish. “You may remove your eye covering. You’ll not see me again after this day.”
I yanked off the kerchief. The tiny, windowless room was lit by one candle. My companion pressed his ear to a wooden door and then faced me. Wearing a well-tailored coat with a high collar, trimmed with a great deal of gold, and knee breeches and hose of light tan, he was almost as large a man as Gar’Dena, but a much harder man, who crowded the little room with his muscular presence. Yet, despite his robust frame, his complexion was gray and unhealthy-looking, and the hollows of his eyes were dark and sagging. My stomach tightened considerably when I saw that he wore the plain gold earring of the Zhid and that his eyes were cold and empty as only those of a Zhid can be. He bowed. “Welcome to Ce Uroth. This is quite a risk you take.”
“Perhaps not so much a risk as you take, sir.” To live as a Zhid, hiding one’s soul . . .
>
“But I have a great deal for which to make amends, which you do not, and I am accustomed to my risks. Now to our business—”
From somewhere not far from this room where we spoke so politely intruded such a dreadful scream that I thought it must be an animal at the slaughter. Such a notion was banished quickly when my host bowed his head. “One thing at a time,” he whispered to himself, the cast of his skin even more sickly for that moment.
Unwrapping a square of coarse brown cloth, he revealed a thumbnail-sized slip of stamped metal. “The shipment of uncollared servants to Zhev’Na will occur at dawn. You will be added at the last moment. This is your identification tag. You know of them?”
“Yes.” Gar’Dena had told me of the plain metal tag, fixed to one’s left ear like the earrings of the Zhid, that carried a Drudge’s name and assigned duty, and the enchantments that compelled the servant’s obedience.
“To attach it will cause only brief discomfort. Your tag will carry your identification and a false enchantment—lacking any power of compulsion—but you understand that the least failure in obedience on your part will be noted and quickly remedied?”
“I understand.” I said it calmly. But my fists did not unclench until the sting in my earlobe had dulled, and I had proven to myself that I could still move and think as I wished.
A loud knock on the door made my host frown. He waved me into the deepest shadows in the corner of the room. I crouched in as small a space as I could manage between two stacks of crates.
“Slavemaster Gernald?” called the intruder.
