by Carol Berg
“You need not concern yourself with these servants.”
“I want them put to sleep. Tonight, before I go.”
“For what reason?” My skin felt hot from his examination.
“I don’t want them to watch me go and think about it. Perhaps, once I am a Lord, I’ll decide to kill them all. Or maybe I won’t.” The last red crescent of the sun disappeared below the horizon.
Darzid smiled and swept his hand toward the doorway. “Your will shall be done, of course.”
I hated him.
CHAPTER 43
Seri
I had never been anywhere as cold as the keep of Zhev’Na, not even the mountain passes of the Cerran Brae in the deeps of winter. The dark walls chilled my flesh and spirit until my blood seemed to slow and my thoughts close in upon themselves like a daylily deprived of the sun.
I could not read thoughts like the Dar’Nethi or live inside another’s mind like the Lords, but when I embraced my son for that one brief moment, I knew I’d been right about him. In the past months I had tried to find ways to tell him he wasn’t evil. Paltry things they’d been, pitiful, but all I could find or make in late nights or early mornings when the other women were asleep. I wasn’t sure he had understood my message. But he had tried to save me, and he had been gentle and apologetic when my capture became inevitable. So I clung to the hope that he would yet refuse the destiny they planned for him. I doubted I’d have an opportunity to do more. I knew how many months had passed. He would turn twelve any day now.
My interrogation by the Lords was amazingly benign. An old woman had laid her dry, scarred hands on my head and taken possession of all I knew. It was over in moments. I felt as empty as if I had vomited up everything I had ever eaten, but at least I betrayed no one who could be hurt by it. Gar’Dena’s care to keep the pieces of the puzzle separate had been the most successful—I suppose the only successful—part of his plan. The old woman already knew Gar’Dena was the enemy of the Lords, and she told me, somewhat wistfully, that Gernald the slavemaster had been dead for a year and could not be called to account for his part. So our failure was explained at last. The Zhid slavemaster was surely the one who was to have given me the signal and taken me and Gerick out of Zhev’Na.
Once the woman was satisfied, I was left alone in a well-appointed suite of rooms. Clean clothes were laid out on the bed. The bony, dark-eyed slave girl I’d seen in the Gray House brought my meals, scurrying away in terror when I tried to speak to her. A bathing room held soap and towels, and hot water was available at a touch. It was the best I had lived in over a year. But I knew prisons, even fine ones. Though I used the bath and the clothes, and ate the food, afterward I sat and awaited the end of the world . . . or at least my small part of it.
After two days of listless idleness, I discovered paper and pens and ink in a small desk. Though I had no illusions that he would ever see it, I wrote a letter to Gerick, telling him the story of Karon and me, of Tomas and Kellea and Paulo, of D’Natheil and Dassine and all those who were a part of his life. You have been beloved since the day we first knew you. . . .
Late on the evening of the fourth day of my captivity, Darzid came to me. The harbinger of evil. The companion of demons. He wore his usual sleek black and sprawled languidly on a red couch, facing me across a narrow span of gray marble.
“Are you comfortable in the Lords’ house, my lady?”
“As comfortable as one can be in a tomb.”
“Surely you find this better than sleeping with rats and eating cold gruel. I must admire your fortitude in the face of Gar’Dena’s failure at plotting.”
“You may tell my son that you were kind and beneficent before your masters dispensed with me.”
He burst out laughing. “It is so delightful to deal with you, Lady Seriana, and most especially to confound you. The Lords will not touch you. Your son will determine your fate entirely.” He leaned across the table, his dark eyes as sharp and brilliant as obsidian. “Is he not an exceptionally fine young Lord? He is everything the Lords of Zhev’Na could have wished for: intelligent, determined, honorable, spirited—just like his mother. And he carries his father’s considerable talents nobly. Unfortunate that the madman cannot see how his progeny has been nurtured to his fullest potential. Young Gerick will be the most powerful sorcerer the universe has ever produced.”
“You’ve let him believe he is evil.”
“But he is! Deliciously so. And no charming stones or mysterious star maps will change it. Did you not see his soul laid bare before you when you so foolishly revealed yourself? He feeds on the darkest passions of two worlds and begs for more. His blood is in a fever for it, and tonight you will watch as he is given a surfeit of what he craves.”
“And he will do the same for his masters—give them what they crave.”
“Oh, yes. On this night D’Arnath’s Bridge will fall. The universe will be reborn.”
“What is your part, Darzid—other than murderer, executioner, deceiver, and corrupter of children? How did you come to be the vulture that feasts on the corpses of so many noble spirits?”
“Ah, my lady, do you remember long ago when I tried to tell you of certain fantastical visions and my difficulty remembering my past?”
“Of course I remember. You—”
“I asked for your help, but you couldn’t be bothered and sent me away. Now I’ve remembered. Come with me, and you’ll see why you could never win.”
He jumped to his feet and held out his arm, but I wouldn’t touch him. He only laughed the more, snapped his fingers, and we were in a different place altogether.
We stood in the center of a shining black floor, a vast empty space encircled by ranks of towering pillars of black marble, each hung with a glass-paned lamp. Above us hung a star-filled night sky . . . or the seeming of it. Our footsteps caused a hollow echo as we walked toward a row of four black marble thrones that stood on a wide curved dais. Two of the chairs were occupied, one by the gray-haired woman who had questioned me, and the other by a tall man with long hair, a beaked nose, and a wide forehead. The two wore dark robes and strange masks of gold that covered the upper halves of their faces, with gems set in place of eyes. Death itself would have been a warm and cheerful contrast to their presence.
“Welcome, madam,” said the tall man . . . if man he was.
“Once a man,” he replied. His voice touched my mind like a clammy finger running down my spine. Depraved. Dead. “Now much more than a man. Parven is my name. To my right is my sister Notole whom you have already met. And of course you know my brother Ziddari from of old.”
“Ziddari . . .” The one who stood beside me chuckled as his face dissolved. And then his own gold mask was visible, the metal not just a covering for the upper half of his face, but grown together with his flesh, its blood-red rubies flashing in the lurid lamplight.
“Old friends can still spring surprises, can they not?” Though his voice had taken on a deeper resonance, the cynical amusement was the same.
Darzid . . . Ziddari . . . the third of the Dar’Nethi who had survived the Catastrophe of their making. A Lord of Zhev’Na. Never in my remotest supposition . . . Stupid, stupid woman.
“How could you have guessed? You knew nothing of the Lords. And I was not exactly my usual self in all those years—a matter of being away from home in disguise for too long. Wearing a mundane face does not allow the full range of one’s capabilities, and living in your world has its distinct hazards for those born to this one—else all this might have been settled long before you were born. But I think I am done with Darzid now. Your son will need him no longer. Shall you mourn your old friend?”
“I will curse your name until I am dust.”
“Alas, that is very likely. Come, the boy approaches even now. Please, take your seat.” He snapped his fingers again, and a plain wooden chair appeared beside me. Without willing it, I sat, while Darzid—Ziddari—took his place on the third throne.
From the de
pths of the polished black floor between me and the dais glowed a circle of blue light, pulsing in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. Gerick appeared exactly in the center of it, dressed in breeches and shirt and doublet of deep purple trimmed with silver, wearing his sword at his belt. He stood tall before the Lords and did not bow.
They all spoke at once, three distinct voices, yet winding sinuously together. “Welcome, young Lord,” said Ziddari.
“At last,” said the woman. “We have anxiously awaited you.”
And Parven. “All honor to you on this night that you come into your inheritance. Have you made your choice, young Lord?”
“I have,” said Gerick, in a voice cool as glass.
“And what is it to be?”
“I will be a Lord of Zhev’Na.”
And so ended my hope. Perhaps I sighed or sobbed, for Gerick turned his head sharply, as if he had not seen me until then. His demeanor was neither hateful nor haughty, only solemn. But he did not speak to me and reserved his attention for the Lords.
“Yes, we have brought her here as you requested, young Lord. You can see we’ve taken excellent care of her. Now she is yours, to do with as you will.” Ziddari’s vile expectation hung over us like a cloud. “A fitting gift for your birthday.”
“She is to be set free.”
“What?” From all three of the Lords the word thundered, until I thought my head would burst from the sound. Though one could not read subtle expression on faces so strange, their shock and disbelief shook the floor under my feet.
Gerick’s voice did not change. “I have made the choice to become one of you. But before I do so, I require safe passage for this woman. She is not important to you.”
“What weakness have we uncovered?”
“Who are you to judge of her importance to us?”
“What of your oath . . .”
“. . . your revenge . . .”
“. . . the blood oath on the body of your nurse, your truer mother?” The twining whispers filled the vast hall like a fetid odor.
Ziddari snarled and gestured toward me. “What kind of mother is this who should never have allowed you to be conceived, knowing your only inheritance would be the stake and the fire?”
Gerick did not quail. “My oath was based on a lie. I don’t know whether or not my oath of fealty to you was also based on lies. My guess is that it was. But I will live with the choices I’ve made, because I see no alternatives. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain, and I’ll do the same. All but this one thing will proceed as you have planned.”
“How did you come by these conclusions?”
“That is no concern of yours, my Lord Parven,” said Gerick. “Now, time grows short. It is your turn to choose.” He had them, and he knew it.
A smile crept slowly across Ziddari’s bloodless lips. “Oh, brother and sister, we have done far better even than we knew. Do you not agree?” He leaped up from his chair and swept a deep bow to Gerick. “We will proceed with your preparation, my clever and immensely delightful young Prince. When the time comes for the anointing, you may release the Lady Seriana to whichever of the Preceptors you wish. They have safe passage back to Avonar after, and so will she. Is that sufficient? You have the word of the Lords of Zhev’Na, which has never been broken in a thousand years.”
Gerick folded his arms across his breast, took a deep breath, and spoke softly to me, though his eyes did not meet mine. “This is the best I can do. I am what I am. It cannot be changed.”
Then he turned his back on me, dropped his arms, and acknowledged the Three with a slight bow. “Let us begin.”
The room grew colder, the lamplight fading until each paned globe cast only a dim circle on the black floor just underneath it. The Three seemed to grow larger as they focused their jeweled eyes on Gerick.
“You will not speak again until our work is done,” said Parven. “There must be no disruption during your preparation. Do you agree?”
Gerick nodded. He showed no fear.
Notole moved to the center of the dais, carrying a crystal flask and goblet. “Have you come to us fasting?” she asked.
“He has neither eaten nor drunk in a sun’s turning,” said Ziddari, from behind her. “I made sure of it.”
The old woman nodded and filled the goblet with a liquid so deep a red that it was almost black. “This is drink such as no mortal being may taste and remain unchanged. Drain every drop, and so from this night you will require no other sustenance save what nourishes your power.” She offered the goblet, wreathed in scarlet-tinted steam, to Gerick.
“Don’t drink it!” I said. “You are not one of them!”
But Gerick either did not or would not hear me. He took the goblet, raised it to each of the Three, and put it to his lips. The first sip made him shudder, but after that he did not falter. Slowly, inexorably, he drained the glass, forcing the last drops before taking a heaving breath, clearly fighting to keep it down.
Notole took the goblet from his trembling hand. “A potent vintage, yes? You feel it in every bone, every vein, every fiber. Your body rejects it, for it is not the stuff of mortal life. But you have learned to command yourself, and so you allow it to do its work, cleansing, transforming, making your body other than it has ever been.”
Notole returned to her chair, and Parven took her place at the front of the dais. “When you first came to us, young Prince, you offered us your sword. We did not take it from you then, for it was unproved, unworthy of us. But you will have no more use for such trivial implements. We now require your sworn bond that you will not raise your hand against us, your brothers and sister. Are you willing to surrender this symbol of your former life and so swear without reservation?”
Gerick unsheathed his sword, raising it high until it caught the faint lamplight, gleaming, glinting. But then he straightened his back and knelt before Parven, presenting the sword on his upturned palms.
“And you make this vow of your own will . . . freely?”
Gerick nodded.
“So be it sworn,” said Parven. A beam of amethyst light shot from his gold mask and focused on the sword. The steel blade began to glow, brighter and brighter purple, until the shape lost coherence and the metal sagged across Gerick’s hands. Gerick did not flinch, but left his hands in place until the shriveled sword vanished, leaving only the stench of hot metal and scorched flesh. Then he rose to his feet, cold and solemn, his hands held stiffly open at his sides.
Ziddari stepped forward, replacing the taller Lord, and gazed down at Gerick with his ruby eyes. “You are learning the price of your power, young Lord. Not so very high. Not for this life for which you were born. You are not the sniveling child I knew in that other place. You know blood and pain as he could never know it. You know power as he could never have touched it, and the very things that made him weak now make you strong. Now it is time to bid that child farewell. Do you agree?”
Gerick closed his eyes and bowed his head, and Ziddari laid his hands on the shining red-brown hair. “And so do I remove from you the name you were given on this day twelve years past, and the shackles it lays upon your freedom. No longer will its bidding give you pause, or its invocation cause you the least concern. No longer will its bitter legacy enthrall you, but will seem as the tale of some other who is so far beneath you as to be unworthy of licking your feet. The strength and wisdom grown in you, and the passions that have shaped you are all that will remain. You are now Dieste, who is destined to be called the Destroyer, the Fourth Lord of Zhev’Na.”
Ziddari raised his hands and Gerick looked up, and he was not the same as he had been. The graceful youth of his features, already roughened by sun and desert, had taken on a stony edge. No longer could I see the boy who had called for me to run away or who had been unable to look me in the eye as he apologized for losing his soul. He was no longer a boy at all.
“Now,” said Notole, “receive our greatest gift to you upon this, the day of your birth, the day you take your plac
e among the mighty of the world.”
The Three gathered around Gerick. A low hum just at the bounds of hearing set my teeth on edge. Over the glowing blue circle in the floor appeared a ring of dull brass, taller than a man. Suspended in the air, the ring began to spin, teasing at the yellow lamplight and the colored gleam of the Lords’ eyes.
“You have tested the waters of darkness in these past days, but tonight you are to be immersed in them, bathed in them, cleansed of those things that will prevent the fullest expression of your power. Step into the orb, leave yourself completely open, and take your fill of what you find there. By its power and ours and your own, you will be irrevocably changed. Is that your desire?”
Gerick nodded once more.
“Then enter and claim your birthright. . . .”
Without hesitation, Gerick stepped into the very center of the orb, woven of red, green, and purple light. His vague outline was visible inside it, his arms and legs spread wide, and his face upturned as if to embrace whatever awaited him.
“My dearest son, don’t do it,” I cried. “Hold on to yourself. Nothing is irrevocable. You are not what they are. You were blessed and beloved from the first moment your father and I knew of your life. You were treasured by my brother who raised you as his own. And your dear Lucy, think how frightened she was by the lies the world told of those with your gifts, but how she stayed because you were so dear to her. Somehow you will know of these things again. You must not forget. . . .” And to fight off my grief and despair I repeated the long story I had written in the past days, not believing he could hear me or that it could change what was happening, but because I could not watch such evil and stay silent.
It seemed a lifetime until he emerged from the fiery orb, instantly enveloped in the smothering embrace of the Three. Notole dropped a black robe over his head, the same as the other Lords’. His hands covered his face as they led him to the fourth throne upon the dais. Ziddari and Notole stood to either side of him and gently pulled his arms outwards, uncovering his eyes. They were black pits, gaping and empty.
