by Carol Berg
Parven stood behind him, and while Notole and Ziddari held his hands away, the tall Lord fitted a gold mask over the terrible hollows in my son’s face. So his were to be diamonds, glittering, cold, blue-white stones that could never show fear or anger or love. I could not hear the words that Parven whispered as he ran his fingers around the edges of the mask, but as the gleaming metal molded itself to my son’s brow and his cheekbones, joining itself to his flesh, I sank to my knees and wept bitter tears.
“Young Lord Dieste, we welcome you to our company,” said Notole. “We are old, and you give us new life.”
“You have bathed in the glories of Darkness, surrendering the flawed vision of your race in favor of the true-seeing of your brothers and sister.”
“You have yielded your remaining attachments to the child you were and drunk the wine of immortality.”
“We are Four, and no living hand can undo it.”
CHAPTER 44
The spinning ring vanished. The Lords took turns taking Gerick’s hands and kissing them, congratulating him and each other.
“Now one small matter, and then we can welcome our Dar’Nethi guests,” said Ziddari. “It’s not yet time for them to see you in your present aspect. You must make yourself an image of what they expect to find. If you need guidance . . .”
“I need nothing.” Gerick’s words were quiet and hard. To hear the familiar voice, so recently deepened with approaching manhood, coming from the face with the gold mask and diamond eyes was but another aspect of horror.
“Then we will leave you to your guests. Our allies will open a portal to bring them.”
“And what of my servants? Asleep as I said?”
“They are none of your concern, young Lord. They’re all dead.”
“Dead? But I said—”
“You said you might want to kill them,” said Ziddari. “We agreed with that. And so we have done.” The three Lords vanished, leaving an echo of purest hatred and lust.
Only one black throne remained occupied. He sat still and silent, his elbows resting on the square arms of the chair, his hands knotted into fists.
What did one say to one’s child who had been so grotesquely transformed? How did one counsel a youth who was on the verge of destroying what balance and hope remained in the world? Would he hear me now the others were gone? I had never thought to be allowed to speak with Gerick again, yet here was an opportunity, and I could not think how on earth to begin.
“What now?” It was all I could come up with.
His thoughts were clearly far away. “Did you say something?”
“What happens now?”
“You will be given to the Dar’Nethi as we promised. Nothing else concerns you.”
How small a spark is needed to ignite a holocaust. “Do not speak to me in Darzid’s words!”
The tips of his fingers tapped each other rapidly. “And whose words should I use but those of the Lords? I am one with them.”
“Use your own words. They didn’t take your mind from you. Think. Act. Take hold of your own life.”
“You know nothing.”
“Gerick, you must listen to—”
“I will not listen to you.” He sprang from his chair and circled behind it, gripping the thick black edge of its back. His restless hands began tapping their frantic rhythm on the stone. “You are filled with incessant noise, and all I want is for you to be silent. My name is Lord Dieste, and you will show me the proper respect or I’ll teach you how to do so; I’ll put you back where you were found.”
“And where was that? Do you even know?”
“In servitude proper to your meager abilities. You are nothing to me. Servants are nothing to me. It doesn’t matter if they’re all dead.”
Some struggle was going on inside him. I pressed hard, hoping to find some crack, some chink in the walls the Lords had built to imprison him. “But your masters have promised to give me to the Preceptors.”
“Only if I wish it. They do everything I wish.”
“And what is it you wish?”
He clasped his hands together and pressed them to his chin, as if to quiet their agitation. “I don’t know.”
“You made them promise to save my life. Can you even remember why?”
“A stupid and childish whim. I am no longer burdened with such.”
“Does it matter what I wish?”
“Not in the least.”
“But if it did matter, I’d wish to stay with you. I would care for you and be your companion. You are my—”
“I have no need of companions!” He circled the throne again and sank slowly into its stony embrace, pressing his clenched hands to his forehead. “I want to be left alone. And I have no further need of servants. All my servants have been disposed of. They can no longer interfere . . . or leave their thoughts cluttering up my head . . . dead men’s thoughts . . . slaves’ thoughts . . .” In that instant, he might have been transformed into the same stone as his chair. Agitation stilled, cold anger muted, imperious manner quenched, his words dwindled to a whisper. “Impossible. Impossible. How could he be here?”
The diamond eyes jerked up. A searing lance pierced my forehead. “You lied! What were the two of you doing? What was he doing here?”
My mouth worked soundlessly as the pressure in my head grew . . . only to be abruptly halted when the round blue glow in the floor began to pulse rapidly. Gerick jumped up, spread his hands, and pressed his palms outward, and in a stomach-wrenching explosion of enchantment, the vast, empty darkness of the Lords’ hall was transformed into a more ordinary sitting room.
Even as I blinked and gaped at soft couches, polished tables, well-stocked bookshelves, and bright lamps hung from a high, painted ceiling, the air in the center of the room shivered with the discontinuity that signified an open portal. Beyond the portal lay another room, somber gray stone, a long table and seven high-backed chairs, backing on a massive hearth. I could not fail to recognize the place—the Preceptors’ council chamber, where I had last seen my husband as he plunged a knife into his belly. The Preceptors stood waiting in the center of that chamber.
First to step through the portal were Madyalar and Exeget, followed by Y’Dan and the two old ones, Ustele and Ce’Aret. Last came Gar’Dena, and only in looking at the giant sorcerer did I regain a sense of the months that had passed. His massive flesh sagged, as if he had lost a great deal of weight, and with it, the joy and genial sweetness that had illuminated his presence. His broad face was grave and creased with care.
I expected jaws to drop in horror when the Preceptors beheld the fearsome aspect of their Heir-to-be. The Preceptors were secretive, imperious, single-minded in their intents, yes. But the corruption of a few—Exeget, certainly, and perhaps some ally or two—could not blind the rest. They would never anoint an Heir so clearly the tool of the Lords. But when I turned to the one who stood beside the crackling hearthfire to greet the Dar’Nethi, my heart sank. Gerick looked entirely himself, a tall, slender youth, skin darkened by the sun, dressed elegantly in purple and silver. His eyes were the brown that matched my own. Surely it was my imagination that I saw the icy brilliance of diamonds in their depths. An image, of course . . . as Darzid’s face had been . . . so the Preceptors could not see what had been done.
I jumped to my feet. “Gar’Dena, good Preceptors, don’t be deceived. This is the Lords’ house! They’ve changed my son . . . corrupted him . . .”
No one acknowledged me. All their attention was focused on Gerick. I hurried across the room, intending to grab their sleeves, to pluck their robes or hair, whatever it would take to get them to heed my warning, but my steps did not reduce the distance between us, and none of them seemed to see or hear me.
“Welcome to the house of my protectors, Preceptors,” said Gerick, bowing slightly, his earlier agitation as hidden as his true face.
Exeget stepped forward and bowed deeply. “We rejoice in your ascendance to majority, Your Grace, but we cannot but wonder
at its venue. Your refusal to return to Avonar even for this glorious day has given rise to great disturbance among your people. The rumors rampant in this past year are multiplied a hundredfold, and though the Gate-fire yet burns white, you cannot fail to know that eleven villages and innumerable households have been destroyed in the past months. The Zhid have grown bold, and your people worry about friends who do not reveal their names”—he waved his hand to encompass the room—“yet stand so high in their Prince’s regard.”
“My protectors have done me great service, Master. No Dulcé have been sent to poison me, as happened to Prince D’Natheil two years ago. No knife has appeared in my hand, and I suffer no madness to make me turn it upon myself as my late father did. I have lived in safety and comfort until my majority, and have put the time to good use developing my skills on many fronts. When I venture the Bridge, I will not be broken by it.”
“Indeed you have grown fairly, my lord,” said Madyalar, smiling. Ustele and Ce’Aret murmured their agreement.
Gerick acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod. “Clearly I am not Zhid, and it is one hour past my coming of age. I am safe in the house of my friends, and my Preceptors are welcomed here. If the Lords wished to corrupt me, then they have made a great miscalculation, have they not?”
“Who are you?” growled Gar’Dena. “Show us your true face. Show us your friends and prove that they are the friends of Avonar.”
“What greater proof of loyalty is there than saving my life?” snapped Gerick. “My protectors did so when I was an infant, condemned to death in the mundane world, and then they brought me to this haven to shield me both from execution in the mundane world and the murderous traitors in Gondai. And they saved me yet again this year when they discovered a foul plot that invaded this, my sanctuary. Some thought to prevent my taking my place as the Heir, sneaking in here disguised as servants to steal me away.” His finger pointed at me.
All of the Preceptors looked startled when they saw me. But two of the astonished faces registered another emotion as well—distress, quickly suppressed. One of the two—Gar-’Dena’s—I expected, and the other . . . the other I most assuredly did not. I did not trust myself even to think the name, for if what I glimpsed was truth, then the implications were profound and dangerous.
“Oh, my lady—” began Gar’Dena.
“Master Gar—”
“Be silent in my presence, traitors!” spat Gerick. He whirled from me to the giant Dar’Nethi. “How dare you speak when you have so violated my trust? My first act as Heir of D’Arnath will be to have you removed from this Preceptorate. I cannot trust anyone.” And then he glared at me in accusation. “No one . . . no one is who they seem. Everyone lies.”
Ustele, so bent and weathered that he looked like the ancient trees that clung to the windswept ridges of the Dorian Wall, glanced about the room anxiously. “Are you saying this woman has tried to harm you, Your Grace? With Gar’Dena’s connivance?”
“We know nothing of this,” said Ce’Aret, frowning. “We understood that your mother was caring for you all these months.”
Y’Dan nodded, puzzled.
“Once we’re done here today, you may take Preceptor Gar’Dena and his spy with you back to Avonar,” said Gerick. “I charge you particularly, Master Exeget. Question them and dispose of them as you wish.”
“But my lord, she is your mother,” said Ce’Aret. “What harm—?”
“She is nothing to me! If she wanted honorable concourse, she would have presented herself to me in an honorable manner . . . told me the truth . . . “
Exeget bowed. “This is shocking news, Your Grace. Was the woman acting alone?”
Gerick turned his back to them. “Her conspirators are dead. I had them killed. All discovered. All dead.”
Take me back to Avonar . . . conspirators . . . I didn’t know what to say. In an instant, everything was uncertain. But my eye was on the Preceptor I had noted before. There it was again. Sorrow . . . so brief. Devastation. He had waited for over a year and had brought with him whatever glimmer of hope he and Gar’Dena had been able to maintain. But they didn’t need to see the gold mask to know we had failed.
“My lord,” said Madyalar, soothing. “Let us proceed with our business so we may return to Avonar and give your people the glorious news of their new hope. We have been without an Heir for too long.” She urged her colleagues forward. “Come, you old fossils. The young Prince has come of age. He has been proved.”
Why didn’t they see? Why didn’t they stop? I needed to warn them, yet something—enchantment, uncertainty, caution? —kept me silent. Something else was happening here. I watched and waited.
Exeget motioned to the others to form a half-circle, and in his pale, manicured hand he held a small round box made of gold. He removed its lid and stared at its contents. “Silestia,” he said. “It grows in only one spot on the highest slopes of the Mountains of Light. The white flowers bloom only on Midsummer’s Day, and it is said their fragrance fills the air for a league in any direction. From each flower we can extract only a single drop of oil. So rare and precious is it that this tiny portion I carry is the product of twelve years of gathering, since the last was used for young D’Natheil. To think—”
“We agreed we would perform no elaborate ritual,” snapped Madyalar. “Since this is a private ceremony, there is no need.”
Exeget looked up. “Is that your wish, my lord?”
Gerick nodded, but seemed scarcely to be paying attention. He stood staring at me, his arms wrapped tight about his stomach as if he were going to be sick.
“So be it,” said Exeget. “The heart of the rite is, of course, quite brief. In the mundane world, the head of the ruler is anointed, and as the head rules the body, so does the king rule his subjects. But it is the hands of D’Arnath’s Heir that are anointed, for the hands serve the body, supply its sustenance, defend it, build up the works of beauty that its soul creates. So does the Heir serve his people, sustain them, defend them, and exemplify and encourage the beauty they create. We do not know you, young Prince, yet we must entrust you with this responsibility. Some among us say we should wait and judge your worthiness, to learn of your protectors and your schooling to be sure you are the Prince we believe. But I am the head of the Preceptorate, and I say we know enough.”
Exeget dipped his finger into the gold case. Madyalar, Ce’Aret, Ustele, and Y’Dan knelt before Gerick. Gar’Dena had turned his broad back, sheathed in red satin, to all of us, his shoulders quivering. I believed he was weeping. But tears would do no good. Gar’Dena should be crying out a warning. Madyalar and the others didn’t understand the truth. Why was he silent?
Exeget reached for Gerick’s extended hand. “Great Vasrin, Creator and Shaper of the universe, stand witness. . . .”
I couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it. Exeget surely knew the identity of Gerick’s “protectors,” but I no longer believed he was a traitor. Exeget’s face had blanched along with Gar’Dena’s when he saw me revealed, and Exeget’s expression had shown defeat when he heard my allies were dead. He could not allow Gerick to become the anointed Heir. Madness and frustration boiled in my heart . . . until Exeget glanced at me . . . and I knew . . . Earth and sky! They were going to kill him.
“Exeget, do not!” As if my own voice had burst forth in an unaccustomed timbre, a shout rang out, echoing on stone walls and dark columns and glass floor hidden behind this seeming of a room. Deep and commanding, that voice pierced my cold heart like an lance of fire. “Neither anointing him nor assassinating him accomplishes any purpose whatsoever—not while I live free.”
A man appeared at one end of the room as if he had parted the plastered walls and stepped through. Tall and lean, his sun-darkened skin ridged with scars, he wore the collar, gray tunic, and cropped hair of a slave and the face of D’Natheil . . . of Karon my beloved. One glance told me everything necessary. Recognition, completion, understanding . . . he was whole. I clasped
his unspoken greeting as a starving child holds her bread.
Exeget lowered his hand and bowed to his prince, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smile, transforming . . . illuminating his proud face. “Never have I been so happy to see a failed pupil, my lord.”
Gar’Dena whirled about with speed and agility unexpected for one of his girth. “My good lord!”
“V’Saro,” whispered Gerick, staring at Karon. “They said my servants were dead. I commanded it . . . before I listened to you . . . before I knew. . . .”
The remaining Preceptors looked from Exeget to Karon to Gerick, bewildered . . . except for Madyalar who stepped protectively toward Gerick. Now I saw the puzzle solving itself.
“What treachery is this?” boomed the voice of Ziddari from every direction at once, echoing through the light and shadows, causing the floor to shudder, the homely room to seem fragile and false, and joy, relief, and hope of no more durance than dew in the desert. “How comes this slave here?”
“The anointing must proceed,” said the voice of the woman, Notole. “Why do you pause in this most important duty? Continue.”
“Did you not hear, mighty Lords?” said Exeget, closing the lid of the gold case with a snap. “Anointing this boy accomplishes nothing. You may bathe him in the oil of silestia, but it will gain him no power. The anointed Heir of D’Arnath yet lives in Gondai, in full possession of his power, and before you can make an Heir of your own, you must deal with him.”
“D’Natheil is decaying in his grave,” shouted Parven. “No impostor will delay our triumph.” The air grew heavy with anger . . . with danger. . . . The lamplight dimmed.
“I would recommend that you get back through the portal, good Preceptors,” said Karon, waving Y’Dan and the two old ones toward Gar’Dena and Exeget. He approached Gerick slowly, locking our son’s empty face in his gaze while he called over his shoulder. “Can you hold the way long enough to get all of us out, Master Exeget?”
