by Carol Berg
“He says he’s not managed to write further on his work nor any more than the one letter. Says he gets distracted too easy, but not by anything that’s worth writing about.” Paulo’s face reflected the worry that accompanied any mention of Karon nowadays. “Things are not right with him, my lady. Though it’s a risk to have me sneaking in, he seems to pick up a bit while I’m there. But he’s not right.”
I knew things were not right with Karon. His letters had dwindled in number and length and substance as the weeks had gone by. I ached for his loneliness and isolation, and without Gerick there to test him, I couldn’t even know what was natural and what might be caused by the strange enchantment under which he lived. “He says your visits have been the best thing in his life, Paulo. You must have found something interesting to talk about.”
When Gerick began spending so much time with D’Sanya, Paulo had taken it on himself to visit Karon, saying he would sneak through Karon’s private garden, so as not to risk anyone inquiring about “Master K’Nor’s” new visitor. But what had begun as an occasional hour had expanded into daily visits, so we’d seen little of Paulo for the past weeks. Karon’s letters said that he and Paulo were having some useful discussions that were the first things to keep his attention since he’d been at the hospice.
“We pass the time. Talk a bit. Not much as would be interesting to anybody else.” His gaze followed Aimee, who stood at her sideboard cutting slices of cake and setting them on small plates. When he noticed me watching, he colored and looked away. “He’s a deal lonesome since the young master’s been away. I’m sure he’ll pick up when my lord comes back.”
Ven’Dar had told us about the Zhid attack on Gerick and the Lady. Gerick had sent only a brief description of it along with his warning message about the consiliar. If he hadn’t needed us to forward the message on to Karon for him, he’d likely not have told us anything.
Since then, Gerick had sent only one brief note from Maroth, saying they had seen no more signs of Zhid interest in the Lady, and that D’Sanya had kept him so busy, he’d had no time to investigate anything. Life has changed for me, Mother, he’d written. I’ve learned things about myself I never imagined. And I’ve come to understand so much about you and my father and how you’ve been able to survive all that’s happened to you. Whatever comes of all this, I hope to be the better for it.
Karon was intrigued by the Lady’s determination to teach Gerick to enjoy himself—an unexpected echo of a wish the two of us had shared for five years. He said I wouldn’t recognize our son’s manner. I’ve seen Gerick pleased or satisfied in the past, Karon had written a week or two before Gerick left for Maroth. And when he has joined with me, I’ve felt his care and love as if they were my own emotions. But never until these past weeks have I seen him happy. When he comes in from his time with her, he exhibits no trace of the burdens he has borne all his life. Though I fear for what we may yet unearth about this woman—and truly those fears lessen every day—I cannot regret Gerick’s discovery that he can be happy or my witnessing it before I have to leave him. The paths of life are truly marvelous.
I didn’t like it. Gerick and Karon were like two infants setting out to untangle a family squabble. Gerick had been a hermit for nine years after a completely unnatural childhood, emerging only briefly at age sixteen to offer his life to save the world from the Lords. And nobody in any world was less willing or able to recognize ordinary human wickedness than Karon, who insisted on seeing his own goodness reflected in everyone he encountered. All the more reason for a practical and uninvolved—though not exactly objective—observer to get busy.
I had the beginnings of an idea, and all I needed was a few words with the harried Prince of Avonar to help me decide if my plan made sense. When Paulo and Aimee set out on their excursion to Je’Reint’s stables, they took my message for Ven’Dar to the palace. And along with a new horse for Paulo, and a gift of some elegant writing paper sent to me from Je’Reint, they returned with the Prince of Avonar’s agreement to meet with me the next morning.
Two days later, I set out to seek my own version of the truth. Though skeptical that I might discover what others had not, Ven’Dar had provided the assistance I requested. He had given me an introduction to V’Rendal, a loyal and discreet Archivist, who could allow me access to the records of D’Sanya’s interrogation, as well as provide me with an identity, credentials, and a plausible excuse to be poking around in case I wanted to look further. The woman worked tucked away in a quiet chamber below the palace library—the Royal Archives, a cool, high-ceilinged room lined with tall wooden cupboards.
I began by reading the official report of the Lady’s examination by the Preceptorate, and the statements by the Archivists, Healers, and Historians who had questioned her. D’Sanya’s knowledge of historical detail, her experiences, and the evidence that could be corroborated from other sources supported the belief that she was exactly who she claimed to be—a twenty-year-old woman who had been born more than a thousand years in the past.
“One thing bothers me, V’Rendal,” I said to the buxom red-haired woman who sat across the wide table carefully removing the pages from a tattered book. My finger tapped the crisp vellum of the report that lay in front of me. “Your Historians found only three references to D’Arnath’s daughter, all in a single text. The first is merely a date in the record of royal births. The second is in a listing of those attending the celebration when D’Arnath was crowned High King of Gondai. And the third is in the record of the residents of the palace when the great census was taken in the third year after the Catastrophe. He never even mentioned her name. Though he recorded no date of death, in every description of the family’s activities after the third year of the war, only the sons were listed. How can we assume that this writer was correct, and all others in error?”
The woman picked up a penlike instrument with a leather-wrapped handle and used the small V-shaped blade set into its tip to cut a stitch in the book’s ruined binding. Then she lifted out another fragile page and set it on the stack beside her. “The source is the important thing here. S’Tar was the official Historian of D’Arnath’s court, required to be complete and adhere to the strictest standards in his writing, including all lists of the sort you’ve mentioned. His works are considered unimpeachable. As to his lack of detail about the daughter, I have my own theories. Prominent Historians pay little mind to women even yet.”
A fly buzzed around our heads and into V’Rendal’s face before settling on her stack of pages. She blew a quick sharp puff of air toward it, and the fly bounced from the stack onto the table, apparently frozen. Then she split another stitch and resumed her work and her lecture.
“Few histories . . . few books of any kind . . . survived those days. Books are so fragile. One of the great tragedies of this pernicious war occurred when King D’Arnath himself destroyed the Royal Library and its archives by mistake in a battle near the end of his reign. S’Tar’s work and a few other specialized court histories survived because they had been so widely distributed. Every major library had its own copies. A few lesser-known histories—E’Rind’s Obscure Histories, Mu’-Tenni’s Ancients, one or two other texts—had never been added to the royal collection, and thus survived the destruction.” She pursed her wide mouth in resignation. “But very few of those works still exist, all reportedly in the same condition as this poor volume and quite scattered throughout the Vales. I’ve never seen even one of them. After that disaster we began storing our most important histories inside the palace rather than a separate building. Tell me, are women ignored in great events in the mundane world?”
I smiled at her as I closed the bound reports and stacked them. “Dreadfully so. At least Dar’Nethi women have been able to participate in great events. In my country we are just beginning to wield influence. So, did the Historian who wrote this report research any of those more obscure histories?”
V’Rendal clipped another stitch and rolled her eyes. “He told me that
it wasn’t worth the trouble to look further, when S’Tar had provided the necessary confirmation of the girl’s existence. The stories of her in the more obscure texts would not likely be reliable. And in truth . . . he was probably correct.”
I hadn’t expected much from the public record—clearly the Preceptors and the Dar’Nethi people had been satisfied—and so I was only slightly disappointed by my initial lack of results. If the opportunity arose, I might hunt down the more obscure histories, but I was more interested in the D’Sanya of my own time. The ancient Historians would not have known what happened to D’Sanya in Zhev’Na anyway.
“To be confined ‘asleep’ for a thousand years . . . how is that possible?”
“I don’t know of any way. For short periods, yes. Everyone assumes the Lords could do whatever they liked—blatantly ridiculous, of course, else how would Avonar still stand? Yet it’s true we don’t know half their works.”
“So no one investigated the nature of the Lady’s enchantment?”
“No. I’ve wondered myself. Believed it should be a part of the records. Only one other person ever asked about it, one of the Restored. The man came in here every day for a week, reading the entire history of the war and how it all ended. A quiet man and most polite, but”—she shuddered—“I had M’Qeti from the Royal Library come here every day the man visited, so I didn’t have to be alone with him. I suppose he had been Zhid for a very long time. It is so difficult to imagine that they don’t—Well, I told the fellow I might speak to a friend of mine about the Lady’s enchantment, but I’ve had so many other things to work on these past weeks . . .”
V’Rendal paused in her activity, setting aside her cutting tool, her thick fingers lying quietly on her book. “I suppose you could speak to my friend. Garvé’s an odd man . . . and friends tell me he’s gotten a bit unstable. I suppose that’s the nature of being an Arcanist.”
“An Arcanist?”
“When a Dar’Nethi boy or girl comes of age, it is usual for the child to be gifted with one of the hundred named talents.” Her speech reverted to the precisely pruned simplicities of a nursery tutor. “That particular talent comes on them over a period of years and eventually dwarfs the smaller skills that all Dar’Nethi—”
“I know all about the Hundred Talents and coming of age.”
“Hmm . . . well . . .” The woman cleared her throat, disgruntled at my interruption. “Perhaps you also know that enchantments of great difficulty and complexity often cross the boundaries of the hundred?”
I bit my tongue and held patient. “No. Please go on.”
“Well, Arcanists are gifted in such matters. They are quite powerful . . . unusual . . . and often become dangerous, as I’ve said. Garvé is our only living Arcanist. He happens to be off investigating the site of these Zhid attacks just now, but he returns in a few days. If you like, I could ask him to see you.”
“Yes, I’d like that. That would be very kind.”
“I’ll send a message to Mistress Aimee’s house. I should get on with my work now. Everything seems to be taking longer than it should of late.”
“Certainly. You’ve been most helpful. Just one more question before I go.”
V’Rendal had bent her head to her work again, brushing a stubby finger delicately about the ragged border of a page. But she didn’t say I couldn’t ask more.
“I want to speak to those who first encountered the Lady.” Those who witnessed her return to the world of the living might have insights or impressions that had been suppressed by later evidence.
Sighing and pulling a sheet of paper and an ink bottle close to her, V’Rendal wrote out several names. “These are the Gardeners who first spoke to the princess. Come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll send you to their present location—assuming they’ve not pulled out. I’ve a book to send out that way, so I’m having a portal made. Easy enough for the portal-maker to send you on as well, assuming he can get the thing to work at all.”
“Thank you so much for your help, Mistress V’Rendal.”
As the workroom grew suddenly chilly, the Archivist nodded, but did not speak. Enchantment filled the space like a shower of unseen feathers, and the brittle edge of the thin sheet beneath her hand seemed to soften and flow together, as if it were knitting itself together again. But then the shower of enchantment came to an abrupt halt, and she swore at her clumsiness. I pulled open the door and hurried out, closing it softly behind me.
V’Rendal’s portal left me at the dusty village of Megira, a deserted cluster of whitewashed mud-brick buildings once used as a watch post where Dar’Nethi warriors could keep a wary eye on the desert. No permanent settlements existed out so far as yet. The Dar’Nethi had abandoned the security of Avonar and the Vales only slowly after the war, and talk in Avonar said the recent attacks had brought that movement to a halt. V’Rendal’s information said the Gardeners were working somewhere out past Megira, and that I should take the road straight west to find them. I set out walking down a cart track that showed signs of recent use.
The day was warm and windy. Megira sat in gently rolling hills of grass and rock and scrubby trees, but the cart track descended quickly into wide expanses of grass-lands newly claimed from the desert. I wasn’t worried about the Zhid. The recent attacks had occurred far from this region.
Evidently in ancient times, few cities or towns existed in the twelve kingdoms of Gondai beyond the royal cities used for governance. The Dar’Nethi had preferred large, sprawling dwellings sprinkled randomly across the landscape. With the ability to make portals for urgent travel, journeys were for exploration and pleasure, and long guesting was the custom. Dar’Nethi householders had thought nothing of having fifty guests at a time staying a month or more. Those who desired solitude had built themselves retreats in the woodlands, mountains, or open spaces, and warded them with enchantments so that no one would happen across them uninvited. Only since the Catastrophe had the people felt the need to huddle together tightly for safety and survival. And as their talents declined through the centuries, complex skills like portal-making and mind-speaking became beyond most people’s abilities.
After an hour’s walk I caught sight of blue tents billowing and flapping in the warm, gusty wind, small figures moving around dark mounds, and many flat wooden structures. Closer approach showed the dark mounds to be piles of rich earth, and the wooden structures long, rectangular trays of small plants, filled ones scattered all over the area, empty ones piled one upon the other. A number of people were unloading . . . no . . . loading three half-filled wagons with the seedling trays.
“I’ve come to see the Gardener Eu’Vian,” I said to a dirt-streaked young woman who came out to meet me. “My name is Ser . . . S’Rie, and I’ve been sent by the Archivist V’Rendal to interview her.”
“Ah! About the Lady.” The girl offered me one of the water flasks tied to her belt, and I accepted gratefully. “Poor Eu’Vian will be happy when everything is written, and she can retire from celebrity. Usually she’s hounded only when she goes into the city; you’re the first in a while who’s come all this way to meet her. I’m K’Tya.”
The young woman reattached the water flask and tied a red scarf around her hair as she led me into the busy Gardeners’ camp. Sweating men carrying picks, shovels, and small trees nodded as we passed, and women wearing brightly colored shirts, trousers, and scarves bade me a good day as they wheeled barrows filled with dirt and plants out into the dunes.
I hurried to keep up with the young woman. “Archivist V’Rendal is hoping for something—”
“—to make her history superior.” K’Tya finished my thought with an accompanying sigh. “Some new fact. Some new clue. We know. But you’ll find that Eu’Vian is not the kind of person to remember things unevenly. She’ll tell you only what she’s told before. I’ll warn you not to waste her time. We’re awfully busy just now.”
“I saw the wagons.”
She nodded. “Preceptor L’Beres has sent out a notic
e to forward parties like ours, recommending we pull in at least as far as the nearest settlement. We’re trying to get enough done that our newest plantings can survive our absence for a while. Can’t say I’m not a mite nervous with these awful reports coming in so fast, but it tears you apart to leave your work at such a vulnerable stage. The last half-year has been such a struggle.” She slowed and waved to a sturdy woman who was stacking seedling trays onto a small handcart. “Eu’Vian! You’ve a visitor!”
K’Tya’s prediction was exactly correct. The square-jawed woman with whom I sat in the shade of a dusty plane tree quickly demonstrated that her mind was highly organized, and she was unlikely to have forgotten anything. In no more than a quarter of an hour, Eu’Vian had recounted her tale of the young Gardener J’Savan bringing the starving woman with the incredible blue eyes to her camp, where the poor soul grieved for the long-dead king she claimed was her father.
“. . . We fed her and cleaned her and put her to bed. She carried nothing with her but a primitive bronze knife and J’Savan’s water flask. She bore no scars—none visible at least—and no evidence of beatings, torture, or enslavement. We were sure she was mad, yet she touched us so deeply that we wept to see her sorrow.”
“And you took her back to Avonar right away?”
Eu’Vian sat up as straight as a child reciting lessons, her hands folded around a gray stone water flask. She did not fidget as so many do when questioned. “Not for three days. Though we had no Healer among us, she was so weak, you see. We woke her only to give her water and nourishment. On the third day, her madness seemed behind her, and she was already picking up our modern speech. She called for me and asked if she could hold my hand while she asked me a question. Of course, I agreed.”
“And what was the question?”
“She asked how many years it had been since King D’Arnath had died. I hesitated, fearful of her delicate state, as you can well imagine. She spied my reluctance and smiled at me so sadly. ‘Good mistress, I promise I will not retreat into madness,’ she said. ‘As I have lain here enfolded in your kindness, I have searched my memory and concluded that something extraordinary has come to pass. If I am to confront my fate, whether it be truth or enchantment or some disease of my mind, I must know its full compass. So—you spoke of D’Arnath as if he were a being of myth, his life and passing well beyond your own span of years. Tell me, Eu’Vian, how far beyond?’ ”