Daughter of Ancients

by Carol Berg

  “Stormcloud is the strongest,” said Gerick, answering. “He’ll carry two and still outrace the wind.”

  Paulo dipped his head and turned briskly to me. “How far will we be needing to ride?”

  Though Aimee would need to direct him to a specific destination, I found paper and sketched out the route to the Wastes north of Erdris and the Pylathian Vale, reviewed the questions Paulo might be asked at the city gates in time of war, and stuffed every other warning and precaution I could think of into his head.

  Without interrupting, Gerick found us a flask of wine and brought cold meat pastries from the larder. Paulo and I ate and drank as we talked. Gerick unwound the dirty bandages from his hands and threw them into the fire, then sat on the hearth stool, sipped wine, and watched us. His own meal remained untouched. Just as the clocks chimed nine times—the hour before third watch—lights flared and a clamor of voices rose on the far side of the garden wall. I hoped we hadn’t waited too long.

  “Sounds like I’d best be off,” Paulo said, pulling on his long, dark cloak. “Can’t keep a lady waiting.”

  “I can’t make a portal for you,” said Gerick. “I would, but—”

  “You need to save everything for what needs doing. You know I’d rather ride anyway. You know. . . .”

  Paulo extended one hand, but Gerick had already moved to the garden door and cracked it open, alert to the moving lights and activity beyond the garden walls. After a moment, he motioned urgently to Paulo. “Go now. They’ve moved around the corner to the street that fronts the house.”

  “Have a care, Paulo,” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We’ll do the same.”

  He tore his gaze from Gerick’s back and transferred it to me. His worried expression communicated a great deal more than his words. “You do that, Jen. I trust you.”

  I followed him to the door and watched as he hurried toward the back of the garden and vanished into the night. As the stableyard gate clicked shut, I cast a small diversion spell, the most powerful enchantment I could work, a child’s favorite, easily countered by alert parents. But the watchers abroad tonight would be looking for Gerick’s lanky friend who had been seen frequently at Aimee’s house and the guesthouse in Gaelie. I didn’t want him followed.

  Gerick spun around and stared at me. “What did you just do?” he snapped. “If you’ve harmed him . . .”

  “Nothing! Only a child’s diversion spell. If anyone notices him as he rides out of the alley, they’ll think he’s much smaller than he is. More my size. And if that observer allows himself to be distracted and look away, he’ll forget which way Paulo’s gone. Those two guards weren’t happy about leaving me here, and I’m thinking they might have left someone to watch.”

  I went back into the house and dropped onto the couch, muttering as much to myself as to him. “What do I have to do to make you trust me?”

  He followed me in, stopping just inside the door. “I’m sorry. Of course I trust you. Paulo trusts you.”

  He shut his mouth and I thought that was all he was going to say. But after a moment, he leaned his back against the door, brushed back a lock of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes, and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s just . . . ever since I’ve come to Gondai, Dar’-Nethi enchantments have felt wrong to me, distorted, like hearing music that’s too shrill or biting into a sugar cake to find it salty and bitter. I’ve assumed it was just me; Zhev’Na skewed my perceptions of sorcery, of people, of the world. But I hoped that now I understood more about the Dar’Nethi . . . all I experienced with you in the desert . . . things might feel right here. But it’s even worse. Something is wrong in this city. Every enchantment here is wrong. The air is wrong.”

  Well, something was certainly wrong. My spirits, lifted by daring plans and successful diversions, had fallen as flat as street paving. I felt angry and irritable, and I wanted to yell at him that he was indeed a Zhidmentored bastard, because no one else would send a friend like Paulo into mortal danger without even looking at him.

  But we didn’t have time to explore Gerick’s peculiarities or his megrims or my own. The street noise was getting louder.

  “I’ve too little sensitivity to enchantment to tell you anything,” I grumbled. “But I do know we need to be on our way. Are you ready?”

  He threw me my cloak, stepped to the center of the room, and picked up a kitchen knife from the tray of dishes, turning the blade over and over in his hand and staring at it. After a moment, he looked up at me. “Will Paulo and Aimee make it to Je’Reint, do you think?”

  “Nothing’s certain. But Aimee will watch out for him, and he for her. They are two people easily underestimated. A good match, I think.” Unlike certain other incongruous pairings.

  I drained my wineglass and stood up. “So where are we going first? The Lady or her device? By foot, horse, or will?”

  The last was one of those smug Dar’Nethi expressions that avoided asking, How talented are you? Those who could travel at will, of course, were those powerful enough to make portals. Those who could do magic enough to keep such fragile, beautiful beings as horses would travel that way. Those like me traveled on foot . . . unless they were in more talented company.

  Gerick squatted down in the middle of Aimee’s bright blue rug, extended his arm, and touched the point of the knife blade to the weaving. “The hospice first. The oculus is there. And perhaps we can find something to give us a clue about any other device she’s made. She told me many times that she could work only in her own lectorium.”

  Pivoting smoothly on his feet, like a clock spring unwinding, he scribed a circle of split stitches in the rug with the blade. “We’ll have to hope she’s not there. I didn’t do so well facing her last time. Even with a bit more power to hand . . .”

  He threw down the implement, and I watched his mind turn inward and focus on the task. Mark the lefthand orientation. Then the right. Stand exactly between, in the center of the circle. He had learned well, even remembering what I’d told him about making tight circles and quick progress through the steps if you wanted a portal that would open and close quickly. No trace of the portal must remain for D’Sanya’s searchers to find.

  Ah, good Sefaro, you fathered an idiot! I had forgotten to set the door wards as I’d promised Aimee. Anyone in Gondai could walk into this house without warning or hindrance. Leaving Gerick to his work, I ran through three dining rooms and the silent kitchen, where tall ovens and broad tables, ghostly in the dark, stood sentinel for their brave mistress. Not daring a handlight, I hurried to the end of the back passage. There I passed my hand over the thick wooden door—two half-doors, as it happened—hunting for the ring or knob or swatch of fabric that would hold the protective enchantments. During the war years every householder in Gondai had ready door wards, available for the least talented occupant to set. There . . . a loop of braided silk that felt cool and prickled my arm when I touched it. A tug, a word of attachment, and it was done.

  I raced back through the house, glancing through the sitting-room doorway as I passed. Gerick’s dark form was scarcely visible in front of a dark oval outlined by a silver thread. His hands stretched toward the developing portal, palms facing each other and slightly apart. Not long now.

  But too long perhaps. Fists hammered on the great double doors that led to the street. Frantically I searched for the ward trigger.

  “Open in the name of the Heir of D’Arnath!” yelled a man outside the door.

  “Just push in,” snapped a woman with a voice like a stone grinder. “She’s harbored the devil.”

  While one of my arms swept carefully over the expanse of the door, my other hand fumbled around the elaborate door frame. Ridiculous, I’d thought when I first saw it: birds, beasts, dips and swirls carved into the wood; smooth pieces of ivory, faceted gems, and rounded nubs of brass, inlaid as eyes and tusks and the contents of magical treasure chests. Come on, Jen, where is it? Surely they wouldn’t have put the trigger at the top of the do
or, out of my reach. The metal inlays were cold, chilled by the outside air leaking around the doors.

  “But this is Gar’Dena’s house,” the man protested, “one of the oldest families in the city. Just one of his daughters—the blind girl—lives here.”

  “The devil was seen here,” said the harsh-voiced woman. “His mother, too. Old families can be turned, and the Lady commands us search this house in particular.”

  My hand stopped on a small faceted knob that felt like glass or gemstone, colder by far than all rest of them. It moved at my touch.

  Hands rattled the door latch.

  I slid the glass knob left, spoke an attachment word, and the door panels grew warm.

  “Ouch! By the holy Way, it’s burnt my skin off!” The man outside was growling. “Bring G’Ston to deal with the door wards.”

  I relaxed, sighing with relief and resting my back against the doors, just warm to one on the inside. Now if Gerick would just hurry.

  “We don’t need G’Ston,” said the woman. “See who’s coming!”

  “Make way!” someone cried amid a welcoming clamor.

  “Your Grace, the door is warded. It will burn—”

  “Is anyone inside?” You could not mistake the Lady’s voice. Her speech floated through the air like gossamer, telling every listener that he or she was the most important person in the world.

  “We’ve had no answer, Your Grace. But I’ve—”

  “Stand aside.” Her mind’s fingers reached through the door and through my skin and bones, searching for a beating heart or thinking mind—powerful, angry fingers, belying the kindness in her voice. My spirit drew up into a hard little knot and shrank into the darkest corner of my soul as if I were a slave child again. The fingers grabbed nothing and passed on. But Gerick was focused on enchantment, not defense. She would find him.

  I wrenched my back from the door and ran, resisting the urge to scream for Gerick to hurry. Distracting him at this point was the last thing I wished. He just needed time to finish. I paused for a moment, peering about the dark entry hall. Across the cavernous place stood a bronze statue of Vasrin, a sinuous body half again Paulo’s height, the head cast to show the traditional opposing male and female faces. In the right hand was uplifted the flame of the Creator and in the left was the distaff of the Shaper—a nice long rod that stood loosely in the graceful bronze hand. The bronze winding of “wool” at one end would make a nice club.

  I yanked the distaff from the curled bronze fingers and sped to the sitting room. The oval portal boundary shimmered in the darkness; objects in the distant place . . . trees, shrubs, a brick wall . . . were just beginning to take form in a whirling murk. Gerick stood with his hands upraised.

  From the front of the house, the entry doors rattled and thundered in their frames. Gerick’s head and shoulders jerked slightly, and his arms stiffened, but his hands did not fall and he did not turn around.

  Good! Hold your concentration. I stood where I could see both Gerick’s portal and the passage from the entry hall, raised the bronze shaft, and . . . felt ridiculous. What did I think I was going to do with my weapon? Bludgeon D’Sanya in the head after her fingers had torn into Gerick’s mind? Cursing my foolishness, I closed the sitting-room doors carefully and jammed the bronze distaff through the door handles. Then I pressed my body against the doors, gripped the staff firmly with my hands and my will, and prayed Gerick to be done quickly. I hadn’t power to hold a hiding spell for more than moments.

  “The Fourth Lord is here! Find him!” D’Sanya’s command could have pierced the prison walls of Feur Desolé.

  Clattering boots. Shouts. Jangling chimes and crashing pottery. A quick probe of sorcery pushed into my enchantment like a sword tip bulging a tent canvas. And my shield gave way just as quickly as that canvas would succumb to a honed blade. All I could do now was hold the door shut.

  “Now!” shouted Gerick from behind me. “Come on!”

  A crash shook the door, jarring my head and neck. “Step through,” I said through my teeth. “Start shutting it down. Remember the count. Do it!”

  Remember the steps. For speed, keep the rhythm steady and fast. One, encompass the portal. Two, sweep the hand . . .

  “Move aside.” The woman’s voice on the far side of the door was deadly.

  Five, draw power . . .

  Cracks appeared in the fine wooden door, and my bones felt as if they must crack as well. My will softened like hot wax. The fingers of enchantment reached through me, but Gerick should be out of range by now.

  Six, infuse the enchantment . . .

  On seven, I released the bronze staff and bolted for the fading portal. My stomach lurched as I passed through. The new reality slammed into my mind. Thorny branches entangled my flailing limbs. And as I glanced over my shoulder at the fading image of Aimee’s favorite room, a livid Princess D’Sanya swept into the sitting room and screamed, “Destroyer!” Then the image winked out.

  I sagged into a heap. My ragged mind whirled: scratched skin, hammered head, torn clothing, unlikely scents of roses, of smoke, of wine, of night air. Indoors, outdoors. Tangling branches, cracking wood, smooth bronze . . . cold . . . hot . . . My face was very near damp earth. A lovely smell. And faded roses. Thorns stabbed my stomach and my neck. I seemed to be suspended in a giant rose bush.

  “Ow!” Someone ripped away a thorny branch that took part of my sleeve with it and then another that took some of my hair, evoking tears that dribbled across my forehead. Long past time to hack the hair off again. Gets tangled in everything. Hands reached under my arms and effortlessly hauled me to my feet. Why couldn’t I haul people out of tangled messes without effort?

  “A good job, do you think?” He spun me around and picked the dead leaves from my wretchedly filthy, and now ripped, tunic. “Tight circle to make it short-lived. Oval for fast closure. Counted the steps. Steady, as you told me. Brilliantly done on your part, I’ll say. I don’t think she saw where we were going.”

  “A good job,” I said, trying to step backward to distance myself from the formidable enchanter who was brushing the dirt and tears from my face with a gentle hand. The rosebush pricked steadfastly at the back of my soggy knees. “The closure was perfectly timed, but a faster opening would have saved us some bother.”

  His laughter was genuine, but brittle-edged, his body as tight-wound as a soldier’s on battle’s eve. His eyes roamed the dark little garden—a garden that smelled like old leaves and fading blooms, withered and dry though it was only summer’s end. Behind him rose the charming brick edifice of D’Sanya’s house, where an oculus spun out its web of corrupt enchantment. The moon bulged above the hills behind the house, gleaming as if the vile implement itself were coming out to meet us.

  “We should find a place to rest,” I said. “I could catch my breath while you go warn—”

  “I can’t warn him.” His movements as brisk and tight as his speech, he stepped aside so I could detach myself from the rosebush. “My father can’t hear me speak in his mind, and we daren’t delay. D’Sanya could be here at any moment.”

  “But—”

  Before I could articulate my disagreement, a long thin hand fell on Gerick’s shoulder from out of the rose bower. “Indeed, young Lord, the Lady has sent word for me to be vigilant and notify her immediately should I see her one-time lover sneaking into her house. And now here you are!”

  The shadowy figure was tall and lean—Na’Cyd, the consiliar who once was Zhid.

  CHAPTER 32

  Having watched Gerick’s training in Zhev’Na, I was not surprised to see how fast he took down Na’Cyd. He clamped one hand on the consiliar’s wrist, spun, and ducked under their linked arms. A firm two-handed lock on Na’Cyd’s arm and shoulder, a violent shove, and the lean, gray man was on his belly before I could ensure my toes were out of the way. Gerick straddled his back, twisting the consiliar’s arm upward at a wholly unpleasant angle.

  “Tell me the name of your master,” Gerick said,
as he locked Na’Cyd’s neck in the crook of his elbow and wrenched it backward.

  Gerick would not be able to see Na’Cyd’s thin lips stretch into a smile. “You’ve given me an unwinnable test, young Lord,” he wheezed. “You are the Fourth Lord of Zhev’Na. If I name you as my master, does it not prove I have no soul? On the other hand, if I name D’Arnath’s Heir as my . . . mistress . . . will it prove I am restored? I am not a good liar. So, if I say I serve only Gondai, you will detect the lie and will not trust me. If I say that I serve only my own purposes, you will detect no lie, yet you will not trust one who cannot declare loyalty in this war. A conundrum to be sure.”

  “You twist words.”

  “But Zhid are not allowed to twist words in answer to your particular question, are they? And so, my twisted answer proves me. I am not Zhid. Who is your master, young Lord?”

  Gerick dragged the consiliar’s head back even farther and jerked it sideways, so that I could see the sinews in the man’s neck straining even in the dark. “Look into his eyes, Jen,” said Gerick through clenched teeth. “They cannot mask their lack of a soul when they’re this close to death.”

  I knelt in front of them. The rising moon lit Na’Cyd’s face. Though he struggled to breathe, the consiliar’s expression remained unafraid. And from his light gray eyes, an angry and defiant soul stared back at me.

  “He is not Zhid.”

  “Then what are you, Na’Cyd?” Gerick loosened his grip only enough that the man could speak.

  “I am a man who should have died in his bed six hundred and fifty years ago. The universe, in its perverse humor, did not permit that. Allow me to get up, and I’ll tell you more. Or kill me. It’s all the same to me.”

  “You killed Cedor.”