by Carol Berg
Wishing Jen were awake to tell me in her brittle tutor’s manner that I did it right, I breathed deep and embraced the distorted world, along with the wholeness of past and present, what I was and what I had been, what I had seen and done and felt, both good and evil . . . everything I/we remembered.
The closures of my mind wrenched and tore. Images and voices and sensations both wonderful and terrible surged exuberantly into my conscious mind like a dammed river allowed at last to fill its natural channel. My bones screamed and my flesh cried out, as if I had changed form and dimension, stretched and bent into something else altogether. Power surged into my arms, pushed on my ribs, and scalded my eyes.
Sooner than I could have imagined, pain stripped away the veils of hope and desire and uncertainty, leaving only the stark ruin of truth. And in that startling moment, I understood which of the molds in D’Sanya’s lectorium was significant and I knew what D’Sanya had done. Three worlds were in my hand. Truly, there was no choice to be made.
“Be off to your long-awaited grave, Tormentor’s Heir, Prince of Dead Men, Sovereign of Desolation!” I screamed at my father as I retreated briskly toward the gap. “You are correct that my power and purposes are beyond your weakling fingers. Tonight as your pain devours you and tomorrow as the worms feed on your rotting flesh, you will know that I am indeed Lord of Destruction, Lord of Chaos!”
I shifted the woman higher on my shoulder, turned my back on my father and the gaping mob and a shadowy figure with red-brown hair who now stood at the verge of the crowd watching me. I sped through the gap toward the three Zhid who stood waiting. “In the name of the Lords of Zhev’Na, take me to Gensei Kovrack,” I said, thrusting the woman’s limp body into F’Lyr’s burly arms. “We have a city to destroy.”
CHAPTER 34
Jen
The cellar walls were black with mold. And only a blind optimist would call the brown liquid seeping through the cracks in the stone floor and soaking into my filthy breeches “water.” I let my handlight die. I didn’t need to examine the sagging roof beams or the rotted grain sacks to know how many years had passed since any Dar’Nethi had maintained enchantments of dryness or health in this dismal place and thus how unlikely it was that anyone would find me here. F’Lyr said I was to be left here, nicely out of the way while Lord Dieste and his Zhid could see to the destruction of Avonar.
“I won’t believe it,” I shouted upward in the dark. “I’m not that stupid!”
Yes, Gerick was strange and powerful and kept nine-tenths of his thoughts and feelings locked away where not even Paulo could find them. But he had lived in me. He was not a Lord of Zhev’Na.
The moldy stone smothered my protest. No one was going to hear me. The clammy wall made me shudder as I leaned back on it.
The three Zhid—F’Lyr, Gen’Vyl, and Hy’Lattire, two men and one woman, once generous, kind servants of the hospice—had fended off the weak pursuit of the hospice staff and residents long enough to get us to the stable and mounted. They pulled my hands about F’Lyr’s thick waist and bound them there, and then we rode hard up and over the ridge behind the hospice. I’d not been able to see much of anything with my nose jammed against F’Lyr’s back. I’d let them believe I was still insensible in hopes of hearing something enlightening. Not that listening had done me much good.
Whenever the Zhid began to question—Why had the young Lord not revealed himself earlier? Why had he courted the Lady? Why had he destroyed the oculus?—Gerick snapped at them to be silent. “Do not presume to judge my purposes. Just get me to your commander.”
The sun was not yet up when we rode down into the camp. But I could smell the dawn, and the dry air was the color of ash. A peek from under my drooping eyelids revealed a few tents and fifteen or twenty men and horses tucked into deeply seamed foothills, the rubble-and boulder-strewn slopes where Grithna Ridge met the Wastes.
A tall, lean warrior with thin red hair combed back from a high forehead stood waiting for us. Diagonally across his chest he wore an elaborately worked leather strap, the mark of a gensei—a general in the warrior legions of Zhev’Na. An ascetic face, sharp-edged and hard like the granite crags. His lips curled in anger and suspicion. I did not need to examine either his costume or his eyes to know him Zhid.
“I know not how to greet you after our last encounter,” he said, as Gerick reined in at the boundary of the encampment. “I know not what you are. No master of Zhev’Na would permit his loyal servants’ strength to be stripped away by a woman who was once a slave—the Tormentor’s brat, at that.”
Gerick dismounted easily. He gave his horse’s reins to Gen’Vyl, then clasped his hands behind his back and strolled toward the red-haired man as if he had come here for a month’s guesting. Though still wearing torn and bloodstained clothes, his body moved with the confident grace of a king born. He turned his head as if to survey the camp, fixing his attention on the red-haired Zhid only when he stood directly front of him. Then, in a movement so swift I could almost feel the air shatter, he grabbed the neck of the Zhid’s tunic and twisted it tightly, forcing the man to bend his knees and drawing the Zhid’s face close to his own.
“I am your Lord,” he said in a voice that could have frozen the southern oceans. “Your master. The Three of Zhev’Na chose me to be their Fourth, their instrument, their Destroyer. Their glory resides in me, and your proper greeting is to pay me the homage and obedience they demanded of you for seven centuries. Do otherwise and I will draw your bowels out through your ears. Or shall I throttle your heart once more to still your insolent tongue?” Gerick’s left hand pointed at the ground. “Kneel and look into my eyes, and then tell me again of your beliefs.”
The red-haired Zhid dropped to his knees, whether from fear, from deference, or from lack of breath, I could not determine. No, not deference. His nostrils flared as he raised his eyes to meet Gerick’s. For a moment the air felt as if the sun had winked out, never to return. Then the Zhid fell prostrate in the dirt.
From the quivering stiffness of F’Lyr’s spine my custodian, at least, had no further doubts. I forced myself to remain slumped against his sweaty back, keeping my jaw slack and my eyelids open only a slit.
The gensei’s groveling apologies came with gasps and shudders. “We could not see your plan, Lord Dieste,” he babbled. “We heard so many tales of the last day—the day of our shame. Tales of your death. Of your treachery . . .”
“On the day my brothers and sister fell, I was weakened as well,” Gerick said, “and forced to go into hiding. But let me be clear. I will have my vengeance and retake my inheritance. I’ve spent these years regaining my strength and studying my enemies, and now I am ready to reveal myself to both Dar’Nethi and Zhid. Patience and stealth. Subtlety in hatred. Thoughtful vengeance. Are these not the virtues you taught me in the camps of Zhev’Na, Gensei Kovrack?”
“Aye, Lord. I beg you allow me to serve you. Command me, Lord.”
Gerick nudged the Zhid’s shoulder with his boot. “Before I can regain my rightful place, we must recapture the Tormentor King’s spawn.”
“Of course, Lord Dieste.” Kovrack squirmed up to his knees. “But she serves us well as she is. She made the avantirs for us, and imbues them with such power that we can use them ourselves. When you destroyed the oculus, it fueled our doubts. . . .”
“I will tolerate no rival to my power.” Gerick spoke to all the Zhid who had gathered behind their gensei. Though his back was to me now, I could see the progress of his gaze as it roved over the cadre—a quailing shiver and then a stiffened spine as his notice passed to the next warrior. “The Dar’Nethi witch has attuned her devices to her own enchantments, not mine, so I will destroy them all and have her begin again . . . in my service. Our first priority is to take her captive. Your inept attempt in Avonar forced me to kill five of my own warriors. Such incompetence will reap an unhappy reward should it occur again. Once the woman is mine, she will cast me a new oculus and new eyes, and this world will recognize
its master. Now, show me the avantirs.”
Gerick ordered F’Lyr and his two companions to remain as they were and vanished into the largest tent. Several Zhid came and went. One scurried away and returned with an armload of scrolls; another fetched a dark bundle that might have been clothes. An endless hour of frightening nothing. The sun burned off the dawn haze and roasted my back. F’Lyr had to fight to steady his restless horse. When a woman warrior carried two frosted pitchers past us and into the tent, I could not suppress a moan.
“Are you awake, girl?” F’Lyr twisted his head around, but couldn’t have seen much.
“She must’ve taken quite a whack on the head,” said Hy’Lattire from behind me. “Don’t know why he keeps her.” Her spirit was no warmer than that of any other Zhid.
“He told me that he desired her to be his first collaring.” F’Lyr’s voice rumbled through his sweaty back. “She was his first collaring when he came to Zhev’Na, he said, and she squealed so pleasantly. Says it will repay her for her incessant whining.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and did not move again.
The day grew hotter. I was horribly thirsty and dozed off several times. Having received no permission from their Lord, the three Zhid did not drink either.
When Gerick stepped out of the tent, he was dressed in sleek black—a sleeveless shirt, tight breeches, and knee-high boots. A light cloak fell from his shoulders, and gold armrings glinted in the sunlight. One by one, every Zhid in the camp came to pay him homage, kneeling before him to kiss his scarred palms, pledging blood and bone to his cause.
“It is time to rebuild Zhev’Na,” he said when they stood in ranks again, Gensei Kovrack at their head. “Time to grind this Avonar to dust. Time to obliterate the Bridge of Bondage once and forever.”
The Zhid cheered. Gerick did not acknowledge them, but motioned sharply to Kovrack.
The gensei drew a circle in the dust with his sword. Faster than I could believe, Gerick had created a quivering rectangle in the air. How had he recovered so much power since we had destroyed the oculus? I shivered. Perhaps he was just getting better at it.
“Send out word,” Gerick said to Kovrack. “I will see every commander and adjutant before nightfall. Senat and Felgir first. Then will I play the music of the avantirs and set the hounds of war on the Lady and her minions. Remember who commands you now.”
With a motion of his hand he raised a whirlwind of dust, and the camp, the Zhid, and the wasteland vanished behind us.
I hadn’t believed a word Gerick had said. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t, because I could see no way for Gondai to survive if he had betrayed us after all.
We had ridden through the portal from the bright sun through the blinding dust storm into a dim, cavernous space near a river. The smell of fish and river wrack had overpowered even F’Lyr’s steaming aura of stable sweepings and unwashed flesh and my own ripeness. I had been almost grateful when they dropped me into this slime pit before I could blink the grit from my eyes. I didn’t want to see where we were.
I drew up my knees and wrapped my arms around them, shivering as the dripping seepage marked the passing time. Surely not Avonar. Surely Gerick had not opened a Zhid portal into the City of Light. . . .
Creaking floorboards above my head jogged me awake. No way to know how long I’d been asleep. Groggy, the bump on my head throbbing in time with my sluggish heart, I sat up, wiped the slime off my cheek, and cast a handlight. I didn’t want to be blinded if they opened the trap above my head. But after a while, I let the light dim again. Evidently more important business than me was going on up there.
Heavy footsteps came and went. I paced the length and breadth of the cellar, trying to work out the cramps and stiffness, trying to be ready for whatever came. But it only served to make me feel filthier when I sat down in the slime again.
As the hours passed, my light faded completely, and the chill and damp became one with my bones. Shimmering at the edge of remembrance was the image of a block-like structure—a warehouse?—nestled on the bank of the Sillvain, tucked between the stone support pillars of a graceful bridge in the heart of Avonar. First Bridge, I thought. Perhaps Second.
I could neither recall the significance of the place nor estimate what brought it to mind just now. Perhaps it was the damp or the river. Perhaps it was the building above my head. Yet I hadn’t seen the outside of my prison. The portal lay inside this building. More likely my brain was bent from all the mental contortions of the past two days. I was fortunate not to be a raving idiot after touching an oculus.
I lay on my side, curled up in a knot with my head buried in my arms, sick with hunger and the stink. When the image of a spindly tower at one corner of the Heir’s palace settled itself in my head like a gently falling leaf, I sat up again, my heart picking up speed. All right, I thought. I see it.
Ven’Dar. The name floated in the dank darkness like a new constellation along with an overpowering urgency.
I was incapable of mind-speaking, but that wouldn’t prevent someone else from speaking to me in that way or listening to what I might be thinking. Though truly, what I perceived was not so much direct speech, which could always be detected by other capable sorcerers, as occasional, concentrated reflections of another person’s thoughts, something like the sun-glints off a gold coin flipped in the air. I couldn’t even be sure the contact was intentional. I closed my eyes and made sure I left no barriers to further communication.
A short while later I envisioned a ruin—broken columns and walls set in the heart of a maze of overgrown shrubs, broken arbors, and ponds that held only weed-choked puddles. A deserted bathhouse by the look of it. The view of Mount Siris just behind the structure located it in the neglected lower-east quarter of Avonar. Portal.
This image was immediately supplanted by another, this time a quiet shrine where, in ancient times, a massive representation of Vasrin had been carved directly into the white cliffs. Some centuries past, a section of Avonar’s city wall had been moved outward to encompass the shrine, so rather than creating a straight barrier across a gradual, treeless slope, the wall took several awkward turnings through a forested gorge and up a steeper, rocky hillside to join the older wall. Even one unschooled in warfare could see the danger of the shadowed gorge and the cliffside looming so close to a defensive bulwark. Compromised.
The bustle of activity in the room above my head lessened, replaced by the pervasive pressure of enchantment. Whatever this working, it left me as sick and anxious as the oculus had. Now I understood Gerick’s description of his perceptions: the world felt profoundly wrong.
An hour passed. No more images intruded on my thinking, only doubts. It was well known that mold, rot, and unmaintained enchantments carried fumes and diseases that could cause madness. But I preferred to think that someone had been trying to tell me something important. Though I recognized nothing of Gerick in these visions, I clung fiercely to the belief that he was responsible.
Truly, what more sign of madness did I need? Despite every protestation of the past weeks, the gnawing terror in my belly was not solely care for Avonar. Back at the hospice when we were joined, when he took the burden of destroying the oculus from me, he had spoken my name. He had given life and meaning to those common syllables as if they defined something unique and important.
I pounded a fist on my head to jar my thoughts into sensible paths. Crazed or not, I needed to describe these visions to someone who knew what to do with them. I cast my handlight as bright as I could manage and began to hunt for a way out of the cellar.
The cracked stone walls offered no escape, so I quickly turned my attention to the ceiling. My captors had used no ladder or stair to deposit me here, but dropped me through a hole in the floor. The rusty hinges and the outline of the square trapdoor were easily visible. A man of average height stretched on his toes could have touched them.
I dragged the sacks of moldy grain into a pile underneath the door, climbed up, and stretched high. The tips of
my fingers brushed the hinges. Then one of the sacks gave way. I lost my footing and crashed facedown on the disgusting floor. Three times I restacked the stinking mound, but the rotted sacks disintegrated underneath me. I never even touched the door again.
“May holy Vasrin unshape your balls, arrigh scheiden,” I yelled, kicking the pile until the blighted grain became a putrid muck on the seeping floor.
Trampling footsteps overhead sent me cowering to the corner. But the door didn’t open. Instead, as if the contents of my skull had been excised to make room, an explosion of images slammed into my head one after another: a vast chamber . . . a dome of light . . . soaring columns of pearl gray and rose . . . a towering beast of bronze . . . a curtain of blinding white fire with a woman—D’Sanya—standing inside it. No sooner had these resolved themselves into a coherent whole than came the holocaust—fire and death, the columns cracked and fallen, the white fire quenched in blood, the glory shattered. The walls crumbled and fell in a deafening thunder and beyond I saw Avonar a reeking ruin. Trailers of smoke rose from charred rubble into a sooty sky. In all this vast expanse of horror only the bronze beast remained whole.
In moments, the vision was gone, winked out as if it had never been. The footsteps died away; the enchantment that had made my teeth hurt evaporated; and I sagged to the fouled floor, sobbing in the empty silence. The world was going to end because I was a wretched runt.
I might have fallen asleep again. It was difficult to tell in the endless dark. But a soft scrabbling noise above my head prompted me to my feet, as much so I wouldn’t feel a rat scutter across me as with any further pretense of being prepared to defend myself. Though I saw no light, a soft infusion of fresh air set my heart racing.
A muffled grunt, a slow sliding of wood on wood, and a dark shape invaded my prison and came to rest on the pile of grain sacks. A ladder. Even if the stealthy approach had not signaled an ally, I would not have hesitated to scurry up. Better to die in the open than in such a foul hole.