by Carol Berg
“Please believe me,” I said. “We wish no harm to either of you.”
“My grandmother took me to a sorcerer-burning when I was a child. She said it was ‘necessary” for me to learn of it. And so I did. Nothing is worth the risk of such a death: not sorcery, not you, not princes who’ve lost their minds. I care only for my grandmother. If you mean what you say, then go away and leave her be.“
“You say you care for her, but it’s clear you don’t care enough,” I said. Kellea had not chosen her time well, not when the truth of the dream was so fresh in my mind. “You’ve chosen your own path. Good enough. But you deprive your grandmother of the same dignity. Is it because she’s old? Is she incapable? You’ve listened to no lesson she’s taught, if you set yourself up to make her choices for her.”
“Ah yes, the holy ‘Way of the J’Ettanne,” “ said the girl, sneering. ”Well, I despise their Way. I will not submit to my “fate,” and I will not let you endanger my grandmother. You don’t know. You didn’t see it.“
The arguments might have come from my own mouth. And only on this day did I have any reason to refute them. “But I have seen it. The one I saw burn was my husband whom I loved beyond anything on earth, and I had to let him do it.”
Kellea shook her head. “You’re a fool.”
“Yes, I was a fool, but only because I didn’t trust the choices he made. I could see only the horror and grief that would result from them. He believed there was more. I’m still not sure he was right—perhaps the universe does have some larger pattern that I just can’t see—but it was not my place to judge.”
“Kellea?” The dry voice floated from the window.
“One moment, Grandmother.”
At Celine’s call, Kellea’s sword point drooped only a hair’s breadth from its ready position, but it was enough for D’Natheil. In a motion as quick and fluid as a dancer’s, he snatched the weapon and laid it on the brick paving stones beside Kellea’s feet, bowing in mock courtesy. We left her fuming in the courtyard while the four of us walked into her kitchen and through a hallway to Celine’s door.
“Come in, come in,” said the old woman. The evening breeze carried the fragrances from the courtyard planters through the sitting-room window, and a white china lamp painted with pink flowers cast rosy shadows over the walls, leaving the boundaries of her little domain indistinct. “Forgive us. My granddaughter is headstrong.”
“She loves you very much,” I said.
“I wish—Well, perhaps someday she will find joy in her talent and her life. So this is our mysterious pair?”
The Dulcé and the Prince stood on either side of me, while Tennice crowded the passageway behind us. “Madame Celine, this is Baglos of the Dulcé”—Baglos bowed with great dignity, one arm behind his back, and Celine nodded graciously in return—“and this is D’Natheil, whom Baglos tells us is a prince of the royal house of Avonar.” The Prince stood stiff and expressionless. Wary, I thought. Uncertain. I hoped the season stayed calm.
“Please excuse my lack of courtesy, Your Grace,” said Celine, beckoning D’Natheil closer, deftly ignoring his rudeness. “Once I’m installed in my chair, not even royalty can dislodge me. And I’ve a serious lack of thrones here. You’ll have to sit upon your own dignity.” She tapped one slippered foot on the floor in front of her.
Baglos looked slightly shocked, but translated the old woman’s words for D’Natheil. The young man listened gravely, then stepped out of the shadows, sat himself on the bare wood at Celine’s feet, and bestowed upon the old Healer the gift of his smile.
“Oh, my,” she said, raising her eyebrows and laying her dry fingers on his cheek. “What sorcery is this? I didn’t doubt your words, Seri, but this… this is beyond your telling. Beyond wonder. Can you not see—?” She glanced sharply at me. “No, perhaps not. Kellea!”
The girl appeared in the doorway, her complexion an unflattering blotchy red.
“Kellea, dear one, I want you beside me tonight.”
While I settled myself on a footstool beside the door, and Tennice folded his long limbs onto the floor beside me, Celine rocked gently in her chair, quietly staring at the not-at-all-self-conscious D’Natheil. Kellea took up a position beside the window, standing with her back pressed against the wall and her arms folded tightly across her breast.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Celine asked D’Natheil, when we were still.
Baglos, positioned immediately behind his master, translated quietly. The Prince kept his attention on Celine and nodded in response. The Dulcé managed this so smoothly, one could almost think that D’Natheil and Celine were speaking with each other directly.
“And you consent to it? You give me permission to enter your mind and relate to these people whatever I find there?”
D’Natheil nodded again.
“Seri has told you that this may help you regain your memory. That’s possible. If some physical ailment is hindering your memory or your speech, I can almost warrant success. I am very good at such things. But what I feel in you… There is much in you that is not of you.” She sipped from a porcelain teacup, and then returned it to the small table next her chair. “Well, we shall see. You will know whatever I find. I’ll reflect each image I discover. Just nod your head if it’s familiar, and we’ll go on. When we find something that is new to you, I’ll tell the others. If there comes a time when you wish me to stop—I understand you cannot speak, but just think your intent, form it clearly in your mind—and I’ll hear you. Do you understand?”
Once more, the Prince agreed.
The old woman put a wrinkled hand on either side of D’Natheil’s head. Interesting, I thought, as the familiar tension began to vibrate throughout the room, how those who feared sorcery believed it came through the eyes, while Celine, like Karon, closed hers to begin her work. After a while she blinked them open, and D’Natheil dipped his head. Another while and he nodded again. So it continued. Silently. Forever, it seemed, until Celine abruptly yanked her hands away. She shuddered, sat back in her cushioned chair, and dropped her hands into her lap, the wrinkles on her brow very deep indeed. “Powers of earth, what’s happened to you?” Only the rosy light gave color to the old woman’s soft wrinkles, and her eyes wrapped the Prince in an embrace of sympathy and concern.
“I’ve found no memory he does not recognize,” she said. “The only images in his mind are those you’ve shared. Indeed, I can find no person here, no history, no hidden life. I sought out his earliest memory: fierce, biting cold and immense confusion, an overarching certainty of danger. The next thing he knows is your face, Seri, frightened, angry, in a forest near a stream—a stark, powerful image, as if a knife blade had pierced his head. But we know that was only a few weeks ago, and so I started again at the cold and reversed direction. But when I go backward, I find only darkness. A well of darkness. Terror, confusion, loss… holy goddess mother, such dreadful emptiness.”
“But isn’t this what you’d expect from one whose memory is damaged?” said Tennice, voicing my own question.
“Not at all. With one whose memory is damaged, I would find traces, threads from the hidden life. I could follow them into the dark part of the mind and work to heal the injury. But not with this one. It’s as if he were newborn from chaos at the time he met Seri. He is as you see him, unless”—she leaned forward again and laid two trembling fingers on D’Natheil’s cheek—“unless this enchantment I sense is responsible. If I could unravel the enchantment, heal whatever damage it has done, then perhaps we could learn more.”
D’Natheil listened carefully while Baglos repeated all of this, then motioned to the old woman to continue.
“This will be more difficult,” Celine said to D’Natheil. “Once we start, we must go to the end of it. No stopping, no changing course.” Her expression was drawn with worry, and, as if to soothe herself, she stroked his hair. I was surprised he allowed it, but indeed, he smiled for her again.
Celine’s eyes widened. “Oh,
my son, what miracle has brought you to us? Whatever I find in you, it will not be all of you, I think.” She reached into the sewing basket that sat beside her chair and pulled out a tiny silver knife and a strip of white linen. “This is the way we’ll have to do it, the only way I know to heal this deeper hurt.”
Celine locked gazes with D’Natheil, and he held out his arm to her. Then she opened her arms wide, and my heart swelled as she began the J’Ettanni invocation. I whispered the words along with her. “Life, hold. Stay your hand. Halt your foot ere it lays another step along the Way. Grace your daughter once more with your voice that whispers in the deeps, with your spirit that sings in the wind, with the fire that blazes in your wondrous gifts of joy and sorrow. Fill my soul with light, and let the darkness make no stand in this place.”
D’Natheil did not even blink when the old woman scored his muscled arm with her little knife. When she had done the same to her own left arm, so scarred that no bit of flesh remained untouched, she deftly bound her paper-skinned limb to the strong young one. “J’den encour, my son.”
Celine might have been the only person in the Prince’s universe. Curiosity and urgency defined every line of his body. Celine’s eyes were closed, her only motion the constant, gentle nodding of her white head. About the time I came to the conclusion that this attempt, too, must come to nothing, the old woman’s eyes popped open in astonishment, and in my head resonated a voice and a presence that belonged to no one in that room.
Let your ears be opened, D’Natheil, my honored prince, my beloved son. I trust this message finds you well and among friends. Know that it was never my desire to cause you the distress and confusion that cloud your mind, though it is the inevitable result of what I have done to you. Small comfort, I know, since you cannot remember me. If we succeed in our plan, then you will know my reasons; if we do not, then you will be beyond the Verges, and such trivial questions will be moot. I do not apologize, for I had no alternatives.
I had never heard such a voice, its timbre the image of thunder and wind, bearing within it a complexity of love, wisdom, and monumental pride. Everyone in the room heard the same, I judged. A pale Tennice slammed his hands to his ears. Kellea opened her mouth and stared at the Prince with revulsion. Baglos leaped to his feet, backing away from D’Natheil and Celine, hissing, “Dassine!”
To you, friends of D’Natheil, who have found a way to unlock this message, my gratitude and admiration. By your deeds you bolster our last hope. Some say it is unwise to trust any but our own with the knowledge I give you, but our days grow short. Now you have come this far, I must believe that you, whom I have entrusted with our future, are able and willing to do what must be done next. And so my words are meant for you as well as D’Natheil.
The man lived in my head as truly as did my own thoughts… a cool morning… a dove cooing mournfully from a garden beyond an open door… fat dripping into a cooking fire … I would have sworn that I heard and smelled and felt his surroundings as truly as I smelled Celine’s flowers and felt the shifting airs of the mild Vallorean evening.
My name is Dassine. I am a Preceptor of Gondai, and I dwell in the city of Avonar, from whence I have sent this D’Natheil and the Dulcé who is his Guide. With the release of this enchantment that I have buried inside you, my prince, you will know how to unlock the knowledge of the Dulcé. If you have not yet learned of our history, of the Catastrophe that we have wrought upon ourselves, of the war that threatens to throw the universe into chaos, or D’Arnath’s Bridge that is your singular responsibility and our lasting hope for redemption, then you must ask these things of the good Dulcé.
Baglos stumbled backward over my knee, grabbing the door frame to steady himself. I paid him no mind, for I was mesmerized by the enchantment, especially when I believed… when I knew… the sorcerer’s words were meant for me.
Our world is not the world you know. Gondai exists side by side with your own in much the same way that a reflection or a shadow exists side by side with its original, its subordinate nature only a matter of one’s point of view. As the reflection completes the image, and the shadow defines the light, so do our two worlds create a balance in the universe — the power of enchantment that exists in Gondai and the exuberant passions that flourish in your world. When life’s essence flows between us as it was meant to do, we are both immeasurably enriched.
“I knew it!” I murmured, though no one in the room had attention to spare for me. Another world—the mad idea I had not been able to articulate. The only answer to the puzzle of two Avonars… of gates and bridges and the exiled J’Ettanne.
For thousands of years our talents, so different from those of your people, were nourished by the glorious abundance and beauty of our world. We knew of your world, too. We wandered into it freely through the many gateways that joined us, but we were shy of the vigorous life you lead, never revealing ourselves and never staying too long.
After our Catastrophe —a disaster birthed of three sorcerers’ pride —our world lay in ruins. Yet we believed that our connection to your world would be enough to empower us, even to repair such damage as had been done. But the Catastrophe left a Breach between us, a chasm of chaos that destroys the reason of any who attempt to cross it and blocks this flow of sustenance that we need so desperately. Thus our king, D’Arnath, conceived and built this Bridge —a link of enchantment between the worlds —to be our salvation, to restore the balance and allow life to flow between as it had ever done. He and his beloved brother J’Ettanne pledged their lives and those of their heirs to defend the Bridge and the Gates that bounded it against any challenge. Once a year they would pass through the Gates and walk their part of the Bridge, using the link as a lifeline through the chaos and spending their power to repair and strengthen and sustain it. Their oath is a bulwark of the Bridge, a critical part of the enchantment that sustains it.
The Dulcé can tell you how we have fought to keep their oath for this thousand years, and how often we have failed. We Dar’Nethi are much diminished since the days of D’Arnath and J’Ettanne, and stand at the verge of losing everything we value within ourselves, as well as without.
You children of that other world might well say, “What has this to do with us? Why should we care that a foolish and greedy people have destroyed themselves?” What you must understand is that our doom is also yours. When the Gates are closed, your world, too, falls out of balance, disharmony and discord festering into wars and great wickedness. And the Lords of Zhev’Na —these three of our kind who have created this disaster —rejoice, for the evils of your world nourish their power and strength far beyond what our lore can explain. D’Arnath and J’Ettanne knew that if the Bridge were to fall, your world would follow Gondai into everlasting ruin. Thus, they took upon themselves the responsibility for your safety, as well as ours.
For hundreds of years the Gates have been closed, the Lords growing in power with every rising of the sun. We fear the Bridge is near its end, either from the corrupting influence of the Breach it spans, or from the relentless assaults of the Lords on Avonar. Ten years ago, the Exiles gave us one last chance to repair it. We have come near squandering that chance. And so now, in our last hour, we have sent our prince, D’Arnath’s last Heir, to walk the Bridge once more.
What I have done to you, D’Natheil, was necessary. I had counted on time enough to help you discover your way, to help you learn what you must do to make the Bridge strong and resilient. But our luck has run out. After a thousand years of trying, the Lords of Zhev’Na have at last discovered how to break the power of D’Arnath’s oath, a secret that we ourselves do not know. You are all that stand in their way. I fear for your life, D’Natheil, and for your soul, and I fear for the Bridge. It must not fall. Our enemies don’t know what I have done to you or how little we know about D’Arnath’s enchantments, and so your task is even more difficult than they suspect.
This is a formidable burden, and in your darkness and confusion must seem impossible, but you
must understand, my prince… my son… that there is no one more worthy of our trust than are you. As you learn of yourself, you will discover what must be done to save us. The glory of your fathers lives within you, and, given time, it will blaze forth as hope for the peoples of both worlds.
I thought perhaps the message was done, but anger rumbled in my belly, and I did not believe it was my own.
One last truth that even the Dulcé may not know. With shame I must tell you that not all of our enemies have the empty eyes of the Zhid. Some who wear our own likeness have become so lost in their despair that they’ve sold their souls to preserve this fragment of life we call Avonar. They think that the Lords will honor their word, and that they themselves can embrace life again once enough murder and betrayal has been done. The sword of D “Arnath is a mighty talisman. Tales say it can give our warriors strength to hold against the Zhid, perhaps to push them back. For more than four hundred years has the sword lain with the Lords in their stronghold of Zhev’Na, but now these traitors have made an unholy —
The crash of splintering wood and breaking glass shattered our trance, breaking off the message. Rhythmic pounding battered the front of the herb shop, as if someone were trying to kick in the door. Emitting a string of oaths that would make a soldier blanch, Kellea retrieved her sword. “Take care of my grandmother!” she cried, as she disappeared into the passage.
“Seri, get them away!” Tennice said, drawing his sword, and starting after her. “I’ll meet you at the horses if I can. But don’t wait for me.”
Baglos charged into the room and dropped to his knees beside the Prince. “My lord D’Natheil! Come quickly!” But D’Natheil’s gaze was locked on Celine.
“Madame Celine, we must go,” I said, forcing my voice calm as I crouched beside the old woman’s chair and snatched up her healer’s knife. “I need to cut the binding. Please, can you hear me? I’ll wait for your word.”