by Carol Berg
But then, of course, would come the midnights when I would make my rounds of the day’s wounded, the destroyed youths restrained with leather straps and strong enchantments lest they chew their own hands away, the young women who stared silently into unending emptiness or tore at their skin, screaming to rid themselves of unseen terrors, the men writhing in pain from savaged bodies or raving from the relentless barrage of sun and desert. All of them would stretch their arms toward me, beseeching me for help when they should have been embracing husbands or mothers or children, or using their hands to build a life of beauty. On those nights I would swear again that no price was too high to rid the universe of the Lords of Zhev’Na. Perhaps it was because I had already paid the price that I could swear so easily and with such dreadful consequences.
The red half-disk that sat on the horizon had already broiled away the night chill when I called my commanders together the next morning. I told them I would open up the portal needed for the day’s attack on a Zhid war camp, but would then leave the portal in the care of the Preceptor Ustele while I went to consult with Ven’Dar. I designated N’Tien, my most able strategist, to monitor the progress of the day’s plan and shift our forces as he thought best. Old Ustele was powerful in the wielding of enchantment, but he had no talent for war, particularly for one who was so enamored of it.
Within the hour the battle was joined: the portal that allowed my warriors to bypass unending leagues of trackless desert was open, and I had saluted the valiant men and women who poured through it bearing swords, lances, bows, and sorcery to engage our soulless enemies. The encampment fell quiet once they were gone. The previous battle’s wounded had all been sent back to Avonar, and the dead buried or burned according to each one’s family custom.
As I expected, Men’Thor showed up at my tent, swathed in his usual mantle of righteous concern, just as I was ready to leave. “My lord, do I understand you are to be absent from the day’s battle?”
“If you’re here asking me about it, then I suppose you do.” I pulled on my gauntlets.
“May I inquire what draws you away? The Geographers have supported our assumption that the Dinaje Cliffs are an essential base for our next stage. The Zhid are entrenched with at least four levels of battle wards. Our own troops are in good spirits and resolute. Today’s foray is critical to our plans.” A properly concise analysis from the Effector.
Men’Thor was regarded highly for his talent in juggling arcane data and using it to form a plan of action. He could find a way to accomplish anything you set him to - especially if he agreed with it.
“Every day is critical to our plans, Men’Thor. When one has no alternatives, one has to make the best of whatever remains. And you may certainly inquire anything you like. I just won’t always answer.”
Something about Men’Thor always set my back up. He was such an honorable man. “So very worthy,” people said. “Destined for greatness.” I couldn’t see this great destiny, but I also could see nothing to justify sending him away as I might prefer.
“Of course I had no intent to pry, Your Grace. You are the finest battle leader the Dar’Nethi have ever had. When you remind our warriors of the horrors you have seen, of the noble purpose that demands our sacrifice, they respond to your command with twice the fervor they give to any other commander. But if your private business intrudes… ”
“This is not private business, Men’Thor.” I yanked one leather strap of a canvas pack too hard and it snapped. I threw the broken piece to the ground, cinched the other one, and hefted the worn satchel. “Ven’Dar has a prisoner he wants me to see. A Drudge escaped from Zhev’Na, I believe. If Ven’Dar says it is important, it usually is, and so I’ll go. NTien will set our positions. Your father can hold the portal, and the warriors will follow you. You can send for me if I’m needed. Is that enough?”
“I am only concerned - ”
“For the welfare of Avonar and our people. I appreciate your attention to duty. Good day.”
“Good journey, my lord. I am on my way to the front.” At least Men’Thor was no hypocrite, staying back with his maps and plans while sending others to fight the battles he espoused so fervently. He relished being in the vanguard of this mad venture.
“Take me to Ven’Dar,” I said to the messenger, who stood waiting with Bareil and our horses as Men’Thor hurried away. “The Preceptor had better be right about the importance of this prisoner, or I’ll send Men’Thor to oversee his operations.”
The journey would be long and hot, for we had to use conventional transport, rather than one of the Dar’Nethi portals that could link one place to directly to another across a few steps or many leagues. All true power was saved to create and maintain the portals to the battlegrounds, for the battle itself, and for whatever healing could be done after it. I, the Preceptors, and the commanders had to shift the load between us, husbanding our resources carefully to muster enough power even for those most fundamental uses.
Ven’Dar and his small detachment were situated about a half-day’s ride from the main encampment. His troop’s primary function was to send small, quick-moving teams to harass vulnerable pockets of the Zhid. He considered his secondary mission, liberating the work camps of the Drudges, to be of far more importance. Drudges were not Dar’Nethi, but descendants of people from the mundane world who had been held in generations of servitude in Ce Uroth, the wasteland empire of the Lords.
Ven’Dar also kept up a special watch for Dar’Nethi slaves, sending in rescue parties at the least rumor of them. But we had yet to find any slave who had been allowed to live when we got close. If forced to abandon a position in a hurry, the Zhid impaled their slaves on stakes or set them afire. Death was not pleasant for any Zhid who encountered my sword after I’d come across such a sight.
“The Preceptor is in the blue tent at the center, my lord,” said the messenger, as we approached the perimeter of Ven’Dar’s encampment. It was nearing midday, and my primary interest was not the mysterious prisoner, but getting out of the sun and finding a drink of water that was not scalding like the dregs in my waterskin. Hardening oneself to life in the desert required more than a few months. Four years had passed since my imprisonment in Zhev’Na, and I wasn’t used to it any more.
When I walked into the stuffy dimness of Ven’Dar’s tent, the Preceptor and two sweat-sheened lieutenants were leaning over a small wooden table, poring over maps. A young aide was sorting food packets and waterskins in a wooden chest.
“Ah, Your Grace, welcome,” said Ven’Dar, pulling off a pair of spectacles.
“Sire!” The warriors straightened up, each laying his two fists over his heart before spreading his arms and opening his palms in greeting.
Ven’Dar came around the table and bent his knee, extending his open palms to me. “Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath!” He smiled as I touched his palms and gestured him up. “I’m glad you’ve come. And Bareil, welcome.” The Dulcé had followed me into the tent.
Some men and women bend their knees to their sovereign out of duty, others out of fear, or awe, or custom. Ven’Dar was the only person I knew who expressed joy in his obeisance: joy in my position, in my life, in my friendship, joy in his own position and his own life. And no matter what the circumstances of our meeting, I could never greet his smile save with a smile in return. Ven’Dar was a living example of the Way of the Dar’Nethi, accepting, rejoicing, savoring every moment of his life, and fitting it into the larger pattern of the universe.
“This had better be important,” I said, taking a damp cloth offered by one of his aides and wiping my face and neck. “We hit five thousand of Gensei Senat’s troops at the Dinaje Cliffs this morning. I should be there.”
Ven’Dar ushered his warriors and servants out, pointing Bareil to a water barrel and tin mugs sitting beside the curtain that screened his sleeping quarters. The Preceptor was only of medium height, slight of build, fair-haired, his unfashionable beard just starting to show signs of silver. Some might have called him unimp
osing, but only until they heard him speak or looked closely into his eyes. Ven’Dar could fill a room with his quiet exuberance, and the lines about his gray-blue eyes had been etched deep by sixty years of laughter. But it was the power of his words that could touch the essence of the universe, drawing a man’s tears or honing a woman’s fury, evoking a holocaust or an infant’s laughter. Even those who discounted the Way admitted that Ven’Dar was a formidable enchanter… and a formidable warrior when he chose to be.
“I think you’ll find this of far more moment than even so dramatic a turn in this pernicious war.” Ven’Dar hated the war, and though he carried out his duties faithfully, it was with far less relish than I. The war and its consequences were the only thing that could dim his smile - and so they did, at his next words. “This young wanderer we found - in his ravings, he speaks of your son.”
“He is with them then. Back in Zhev’Na where he belongs.”
My rage had cooled in the four months since the events at Windham, as lava will cool after it spews and boils its way from the volcano. I could speak of Gerick, even say his name or speculate on his plans and his whereabouts, without tasting blood. But as lava becomes a part of the mountain, my anger had become a part of me: hard, cold, smothering the life of everything it touched.
“Is your prisoner a Drudge?” I said. “Has he actually seen the Destroyer?”
“I don’t know. The poor fellow had been out there beyond Calle Rein near the Castyx Rocks for a day or two without food or water. My Healers have taken care of him and sent him deep to sleep it off. They should be able to wake him by tonight. He’ll be quite all right; I perhaps… exaggerated… his condition in my message. Slightly. But when he was first brought in, despite his weakness, he was extraordinarily agitated. He was begging to be taken… to your wife, my lord.”
“To my wife? I thought you said - ”
“He was near frantic. I think he was afraid he was going to die before he could speak to her. His exact words were, ‘I got to speak to the Lady Seri about the young master.’”
“Take me to him.”
“I had him brought to my quarters, but he’s not yet - ”
“Now!” Only one person I knew would say those words.
They had laid him on Ven’Dar’s own pallet. The sun had burned his skin to a deep red bronze. Thanks to the Healers, his face and arms were merely blotched and peeling. I dismissed Ven’Dar’s Dulcé Guide, Bastel, who was dripping water into Paulo’s mouth, and took over the duty myself.
“Go on about your business,” I said. “I’ll watch him.”
“Then I’m right,” said Ven’Dar, standing between the parted curtains as I sat cross-legged beside the pallet. “He is the boy of the stories, the boy who went with you to the Gate and survived Zhev’Na.”
“I owe him my life twice over and a great deal more besides.”
“He vanished with your son.”
“We found signs of a struggle outside the gates at Windham… and Paulo’s blood. We thought the Destroyer had killed him.”
Ven’Dar was a wise man. He made no attempt to give comfort when it wasn’t possible, nor did he intrude with words when I desired none. He didn’t question me during that long, hot afternoon as I sat with Paulo, for the Preceptor already shared my most painful and intimate truths. I was not likely to hide anything of importance from him for long. And when the Healer came at sunset to check on Paulo and bring him out of the deep sleep to which she had sent him, Ven’Dar knew I would not leave, even though it had become almost unbearable for me to watch a Healer work. So he stood behind me, laid his hands on my shoulders, and cast a whispered winding of words about my pain.
One can never recall the words of power spoken by a Word Winder making his cast. Sometimes you’ll hear a phrase in casual conversation, or catch an inflection in someone else’s speech that will infuse you with a breath-catching emotion far beyond what is warranted by the current circumstance, and people say it is because the sound has recalled to you a Word Winder’s enchantment. All I knew was that for a blessed moment I was eased. Then the Healer was done, and I was offering Paulo a cup of water.
“My lord!” The dismay that glanced across his face when he saw me caused a stone to settle in my gut.
“My friend,” I said, forcing a smile and a calm I did not feel. “Of all the stragglers we’ve picked up in the Wastes, I never expected to find my most faithful companion. Are you feeling better?”
I would have sworn he turned pale under the sunburn. “I thought I was done for,” he said. “It’s come a habit I got to break.”
“I’m glad we found you.”
“There was a sandstorm. Guess I took a wrong turn somewhere.”
He sat up, took the cup, and drained it, never removing his intent gaze from my face. I wondered what he was looking for, but he spoke before I could ask. “She’s dead, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Lady. I kept hopin‘ you’d been able to - But I guess not.”
“Seri is alive.”
He almost leaped out of the bed. “Cripes! You had me there for a bit. I thought… you just looked… damn! Where is… I mean… she’s not here, I guess. Not in the Wastes. The ones who found me said you had battles going on.”
“She’s safe in Avonar.”
He breathed deeply and slowly. “It’s fine to hear that.”
“She was very ill.”
His eyes flicked away from my face. “I’d give a deal to see her.”
“I’ll take you to her, if you want. It might do her good to see you. Once a day we send our wounded back to Avonar through a portal. But we can’t keep it open for too long at a time lest the Zhid find our camps. I’ve matters to attend tonight, but we’ll go tomorrow if you’re feeling up to it.”
The wind billowed the tent walls, rattling the lamps and tools hung from hooks on the cross poles.
Paulo settled back onto the thin pillow the Healer had slipped under his head. “I think I’ll sleep then, if it’s all right. I got to tell you about what happened and all, but I’m swiped right now. I was afraid to sleep out there in the desert, thinking as how I’d never get up again. Got a lot to make up.”
“I’m sure that’s true. The Preceptor Ven’Dar and his aides will be close if you need anything, but I’ll tell them to let you sleep.”
“I’ll be all right. I don’t want to keep nobody from their business.”
“You can tell me all about your adventures tomorrow before we go to Seri. I have to understand how you got here, where you’ve been… You know that.”
“I understand. My lord, am I your prisoner?”
“No. You’re not a prisoner. Sleep well, lad.”
I took my leave and stepped through the curtain. Ven’Dar was waiting, and I motioned him to walk out into the night with me. “Leave him unguarded,” I said.
“But, my lord, if he’s been with your son… ”
“I’ll be watching.”
The night wind blew cold in the Wastes and quickly erased the memory of the furnace that was daylight. For a while I shared my warriors’ campfires, allowing them to relive the day’s battle for me until they’d rid themselves of enough of it that they could sleep, but always I stood where I could keep an eye on Ven’Dar’s dark tent. As the hour grew late and the campfires smoldered, flaring into false life with a gust of wind, then dying again in swirls of sparks, the warriors rolled into their blankets to dream away the horror.
Ordinarily, once I had seen to those who had to face the Zhid another day, I would go to the wounded, but on this night I sat in the dark on a hillock of warm sand and gravel, alone until Bareil brought me warm cheese, bread, and ale. “Do you wish for company, my lord, or should I leave you?”
“You are always welcome, Dulcé. A tree does not consider its trunk ‘company.’ ”
Bareil, the wise companion who had been instrumental in restoring my memory and saving my sanity after Dassine’s death, sat cross-legged on the
sand beside me. “How fares young Paulo?”
“The Healers tell me he’s only blistered and dry. He tells me nothing at all.”
“Surely you do not doubt him? He would give his life for you.”
“Watch Ven’Dar’s tent, and we’ll see.”
I considered invoking the link between my madrissé and me, to discover if somewhere in his vast knowledge he could formulate any good reason why Paulo would be wandering around in the desert beyond the Castyx Rocks, bearing a message for Serf - any reason that would not speak treason. But, on second thought, I needed no more unproven theories.
Less than a quarter hour passed until the dark form rolled out from under the rear of the blue tent, crept to a clump of dead trees, then slipped through the darkness toward the lights and activity of the pavilion where the wounded lay. Bareil and I followed quietly, staying well back. The boy’s timing was perfect. He lay still on the sand, waiting for half an hour or more as the Healers went about their business. But Ven’Dar had no sooner finished the words that left a wavering oval distortion in the air before the pavilion, than the slender figure darted out of the shadows and straight through the portal. A few shouts rang out from those watching, but I assured everyone that there was no cause for alarm, and they soon went back to their grim business of transporting their fellows through the portal, patching the lesser wounds of those who were to stay, and caring for the dead.
I told Bareil to take my horse back to my headquarters, then I spent a few moments with each of the wounded before reopening the portal to Avonar and stepping through it myself.
The portal opened into a large building that had been converted into a hospice for those the Healers could not return to health or those who needed a longer time to recover. I didn’t go there often enough; it was too difficult when there was nothing I could do for those who lay in the endless rows of simple white pallets. But on that night, I spent a while with my brave warriors. I knew where I would find Paulo eventually, but it would take him some time to learn where she was and get himself there.