by Carol Berg
But I pushed his hand away, and his cloth and his flask and his song. “Not yet, Men’Thor. I cannot. Not yet.”
Ven’Dar had sworn to me that Seri yet breathed. I could not judge his truth, and, as I had witnessed for four months, breathing had little to do with life. To share a death chant might help me let go of her, but I could not accept her physical death yet, not even in sham.
We watched Ven’Dar’s tower burn until nothing but a blackened ring of charred stones remained in the middle of the forest. The sun hung bloated and bloody on the western horizon as we rode down the Vale, past the smoldering rubble of Nentao, and on toward Avonar. I carried the image with me - the charred ugliness of something that had once existed in harmony with the world - and I believed it a reflection of myself. Ven’Dar had told me that I could rebuild what had been, that he would show me the way, but I could imagine no revelation that could change anything. I would go to the mysterious rendezvous he planned, but I would not listen to the voice of the Destroyer. Instead, I would kill my son, and I would be D’Natheil forever.
CHAPTER 25
“But, my lord Prince, how can we afford two more days of delay? What if another of the Vales is attacked? Only your presence rallied our warriors; only your power and your sword enabled us to take on so many.”
“I have taken the life of a Dar’Nethi, N’Tien. I held Ven’Dar’s bowels in my hand - an act of madness and revenge - and it matters not in the least that his execution was justified. The law is clear. I must be purified before I can act again as the Heir of D’Arnath. And on the day I confront the Destroyer, I must have all my rightful powers.”
The slender Dar’Nethi chewed the end of his drooping moustache like a nervous schoolmaster. “But, my lord - ”
“You will sit here and deploy our warriors as you see fit. You have a better head for it than anyone in Avonar, including me. Ce’Aret will govern in my stead. Ustele will hold the desert portals and Men’Thor the temporary command, as I’ve instructed him. Mem’Tara is new to the Preceptorate, but her experience in combat over the past fifteen years speaks for itself. With Ce’Aret’s advisement, she will lead the defense of Avonar. I’ve charged Radele with the safety of the Vales.”
The wizened old woman who sat behind the long table nodded and wagged a bony finger at N’Tien. “The Prince is correct. If the fiend Ziddari himself sat in this chamber or Parven or Notole had taken up residence in the Prince’s palace, it would make no difference. The Heir cannot lead with Dar’Nethi blood on his hands. I would stick my knife in him myself before I would permit it.”
Ce’Aret’s words were as brittle as the bones beneath her dry skin. It was difficult to avoid peering under the long council table just to make sure her weapon was not already aimed at my spleen.
Earlier in the day, the old woman had interrogated me about Ven’Dar’s death, battering me with her disbelief. The Heir was bound in service to the Preceptorate, so no privilege of my sovereignty could prevent her questioning. She had respected Ven’Dar immensely and could not easily accept the story of his rebellion and Seri’s death in his care. Only the need for hasty resolution and my sworn word on the sword of D’Arnath had prevented her demanding a more thorough investigation. What was one more lie beside those already spoken? But Ce’Aret’s hard gaze had never wavered all through the Preceptors’ meeting. My skin felt bruised.
The ranks of my Preceptorate had become pitifully thin: Ce’Aret seated at the center of the long table, shriveled, bitter Ustele on her left, the dark-haired, large-boned Alchemist Mem’Tara on her right. Four empty chairs. N’Tien, my gloomy chief strategist, sat at one end of the table jotting notes on his list of deployments. A few chairs faced the Preceptors’ table from the center of the chamber, available for petitioners or spectators. Men’Thor and Radele sat in two of them, exchanging sober whispers and passing messages to the three field commanders in attendance. D’Arnath’s chair - a plain, high-backed wooden chair of great antiquity - faced the council table, offset slightly to one side so Avonar’s prince could see and hear both Preceptors and spectators. I had been in and out of the chair all morning, too restless to sit still for long.
“So we are agreed, then?” I said.
Ustele hammered a stubby forefinger on the council table. “It is unforgivable to take time at this, our most desperate hour, to wallow in a discredited custom. No right-minded Dar’Nethi has undergone the Rite of Purification for seventy years; only the weak-willed seek it out. We should seal the caves with the cowards still inside.”
“I cannot but agree with you, Master Ustele,” I said,
“and I have a thousand things I would prefer to be about, but the law is clear. I’ll not let a missed provision stand between me and my legitimate claims. Are you not the one who holds me to the law so strictly? I’d not give you arrows to loft back at me.”
“Who will accompany you to the pools, my lord?” asked Mem’Tara quietly, as Ustele settled back in his chair with an expulsion of disgust. “It would have been Ven’Dar’s office.”
“Bareil will be my companion.”
“A Dulcé,” muttered Ustele, curling his lip. “I should have expected it. You have no taste for your own kind.”
“A most unusual choice,” said Mem’Tara. “Surely many Dar’Nethi would gladly serve you in this way.”
“My madrissé has served the Preceptorate longer than anyone save Ce’Aret and Ustele. He bears the necessary knowledge and full respect for our customs. No sorcery is required of the companion.”
They talked among themselves about the novel concept of a Dulcé taking a Dar’Nethi for purification. I half expected Men’Thor to volunteer Radele to supervise the rite, but he was too busy reveling in his new importance as the permanent commander of Ven’Dar’s troops and temporary high commander, already writing lists and sending messages even as he listened to our debate. His son’s appointment as a sector commander had almost set him crowing. The whisperings had already sped through the chamber and into the outer rooms. Everyone in Avonar would be expecting an quick appointment to the Preceptorate for one or both of them. I had best make certain Men’Thor’s initiative was severely limited during my absence, or he would have us knocking at the gates of Zhev’Na before sundown.
“And so when will you begin the ordeal, my lord?” asked Ce’Aret.
“Within the hour,” I said. “That’s why I assembled the Preceptorate so early. You can be sure I’ll make this business take as little time as possible. I’ve already sent my orders to those in the field, and you certainly have no need of my direction, Preceptor Ce’Aret. Avonar has never been out of your care. You can tell Mem’Tara all she needs to know.”
“And the announcement of Ven’Dar’s crimes and his death?”
“Nothing is to be said until I say it. We will leave the Destroyer in uncertainty. Tell Ven’Dar’s troops he is on a mission for me. Say anything you choose save the despicable truth.”
“So be it. Vasrin Shaper and Creator grant you balance, my lord Prince,” said the old woman, echoed by Ustele and Mem’Tara. I rose to leave, and everyone in the room rose with me. I didn’t look at any of them.
The Caves of Laennara were entered by a gated arch in a sheer limestone wall near the lower end of Kirith Vale, but their proximity to the city was in distance only. Every step along the steep, pebbled path that led from the road to the gate was an unfathomable separation from everyday life. The air became noticeably thinner, as if we had scaled one of the peaks that soared beyond the wall, and the normal sounds of the surrounding forest were muted: the rustle of the leaves soft, the darting movement of the rivulets of water that cut through the grass but a whisper, like exuberant children hushed by their mother.
The petitioner, the one who had come to cleanse himself of the burden of life-taking, kept silence on the road to the caves. You were supposed to gaze upon the forest, the sky, and the stream, the deer, the foxes, and the birds, taking their essence into your soul, building power for the
ordeal ahead. Your companion walked ahead of you bearing a gold luminant, a small box of gold or brass with pierced sides, a lid, and a handle, designed to hold a living flame that would be used to light the lamps hung in each of the seven caves.
On the morning I left Avonar to begin my purification for taking Ven’Dar’s life, I did as was required on the road, gathering power for what was to come. Of course, I had no intention of undergoing the purification rite. Unless something had gone dreadfully awry, Ven’Dar should have slipped safely out of his tower before the fire. He was to meet me in the first cave and lead me to Seri and Paulo and my son.
I almost regretted that I would have no time to try the Pools of Laennara. Though I’d not slain any loyal Dar’Nethi in anger - not yet - a great number had perished because of me. My guilt drew no distinction between warriors sent into battle by my command or enemies slain by my own weapons. Nor could I distinguish between Dar’Nethi blood and the blood of the Zhid. Zhid, too, were Dar’Nethi - changed, made soulless and cruel - but Dar’Nethi just the same. Was I the only one who had ever considered it? My soul could use a cleansing. Yet another death, my own son’s death, was the only purpose in my journey to Laennara. Neither balance nor peace nor purification had anything to do with it.
I followed Bareil past the black latticework gate and through a narrow passage. The tiny flame peeked out of the sides and out from under the gold lid of the luminant, its gleam no bigger than a firefly, doing little to relieve the blackness as it led me onward and downward.
Seri would have hated that passage. A childhood mishap had left her with a terror of dark, confined spaces. Shamed by such “weakness,” she had tried to hide her fear from me when we were first married, not understanding what joy it could give a lover to share such an intimate part of the other… and to be able to soothe it. Ah, gods, Seri… As always when I thought of her any more, rage boiled in my gut and pulsed in my arms, engulfing all other emotion. What could ever soothe the pain of her loss, her death in all but breathing?
Abruptly Bareil and his firefly were swallowed up by a more expansive darkness. I closed off all thought of Seri. I needed to remain clearheaded.
I followed the Dulcé into the larger space and felt his hand on my breast, signaling me to stop. The air was warm and heavy and damp, smelling of old stone with a trace of sulfur, while from somewhere to my right whispered a cool draft. The glimmering light moved to the left, stretching into a wavering beam as the Dulcé removed the lid of the luminant. Bareil, now a small figure sculpted of shadow and light, touched the flame to the wick of a diamond-paned lamp. Soft light reached out and pushed away the shadows just enough for me to view the cave and the Pool of Cleansing.
The cave walls were milky white and yellow, lumps and rills of weeping stone, pockmarked by holes and nooks and niches. Steam hung over the small pool, an irregularly shaped basin no more than twenty paces around. The draft from deep in the caves twined the mists among stalagmites as thick as my wrist.
Bareil awaited me beside the pool, his dark eyes filled with kindness and concern that had never flagged, though I had all but ignored him for three years. As D’Natheil had slowly encroached on my spirit and behavior, I had not bared my soul to Bareil as I had to Ven’Dar. Nor had I ever given the Dulcé permission to speak to the Preceptor on any personal matter. I could not abide the thought of the two discussing my “condition,” so I had shut out my madrissé from all but his most ordinary service, and most especially from the easy intimacy we had shared after Dassine’s death. But he knew more than anyone of the changes in me, and it had never altered his bearing in the slightest. I found that fact inexplicably infuriating.
He held out a folded robe of white wool. “I’ll take your clothing, my lord. You’ll need nothing but this.”
I should have thought to have Bareil bring me a change of clothes, for I still wore the bloodstained shirt and breeches I’d had on for a week. It had seemed foolish to change them before trying to convince the Preceptors that I needed the Rite of Purification. They had examined the freshest stains and identified Ven’Dar’s blood. The Preceptor had insisted on it, there in his tower, while weaving his mysterious plot - the gentlest of teachers, Ven’Dar, opening a vein to slather my knife and my shirt and my hands with his blood. I hadn’t even been capable of closing the wound for him.
Bitterness welled up in my belly. “Put away the robe, Dulcé. You’ll be happy to learn I need no purification rite as yet.” Though it will be soon, I thought. Of their own volition, my hands felt for my sword, and I growled when I found the empty scabbard. Of course, Bareil had ‘ carried my sword and knife into the caves, as ritual forbade me having them during the Rite of Purification. “And you can give me back my weapons. We’ll have to enjoy these pleasantries another time.”
The perplexed Bareil laid the white robe on the floor beside the cloth-wrapped bundle that held my blades. “As you wish, my lord,” he said softly, untying the bundle and pulling away the wrappings. He kept his eyes on his work.
“We’re to meet someone here,” I said. “That’s all. I expected he would be here when we arrived.”
“And so I am.” A figure robed in dark blue stepped from out of the shadows.
“Master Ven’Dar!” Bareil’s head popped up. The newly unwrapped sword clanked on the stone floor.
“Indeed, Dulcé. I’m even more glad to be walking about than for you to see me doing it.”
The Dulcé‘s dark eyes flicked between Ven’Dar and me, filled with unreasonable hopes.
“I’ve given the Preceptor a reprieve,” I said. “Until he proves to me that Seri is safe and Paulo ready to tell me what I must hear from him. Now give me my weapons just in case he reneges on his bargain.”
Better. The unreasonable hopes were gone again. I gestured to Ven’Dar. “If you please, Preceptor… ”
Mist swirled about Ven’Dar as he crossed the cavern to stand close enough to fix his light blue eyes on my own. “Ah, my lord, where are you? You are not the one who must hear what is to be told.”
“Do not toy with me, Ven’Dar. We’ve delayed long enough.”
“I’d hoped my choice as to our meeting ground was unnecessary, but your eyes tell me otherwise. Your wife and your young friend are indeed nearby, but I cannot allow you to come to them except as your true self. There is a healing to be done that only you can attempt.”
“Impossible. You know I can do nothing for anyone.”
I grabbed his arm and exposed the angry wound he’d made in his tower. “I couldn’t even heal this.”
“Then you condemn us all.”
“I never claimed to know how to stop this war! I never asked for this life. I was dead, and Dassine should have left me dead. But as long as I’m here and as long as I’m your prince, I will do what I have to do. And you will do as I command you. Take me to Seri and Paulo.”
“I cannot, my good lord. Not until I know you will listen.”
“Damn your eyes, Ven’Dar… ” I felt like strangling him. He couldn’t have stayed so calm if he’d known how thin the tether that restrained my hand.
But even as I railed, he spoke softly. “I trust you, my lord… I know it is difficult… I understand it is not a matter of will… that’s why I brought you here.”
By the time I really heard what he was saying, I felt as though I’d fought a match in the slave pens of Zhev’Na. My hands were shaking, and I’d thrown my weapons to the far side of the pool to avoid using them. “Stars of night, what do you want of me?”
“I want you to go through the rite.”
“This?” Incredulous, I pointed to the steaming pool.
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, rubbing his wounded arm gingerly.
I walked over to the pool and stared into the still, murky water of dark green. Steam wreathed my face, depositing a sheen of damp on my skin. “You are no saner than I.”
He stood at my side and gazed into the pool, all his wry humor vanished. “The rite cannot change
what is, my lord. You are and will ever be D’Natheil, as well as Karon. But for a thousand years we have used this rite to restore balance in lives skewed so far as to damage the things we love most. It is the only thing I can think of that might counter this anger that consumes you. Don’t you see? If we could but provide you a brief interval of peace, would not that be the time to hear what Paulo has to tell? And perhaps, given that time and peace, you might be able to heal one who is dear to you. If you, in that more equitable state of mind, are still convinced that your son’s death is our only recourse, then at least you will have the comfort of knowing it was Karon who made the choice and not D’Natheil. It is all I can offer you, my lord. I profoundly wish it could be more.”
“I should kill you and be done with it.”
“That you have not is but support for my conviction. Most gratifying.”
I wanted to be rid of D’Natheil. Fifty times over the past few years I had picked up Dassine’s black crystal, the pyramid-shaped implement of my long imprisonment, the artifact that yet held my waiting death, and contemplated touching its smooth surface. Surely release from the prison of this body, this life, would free me from D’Natheil’s unrelenting anger. I had never taken that final step. I had a wife, a son, responsibilities. But if I could ease the Dar’Nethi prince’s influence over me, restore some balance…
“This is idiocy, Ven’Dar. You’ve taken my wife and my prisoner. Men’Thor is to meet me the moment I leave here to plan the assault on Zhev’Na. The fate of two worlds rests in my hand, and you want to give me a bath.”
He held out his hand and smiled. “Seven baths, my lord. May your heart be eased.”