by Carol Berg
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.”
“One moment,
” said the old woman softly. “I must look deeper. I must know what he is.”
From the shop came a thundering crash, then shouts and the clash of swords. A man’s cry of painful wounding. But around me enchantment surged, and in the midst of the clamor intruded a sound so at odds with all the rest, I almost could not name it: laughter.
Celine sat pale and fragile by her fragrant window, chuckling merrily. “Cut it now,” she said, her voice soft and hoarse. “Oh, to meet this Dassine! What audacious conceit! And what power to do this thing. . . .”
I cut the bloodstained linen, and Celine’s arm dropped limply into her lap. “Seri, come here,” she whispered, falling breathless back into her cushions. “Come close.” Even in my terrible anxiety, I could not refuse her. “You have to know,” she whispered in my ear. “Look deep. It is a wonder, all—” The old woman took a breath and tried to speak again, but shook her head. Then her head fell back, and, still smiling, she closed her eyes.
The noise from the other room grew louder. We dared not leave the old woman here alone. I shook her shoulder. “Madam Celine, we must get the Prince to safety. You need to come with us, too. D’Natheil, you’ll have to carry her.” I tried to tell him with my stupid gestures and the smattering of words I knew in his tongue.
Though his face was beginning to reflect the desperate sounds from the other room, the Prince remained at Celine’s feet. He took her dry, wrinkled hand and kissed it, and then he looked up at me, tears welling in his blue eyes. “It’s no use to take her,” he said hoarsely. “She’s dead.”
CHAPTER 22
“Ce’na davonet, sacer Vasrin,” cried Baglos. The Dulcé praised his god, allowing himself only this moment’s wonder at D’Natheil’s recovery. In a succeeding babble of exhortation, he pushed and tugged his master to his feet, urging him toward the doorway, the courtyard, and escape. D’Natheil refused to move, his hungry gaze lingering on Celine’s face.
She looked so peaceful. Her dry, pink cheeks were relaxed. I bent my cheek to her mouth that still bore the trace of her smile and felt no breath. Dead. Beasts of earth and sky, what had we done?
A monstrous crashing from the direction of the shop wrenched the Prince’s attention from the old woman. He looked up, bewildered at first, shocked as if someone had struck him.
“Mie giro, bence . . .” Again, Baglos shoved him toward the kitchen and the outer door, but D’Natheil snarled, slammed him against the wall, and charged toward the front of the shop. “Ne, ne, mie giro!” I thought the Dulcé might tear out his beard. How could he imagine D’Natheil would avoid a fight? Baglos and I hurried after him.
The shop was in chaos. Tennice was wedged against one wall, trying to persuade a snarling assailant to loosen the grip on his throat by bringing down a shelf of jars and bottles on the man’s head. Kellea was circling with two men at sword’s point. As she parried one attacker’s sword, she used her left hand to grasp for whatever missile she could find—a box, a tray, a bronze measuring weight—to hurl at the second man who was feinting at her with a dagger. The shop door hung in splinters, and a burning torch lay on the floor next to a sprawled stranger with a bleeding head.
Wasting no time, D’Natheil lifted Tennice’s opponent and flung him against the far wall, causing another loaded shelf to crash down on him. Tennice slumped to the floor between two barrels, staring straight ahead, bleeding from a wound in his side. While I dropped to my knees and tried to revive him, wadding the tail of his shirt to press against the wound, D’Natheil turned to Kellea’s fight.
“Get out of here,” Kellea yelled. “If you care for my grandmother as you say, take her out.”
The man by the doorway struggled to his feet and lunged for Kellea’s back, while her other two foes moved in for the kill. D’Natheil, his handsome face transformed by rage, hoisted a table and slammed it into the wounded man, sending him back to his place on the floor. As Kellea battled the swordsman, the Prince pressed the dagger-wielding attacker away from her and into the wall. Grabbing the hand that held the weapon, he forced the dagger back on its owner, shoving it smoothly, inexorably into the wide-eyed man’s throat.
Baglos shrieked and pointed toward the broken window; two more men were climbing into the shop. I grabbed a broken table leg, ready to defend Tennice with it if I could find no better weapon. But in the next instant the flames from the fallen torch ignited a barrel, nearly blinding me and pelting us with sparks and splinters. Fiery tendrils raced through the baskets, dried plants, and old wooden planks of the shop. Flame engulfed the front wall, quickly filling the room with acrid brown smoke. Kellea dropped her sword, grabbed a woven sack from a pile in the corner, and started beating at the flames. D’Natheil and Baglos did likewise. As far as I could tell through the murk, the attackers who yet lived had run away.
Raising one arm to shield my face from the heat and sparks, I tugged at Tennice’s arm. “Come on,” I said. “We need to get you out of here.” He remained limp and unresponsive. It was all I could do to haul him upright to lean against my shoulder.
Heat burst the glass jars, showering us with shards of hot glass, and flames consumed their contents in sweet-scented geysers of green, blue, and orange. Baglos tugged at D’Natheil, who was still flailing at the fire. “My lord, the day is lost! Save yourself. Please, my lord!”
Kellea slapped at her smoldering tunic. “Damn you all,” she cried. “Damn you bringing your troubles here. Where is my grandmother?”
Coughing, choking, breathless with the heat and the effort of dragging Tennice toward the back of the shop, I could only shake my head.
The girl stared at me in horror, then dropped her bags and ran past me toward Celine’s room. No ear in Yurevan could have failed to hear her wail. “Murderers!”
Tennice’s long, limp body kept sagging out of my arms. Flames licked at his boots, and I had to knock away a flaming bundle of dried burdock that fell from the ceiling, threatening to set our clothes and hair afire. Come on, come on, I begged silently. I won’t leave you. My sweat-slicked hands slipped on his bare arms as I stumbled forward, no longer sure I was going in the right direction. His body slipped again, and my arms were empty. I spun around, peering through the smoke, panicked when I couldn’t locate him. But a grunt just ahead of me came from D’Natheil who was dragging my old friend through the doorway ahead of me. A hand on my back was Baglos, pushing me after them.
The air in the back passage was slightly cooler. I caught a breath and wiped my watering eyes. Beyond the sitting room door, Kellea knelt beside her grandmother, her head in the old woman’s lap, no tears softening her cold mask of grief. Smoke snaked through the doorway and the window.
“Kellea, come away. The roof has caught.” I had to shout over the roar of the fire.
The girl did not acknowledge my presence.
“Listen to me. You’re right that we’ve caused her life to end, though we had no such intent. But I want you to know that she laughed before she died. She was filled with joy at what we brought her. Don’t ruin her life’s ending by wasting yours.”
“Go away. You speak of choices. Let me make my own.” Her words were shaped of granite.
I joined the others who waited in the firelit courtyard. Ash drifted down on us like unholy snow.
“Where’s the girl?” asked Baglos.
“She’ll come,” I said. “She’s too afraid of burning to stay, but too angry to come with us.”
We hurried through the alley, stopping where it met the street. The fire had attracted a crowd. A bald giant of a man was trying to organize water buckets and blankets and pails of dirt, anything to keep the fire from spreading to the adjoining houses. “You can’t go in there,” he yelled at someone in the crowd.
Outlined against the flaming shop front was a man trying to escape the hold of two onlookers. “Let me through, damn you! There’s a woman inside.” The furious voice slowed my steps; it was Graeme Rowan.
“Might be several women in there if Kellea and her granny didn�
��t get out,” bellowed the bald man. “Blink your eye and none of ’em will be alive. You will be neither if you go in.”
I scanned the crowd for the priests. The Zhid were nowhere to be seen, but I recognized another face—a face I didn’t expect to see and could never forget. My gorge rose. Maceron, the fish-eyed sheriff, was leaning against a fence-post, arms folded, unruffled, observing the frenzied mob as if the burning were a jongler’s play put on for his private amusement. Ducking my face, I backed away, only to bump into D’Natheil. “Quickly. Away,” I said.
“A moment. I’ll have to carry him,” D’Natheil said in a hoarse whisper. He hoisted Tennice onto his shoulders, and we edged our way between the mass of onlookers and the dark shopfronts.
Occupants of the nearby houses were dragging trunks, bedding, and children into the street. A wagon filled with water barrels rumbled through the narrow lane, forcing the crowd to squeeze into doorways and alleys and on top of each other to keep from getting trampled. Despite the creeping dread that had me checking behind us every few steps, no one paid us any attention as we made our way through the crowded streets toward the city gates. Traffic thinned as we hurried under the gate and turned into the jumbled, stinking district of stables and stock pens outside the walls. Baglos paid the hostler, while the Prince handed me the reins of Tennice’s horse and put Tennice up on his own mount. “Lead us,” he said, after he had gotten himself into the saddle behind Tennice.
Where to go? Tennice needed warmth and care and time for us to care for his injury. I dared not return to the charcoal burner’s hut, lest we’d been followed from it, yet I couldn’t feel safe so long as we were in Yurevan. After the disaster I had brought down on Ferrante, Celine, and Kellea, I couldn’t seek out another friend, even if I had one. But that consideration gave me sudden inspiration. I would seek out the friend to whom I had already brought disaster. “Back to Ferrante’s house,” I said. “They’ll never look for us there.”