Guardians Of The Keep tbod-2

by Carol Berg

  As for his command to give myself to the Preceptorate, I was confounded. For how many days had Dassine fumed about my offer to be examined, warning me to stay away from the Preceptors’ multitudinous deceptions? Now he told me that circumstance might demand I surrender to the Preceptorate while yet incomplete. Defenseless… helpless. The world would surely crack at their first probe, and they would judge me mad… or Zhid. Was that what he wanted? If not for his last words, I would have dismissed it entirely. Trust, in this matter, was very difficult.

  “I thank you for my life, old man,” I said, as I took my leave of the snowy garden. “But I mislike being a pawn in a dead man’s game. However will I hold you to account for it?”

  I returned to the silent house warily. The house would surely have formidable wards, the masterful illusion that hid my room but one example. But Dassine’s enemies would themselves be formidable, and they would know that Dassine was severely weakened if not dead. As I was so unsure of my own strength, it seemed sensible to take whatever might be useful and leave Dassine’s house as quickly as possible. Then I could watch and confront the murderers on my own terms. Not friendly terms.

  Rummaging about the kitchen, I located a capacious rucksack. Careful not to touch the black crystal itself, I wrapped the unsettling artifact in a small towel and stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. I didn’t question the motive that made me make sure of it before anything else. Next I searched the room for something I knew would never be far from Dassine’s hand. Indeed, the small leather case sat on the shelf by the door. Inside it lay an exquisitely sharp, palm-length knife with a curved blade-a Healer’s knife- and in a separate compartment, a narrow strip of linen, scarcely less fine than a spider’s web. For a moment I felt almost whole. I put the case in the pack.

  Next went in the flask of “Bareil’s best” and the two pears I had not eaten earlier. From the larder I grabbed enough food for at least a day-a considerable amount since I was still ravenous. Clothes were more difficult. Dassine had given me nothing but the white wool robe. Citizens of Avonar who specialized in the study of sorcery wore traditional scholars’ garb-loose robes and sandals or slippers. Warriors, tradesmen, those who tended gardens and fields, the Dulcé, and most others wore garments more like those to which I was accustomed: shirts or tunics, breeches, leggings, and boots. I didn’t wish to proclaim myself a scholar-far from it. But I was more than two heads taller than Dassine. His more ordinary garments would do nothing to make me inconspicuous. Clothing would have to wait.

  Money would be useful, but I had no idea where any might be. Masses of notes and manuscripts cluttered the house, some relevant to my situation, I had no doubt, but I’d no time to sort through them. Perhaps this Bareil would know what was valuable, if I could find him.

  The instincts and habits I had so recently redeveloped from my memories of hiding from the law prodded me to move, to get away from the place my enemies expected me to be. My teeth were on edge, and despite the paltry supplies in the pack, I was ready to bolt.

  But just as I hefted the pack, quiet footsteps sounded in the passageway from the house. I flattened myself to the wall beside the doorway, realizing at the same time that I had forgotten to acquire a most important piece of equipment-a weapon. I-Karon-had never carried a weapon, yet my hand demanded a blade. The Healer’s knife was too small, and it was unthinkable to use an instrument designed for healing to harm another person.

  But I was out of time. The sneaking villain tiptoed down the lectorium steps. I glimpsed a dagger in a bloody hand. Stupid brute. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him off balance. Remembering Dassine and the jagged wound in his chest, I was not gentle. I wrapped one arm about his neck and twisted his arm behind his back until his weapon clattered to the floor.

  “Did you think to finish your work or simply add another to your tally?” I growled in his ear. Tightening my grip on his throat, I snatched the dagger from the floor, vowing to rip him open the same way he had murdered Dassine.

  “Help Master Dassine… please.” The man, small and light, went limp in my arms. An amateur’s ploy. He deserved to die. But even as I poised the dagger at his belly, I noted the color of his skin… a creamy brown like strong tea with milk in it. Slender oval face. Dark eyes the shape of almonds. A Dulcé… I lowered the knife and shifted him in my arms. Black, straight hair cut short around his ears. A trim beard. An ageless face, his lips mortally pale.

  Holy gods, he was the one, the seventh person in the room with the Preceptors! And his slight body was bleeding from no less than ten stab wounds. Whoever had taken a blade to him had wanted to make sure. I laid him on the couch still wet with Dassine’s blood, grabbed the leather case from the pack, and pulled out the knife and the strip of linen.

  No sorcery can blunt the pain of a Healer’s knife. To cut your own flesh and mingle your blood with that of your patient is the only truly effective way to unleash your Healer’s power. And pain is part of the working every bit as much as the words that open your mind to the light of the universe, as much as the gathering of power that lies hidden in the recesses of your being, as much as the smell of blood. Pain opens the door to the heightened senses needed for putting right what is wrong, a connection that binds Healer to patient more intimately than any strip of white linen.

  The first time I had drawn a knife across my arm, on the day when I was desperate to save my dying brother and did not know I was a Healer, I had tried to ignore the hurt, to link myself with Christophe’s broken body unscathed by my own senses. Surely a true Healer would be inured to pain, I thought, fearing that the tears that threatened and the cry that escaped me on that day were signs that I was nothing of what I needed to be. I struggled for so long that my brother’s soul almost fled beyond the Verges before I could see the truth-that his senses were blocked to me as long as were my own. When the insight came and I released my control… only then did I share the realm of the other, allowed to see the shattered bones, feel the torn tissue, and hear the ragged heartbeat that had to be put right. There was no getting used to it, even after so many years. The magnificence of the whole more than compensates-a thousandfold is not too large a reckoning-but it is a truth that experienced Healers do not cry out, yet neither do they smile as they begin their work.

  CHAPTER 10

  There is no sense of time passing when one is engaged in the art of healing. You could count heartbeats, but there are usually more important matters to deal with, such as reconnecting damaged blood vessels or destroying the toxins that flock to the site of a wound like ravening vultures. So when I triggered the enchantment that would close the incision on my arm and slipped the knot that bound my arm to that of the injured Dulcé, I didn’t know how long he had been staring at me.

  “Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath,” he said, quietly. All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. “And my gratitude for that which can never be repaid.”

  “Your name is Bareil?” I asked.

  He nodded tiredly. “Clearly Vasrin Shaper has a place in her heart for the foolish and disobedient, else I’d not be here to answer to it.”

  “You’re fortunate that I’d not picked up a weapon. I was sure you were one of the murderers, come to confirm their work… or add me to their tally.”

  Though his voice and demeanor were steady, the Duke’s eyes filled with tears. “Then he was able to get back here. You know what happened.”

  “I know nothing that makes any sense. Only that he’s dead. Tell me who did this… if you’re able, of course.”

  Dulcé have an immense capacity for knowledge and an extraordinary ability to search, analyze, and connect what they know into useful patterns of information. But only a small amount of their knowledge is usable at any particular time, so that a Dulcé might know the names of every star in the heavens on one day, but no more than two or three on the next, or have only the vaguest recollection of a name in one hour, but recall the entire history of the person in the next. A Dar’Nethi who is fortunate enough
to be linked to a Dulcé in the rite of the madris can command any bit of that information to the front of the Dulcé‘s mind where it can be used. Because I had not been linked to Bareil, I had only royal authority, no power to control his mind.

  “You’ll find I have a somewhat larger threshold of knowledge than most Dulcé, my lord, and I will most certainly provide you with all that I am able”-the Dulcé‘s frown was not at all reassuring-“but if, as you so wisely assume, those who killed my madrisson will want you next, then we must be away from here as soon as possible. And I’ve had to breach the house defenses to get back inside. I hope my folly will not cost us the way.”

  “I was on my way out when you came,” I said, and told him of my attempts at preparation.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “There are a few things here that you must have. I’ll get them.” He struggled to get up, but I kept a firm hand on his chest.

  “You’ve lost a great deal of blood, Dulcé-a condition my skills cannot reverse. Tell me what we need, and I’ll get it.”

  He settled into the cushion. “As you say, my lord. First, in the wooden drawer case, the lower drawer, under the glass pipes and sharpening stones, you’ll find a small pink stone, cold to the touch… yes, that’s it. You must guard it carefully. I cannot emphasize it enough.”

  I shoved the stone into the pack. “What else?”

  “Money-I’ll get that on our way out. Clothes-you underestimate us, my lord. If you would open the door of the chemist’s cabinet…”

  Well, it looked like a chemist’s cabinet-a tall wooden structure with glass doors. Through the glass you could see shelves of jars and flasks, small vials of blue and purple, boxes, pipes, and brass burners. Nothing of interest. Only, when I opened the door and looked inside, all the paraphernalia had vanished, and I found a tidy wardrobe filled with an array of clothing that could never have fit Dassine.

  “Mine?” I said.

  “I believe they may happen to fit you properly.” When I looked askance at the reclining Dulcé, a spark in his eyes and a set of his mouth echoed the good humor I had noted in our earlier encounter. I shed my white robe, the front of it stiff with blood, and quickly donned a nondescript brown shirt, soft leather breeches and vest, and woolen leggings, all exactly the right size. As I pulled on a pair of doeskin boots, exactly my measure and so well made that my feet did not protest even after four shoeless months, I said, “You have Dassine’s knack for avoiding answers.”

  “I have been Master Dassine’s madrissé for thirty years. He entrusted me with his knowledge and his purposes. If you so desire, I will submit to the madris and allow you to command me, but I must and will refuse you in anything that contradicts Master Dassine’s wishes as I understand them. Is my position clear, my lord?” He eased the blunt edge of his words with a delightful smile.

  “Bareil, the assurance that someone knows what, in the name of all that lives, is going on with me is such a delight that I’ll cheerfully respect whatever boundaries you set.” I pulled a heavy wool cloak from the wardrobe. “And now, perhaps we should leave this place before those who are destroying the doors upstairs can find us.”

  A loud thumping reminiscent of an earthquake resounded from the upper levels of the house.

  “Quickly, before we go. In the very back of the wardrobe,” said the Dulcé, grunting as he shoved his legs off the couch.

  Behind the shirts, breeches, and ceremonial robes hung a plain sword belt. A great-sword, its simple hilt finely engraved, its guard a graceful sweep of vines and leaves, and a silver knife were sheathed in its finely tooled scabbards- D’Arnath’s weapons, heirlooms so precious that the safety of worlds had depended on them for a thousand years. I buckled the sword belt beneath my cloak and helped Bareil to his feet.

  The Dulcé took a moment to open the painted cabinet and rummage about on the worktable and shelves, then clucked in frustration, rubbing his head tiredly. “There’s one more thing you should have, but I can’t find it. An odd little thing-”

  A monstrous crash sounded from upstairs-the front door giving way.

  “I believe I have what you’re looking for. And I really think we should go.” I grabbed a short cloak from a hook by the garden door to replace his ripped and bloody one. I would have him tell me about the crystal later.

  “Indeed. This way, my lord,” he said, and while still frowning at the jumbled mess of the study, he turned and vanished through the study wall. I could see no evidence of where he’d gone. When I traced my fingers along the wall, it was as solid as the floor on which I stood. I felt like an idiot trying to figure out how to escape through immutable stone.

  “My apologies,” said a grinning Bareil as he re-entered the room through the very place I had deemed impenetrable. “Step to the corner of the table, just so, and then turn left”-he angled his hand and jerked his head to his left- “and left again immediately. No enchantment is required.” He swiveled and disappeared once again.

  It was as he said. I stepped to the corner of our worktable, made an immediate left turn, but instead of banging my hip bone on the table, found myself in a gray stone passage. From the corner of my eye I could still see Dassine’s lectorium. The trampling of boots on the stair induced me to forego wonder and make the second left turn.

  I stepped into a small study, crowded with a writing desk, a hanging lamp, a bookcase, and a large leather-bound chest that Bareil was already unlocking. From the depths of the chest, the Dulcé pulled out two small cloth bags. He tossed one to me, and the heavy, fist-sized bag clinked pleasantly. After relocking the chest and using the desk to haul himself back to his feet, he stared at the jumble of papers and manuscripts littering the desk. He sighed deeply. “If you please, my lord… burn them all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Master Dassine could protect his work, but we cannot. Quickly, if you would.”

  With so much paper to work with, fire was easy, and in a moment nothing was left but a whirling cloud of ash and smoke.

  “All of the information is inside me,” said the Dulcé wryly, as he pulled open a door and nudged me into the cold sunlight of a deserted alleyway. “If you ever hope to know what was written here, I suppose you’ll have to keep me safe.”

  “One of my highest priorities,” I said, keeping my voice low as he did. “Now, can you tell me where we are? I’d like to see who’s coming after us.”

  “Unfortunately we’ve no vantage that will allow us to observe our pursuers; we’ve left them well behind. I’d think you might recognize this place, my lord,” he whispered cheerfully, as he led me between two buildings of pink brick and peeked about the corner into an expanse of empty courtyard, paved with white flagstones. “We’re just outside the westernmost walls of S’Regiré Monpassai d’Gondai-the Palace of the Kings of Gondai. The structure you see across the way has been the home of your family for at least twelve hundred years. This is the very courtyard where Master Exeget’s servants found you huddled by a burning barrel on the night you were named Heir.”

  My eyes were drawn upward by the graceful, rose-colored towers beyond the white flagstones. A banner of white and gold flew atop the tallest tower: two lions rampant supporting an arch, topped by two stars. The banner of D’Arnath. Indeed, I remembered the night of which the Dulcé spoke…

  Bitter cold. No one had enchantments to spare to keep the fires burning, so anything that could burn was dragged out, broken up, and tossed into the flames to keep the soldiers warm: crates, tables, chairs. Three soldiers were drinking wine and telling of a bloody encounter on the walls the previous night and how the Seeking of the Zhid had crept over the walls like a pestilence, seeping into those who stared into the darkness too long alone. Sleet pelted our faces and dribbled down our necks…

  “My lord!” Bareil was shivering in the frigid breeze. “If you please, we must move on. I know a hiding place close by. We can sleep and eat safely, and you can decide our next step.”

  “Lead on.” I shuddered and pushed the
memories aside. Like a stargazer who witnesses his first eclipse, or a student of history who stands atop a ridge watching his first battle, I was beginning to believe there might actually be some truth to all I’d learned in the past months.

  We hurried across the courtyard and down a short flight of broken steps that descended between two short walls, ending at a narrow, shaded lane clogged with dead leaves and dirty clumps of snow. But instead of following the lane to right or left, Bareil glanced back at me, angled his hand left and then left again, raised his eyebrows, and disappeared. I tried to remember exactly where he’d stood. Then I made the turns and stepped into a stuffy passage that smelled like cooking bacon. Two oil lamps on the wall left the passage no better than dim, especially after the brilliance of mid-afternoon.

  Bareil was moving carefully down the passage, past six or eight plain wood doors. No side passages. No people. No ornamentation that might be expected in a palace. Perhaps these were servants’ quarters. With a key pulled from his pocket, the Dulcé unlocked a door at the far end of the passage. He stood aside for me to enter and bowed me in.

  The chamber was small and plain, holding little more than a low bed, a square table, two straight-backed chairs, and a small tiled hearth with a clean brazier. On the table sat four pewter mugs and small brass urn, the steam rising from it the source of the fruity, pungent aroma of saffria that pervaded the room. Above the entry door was a small bronze mask of a single head with two faces, one male, one female-the common image of Vasrin. Daylight, extraordinarily bright, clean, and sharp-edged, spilled through a clean casement onto a smooth wood floor. Drawn to the window, I gazed out on a scene of such beauty and wonder that I could explore its marvels for a year and never note half of them. A cityscape of white-and rose-colored spires sprawled across the steep foothills of a range of snowcapped peaks that stood starkly white against a deep blue sky. Arched bridges spanned at least five sparkling waterways, and smooth paved streets wound between the houses and gardens, up and down the steep hillsides, coming together in a broad commard spread out before me.