by Carol Berg
“Captain!” I called. “I think I’ve found it.”
He was beside me before I could snap my fingers. “Where? Show me, boy.”
“There,” I said, pointing to the words carved in the bottom of the marble basin under the clear water.
Darzid looked very strange for a moment, then a smile spread slowly out from under his black beard. “Of course… I never thought of that. Tell me, young Lord, how do you read it? My eyesight is certainly not of the same quality as yours… no, not at all… in this dim light.” He grabbed a charred stick and drew on the white paving stones everything that I read from the bottom of the pool. I didn’t know the language, but the captain nodded his head as if he did.
“Now we can ride,” he said. “If this storm will hold off so we can see the moon, then by morning we’ll be safe in Zhev’Na.”
I was happy to leave. “What was the name of that city?” I asked, as we rode toward the mountain. “Who lived there, and why were they all killed and left like that?”
“It was called Avonar,” said the captain. “You’ll hear that name again. It was-and is-the home of your enemies, people of no vision, people of no understanding of the dimensions and possibilities of the universe. You’ll learn more of it when we’re safe. For now, you’ve had a tiring day. Feel free to sleep as we journey.”
And, of course, I did. I dreamed those terrible dreams over and over again, and when I next woke up, I was in a very different place.
CHAPTER 19
Seri
Avonar. No poet has words to describe the view from our window in the Guesthouse of the Three Harpers. The Dar’Nethi called it the City of Light, though no such simple name could capture its glory. Stars… everywhere stars embedded in the night’s dark canvas, so brilliant that when you closed your eyes, the image was etched upon your inner vision. Their number was so profuse that the trees of two worlds could not produce so many leaves. And they were not confined to the heavens. The pale towers of Avonar soared into the heights like long, slender hands sent to reap the sparkling harvest and shower it upon the landscape below, not only in refined and solemn white, but in palest yellows and blues.
But even such a glorious vision as the royal city could not liven my spirit. Neither could the wonder that should accompany any venture into a new world, nor the simple relief at our safe passage through the Breach. I paced the little room, waiting for Karon and news of our son.
Bareil brought food: delicately fried pastries wrapped about a savory filling and dusted with cheese, golden fruits the size of apples with pink flesh that tasted like a blending of peaches and tart cherries, and a brass pot of something fruity and pungent that he called saffria. The others unstacked the small plates and poured the hot cider into mugs of painted pottery, gathering around a low table by the fire to share the meal.
I could muster no appetite. “Why would they bring him to Avonar?” I said. “And how was Darzid able to cross the Bridge without the Heir to open the way, to guide him, protect him…?”
Kellea waved her mug and amplified my questions. “And how could there be a Gate in the ruined Avonar? I thought there was only a single Gate to the Bridge in Gondai, and a single Gate in our world.”
“As to the Gate,” said Bareil, setting down his cup and wiping his mouth with his fingertips, “indeed only one exists in the world of Gondai with its single reflection in your world. But each Gate would have been built with multiple points of entry. Here in Gondai, all entries have been lost to the Zhid except the one in the palace in Avonar. We could not know where the entries in your world were set, of course, or how many might still exist. As for your other questions, I wish I could say. Perhaps when the Zhid followed D’Natheil to your world this past summer, the secret of the Bridge crossing was compromised. Master Dassine put extra wards at the two Gate chambers, but this entry we traveled had not been used for hundreds of years. And for the man to venture the Bridge without the Heir… I cannot…” Bareil’s expression suddenly fell blank and featureless. “Well, your guesses are more likely to be correct than those of a Dulcé unbidden by his madrisson.”
We filled the next two hours with trivialities. Kellea and Paulo made an inventory of our supplies, only what Bareil had carried in the small pack on his back and the rest of us had in our pockets. The Dulcé cleared away the meal, setting the remaining food aside for Karon, and then gave us a monologue on the major points of interest in the view from our window. Kellea asked about the bronze mask above the door, and Bareil told us the story of Vasrin of the Two Faces, who had existed when the universe was nothingness. But eventually these occupations flagged, and we fell into anxious silence. Heavy clouds rolled in from the mountains, obscuring the stars.
Another hour and we heard footsteps in the passage. One person. Bareil cracked open the door, peered out, and then pulled it wide open. “Holy Vasrin be praised for your safety, my lord.”
Karon shook a dusting of fresh snow from his cloak, but shook his head when Bareil moved to take the heavy garment from his shoulders. He moved directly to the fire, rubbing his hands together as he held them close to the flames. “Seems we brought an ill change in the weather.” He gratefully accepted Paulo’s offer of a mug of Bareil’s pungent fruit cider. After a sip or two, he settled on a stool by the fire. Only then did he glance at me, his blue eyes filled with such concern and sympathy that I thought my heart must rip. He averted his gaze quickly, fixing his eyes on the fire.
“I tracked them to a house, but didn’t follow them inside. Wards-protective enchantments, formidable ones-barred every door and window. It made no sense to break the wards until I knew more, lest I endanger the child unnecessarily.” Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Karon gripped the mug until I thought the pottery would crumble. “As I happen to know that particular house quite well, I could guess where the owner was like to take guests that arrive in the middle of the night. And I know how to observe what goes on in that room without setting off any alarms. But I was too slow. By the time I realized what they were doing, the circle was drawn, the candles were lit, and the words were spoken. The space inside the circle- the portal-opened onto another place… and the dark-bearded man stepped into that place with the boy. Only an instant and they were gone.” He flicked another glance my way before returning his gaze to the fire. “The child was asleep through everything, so he could not see what was happening and be afraid.”
“My lord, did you see anything of their destination, so that we might identify it?” asked Bareil.
“Enough, I think.”
“You know how to show me, so that you may command me to tell you of it?”
“Yes. Though I’m not sure we want to hear it.” Karon set the mug on the table, then laid his hand on the head of the Dulcé who knelt on the floor just in front of him. “Detan detu, Dulcé,” he said, quietly, “tell me of this place.”
For a moment Bareil wore no expression, but then his skin lost its rich color and he closed his eyes. The rage that had been heating my veins slowed for that one moment as if everything in the world held its breath. I heard the words even before he said them. “Detan eto, Giré D’Arnath. Everything in my experience tells me that this place is surely Zhev’Na, the stronghold of the Lords in the heart of the Wastes.”
“From what cursed house in the heart of Avonar do they send innocent children to Zhev’Na?” I had kept my seat while Karon spoke, but I could no longer hold back the storm that had been building since we crossed the Bridge. I stood in place, wrapping my arms tight about my breast, lest I fly apart in fear and fury and grief. “Darzid crossed the Bridge, a feat that I’ve been told is only possible with the aid of the Heir of D’Arnath. And now he’s taken this child into the heart of evil. In what ‘familiar house’ can such events take place without fear of retribution?” Never had I felt so helpless, not even when Karon and my son had been taken from me the first time. At least then I had lived in a world I understood.
For the first time since the bandit
cave, Karon spoke directly to me. “The man read secret words carved into the stone of a fountain at my family’s house. We had been told the words would take us to a holy place, and we tried to use them a few times in the grotto. Without success. But we didn’t know the language, and so we didn’t understand about the moonlight. Now I seem to know the language…” A grimace tightened his brow for a moment. “As to the crossing… Dulcé, can you suggest how he might be able to pass the wards on the Bridge?”
“Perhaps if you were to command me, Lord.”
Karon issued his command to Bareil again. The Dulcé pondered for a few moments, and then looked up, crafting his words carefully. “Somehow the man Darzid must have known there was an entry point in the ruined city. I have no knowledge of how this could be possible. Clearly he read the inscription in stone at your family’s house, just as you did. This told him of the location of the entry and how to move from the cave to the Gate. And you, my lord… When we joined the lady and her friends in the bandit cave, you left the Bridge passage open for our return, and thus the man was able to cross unhindered. Master Dassine knew of that risk, but discounted it, because he believed no one in your world could know of the Gates. You had no way to know…”
“Demonfire!” The line of his jaw grew tighter. “And so it seems I must take the responsibility for his easy passage as well as the rest of it. To my shame and that of all Dar’Nethi, the house where the boy was taken is the Precept House of Gondai; the chamber is the meeting place of my counselors. And so, this wickedness, too, is my responsibility, and I swear to you that I will repair it. But I’ll not pursue my own reckoning with the Preceptors or do anything else that might jeopardize the boy’s safety until he is returned unharmed. Please have my word, Lady. Whatever is in my power to do, I will do. Your nephew-”
I must have flinched just then: changed color, grimaced, closed my eyes, compressed my lips, or given some other physical sign of my impatience with lies. For he stopped abruptly and examined me, his eyes widening with newfound understanding. “Gods in the heavens, he’s not your neph-”
“My lord”-Bareil shot to his feet, blocking the view between Karon and me before I could control my trembling enough to give answer-“you must command me to give you information about Zhev’Na. Not the location, of course. No one has ever found a route to Zhev’Na. Even were you to command me, I could not tell you. But I bear all of Master Dassine’s knowledge of the Wastes and the evil citadel. Surely some of it will be of value.”
Though his glance kept shifting to me, Karon listened to Bareil. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. The moment of danger passed as the Dulcé drew him into several hours’ questioning.
Dassine had masqueraded as a Zhid for three months, joining a Zhid war band, a feat of enchantment and courage that was unprecedented. Before he could learn the route to Zhev’Na, however, he had been discovered and taken to the fortress as a prisoner, tortured until he could not walk properly. But over the period of three terrible years, even constrained as he was with formidable enchantments, he had hoarded power enough to restore the soul of his Zhid interrogator-the most difficult of all healing enchantments. The warrior had then helped him to escape.
The Dulcé‘s cache of information was indeed massive: observations of Zhid behavior and training, weather and landforms, detailed descriptions of enchantments and theories on how certain ones of them were created, snatches of conversations, relative locations and sizes of Zhid encampments around the fortress. But the bits and pieces were dreadfully disorganized. We didn’t know what questions to ask, and the answers Bareil provided were tangled in the old Healer’s speculations on the nature of the Bridge and the Lords of Zhev’Na. Little of immediate value. Nothing of how we might broach the fortress. Nothing of what the Lords might have planned for Gerick. Nothing of how we might snatch him back.
By midnight, Karon had withdrawn from the discussion and stood gazing out of the window into the snowy night. His silence grew so lengthy that the rest of us were drawn into it like flotsam into the strong current of a river. “My lord?” said Bareil, at last. “What is it? Have you thought of something?”
Karon did not speak either to our disputes or our agreements, and most certainly not to our curiosity. His broad back was straight. Unmoving. We could not see his face. All he said was, “Impossible as it may seem, you and our friends must rest for a while.”
Paulo was already asleep, and Kellea’s eyes were drooping. But I could conceive of no circumstance that would let me sleep. My cheeks hot, my soul agitated, my body a series of knots like those that little girls tie in ribbon to tell their fortunes, I sat on the floor leaning against the wall, shredding the already frayed ends of my cloth belt. “I’ll take the first watch,” I said.
Karon left the window and crouched down in front of me, his face on a level with my own. I tried to turn away. But he gently took my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs to my pounding forehead, just between my eyes. “Sleep, my lady,” he said softly. “We will need your strength. He will need your strength. I’ll watch tonight.”
As on the Bridge, his presence enfolded me. But comfort, even of so generous a giving, was not what I needed. Why couldn’t he see it?
I thrust his hands aside, looked up, and saw in front of me a stranger’s face. Not Karon’s fine bones and slender jaw-the face I wanted and needed and yearned to see-but D’Natheil’s square chin, wide-set eyes, and hard, carved cheeks. “Why should I trust you to watch?” I said, disappointment and grief and exhaustion bursting from me all at once. “I hold the Dar’Nethi responsible. I’ve found little in the people of Gondai save treachery, self-importance, and greed, all of which I can find in abundance in my own people. I’ve seen nothing to refute the argument that we would be better off if the Bridge had been destroyed four months ago. So while you watch, you might give serious thought as to why I shouldn’t act as one of your own would do-stick a knife in you and trade your body for my son.”
Bareil gasped. “My lady!”
My lips stung with the hateful words. They had come out all wrong. “I didn’t mean- I’m-” I stammered, trying to think whether some apology or attempt at modification might be worse than letting the words vanish into the exhausted temper of the wretched day.
But Karon laid a finger on my lips. “You can be sure I’ll give your idea my utmost consideration.” He wasn’t even angry.
I fell asleep before I could make an answer.
Someone laid me on the bed while I slept, for I was on the bed when I woke to see Bareil standing in a square of sunlight, looking out the window. Kellea was curled up in the room’s only chair, and Paulo was rolled in a blanket on the floor. Smoothing my rumpled clothes, I crossed the room in stockinged feet, so as not to wake the sleepers, and poured myself a mug of saffria from the still-warm pot.
“He’s done it,” said the Dulcé quietly, his eye not leaving the view from our window. “I thought he would wait-explore the other possibilities-talk it over with you-devise an alternate plan to allow us some recourse if Master Dassine’s expectations were ill-founded…”
“The Prince… what’s he done? Where is he?”
Bareil motioned to me to the window.
The morning was glorious, the pale spires of the city glowing in the dawn light. Snow lay like a white veil over the city, freshening its face for the new day. But I lost interest in the view when I saw the tall figure walking slowly across the vast commard-surely the heart of the great city. Already passersby had noticed him; several knelt and he raised them up. Others bowed or curtsied or scurried across the great square, past fountains and trees and statuary, dragging others from their houses. Karon nodded his head in return, but did not slow his progress toward the palace gates that fronted the commard and gardens. From shops and houses sleepy residents emerged wearing shifts and nightsmocks and caps. From the lanes and streets of the city trickled twos and threes, then tens and twenties, then throngs of people, in moments transforming the quiet city into
a joyous mob, shouting, waving, cheering, calling out to each other and the one who moved through them, almost invisible now.
“What is it they cry?” I said, my heart as cold as first frost.
“They say, ‘Our Prince has returned. Our Prince is healed. D’Arnath’s Heir walks among us.’ ”
“They recognize him?”
“Easily. He has spoken his name to someone, and the truth of it wreathes him like the sun’s aura. Everyone in Avonar will know on waking that the Heir walks among them. He tells them to be of good heart.”
“I didn’t think he was ready to assume this role. Has he decided to refuse Dassine’s charge? Is he off seeking vengeance or royal glory?” Confused and angry, I believed what I said no more than I had meant the horrid jibe of the previous night. But when Bareil turned his distraught face to me, all other emotion was drowned in fear.
“He is not ready, but he has seen no choice in his course. Nor has he rejected Dassine’s charge, but rather submitted to it despite his profound misgivings. He goes to the Preceptorate.”
“The Preceptorate… He’s going to murder Exeget. Is that what the old devil told him to do?”
“No, my lady. He has no means to do such a thing.” The Duice’s eyes dropped to the tangle of leather and steel in his hands-D’Natheil’s sword belt, and the sword and dagger of D’Arnath. Bareil raised his eyes again, awash in grief. “Master Dassine told my lord that if the child was taken to Zhev’Na, then he must give himself to the Preceptorate for examination-and that he must go to them defenseless. When they examine him, they will probe his mind-question him without restraint. I do not know how he can possibly survive it.”
By the time Karon reached the broad steps before the palace gates, six robed figures awaited him. Even at such a distance, I could pick out the giant Gar’Dena, the scarecrow-like Y’Dan, the short wizened figures of the two eldest, Ustele and Ce’Aret, all as Bareil had described them. The two other figures, less easily distinguished, would be Madyalar, “the Mother,” and Exeget, traitor and murderer and abductor of children. The six bowed to their prince.