Guardians Of The Keep tbod-2

by Carol Berg

  “Yes.”

  “Then that would mean that Papa or Mama was a sorcerer, too-”

  “You know better than that.”

  “-or that one of them, or both of them, were not my parents.”

  Darzid leaned on the balcony rail and gazed out into the desert. “Tomas was far too powerful for your mother to amuse herself with other men. And I can tell you that while Tomas had women other than Philomena on occasion, none of them were Dar’Nethi.”

  The knot pulled up everything so tight, I felt like there was a big hollow place in my stomach. “Then who am I?”

  From the pocket of his black tunic, Darzid pulled a flat square of ivory. He put it in my hand. It had a looking glass set into it, and of course when I looked at it, my own face looked back at me. How could Papa not be my father? I could see him in my face. My chin was pointed like his. My hair was the same color, my eyes, too. And even darkened from the sun, my skin had the same red-gold cast. Nellia had said a thousand times how like Papa I was, and how no one but the children of Comigor had such coloring…

  The mirror clattered to the floor, and I clasped my hands behind my back as if it had burned me. I wanted to be sick.

  Darzid nodded. “You’ve guessed it then. A hard thing to discover that what you believed all your life was false.”

  Seri. I was Seri’s child… and her sorcerer husband’s who had been burned alive.

  “You and your cousin were born on the same day. Tomas’s son was born early, weak and sickly, like all Philomena’s children. There was no possibility he could survive. The serving sister who attended both mothers had overheard what was planned for the sorcerer’s child and tried to switch the two of you. I caught her at it and decided that it would be amusing to see what became of you. I made sure the nurse was sent to Comigor with you and would watch out for any sign that you had inherited your father’s… skills.”

  “So the baby Papa killed…”

  “… was his own son. He never knew it.”

  “Was he cursed by Seri’s husband? Is that why he was born early?” Everything in the world was flipping upside down. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had started rising right back up from where it was setting.

  “Perhaps.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Seri. Seri was my mother. I hated her because her Prince had killed Papa, and she had brought him to kill me and Lucy. But surely that meant she didn’t know the truth either. I tried to remember things about Seri, but everything was all blurry and confused. And the baby Papa killed hadn’t been a sorcerer. That changed… something… Before I could clear any of it up, Darzid tapped me hard on the cheek, calling me to pay attention.

  “There’s more. Worse than what you have already heard.”

  “I can’t see how it could be worse.”

  “You should know your father’s name, don’t you think?”

  “He was evil, and he’s dead. I don’t see why it matters except that he made me evil like him. I didn’t belong there. I shouldn’t have been born in that other world at all. And Papa… Tomas… was my real father.”

  “Don’t be sentimental, Gerick. You were so afraid of Tomas that you stopped talking to him. He would have slit your throat or had you burned if he had even suspected what you are. But the identity of your father has everything to do with who you are, and what you are, and what you will be in the future, for there has come about something so unusual-even for this world that is so strange to you- that it would take days even to speculate on how it was done.”

  “I don’t understand.” My head was spinning with hot and cold and red sunlight glaring in my eyes and his words that just would not stop telling me awful things.

  “It’s in the names. The names will tell you. You see, Serf’s husband, your father, went by the name of Karon.”

  “Karon? But that was the other name they called-”

  “-the Prince D’Natheil. Yes, indeed. It appears that your real father is not dead at all, but has been brought back to life. He is now one and the same as our enemy.”

  “I don’t understand how it could be possible.” Two different people… yet the same. A dead person come to life again.

  “It is indeed an immense enchantment, worked by the old man you saw talking with Seri-the last gasp of a once-talented people. We will teach you all about it and what it means for your place in the world. But for now, you must be ready to face him.”

  “Face him? The Prince?” I could not call him my father. I pictured the tall man who had walked with Seri in Grandmama’s garden and could not imagine how the Lords thought I could fight him.

  “Yes, this is the most magnificent part of the whole business. D’Natheil has made a great mistake, a mistake that could cost him his control of the universe, not to mention this perversion that he calls his life. You are the key. We didn’t know your test would come so soon, but it’s all to the good.”

  Ziddari went on to tell me of how I would be taken into the heart of our enemies’ stronghold, and asked to stand in the presence of my father, the Prince, who also happened to be the man King Evard had burned to death shortly before I was born. “The two of you will be tested, to verify your relationship. The burden is on him, not on you. You have only to be present.”

  “Why would he admit that I’m his son if it could lose the war for him?” I was confused.

  “He will have no choice. The enchantments that caused him to live past his own proper death have unsettled his mind. In a vain attempt to retain his hold on his power, he has put himself in a vulnerable position. If we play our parts well, then, before another day dawns, you will be acknowledged his successor.”

  “But his followers won’t acknowledge me if I’m allied with his enemies.” There was Darzid, thinking I was stupid again.

  “Oh, they will acknowledge you. For a thousand years they’ve locked themselves into the stupidities of breeding and bloodlines. They’ll soon discover their mistake. You are no longer the Duke of Comigor, but by sunset tomorrow you will be the Prince of Avonar, sovereign of all Dar’Nethi and Dulcé. And on the day you come of age you will be anointed the Heir of the cursed D’Arnath. D’Arnath was the only one of the Dar’Nethi who ever understood the full depth and breadth and uses of power, and in his pride and selfish stupidity, he reserved it all to himself and his Heirs. In a little more than one turning of the year, on the day you complete your twelfth year of life, all of it will be yours.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Seri

  I had assumed we would be able to approach some Dar‘Nethi, one of the Preceptors, perhaps, who might help us develop a strategy to rescue Gerick. But the Dulcé knew of no one we dared trust with the secret of Gerick’s parentage, especially before the Prince was examined. And the shamefaced Dulcé confessed that, without some urgent prompting such as the threat of a compromised Heir, no Dar’Nethi would give a moment’s hearing to a mundane woman who wished to go to Zhev’Na, especially in this time of tenuous peace. Even Kellea, a Dar’Nethi unknown to anyone and inexperienced in her art, would be viewed as highly suspect, perhaps even a Zhid spy. For the moment we must proceed on our own.

  I believed Bareil grieved sorely for Dassine and Karon. The full weight of events seemed to descend on him the day following the Prince’s departure. We had spent the morning discussing our plans to learn our way about the city. Bareil participated enthusiastically, dispensing advice, encouragement, information, and funds in the form of a cloth bag bulging with coins. But just about midday, as he was marking streets and shops on a sketch of Avonar, his voice trailed off and his hand began to tremble. He stepped away from our small table and rubbed his temple.

  “What is it, Bareil? Are you all right?”

  “Ah, my lady, I need- I must leave you.” Indeed his olive complexion appeared sickly and washed out. He grabbed his cloak from the hook by the door, his pack, and D’Natheil’s sword belt and weapons from where he had laid them carefully out of the way. “I should put these things where
they’ll be safe. Careless of me to keep them here. I’ll be back… I don’t know when I’ll be back. Please excuse me.” With no more than this, he barged through the door and hurried down the passage.

  We didn’t see him again until evening. He brought us a roast fowl and a thick, savory pottage of grain and vegetables, but he declined to eat with us. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I cannot remain here with you. Master Dassine’s house must be set to rights in case the Prince wishes to take possession of it again… or give it to someone else… I’ve asked a Word Winder to reinstate the house wards.” He seemed hesitant, unsure of himself as I had not seen him in our brief acquaintance. “I’ve arranged for you to stay here at the guesthouse as long as you wish. I would invite you to come to Master Dassine’s house-Master Dassine and the Prince would be honored-but you would surely be remarked.”

  “Won’t you be in danger? You were almost killed…”

  “Now that the Prince is with the Preceptors, I have little to fear. No one will bother a Dulcé without his madrisson. Nothing could be learned from such a one. Please… be assured I will help and advise you in these matters as I’ve promised.”

  Over the course of the next few weeks, Kellea and I worked very hard to learn the common language of Avonar. I had picked up the rudiments from the Dulcé, Baglos, on our summer adventure in the days before Karon/D’Natheil had recovered his power of speech and understanding of Leiran, and so was able to gain a reasonable understanding of the spoken language in good order. But I stumbled badly when trying to speak it myself. Kellea, on the other hand, drew on her sorcerer’s power to become fluent within the first week. I was sorely jealous.

  Paulo would not sit still for any teaching. He swore that his head had no more room for extra ways of saying the same thing, and spent our study hours exploring the streets and byways of Avonar.

  As he had promised, Bareil came to the guesthouse every day, but only for an hour or two at a time. His demeanor was subdued and reticent, as if he weren’t sleeping well. He told Kellea how to find us clothing of colors and styles appropriate to Avonar. While only slightly different in style from ordinary skirts and tunics, bodices or breeches-the Dar’Nethi seemed to prefer loose-fitting or draped tunics and shirts rather than close-fitting-the garments were colored in vibrant, gem-like greens, reds, and blues that Leiran dyemasters had never discovered. And no Leiran or Vallorean seamstress could have imagined such materials or construction: fibers softer than silk, yet of such resilience that an Isker peasant could wear such a garment for a lifetime; stitches that were perfectly uniform and almost invisible; embroidery of such charming and complex design that the queen’s whole staff of needlewomen could not produce one sample of it in a year.

  But such details, marvels at any other time, were lost on us as we drove ourselves to discover some way to retrieve Gerick from the heart of the Wastes. Together we reviewed all that Bareil had told about the stronghold of the Zhid and whatever he could supply of Dar’Nethi scholarship regarding the Lords. But we were unable to discover any way to transport ourselves to Zhev’Na, much less a way to wrest a child from the Lords’ clutches.

  I demanded patience of myself and the others. Though my fears screamed for instant action, my brief encounter with the Zhid had taught me that I had no weapons to fight them face to face, and so far we had discovered nothing new that would give us the least chance of success. Bareil’s history lessons told us that the Lords wanted Gerick to come of age in their care, so they weren’t going to kill him. Kellea hinted that I was coldhearted to let my son languish in Zhev’Na, but I believed that if I were to save him, then, for the moment, I had to let him be. We would study and learn and find a way.

  We heard no reliable news of the Prince. Rumors flew about Avonar that D’Natheil was dead or mad, that he was preparing for an assault on the Wastes, that he was laboring on the Bridge, or that he had gone back across the Bridge to lead the Exiles back to Avonar. Few Dar’Nethi took any of these stories seriously, Bareil told us. Most believed that the house of D’Arnath had its own ways that could not always be explained. Had not the present Heir been cloistered with Dassine for ten years, only to come forth to win a great victory and preserve the Bridge? Because of what D’Natheil had accomplished, every day brought a renewal of power that had been lost to the Dar’Nethi for centuries. The Zhid no longer attacked the walls of Avonar. Prominent citizens spoke of forming expeditions into the Wastes to rescue those Dar’Nethi still captive, but these ventures would require years of preparation. The Dar’Nethi had no more information about Zhev’Na than we did.

  And so we worked and we studied and we listened, but truly made no progress at all.

  On one evening more than six weeks after Karon had given himself to the Preceptorate, I was sitting before our little fire, studying a map Kellea had found in a bookshop. Though the map itself was not so old, the shopkeeper had claimed it was a rarity. Current maps delimited a vast proportion of Gondai as the unknown Wastes, showing physical features only in the narrow strip that bordered the living lands. But this map showed detailed names and locations of mountains and rivers, kingdoms, domains, and villages as they had existed before the Catastrophe.

  I was alone as I pored over the inked scroll. Paulo was roaming the streets again. Bareil had taken Kellea to Dassine’s house to find a book that listed ancient place names and their descriptions. From the combination of the book and the map and Dassine’s tales of his captivity, we hoped to discover what place might have been transformed into the fortress of Zhev’Na. The night was quiet, and I was intent on my study, not daring to feel excited at our first possible breakthrough.

  The door crashed open, filling the room with the scents of cold weather and woodsmoke. “You’ve got to come.” Paulo was ruddy-cheeked and breathing hard. Snow dusted his brown hair and dark wool cloak. “They’ve got the Prince at that Precept House-Master Exeget’s house. And your boy is there, too!”

  I scribbled a message for Kellea and grabbed my cloak.

  “I knew they’d take him there,” said Paulo, frost wreathing his face as we raced through the snow-blanketed streets. “Knew it from the first. So I found the place. Been watching it every day.”

  We cut through a long-neglected bathhouse, our footsteps echoing on the broken paving as we circled empty pools littered with years of dead leaves and matted with snow. Moonlight poured through the fallen ceiling to reveal glimpses of richly colored mosaics peeking from behind masses of winter-dead vines. The path through the bathhouse gardens led us into a broad street of fine houses. Only a stitch in my side caused our steps to slow.

  Avoiding the soft pools of lamplight that spilled from the paned windows alongside laughter, music, and the savory scents of roasting meat and baking sweets, we hurried toward a formal circle of trees at the end of the street. A high, thick wall, quite overgrown, and a severely plain iron gate with no hinges, no latches, no guards, and no obvious way to open it closed off the roadway. Through the gates and a large expanse of trees and shrubs, I glimpsed a huge house with many lighted windows on its lower floors. Signaling for quiet, Paulo led me into a narrow lane that skirted the wall.

  At the back of the house, the stone wall yielded to a wooden building. The unmistakable scent of stables hung in the cold air trapped behind it. Paulo carefully removed three boards from the wall, leaving a hole just large enough for a person to crawl through. He went first, pulling the loose boards back into the hole once I had slithered into an empty stall filled with fragrant hay. Skirting the wide stableyard, we sped across a gravel lane and through a hedge, across a snow-covered lawn, and around a corner of the great house.

  The addition of a massive chimney sometime after the original house was built had left a jutting corner in each side of the house. Near the bottom of the wall to the left of the chimney was a wide grate of the kind used to draw fresh air into an enclosed room. Yellow light and the sound of voices spilled out of the grate.

  “However did you find this?” I whispe
red.

  “Back when that Duke Baglos told us how wicked and stubborn the Prince was when he was a boy, he said how Exeget used to make the Prince spend time outside in the winter for punishment. Well, I’ve been throwed out in the winter a deal of times, so’s I thought where would a fellow go to get warm if he was out like that? Stables, maybe, or in a corner like this where he could get a look at what was going on in the house.”

  We settled ourselves beside the grate and peered inside. I could easily imagine the boy D’Natheil, sent into the winter weather unclothed to crush his pride, huddling here to draw warmth from the brick chimney and watch resentfully as his warm and comfortable mentor went about his business in the Preceptors’ council chamber. For that was surely the room that lay beyond the grate.

  The chamber was immense, its floor well below the level of the ground on which we sat, and its ceiling out of view. Suspended from the unseen ceilings were wide lamps created, not from candles or oil lamps or torches, but from a thousand faceted globes of light hung on hoops of bronze. Tapestries woven of jewellike colors adorned the walls, hung between elegant pilasters shaped like elongated wheat sheaves. Tall bronze doors, each with a graceful tree worked in relief, faced us across the expanse. Our vantage allowed us to look down on a raised dais that stood just in front of the great hearth. On the dais stood a long table and seven elaborately carved, high-backed chairs, five of them occupied: one by a huge man wearing a wide neck-chain of gold set with rubies, another by a buxom, broad-faced woman in a robe of shifting colors, one by a skeletal, balding man, and two more by an elderly man and woman who sat in the center-the Preceptors of Gondai. Gar‘Dena, Madyalar, Y’Dan, Ustele, and Ce’Aret. A sixth man, his light, thinning hair immaculately combed, face round and boneless, looking something like a foppish clerk, must be the Preceptor Exeget. He stood just beyond the table, beside a chair that had been set to face the dais. Karon sat in the chair.