by Carol Berg
I wasn’t sure about that voice. Certainly it was not Karon’s. I might have named it Dassine’s voice, though Bareil had told me that the old sorcerer was buried in his own garden. And, too, the tenor of it was not quite the same. This sounded more as my own father might have done were he able to speak in the mind—my grim warrior father, who thought nothing of leading a thousand men to their deaths in order to slay a thousand enemies, all for the glory of his king. Once, when I was a child, my favorite pony had been crippled in a fall. After commanding a servant to slay the suffering beast, my father had taken me on his knee and awkwardly dried my tears. “The world goes on, little Seri,” he said. “A soldier never dies. His blood makes the grass green for his children.”
Grief threatened to unravel me, all the more devastating after the hopes of the past summer—the love and grace I had been granted after so many years of bitterness. Yet this strange and sober voice reached through the storm that racked my soul and assured me that the universe was not random, not careless or capricious. The Way was laid down, and somewhere I would find a reason for its turnings.
Perhaps it was my imagination. Perhaps I was a fool. But when Paulo and I were brought before the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate, I said nothing, and I was not afraid.
CHAPTER 23
They had taken Karon’s body—no, more properly, D’Natheil’s body—away by the time Paulo and I stumbled onto the fine rug laid before the council table. The patterned wool square, hastily moved, did not quite cover the fresh blood that stained the white stone floor. They had kept us waiting in a bare anteroom for several hours, able to hear only hurried footsteps and bursts of unintelligible conversation through the door. The exclamations of dismay were clear enough, though, as the word of D’Natheil’s death spread.
Gerick and Darzid were no longer present—only the six Preceptors in their high-backed chairs. The one chair sitting empty at the end of the dais would have been Dassine’s. I wondered, somewhat foolishly, who would be chosen to sit in the chair. Maybe no one. Maybe the Preceptorate would no longer exist now that Gerick, a ward of Zhev’Na, was to become the Heir of D’Arnath.
“Who is this woman? Where did she come from? And another boy? Is this one your own long lost son, Exeget?” said Ce’Aret.
“We should get on with our important business and interview spies later,” said Ustele. “Everything is changed, now.”
“Not ordinary spies,” said Y’Dan, still red-eyed from his weeping, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These two are not Zhid.”
“Ustele is correct,” said Exeget. “We have two matters of utmost urgency: how we are to announce the Heir’s death to the people, and what provision we must make for the boy’s care until he comes of age—approximately a year, so I understand.”
Madyalar joined in. “Would that we could anoint the child right away.”
“Are you planning to destroy this young Prince the same way you ruined D’Natheil, Exeget?” said Ce’Aret. “I pray this Exile Darzid is trustworthy as you assure us. The boy must not be compromised either by the Zhid or our own foolishness. We must find him a proper protector and suitable mentors.”
“This Exile is eminently trustworthy,” said Exeget. “And he’s already taken the young Prince to a place of safekeeping. I propose we leave him there. . . .”
As the six of them wrangled, a low mutter rose from beside me. “He’s not dead . . . not dead . . . not dead.” Paulo was staring at the blood fading from red to brown underneath the edge of the rug. A tear trickled down his freckled face. I reached for his hand, and for once he didn’t refuse it. When he looked at me, I gave him a slight shake of the head, warning him to be silent.
“Now,” said Exeget. “Let us dispose of these spies, so we can get to our business. Not only are these two strangers not Zhid; they are not even Dar’Nethi.”
“Not Dar’Nethi? No . . . I see not.” An itchy warmth crept behind my eyes as old Ustele peered at me across the table. One might have thought I had three heads. “Mundanes.”
Ce’Aret sat up straighter. “Mundane spies? Who is this woman?”
“As a spy she has severe lacks,” said Exeget. He tapped the ends of his smooth, white fingers together lightly. “And one has only to look at the woman to know who she is—even if certain people are too deaf to have heard her maudlin cries.”
“I’m not deaf,” spat Ce’Aret. “There was a commotion.”
“Yes, when D’Arnath’s Heir guts himself because his head pains him, an unseemly commotion is the likely result. But come, old woman, can you not see the resemblance to our new liege? I do believe we have the honor of meeting our young Prince’s mother.” Exeget jumped out of his seat and stepped from the dais, coming to stand beside me. Arms folded, he inspected my garments and face, much the way he might examine a piece of furniture.
“The mother? The wife, then, of the other—the Exile that lived in D’Natheil?” said Madyalar, staring at me curiously. “Is that true?”
“The Lady Seriana Marguerite—widow of the same man for the second time,” said Exeget. “A sad and most unusual case. And quite mundane. Of course, mundanes are not capable of spying as we know it. They can read nothing from our minds, nothing of the auras of life, nothing beyond the dry evidence of their eyes and ears. I cannot see how a Dar’Nethi—even an Exile—could consort with such deadness.”
“Is the woman mute?” said the querulous Ustele. “Why does she stand there so stupidly?”
“What should she say?” said Madyalar. “How pleased she is to meet us who sit in judgment of her husband and her child? How delighted she is that the poor madman somehow got his hands on a knife here in the council chamber? She’s committed no crime that I can see.” The woman slumped in her chair, tapping her fingers rapidly on the table, her mouth drawn up in annoyance.
“Well, we can’t just let the woman go free.” The bald Y’Dan bit his lip and wrinkled his leathery forehead. “She might know something useful. And I don’t understand—if she was the Prince’s wife, why did he not acknowledge her? Why was she sneaking about here in the dirt and”—his nostrils flared—“the stables?”
“All good questions,” said Madyalar. “But a more useful question might be how she can help us understand our new Heir. The boy seems so cold. What child of ten calls his father a murderer? Our examination revealed no evidence of murder in our late Prince.”
“Clearly one of us must question the woman before we let her go on her way,” said Exeget. “As she cannot cross the Bridge to her own world until her own son can take her, she and her young companion will need someone to take them under their wing. I consider such a matter to be my responsibility as head of the Preceptorate.”
I almost broke my resolution of silence. I would not surrender myself or Paulo to Exeget.
“No, I’ll take her,” said Madyalar, shooting a wicked glare at Exeget. “You insisted I turn over the Prince to you for the examination, and look what’s come of it. He was wreckage, already half dead before you brought him here this morning. This matter”—she waved her hand at Paulo and me—“needs a woman.”
“How dare you question me? The Prince’s state was Dassine’s fault, not mine, and if you think I will allow the new Heir to be coddled by some maudlin female—”
“A plague on both of you”—Gar’Dena rose to his considerable height, pounding his meaty fist on the table until the floor shook with it—“and on all of us Dar’Nethi who have allowed matters to reach this pass.”
Throughout the whole discussion, the huge man had sat silently in his oversized chair, his massive head resting on thick fingers ringed with emeralds and sapphires. But now his thundering rage silenced the childish bickering like an arrow in the throat. “We were saved from one disaster by our brother Dassine and this dead Exile, whom you so callously dismiss. Now we stand at the brink of another, and you quarrel about your petty prerogatives. We should humble ourselves before this woman who has suffered such loss as we cannot imagine. We have
no right to question her, but should instead beg her forgiveness and implore her to enlighten us as to what might influence her son to follow the Way of the Dar’Nethi. To that end, I will take her under my protection, and whoever says ought against it will discuss it with my fist.” A burst of white lightning spat from Gar’Dena’s jeweled hand.
Leaving Exeget and Madyalar sputtering and glaring and his other fellows openmouthed, Gar’Dena lumbered down from the dais with surprising quickness, motioning Paulo and me brusquely to the door. I could no more resist his direction than a feather could withstand a hurricane. When we passed through the bronze doors, I felt slightly dizzy, and my eyes played tricks on me, for I seemed to exist in two different rooms at once.
One was plainly furnished with a thick carpet of dull blue on the floor and padded benches of fine wood set against bare, cream-colored walls. The other room could not have been more different. A vast, opulent space, its walls were hung in red damask and gold velvet. From a ceiling painted with forest scenes and dancing maidens hung great swathes of filmy red and yellow fabric that shimmered like water, and spread on the green-tiled floor were purple patterned carpets so thick they could serve for a king’s bed. Through the slowly shifting veils, I glimpsed lamps of ornately worked brass and silver standing on large tables with black marble tops and gold lions for their legs. Statuary, silver wind chimes, ornaments of glass and silver, and baskets of flowers stood or hung in every nook and niche. Two fountains bubbled in the corners where plantings of greenery, even small trees, flourished in the soft light. Exotic birds twittered from the branches, and everywhere was music: pipes and flutes and viols, softly playing every manner of melody that varied depending on where you looked.
A large hand nudged me one step further. The plain room vanished. Gar’Dena, Paulo and I had come fully into that other place. But the ebullient decoration of the vast chamber was not the whole of wonder. Gar’Dena clapped his hands three times, and three young women instantly appeared in the room with us. One was slim and short, with long, dark hair, her hand raised in mid-stroke with a silver-backed hairbrush. The second girl was blond and tall. Surprise and annoyance crossed her handsome face as she stood in the elegant room, her upraised hands and apron dusted with flour. The third and youngest, bright and fresh-faced and surely no more than twelve or thirteen, was seated on one of the swooping fabric draperies as if it were a child’s swing. A book lay in her left hand, while the fingers of her right hand ran over the lines on the page. Her eyes were unfocused, aimed vaguely into the center of the room while she performed this activity, and the longer I watched, the more convinced I became that she was blind and yet was “reading” the book in some strange and marvelous way.
“Aiessa, Arielle, Aimee, we have guests,” bellowed Gar’-Dena. “Look lively now. We need rooms, baths, supper.”
All three girls were clad in flowing, high-waisted gowns of white, the sleeves banded in blue or rose embroidery. Their elegant simplicity presented quite a contrast with Gar’Dena himself, who was resplendent in green satin breeches and a red silk doublet in addition to his hundred-weight of jewels.
“Papa, you must give us more notice,” said the tall blond girl, whose flour-dusted apron was dark blue. “My bread is in mid-kneading, and there’s no wine to be had in the house. You sent our dinner to Co’Meste to redeem your wager, and the guest rooms have not been swept in a moon’s turning, since you frightened the sweeping girls. Not that you are unwelcome.” She directed the last at me with a charming smile.
“You’ll think of something, Arielle,” said the big man. “You always do. Get your lazy sisters to help. I will speak to our guests for a few moments, and then they’ll be ready for refreshment and beds.” He bent down from his great height and planted a kiss on the blond curls of the youngest girl. “Who is kissing you, clever Aimee?”
She reached up and tweaked his outsized nose. “I’ll never mistake you for anyone, Papa,” she said, with a giggle far sweeter than the wind chimes tinkling in the softly moving air. “Unless perhaps a rinoceroos should come to Avonar.”
“Someday when our troubles are past, I will bring you a rinoceroos, sweet Aimee. Then shall we see if you mistake him for your papa.”
The impossibly strange mode of travel, the alien surroundings, the warmth and charming repartee . . . everything was at odds with the noisy rancor of the council chamber. I closed my eyes to clear the confusion, but visions of flashing knives and too much blood filled my head. My knees turned to water, and strength and surety flowed out of me in a tidal rush.
Gar’Dena’s dark-haired daughter dropped her brush and grabbed my arm and my back, supporting me gently. “Would you like to sit down? Papa can be so thoughtless.”
“Yes,” I said. No need for foolish bravado any longer. “Yes, please.”
“Papa, attention to your guests,” said the girl sharply. “I’ll see if I can find them something to drink, at least, so Arielle can finish her bread-baking.”
Gar’Dena whirled about, his broad face everything of apology. He took my hand, wrapping my fingers about his forearm and patting them gently. “Forgive me, madam, but it always seems so interminably long between my trips home, and I miss these lovely gems of mine most fearfully. Please, let us have a seat and speak of your future plans.”
He led me to one of the red draperies that swept in a long arc from the high ceiling. When I sat down, the silky stuff wrapped itself around me until I felt as cozy and comfortable as if I were nestled in a cloud. Paulo drew back when Gar’Dena pointed to a yellow drape. Instead the boy dropped to the thick carpet just beside me. Noting Paulo’s sooty face and filthy clothing, I realized that I too was streaked with ashes and stable dirt. Not at all like the wife of a prince, even a dead one. Oh, gods . . . don’t think. My chest ached.
Gar’Dena dragged a giant pillow to a spot just in front of Paulo and me and settled his bulk onto it. “Tomorrow I shall retrieve your remaining companion and bring her here. You’ll be much more comfortable here than at the Guesthouse of the Three Harpers.”
My face must have shown my discomfiture.
“Yes, I know of you—and of many other things that might surprise you. Ah, thank you, my loves!” On a low table of black marble that appeared just beside Gar’Dena, Aiessa, the dark-haired girl, set down a tray bearing a steaming urn made of beaten gold and encrusted with emeralds. Alongside the urn sat three gold cups and a painted, gold-rimmed plate piled high with slices of hot bread, dripping with butter. Little Aimee accompanied her sister. The girl with golden curls felt for the edge of the plate and set a crystal pot of honey beside it, at the same time knocking over the stack of cups. She giggled as she righted them again. Hardly any time had passed since the tall Arielle had left to finish her baking.
Gar’Dena was the youngest of the Preceptors, so Bareil had told us, appointed by the Prince D’Marte, D’Natheil’s father, only weeks before D’Marte’s death in battle. Neither the Preceptors nor other Dar’Nethi kept secret their opinions that the massive gem-worker had been appointed because of his wealth, not for his power or wisdom. Even in my exhausted confusion, I had already begun to doubt that.
I accepted a cup of hot, fragrant saffria from the urn. Aimee offered Paulo a cup and a small plate heaped with bread. The boy, slumped and listless at my feet, did not seem to notice. I nudged him. When he looked up at the rosy-cheeked Aimee, his eyes grew wide, his mouth dropped open, and his hands remained limp in his lap. I nudged him again and nodded at the plate and the cup. He shook off his paralysis and took them, but began to eat only after he had watched the giggling Dar’Nethi girl follow her older sister out of the room, passing right through a heavy brocade curtain without so much as parting it. Before Gar’Dena patted his stomach and took up the conversation again, the mountain of bread was almost gone, and Paulo’s eyes were glazed with bliss.
“Now,” said the sorcerer, “I know why you’re here, and I stand ready to aid you in your task.”
“My task?” Caref
ul, careful, Seri, I told myself. These people are master deceivers. I had to keep my wits about me.
He leaned forward, his broad face shining with sincerity like the full moon. “Oh, madam, would that I could conjure your trust as quickly as my daughter does her baking. Our time is so short.”
“Time for what?”
“To rescue your son from the clutches of the Lords. To bring him out of Zhev’Na before he is corrupted. He must not be there when he comes of age.”
“How do you know he’s in Zhev’Na? He was in your council chamber not an hour ago.”
“He was returned there as soon as . . . the disaster occurred. They would not linger in Avonar in such uncertainty. It would risk their plan.”
“You speak in riddles, sir. Do you mean to tell me that you—the Preceptors—knew my son was captive of the Zhid and you did nothing?”
“What could be done? It is not forbidden for anyone, Dar’Nethi or Dulcé or Zhid, or even one of your own kind to come before the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate and make petition, ask hearing, or bring grievance. If someone brings a boy to us, we cannot say, ‘We think you come from Zhev’Na, therefore you get no hearing.’ We claim that our world will be made whole again, and that all will be healed and live in peace—and when he says he brings the son of D’Arnath’s Heir—we listen.”
“This makes no sense.”
Gar’Dena grimaced. “We could not wrest the boy from his protector while they stood supplicant in the council chamber—especially as the boy remained with the man willing. The child was not afraid and made no attempt to distance himself. It is not possible for us to trespass our laws in such a case. The Lords know our traditions and our scruples, you see, and use them very effectively against us. But we had to confirm the boy’s identity. Our Prince was . . . as you saw. We must have an Heir, and even those of us who suspect the identity of the boy’s protectors were powerless to change—”
“But you knew. Once he had passed your cursed ‘test,’ why didn’t you take him from Darzid?” I was no longer cold, not inside, not outside. “How could you let the despicable man take him back to the Lords?”