Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (13 page)

good heart. Now, I bid you good morning.” I turned my back on them and fled.

The Dulcé opened the door for me. I believed I saw a glint of humor in his almond-shaped eyes.

Unable to shuffle my bare feet fast enough to suit me, I made my way along the route we had come. The

stark simplicity of my little cell welcomed me—the barren stone that offered no variation to the eye, that

kept the air quiet and stable and blocked out the clamoring questions that had followed me down the

passage. My only evidence that I fell onto the bed before going to sleep was that I was in the bed that

afternoon when Dassine roused me to begin our work again.

CHAPTER 6

Many days passed before Dassine and I had the time to sort out what had happened at the meeting

with the Preceptors. He allowed no slacking off in our work, and my journeys of memory were

increasingly troubling, leaving me no strength to spare for politics.

I was reliving the time when the Leiran conquerors had learned that sorcerers lived in Avonar—the

Avonar of the mundane world, the Vallorean city where I was born. By virtue of my position at the

University in Yurevan, I had escaped the subsequent massacre. But I had immediately abandoned my

studies and gone into hiding, telling my few unsuspecting mundane friends that I had tired of academe and

was off to seek my fortune in the wider world.

Rather than traveling in the spheres my colleagues might have expected, I had melted into the poorest

of the masses haunting the great cities of the Four Realms, taking almost any kind of job that would feed

me, intending to bury my former life for as long as it took for people to forget me. I dared not use the

most minuscule act of sorcery. Such self-denial was physically painful as well as mentally distressing. Yet

I was a Healer, and inevitably I would come across those who needed my gift. I could not refuse them.

So I stayed nowhere long, wandering in the farthest reaches of Leire and Valleor, Kerotea and Iskeran,

and into the strange wild lands beyond. It had been a fearful time, and I could not shake an ever-present

foreboding when I returned to Dassine’s candlelit lectorium.

During all these days, Dassine fumed. He snorted at any hint of weakness on my part, and his

lectorium looked as if it had been ransacked by looters. We had never conversed much, but our silence

had always been deep and comfortable. After the Preceptors’ visit, the very air was angry.

To define my relationship with Dassine was impossible. He never asked what I had experienced in my

journeys, though he always seemed to know whether they had been pleasant or especially difficult. I

wondered whether he could “listen” as I relived my lives. Or perhaps he knew everything already. For

my part, I could predict his actions with phenomenal accuracy, from the way he closed a book or the

moment he picked to rub his game leg when the weather was damp, to the very words he would use to

wake me. His moods colored my days. The vague impressions I had of him from my memories of

D’Natheil’s childhood did not explain our familiarity.

Exeget’s assertion that I had lived with Dassine for ten years before my second foray onto the Bridge

intrigued me. Dassine had told me that my first failed attempt to walk the Bridge when I was twelve had

left me incapable of analytical thought or human sympathy. If that were true, and it was only
after
that

incident that I lived with Dassine, then why did I feel such close kinship with him? Had I known him in my

other life as well?

I had long sworn not to damn myself to incipient madness by asking such questions, and now I had to

add the Preceptors’ accusations to my list of nagging mysteries. But the days passed, and Dassine

continued to slam our plates of soup and bread on his table, kick the well-fed cats that wandered in and

out of the study, and throw his candlesticks into a heap instead of packing them away carefully when we

were done.

“Get up. The world won’t wait on you forever.”

I slid my toes out from under the blanket, trying to keep my eyes closed and my head on the pillow

for as long as possible. But just as one foot touched the stone floor, a hand whisked the blankets off,

exposing my bare flesh to the cool air, and yanked the pillow out from under my head, letting my head

flop most uncomfortably. The stars outside my window told me it was sometime in the midnight hours. I

had to find out what was bothering Dassine.

I fumbled for my robe and slogged into the lectorium. After my journeys I was often incapable of

speech, and he would brook no delays when he was ready to begin, so I had to act quickly. “Dassine—”

“So, are you ready?” He mumbled and swore under his breath as he placed the candlesticks in the

circle.

“Dassine, I’m sorry if I disappointed you with the Preceptors. Was it my offer to let them examine

me? I could see no other way to put them off.”

“You had no need to put them off.” Had he been a bear from the frozen northlands of Leire, he could

not have growled so expertly. From a lacquered box, he selected a new candle as thick as my wrist and

ground it into one of the tall candlesticks.

“But you know quite well that I had no idea of what they were talking about. How else could I

answer their charges?”

“I told you they had no right to question you. You should have listened to me ... trusted me.” The last

two words burst out of him as if unbidden, laden with bitterness.

“Is that what all this is about? Gods, Dassine, I’ve trusted you with my life, my sanity, with the future

of two worlds, if what you tell me is true. I do everything you wish, though it makes no sense, and I

accept it when you tell me that it will all fit together someday. I’ve met no one in either of my lives that I

would trust in such a fashion. No one. Not my parents or my brothers or any friend. I can’t even explain

why, except that I seem to be incapable of doubting you. But despite my irrational behavior toward you,

I cannot demand blind obedience from others. I will not, cannot, rule that way. You must know that as

you know everything else about me. How can you ask it?”

He scowled and stopped his fussing, sagging into a chair by his junk-laden worktable. He drummed

his wide fingers on the table for a bit, then said vehemently, “Then you should have kept silent.”

“Perhaps you should have told me more.”

“I’ll not distort your past by interpreting it for you. You must become yourself again, not a version of

yourself crafted by Dassine. Believe me when I say it is not easy to withhold the answers you seek. I

have quite healthy opinions about many things, and it would gratify me if you were to come to share them.

I believe you will . . . but I will not plant them in you now.” He hammered one finger on the table

repeatedly to emphasize his point.

“Then you can’t be angry when I do what I think is right, even if you don’t agree.”

“Pssshh.” He averted his eyes.

I pressed the slight advantage. “If I accept that I am truly D’Natheil, as you’ve sworn to me, then

what harm is there in an examination? Even Exeget, as much as I detest him, would not go so far as to

distort the findings of an examination by the Preceptorate. They’ll learn that I am who you say I am, and

they’ll decide whether or not my mind is whole enough to lead them. It might do me good to have that

reassurance.”

Dassine pushed a pile of books from his table onto the floor and reached into a battered cabinet

behind him, pulling out a green flask. He thumped it on the table and rummaged in a pile of water-stained

manuscripts, dirty plates, ink pots, sonquey tiles, and candle stubs to come up with a pewter mug. When

he uncorked the flask, the woody scent of old brandy made my mouth water. He poured a dollop into his

mug, but didn’t offer me a drop.

I must have looked disappointed, for he said, “You need all your faculties,” and slammed the cork

back into the flask. “If you think you’ve deferred our work by this yammering, you’re wrong. When

we’ve made a little more progress . . . closer to the end of all this”—he waved the mug at the circle of

candles that had started to burn of their own accord—“I’ll explain the realities of life to you, a little more

about your friends on the Preceptorate, and why it would behoove you to stay as far away from them as

possible.”

“One of them . . . Y’Dan tried to tell me about conspiracies . . . murder. I didn’t understand it.”

“You have no concept of the twistings and turnings of deception. Just today I’ve discovered that I am

not the master at such that I believed. But for now”—he slammed the empty mug on the table and

shoved the flask back into the cabinet—“we have work to do.”

I berated myself for wasting my limited strength in the belief that I might change Dassine’s mind about

anything. But as he hobbled around behind me to finish his preparations, he used my shoulder for a

handhold. Something in his firm grip told me it hadn’t been such a waste after all.

In a few moments he was ready, and he took my robe and motioned me into the circle. I took up my

position seated on the cool stone. As he began his chanting, I would have sworn he was grinning at me,

though it was impossible to see through the ring of fire.

That night I journeyed back to the university city of Yurevan to study archaeology, the passion I had

discovered in my three years of wandering. I lived just outside the university town with Ferrante, a

professor and friend who was the only living person who knew the secret of my power. Just at the end of

my night’s vision, he introduced me to a friend of his, a fascinating man of far-reaching intellect, deep

perceptions, and irresistible charm. His name was Martin, Earl of Gault, a Leiran noble, but far different

from the common run of his warlike people.

When I returned from that fragment of time I had lived again, I sat in Dassine’s garden, watching the

dawn light paint the faded dyanthia blooms with a brief reminder of summer, and I found myself

enveloped in overwhelming and inexplicable sorrow. Such things as Preceptorate politics seemed as

remote as the fading stars. Dassine did not have to fetch me to send me to bed as was the usual case, for

on that morning I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in unthinking oblivion.

Not long after this—in terms of my remembered life, six or seven months, so perhaps a fortnight of

current time— Dassine said he needed to do an errand in the mundane world, and that he would allow

me to visit his friend, Lady Seriana, while he was occupied. I was delighted at the prospect of any

change, but made the mistake of asking Dassine if the lady was someone I knew. He tried to avoid the

question and then to lie about it, but my mind was not so dulled as to mistake the answer.

“Yes, yes. All right,” he grumbled. “She knows of you. Has met you. Yes.” In his infuriating way, he

would say no more.

The lady was not what I expected any woman friend of Dassine’s to be. Not just intelligent, but witty

and overflowing with life. Beautiful—not solely in the way of those on whom my young man’s eyes had

lingered, though she was indeed fair. Every word she spoke was reflected in some variance of her

expression—a teasing tilt of her lips, a spark of mischief in her eye, the soft crease of grieving on her

brow. I began to think of ways to draw more words from her, just to observe the animation of her face,

the richness of a spirit that opened itself to the world in so genuine and generous a fashion.

From the first moment of our conversation, I knew she had been no casual choice, no acquaintance

who just happened to be available to converse with me while Dassine went about his business. I knew

things about her with a surety I could not apply to myself, and felt as if I were just on the verge of

knowing more. But when I reached for memory I found myself once again at the precipice. The universe

split apart as had become its disconcerting habit— on one fragment stood the lady, on another the

lambina tree, Dassine on another, and between each fragment the terrifying darkness. To my shame, pain

and dread overwhelmed me, and I could not even bid the lady farewell.

When next Dassine hauled me from my bed to begin my ordeal once more, I did not beg him to erase

what he had returned to me, but instead I asked if he could return something of the woman,

Seriana—Seri she called herself. She was so substantial, so real. If I knew something of her place in my

history, then I might be able to veer away from the precipice when the terror came on me the next time.

My jailer did not scoff or ridicule me as he often did when I pleaded for some variance in his discipline.

He only shook his head and said, “Soon, my son. Soon you will know it all.”

CHAPTER 7

Seri

I sat for a long time in my mother’s garden. To interpret what had passed was like trying to analyze a

streak of lightning. Already the event itself was fading, leaving only the bright afterimage. I tried to hold

onto the moment of his laughter, the sound of his voice, and the look in his eyes as he made the tree

bloom for me, and to ignore the disturbing ending of his visit.

Many wild dreams had grown unbidden in the past months. Though I had succeeded in dismissing

most of them, one had lingered. Somewhere beyond my disbelief I’d held a secret hope that I might see