Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (20 page)

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.

The grand open space was paved with the same luminous white flagstones as the small courtyard we

had crossed to get here. Crowds of men, women, and children of all stations and appearances hurried

across the commard amid winter-bare trees that glittered with frost, and fountains poised in frozen

exuberance. In the center of the space, a monumental sculpture depicted five leaping horses, the middle

one ridden by a woman, her hair and garments and the horses’ manes and tails flying in the imagined

wind.

Around the edges of the commard, vendors dressed in costumes of red, green, and yellow satin

hawked sausages on sticks and drinks dipped from steaming pots, sets of colored balls, silk birds, and

fluttering banners that twirled and spun in the air above their heads. Two women in silver masks sold

small glittering clouds the size of one’s palm. Standing almost directly under my window, a young girl

opened her hand and released one of the clouds, scattering its sparkling elements about her head. The

music of a lute and viol drifted upward, fading only as the girl walked away. Sword-makers and armorers

spread samples of their wares on broad tables to lure wandering warriors to their shops down the side

lanes. It was as if I gazed on some fantastical painting, brought to life by a Singer like my mother.

But my perception took another jolt as I gaped, for beyond the commard, perched on the hillside

above the steeply sloping sprawl of gardens and open commard, was the same palace I believed we had

just entered by a hidden door—rose-colored towers, white and gold banners flying. What’s more,

though we had gone down from the courtyard and ascended no steps, we were now situated well above

ground, perhaps on a third floor, overlooking what appeared to be the front gate of a modest inn.

I spun about to inquire what was going on, but Bareil had sagged onto a wooden chair, leaned his

small hands on his knees, and dropped his head forward. “Your pardon, my lord, but I find myself a bit

soggy at the knees.”

Pulling the flask of brandy from my pack and yanking the cork, I knelt in front of him. “I understand

the vintage is exceptional,” I said. He reached for it, but his hand was shaking, so I held the flask as he

drank. “Can you tell me this, Dulcé, did you not say we were at the west wall of the royal palace?”

“Yes, my lord.” He took another sip from the green flask, then leaned back in the chair, sighed, and

closed his eyes. “Thank you, my lord. Most thoughtful.”

I left the flask beside his feet and returned to the window. “So, do my eyes play tricks or is that the

same palace there beyond at least twenty acres of open ground and halfway up a steep hillside, its west

wall tucked securely up beside it?”

“It is.”

“Then these hidden ‘doorways’ do not connect one space to an adjoining one as a person might

expect?”

“It would depend upon whose expectations were being satisfied, my lord. If one recalled one’s

childhood lessons— that were evidently not well attended by certain royal children—one might recall the

ways of portal-making. To connect one place to another is not a simple practice, but not uncommon

either. Master Dassine was better at it than most. He was able to make undetectable portals that would

change direction at his will. I suppose they’ll all remain fixed now he’s gone, and thus less secure. As

soon as I can remember the steps needed, you must destroy the one we just used lest it lead your

enemies here.” The Dulcé smiled as he looked about the room. “Master Dassine enjoyed this

house—The Guesthouse of the Three Harpers—and would often come here to play a game of sonquey

or drink saffria with friends in the salon downstairs.”

I wanted to know more. Much more. The touch of the world, the breath of fresh air, and the sight of

the strange and marvelous city awakened excitement I’d not known in long months. But my hands were

grimy from the garden soil where I had buried Dassine, and Bareil’s tunic was stained with blood that

should have been running through his veins and putting some color in his pale lips. I moved away from the

window and sat on the floor by the Duke’s feet. “Tell me what happened, Bareil.”

He sighed and closed his eyes, the pleasure draining from his face. “Master Dassine received a

message yesterday morning, just after he had put you to sleep. I can recite the message for you, if you

wish. . . .”

“Please.”

“It said, ‘I have learned news of the most dreadful import. Our time has run out, and we are forced to

deal with each other. The Third lives, and has obtained the prize he always wanted. Come to the

observatory sculpture garden at sunset.’ ”

“And that was all? Who sent it? What does it mean?”

“That was all. Though the message carried no signature, I believe Master Dassine knew who sent it.

He did not tell me. Something in the substance of the message caused him to cast aside any misgivings, as