Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (24 page)

He gave me the same long-suffering sigh he used whenever I asked how he knew that a horse wanted

to run faster or graze in the next clearing rather than the one we were in. “I
told
her.”

“I think you’ll have to explain that.”

He took the bread from his mouth, but not too far. “When I come here, she said that every once in a

while she’d talk to me, tell me about the horses and Sheriff and all. You know, like she can, that way we

can’t say nothing about?” Dar’Nethi—J’Ettanne, as Karon’s people had called themselves in this

world—had rarely used their ability to read thoughts and speak in the mind, aware of the potential to

abuse such power, especially when living in a world where no one else could do it.

“Mind-speaking? I didn’t think she knew how.” Or cared to know.

“Well, she learned it of that woman”—he leaned close and dropped his voice even lower—“the

swordwoman.”

The “swordwoman” was one of the three Zhid who had pursued us to the Bridge in the summer.

After his battle with Tomas, Karon had healed the three of them, returned or reawakened the souls they

had lost in their transformation. I believed that their healing had been the very act that had strengthened

the Bridge and kept the Gates open. Karon had been too weak to take them back across the Bridge to

Avonar, and, indeed, they had had little reason to hurry. Their own families and friends had died centuries

before, and they were unlikely to find welcome among the other Dar’Nethi whose family and friends they

had slaughtered or enslaved. So the three had taken up residence in Dunfarrie under Kellea’s and

Graeme Rowan’s protection.

“Kellea taught me how to talk back to her when she was with me in my head,” said Paulo. “Just think

real hard about her and what I want to say and nothin‘ else at all for as long as it takes. Thought my head

might burst while we were working at it, but I learned how. The swordwoman says not many

non-magical folk can do it so well as me.” The rest of the bread and a good measure of ham cut off any

further discussion.

“Paulo, I knew it was a good day when you came here.”

The boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and jerked his head at the door. “Best go now. Got work to

do.”

“Yes. Not a single word to anyone about these things. You know that?”

He gave me a bready grin, pulled open the door, and disappeared through the hot kitchen.

My revived hopes were quickly swallowed by grim reality. Throughout the day—the second since

Gerick’s disappearance—searchers returned empty-handed. I sent them out again, telling them to go

farther, ask again, be more thorough, more careful, more ruthless. Even for a Dar’Nethi Finder, the trail

was growing cold.

I wandered down to the library and curled up in the window seat where I had first laid eyes on my

son. For half the day I stared at a book of which I could repeat no word. The bright winter sun glared

through the window glass. . . .

A rapid tapping startled me awake. Someone had built up the fire and thrown a shawl over me to

ward off the evening chill. My book had slipped to the floor. The insistent tapping came again from the

direction of the library door. “My lady? Someone’s asking to see you.” It was Nellia. “A young woman.

Says she’s expected.”

“Bring her right away”—I jumped to my feet, fully awake in an instant—“and hot wine . . . and

supper. Whatever there is. She’s come a long way.”

The small, wiry young woman who strode into the room a few moments later could almost pass for a

youth with her breeches, russet shirt, leather vest, and the sword at her belt. Her black, straight hair hung

only to her shoulders. “Here almost before you thought of me, right?” she said, displaying the quirky smile

people saw so rarely.

All my grief and guilt and terror, so closely held for two long days, was unleashed by Kellea’s arrival.

I embraced her thin shoulders fiercely and engulfed her in a storm of tears. The poor girl . . . shy,

uncomfortable with people, especially awkward with anyone who knew of her talents . . . Knowing how

such behavior would unnerve her, I swore like a sailor even as I wept.

“What is it? Has the boy been found dead or something?” Kellea said, shifting awkwardly as I gained

command of myself and pulled away. “I know he’s your brother’s child, but—”

“He’s not Tomas’s son, Kellea. ...” I drew her close to the fire, speaking low as I told her everything,

built up the case again, one point at a time, hoping she could tell me that my fears were overblown.

But when the story was told, she shook her head. “Oh, Seri . . . and you’ve no way to contact

anyone across the damnable Bridge.”

“It could be a year until I hear from Dassine again.”

“You don’t think this Darzid means to arrest the boy, take him to Montevial ... to execute him?”

That had been my first terror—that my child might suffer the same horror as Karon had. But I had

persuaded myself that a trial was the least likely result.

“Without substantial proof Evard would never harm a child he believed to be Tomas’s son. And how

would Darzid explain switching the two infants without condemning himself for condoning sorcery?

Darzid must have done the switch; he brought the dead infant to me himself. He has preserved Gerick’s

life all these years, knowing what he is. Why would he harm him now?”

Why? Why? Darzid’s motives had always been a mystery. His deeds had taken him well beyond the

common reasoning of greed and ambition. In the days of our friendship he had confided in me his dreams

of a “horrific and fantastical” nature and professed a growing conviction that somehow he did not belong

in his own life. In my months of imprisonment between Karon’s death and Gerick’s birth, Darzid had

badgered me to tell him of sorcerers, to explain Karon and his people, claiming that “something had

changed in the world” in the hour Karon died . . . which of course it had. But I hadn’t understood the

world back then, and had no concept that Karon’s death had opened the Gates to D’Arnath’s Bridge,

renewing an enchanted link designed to restore the balance of the universe. How had Darzid perceived

such a thing? The gleeful hunter and persecutor of sorcerers had demonstrated no sympathy, no kinship,

and most importantly, no knowledge that might imply that he himself could be one of the Dar’Nethi

Exiles. I refused to countenance any such possibility. So what was he?

“Sounds like we’ve no time to waste,” said Kellea. “Bring me something that belongs to the boy, and

I’ll try to pick up his trail. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I’m going to dig into this little feast. Didn’t stop

much on the way.”

I hurried upstairs, leaving the young woman slapping butter and cheese on the toast Nellia had

brought in. Gerick’s room was perfectly arranged: bed, wardrobe, washing cupboard, a set of elaborate

chess pieces meticulously aligned on an otherwise bare shelf. I searched the wardrobe and a small writing

case, looking for some article that might hold enough of Gerick’s ownership to trigger a Finder’s magic.

Clothing did not usually work well, Kellea had told me. For most people, too little of the self was

invested in them. The dust on the chess pieces hinted they’d rarely been used. I settled for a pair of

fencing gloves, thinking of Gerick’s intense desire to master the sword. Clearly his life had been lived

elsewhere—in Lucy’s room, I guessed, where he felt safe. Inspired by the thought, I hurried to Lucy’s

room and snatched up the reed flute he had made for his nurse.

Kellea tried the gloves first as they were Gerick’s own possession, but eventually she threw them

aside and reached for the flute. Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers over the hollow reed, around the

ends and over the holes. Then, she laid the flute on the table, and, motioning me to be patient, she sat on

a stool beside the fire, propping her elbows on her knees and her chin on her clasped hands as she stared

at nothing. Just as I concluded that time had come to a halt, she jumped to her feet. “They’re heading

west.”

CHAPTER 13

West. I scribbled a message for Philomena, saying I’d received word of Gerick and was taking two

companions to investigate. While Nellia helped Kellea pack food from the larder, and Paulo readied the

horses, I changed into riding clothes, found us blankets and supplies, and rummaged through Gerick’s

wardrobe for a heavy cloak and thick gloves for Paulo. I dared not bring soldiers along: Kellea was

risking her life by using sorcery in the Four Realms.

Within two hours of Kellea’s declaration, Paulo, Kellea, and I rode into the night.

The moon was full and newly risen, its blue-white light so bright on the snow that we cast long

shadows ahead of ourselves. Only the ring of hoofbeats on the frozen road and the occasional howl of a

wolf broke the silence. We rode hard. By the time the moon shadows had shifted to lie long on the road

behind us, the barren heath had yielded to more substantial hills, dotted with pine and oak scrub. Ahead

of us lay a dark line that looked like the edge of the world—the Forest of Tennebar, an immensity of

trees that stretched to north and south, and well beyond the rugged borderlands to the west, deep into

Valleor.

Why Valleor? I could not shake the nagging suspicion that Darzid was taking Gerick to the Zhid. Yet,

as far as I knew, the only way to take Gerick to Gondai was across D’Arnath’s Bridge. And the Exiles’

Gate—the fiery chamber where my brother had died and Karon had restored the Bridge—lay not in

Valleor, but in the high mountains of southwestern Leire, many days’ journey from here. Were more of

the empty-eyed warriors hiding in the wretched places of this world, feeding off of our misery?

Our heads were nodding, and we were about to lose the light of the setting moon, so we halted at the

edge of Tennebar. The trees gave us some protection from the bitter wind that gusted from the north.

Kellea had taken the last watch. She woke Paulo and me shortly after dawn. Within moments we

headed into the forest, eating bread and cheese as we rode. Tennebar stretched for leagues in every

direction, its vast expanse scored by wide logging trails, as its tall, straight pines were much prized for

building. The sun glittered on the frosty branches. Rabbits and foxes, startled by our passing, scampered

across the sparkling snow, almost invisible in their winter white fur.

By midday we were climbing the first slopes of the Cerran Brae, the low range of forested peaks that

formed the natural boundary between Leire and Valleor. As the way grew steeper, the road split. A wide

wagon road angled south to cross the Cerran Brae by way of Cer Feil—the South Pass. From there one

could descend into the valley of the Uker River and travel south to Yurevan or Xerema or angle

northwest across the Vallorean Spine to Vanesta. The northern fork was a more direct route to Vanesta,

but less traveled, for Cer Dis—the North Pass—was narrow and steep, reputed to be a haven for

bandits. Traders generally stayed with the safer, if longer, southern route.

Kellea dismounted and walked a few steps along each branch of the road. For each way, she found a

spot bare of snow, crouched down, and picked up a handful of damp dirt from the road, letting it fall

through her fingers. When she returned and remounted, she led us north toward Cer Dis.

Night fell. We forged onward, able to follow the narrowing track for a while in the dappled moonlight.

But as the way became steeper, Paulo worried about the horses’ footing in the inky shadows, so, despite

my chafing, we made camp. Clouds rolled in, smothering the moon and stars. Late that night, at the end

of my watch, it began to snow.

The next day was a blur of misery. The light never advanced beyond dawn gray, and the air grew

colder as we climbed higher. We led the horses up the steep switchbacks, each turn looking exactly the

same as the one before, each made more treacherous by the lightly falling snow. Every time we saw a

break in the trees on the forested ridge above us and thought that at last we were nearing the end of the

ascent, we would find yet another step in the contour of the land, another slope to be traversed.

By mid-afternoon we were above the tree line, climbing a rocky defile that did little to shelter us from

the bitter wind and stinging snow. The light, such as it was, was going. We were exhausted, but we dared

not stop. I wasn’t sure we could survive a night in such an exposed place, and I cursed my stupidity at

setting out, two women and a boy on an unfamiliar road in the middle of winter.

Paulo was in the lead. He had sharp eyes for the trail and for anything that might be difficult for the

horses. I kept my eyes on the too-large, slouch-brimmed hat he’d inherited from Graeme Rowan. It

bobbed up and down with the boy’s twisting gait.

About the time the light failed, I realized that Paulo was disappearing downhill. The burning muscles in

my legs rejoiced, and I mustered a few words of encouragement for my horse who had plodded along

gamely throughout the grueling day. If we could just get down into the trees, find grazing for the horses,

build a shelter, make a fire . . .

Any assumptions that the downhill path would be easier were quickly swept aside. The track was

steep, narrow, and icy. We descended another series of switchbacks, scarcely able to see for the snow