Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (33 page)

livery galloped along the edge of the rift and shouted when they caught sight of the men. Two

soldiers slipped off their horses, slid down the bank, and cut off the old man’s head before he

could cry out. Another pair of soldiers caught the younger man and dragged the little girl away

from him. The rest of the troop came up, their horses’ hooves swirling up dust to mix with the

smoke. They were laughing and mocking as they dismounted. Two soldiers held the young man by

the hair and arms, and the others threw the little girl on the ground, pulled up her dress, and fell

on her, one and then the other. The young man cursed and wept and strained to get free, while the

little girl screamed, “Papa, Papa.” By the time they were done with her, her scream was just a

dry bubbling sound. The young man was about crazy.

“This is what happens to them as nurture sorcerers,” said the captain of the soldiers. “This is

the evil they bring into the world. If you had given him up, you and the child and the old man

would live.” Then he cut the little girl’s throat.

“A curse on them all,” the young man sobbed. “May they all burn.”

“Oh, they will. Never fear,” said the soldier. “You have the easier part.” And he stabbed the

young man in the belly and threw him onto the rocks.

I climbed out of the rift onto the hillside. The smoke was terrible, choking, making my eyes

burn and water. When I stumbled on something softer than a rock, I didn’t know what it was until

I fell on top of it, and came face to face with Allard, the head groom. Only it wasn’t hardly Allard

anymore since his nose and ears had been cut off, and he was dead. I jumped up and ran before I

could get sick, and I came to the top of a hill where I could see all around.

Comigor was burning
—
the roof, the stables, the barracks, the fields
—
for as far as I could see

it was burning. People were screaming. The soldiers cut down anyone who tried to run away. A

few of the castle guard were fighting to clear a way through the main gate for a carriage, but they

fell one by one. When the soldiers dragged Mama and Nellia out of the carriage, others were

already sticking heads on poles
.

“
The devil’s dam
—
the witch! Where’s fire enough for her
?”

I always woke up sweating and coughing about the time Mama started to scream. I told myself that

these were only dreams, not things that had really happened. But they left me feeling sick and sad, as if

I’d really seen them.

By the afternoon of the second day, Captain Darzid was tearing away rubble with his bare hands. I

stayed out of his way. He said we would have to leave that night if he didn’t find what he was looking for.

There were other ways to get where we were going, but a lot farther and more complicated.

“I’m going to get a drink from that fountain,” I said. The water in Captain Darzid’s flasks tasted like

old boots.

“As you wish,” he growled, pulling more stones away from a buried hearthstone and cursing the

avalanche of rubble that followed. I left quickly, before he could tell me to help him move the piles of

stone that had undone his entire day’s work.

We were down to eating nothing but jack. Being so dry and salty, jack always made me thirsty, and

we had used up all the wine in Darzid’s pack. I hadn’t told Darzid about my own supplies, because I

planned to use them when I ran away from him. I had almost run away the previous night, but I hadn’t

seen any towns or villages close by as we traveled. Besides, I didn’t relish picking my way through the

ruin or the mud fields in the dark. I would have taken his horse, but the captain’s horse wasn’t nice at all.

He was like Captain Darzid, bad-tempered underneath all his politeness.

The little stone girl was still smiling to herself in the corner of the courtyard, pouring water from her

bottomless pitcher. I helped myself to some of the water and sat down on the rim of the basin, not at all

interested in going back to help Darzid. The water was cool, not freezing like you might expect in the

winter, and sweet, the best thing I had tasted in a long time. It seemed to clear my head a bit, too. For

the first time since leaving Comigor, I had two clear thoughts together. The first thought was that this

whole business of searching a ruin for the route to a friend’s house made no sense at all. And the second

was that those very instructions were staring me in the face from the bottom of the basin.

“Captain!” I called. “I think I’ve found it.”

He was beside me before I could snap my fingers. “Where? Show me, boy.”

“There,” I said, pointing to the words carved in the bottom of the marble basin under the clear water.

Darzid looked very strange for a moment, then a smile spread slowly out from under his black beard.

“Of course ... I never thought of that. Tell me, young Lord, how do you read it? My eyesight is certainly

not of the same quality as yours ... no, not at all ... in this dim light.” He grabbed a charred stick and drew

on the white paving stones everything that I read from the bottom of the pool. I didn’t know the language,

but the captain nodded his head as if he did.

“Now we can ride,” he said. “If this storm will hold off so we can see the moon, then by morning

we’ll be safe in Zhev’Na.”

I was happy to leave. “What was the name of that city?” I asked, as we rode toward the mountain.

“Who lived there, and why were they all killed and left like that?”

“It was called Avonar,” said the captain. “You’ll hear that name again. It was—and is—the home of

your enemies, people of no vision, people of no understanding of the dimensions and possibilities of the

universe. You’ll learn more of it when we’re safe. For now, you’ve had a tiring day. Feel free to sleep as

we journey.”

And, of course, I did. I dreamed those terrible dreams over and over again, and when I next woke

up, I was in a very different place.

CHAPTER 19

Seri

Avonar. No poet has words to describe the view from our window in the Guesthouse of the Three

Harpers. The Dar’Nethi called it the City of Light, though no such simple name could capture its glory.

Stars . . . everywhere stars embedded in the night’s dark canvas, so brilliant that when you closed your

eyes, the image was etched upon your inner vision. Their number was so profuse that the trees of two

worlds could not produce so many leaves. And they were not confined to the heavens. The pale towers

of Avonar soared into the heights like long, slender hands sent to reap the sparkling harvest and shower it

upon the landscape below, not only in refined and solemn white, but in palest yellows and blues.

But even such a glorious vision as the royal city could not liven my spirit. Neither could the wonder

that should accompany any venture into a new world, nor the simple relief at our safe passage through the

Breach. I paced the little room, waiting for Karon and news of our son.

Bareil brought food: delicately fried pastries wrapped about a savory filling and dusted with cheese,

golden fruits the size of apples with pink flesh that tasted like a blending of peaches and tart cherries, and

a brass pot of something fruity and pungent that he called saffria. The others unstacked the small plates

and poured the hot cider into mugs of painted pottery, gathering around a low table by the fire to share

the meal.

I could muster no appetite. “Why would they bring him to Avonar?” I said. “And how was Darzid

able to cross the Bridge without the Heir to open the way, to guide him, protect him . . . ?”

Kellea waved her mug and amplified my questions. “And how could there be a Gate in the ruined

Avonar? I thought there was only a single Gate to the Bridge in Gondai, and a single Gate in our world.”

“As to the Gate,” said Bareil, setting down his cup and wiping his mouth with his fingertips, “indeed

only one exists in the world of Gondai with its single reflection in your world. But each Gate would have

been built with multiple points of entry. Here in Gondai, all entries have been lost to the Zhid except the

one in the palace in Avonar. We could not know where the entries in your world were set, of course, or

how many might still exist. As for your other questions, I wish I could say. Perhaps when the Zhid

followed D’Natheil to your world this past summer, the secret of the Bridge crossing was compromised.

Master Dassine put extra wards at the two Gate chambers, but this entry we traveled had not been used

for hundreds of years. And for the man to venture the Bridge without the Heir ... I cannot . . .” Bareil’s

expression suddenly fell blank and featureless. “Well, your guesses are more likely to be correct than

those of a Dulcé unbidden by his madrisson.”

We filled the next two hours with trivialities. Kellea and Paulo made an inventory of our supplies, only

what Bareil had carried in the small pack on his back and the rest of us had in our pockets. The Dulcé

cleared away the meal, setting the remaining food aside for Karon, and then gave us a monologue on the

major points of interest in the view from our window. Kellea asked about the bronze mask above the

door, and Bareil told us the story of Vasrin of the Two Faces, who had existed when the universe was

nothingness. But eventually these occupations flagged, and we fell into anxious silence. Heavy clouds

rolled in from the mountains, obscuring the stars.

Another hour and we heard footsteps in the passage. One person. Bareil cracked open the door,

peered out, and then pulled it wide open. “Holy Vasrin be praised for your safety, my lord.”

Karon shook a dusting of fresh snow from his cloak, but shook his head when Bareil moved to take

the heavy garment from his shoulders. He moved directly to the fire, rubbing his hands together as he held

them close to the flames. “Seems we brought an ill change in the weather.” He gratefully accepted

Paulo’s offer of a mug of Bareil’s pungent fruit cider. After a sip or two, he settled on a stool by the fire.

Only then did he glance at me, his blue eyes filled with such concern and sympathy that I thought my

heart must rip. He averted his gaze quickly, fixing his eyes on the fire.

“I tracked them to a house, but didn’t follow them inside. Wards—protective enchantments,

formidable ones—barred every door and window. It made no sense to break the wards until I knew

more, lest I endanger the child unnecessarily.” Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Karon gripped

the mug until I thought the pottery would crumble. “As I happen to know that particular house quite well,

I could guess where the owner was like to take guests that arrive in the middle of the night. And I know

how to observe what goes on in that room without setting off any alarms. But I was too slow. By the time

I realized what they were doing, the circle was drawn, the candles were lit, and the words were spoken.

The space inside the circle— the portal—opened onto another place . . . and the dark-bearded man

stepped into that place with the boy. Only an instant and they were gone.” He flicked another glance my

way before returning his gaze to the fire. “The child was asleep through everything, so he could not see

what was happening and be afraid.”

“My lord, did you see anything of their destination, so that we might identify it?” asked Bareil.

“Enough, I think.”

“You know how to show me, so that you may command me to tell you of it?”

“Yes. Though I’m not sure we want to hear it.” Karon set the mug on the table, then laid his hand on

the head of the Dulcé who knelt on the floor just in front of him. “
Detan detu, Dulcé
,” he said, quietly,

“tell me of this place.”

For a moment Bareil wore no expression, but then his skin lost its rich color and he closed his eyes.

The rage that had been heating my veins slowed for that one moment as if everything in the world held its

breath. I heard the words even before he said them. “
Detan eto, Giré D’Arnath
. Everything in my

experience tells me that this place is surely Zhev’Na, the stronghold of the Lords in the heart of the

Wastes.”

“From what cursed house in the heart of Avonar do they send innocent children to Zhev’Na?” I had

kept my seat while Karon spoke, but I could no longer hold back the storm that had been building since

we crossed the Bridge. I stood in place, wrapping my arms tight about my breast, lest I fly apart in fear

and fury and grief. “Darzid crossed the Bridge, a feat that I’ve been told is only possible with the aid of

the Heir of D’Arnath. And now he’s taken this child into the heart of evil. In what ‘familiar house’ can

such events take place without fear of retribution?” Never had I felt so helpless, not even when Karon

and my son had been taken from me the first time. At least then I had lived in a world I understood.

For the first time since the bandit cave, Karon spoke directly to me. “The man read secret words

carved into the stone of a fountain at my family’s house. We had been told the words would take us to a