Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (34 page)

holy place, and we tried to use them a few times in the grotto. Without success. But we didn’t know the

language, and so we didn’t understand about the moonlight. Now I seem to know the language....” A

grimace tightened his brow for a moment. “As to the crossing . . . Dulcé, can you suggest how he might

be able to pass the wards on the Bridge?”

“Perhaps if you were to command me, Lord.”

Karon issued his command to Bareil again. The Dulcé pondered for a few moments, and then looked

up, crafting his words carefully. “Somehow the man Darzid must have known there was an entry point in

the ruined city. I have no knowledge of how this could be possible. Clearly he read the inscription in

stone at your family’s house, just as you did. This told him of the location of the entry and how to move

from the cave to the Gate. And you, my lord . . . When we joined the lady and her friends in the bandit

cave, you left the Bridge passage open for our return, and thus the man was able to cross unhindered.

Master Dassine knew of that risk, but discounted it, because he believed no one in your world could

know of the Gates. You had no way to know. . . .”

“Demonfire!” The line of his jaw grew tighter. “And so it seems I must take the responsibility for his

easy passage as well as the rest of it. To my shame and that of all Dar’Nethi, the house where the boy

was taken is the Precept House of Gondai; the chamber is the meeting place of my counselors. And so,

this wickedness, too, is my responsibility, and I swear to you that I
will
repair it. But I’ll not pursue my

own reckoning with the Preceptors or do anything else that might jeopardize the boy’s safety until he is

returned unharmed. Please have my word, Lady. Whatever is in my power to do, I will do. Your

nephew—”

I must have flinched just then: changed color, grimaced, closed my eyes, compressed my lips, or

given some other physical sign of my impatience with lies. For he stopped abruptly and examined me, his

eyes widening with newfound understanding. “Gods in the heavens, he’s not your neph—”

“My lord”—Bareil shot to his feet, blocking the view between Karon and me before I could control

my trembling enough to give answer—“you must command me to give you information about Zhev’Na.

Not the location, of course. No one has ever found a route to Zhev’Na. Even were you to command me,

I could not tell you. But I bear all of Master Dassine’s knowledge of the Wastes and the evil citadel.

Surely some of it will be of value.”

Though his glance kept shifting to me, Karon listened to Bareil. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood.

The moment of danger passed as the Dulcé drew him into several hours’ questioning.

Dassine had masqueraded as a Zhid for three months, joining a Zhid war band, a feat of enchantment

and courage that was unprecedented. Before he could learn the route to Zhev’Na, however, he had been

discovered and taken to the fortress as a prisoner, tortured until he could not walk properly. But over the

period of three terrible years, even constrained as he was with formidable enchantments, he had hoarded

power enough to restore the soul of his Zhid interrogator—the most difficult of all healing enchantments.

The warrior had then helped him to escape.

The Dulcé‘s cache of information was indeed massive: observations of Zhid behavior and training,

weather and landforms, detailed descriptions of enchantments and theories on how certain ones of them

were created, snatches of conversations, relative locations and sizes of Zhid encampments around the

fortress. But the bits and pieces were dreadfully disorganized. We didn’t know what questions to ask,

and the answers Bareil provided were tangled in the old Healer’s speculations on the nature of the Bridge

and the Lords of Zhev’Na. Little of immediate value. Nothing of how we might broach the fortress.

Nothing of what the Lords might have planned for Gerick. Nothing of how we might snatch him back.

By midnight, Karon had withdrawn from the discussion and stood gazing out of the window into the

snowy night. His silence grew so lengthy that the rest of us were drawn into it like flotsam into the strong

current of a river. “My lord?” said Bareil, at last. “What is it? Have you thought of something?”

Karon did not speak either to our disputes or our agreements, and most certainly not to our curiosity.

His broad back was straight. Unmoving. We could not see his face. All he said was, “Impossible as it

may seem, you and our friends must rest for a while.”

Paulo was already asleep, and Kellea’s eyes were drooping. But I could conceive of no circumstance

that would let me sleep. My cheeks hot, my soul agitated, my body a series of knots like those that little

girls tie in ribbon to tell their fortunes, I sat on the floor leaning against the wall, shredding the already

frayed ends of my cloth belt. “I’ll take the first watch,” I said.

Karon left the window and crouched down in front of me, his face on a level with my own. I tried to

turn away. But he gently took my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs to my pounding forehead,

just between my eyes. “Sleep, my lady,” he said softly. “We will need your strength.
He
will need your

strength. I’ll watch tonight.”

As on the Bridge, his presence enfolded me. But comfort, even of so generous a giving, was not what

I needed. Why couldn’t he see it?

I thrust his hands aside, looked up, and saw in front of me a stranger’s face. Not Karon’s fine bones

and slender jaw—the face I wanted and needed and yearned to see-but D’Natheil’s square chin,

wide-set eyes, and hard, carved cheeks. “Why should I trust
you
to watch?” I said, disappointment and

grief and exhaustion bursting from me all at once. “I hold the Dar’Nethi responsible. I’ve found little in the

people of Gondai save treachery, self-importance, and greed, all of which I can find in abundance in my

own people. I’ve seen nothing to refute the argument that we would be better off if the Bridge had been

destroyed four months ago. So while you watch, you might give serious thought as to why I shouldn’t act

as one of your own would do—stick a knife in you and trade your body for my son.”

Bareil gasped. “My lady!”

My lips stung with the hateful words. They had come out all wrong. “I didn’t mean— I’m—” I

stammered, trying to think whether some apology or attempt at modification might be worse than letting

the words vanish into the exhausted temper of the wretched day.

But Karon laid a finger on my lips. “You can be sure I’ll give your idea my utmost consideration.” He

wasn’t even angry.

I fell asleep before I could make an answer.

Someone laid me on the bed while I slept, for I was on the bed when I woke to see Bareil standing in

a square of sunlight, looking out the window. Kellea was curled up in the room’s only chair, and Paulo

was rolled in a blanket on the floor. Smoothing my rumpled clothes, I crossed the room in stockinged

feet, so as not to wake the sleepers, and poured myself a mug of saffria from the still-warm pot.

“He’s done it,” said the Dulcé quietly, his eye not leaving the view from our window. “I thought he

would wait—explore the other possibilities—talk it over with you—devise an alternate plan to allow us

some recourse if Master Dassine’s expectations were ill-founded . . .”

“The Prince . . . what’s he done? Where is he?”

Bareil motioned to me to the window.

The morning was glorious, the pale spires of the city glowing in the dawn light. Snow lay like a white

veil over the city, freshening its face for the new day. But I lost interest in the view when I saw the tall

figure walking slowly across the vast commard—surely the heart of the great city. Already passersby had

noticed him; several knelt and he raised them up. Others bowed or curtsied or scurried across the great

square, past fountains and trees and statuary, dragging others from their houses. Karon nodded his head

in return, but did not slow his progress toward the palace gates that fronted the commard and gardens.

From shops and houses sleepy residents emerged wearing shifts and nightsmocks and caps. From the

lanes and streets of the city trickled twos and threes, then tens and twenties, then throngs of people, in

moments transforming the quiet city into a joyous mob, shouting, waving, cheering, calling out to each

other and the one who moved through them, almost invisible now.

“What is it they cry?” I said, my heart as cold as first frost.

“They say, ‘Our Prince has returned. Our Prince is healed. D’Arnath’s Heir walks among us.’ ”

“They recognize him?”

“Easily. He has spoken his name to someone, and the truth of it wreathes him like the sun’s aura.

Everyone in Avonar will know on waking that the Heir walks among them. He tells them to be of good

heart.”

“I didn’t think he was ready to assume this role. Has he decided to refuse Dassine’s charge? Is he off

seeking vengeance or royal glory?” Confused and angry, I believed what I said no more than I had meant

the horrid jibe of the previous night. But when Bareil turned his distraught face to me, all other emotion

was drowned in fear.

“He is
not
ready, but he has seen no choice in his course. Nor has he rejected Dassine’s charge, but

rather submitted to it despite his profound misgivings. He goes to the Preceptorate.”

“The Preceptorate . . . He’s going to murder Exeget. Is that what the old devil told him to do?”

“No, my lady. He has no means to do such a thing.” The Duice’s eyes dropped to the tangle of

leather and steel in his hands—D’Natheil’s sword belt, and the sword and dagger of D’Arnath. Bareil

raised his eyes again, awash in grief. “Master Dassine told my lord that if the child was taken to Zhev’Na,

then he must give himself to the Preceptorate for examination—and that he must go to them defenseless.

When they examine him, they will probe his mind—question him without restraint. I do not know how he

can possibly survive it.”

By the time Karon reached the broad steps before the palace gates, six robed figures awaited him.

Even at such a distance, I could pick out the giant Gar’Dena, the scarecrow-like Y’Dan, the short

wizened figures of the two eldest, Ustele and Ce’Aret, all as Bareil had described them. The two other

figures, less easily distinguished, would be Madyalar, “the Mother,” and Exeget, traitor and murderer and

abductor of children. The six bowed to their prince.

“What is it he does?”

Karon had removed his cloak, his tunic, and his shirt. Now he sat on the steps in front of the six and

motioned to an onlooker, who proceeded to remove Karon’s boots. When he rose again, clad only in

breeches and leggings, doing something with his hands, the crowd was instantly hushed.

“He surrenders himself,” said the Dulcé, laying aside the Prince’s weapons. “His actions tell his

people that he is their servant and that he will abide by the results of examination by their Preceptors. In

essence, he states his willingness to risk everything—his freedom and his rightful inheritance—to erase all

doubts as to his lineage and capacities. The silver ribbon she wraps about his wrists symbolizes his

submission to their authority.” His chin lifting a bit, he pointed out the window. “Note that it is to

Madyalar he has surrendered, not to the head of the council—Exeget—as would be expected. A clever

move, but a terrible insult to Exeget. All will understand it, of course. Everyone in the city knows of the

bitterness between them.”

The six turned and walked slowly up the steps to the palace gates, which swung open before them.

Karon followed, shirtless and barefoot in the cold, bright morning, and a phalanx of guards fell in behind

him.

“Why?” I said. “Why would Dassine tell him to do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I wish I could answer, my lady. My late master was a wise and clever man, and I knew him better

than anyone living save the Prince, who cannot yet remember how they existed as one mind in the years

when he had no body. Master Dassine did many things in his life that were tangled and obscure,

yet—please do not think that I boast—I have always been able to unravel his plots. This one, though”—

he clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “I cannot piece together any strategy requiring the Prince to

present himself defenseless to those who were willing for him to die on the Bridge only a few months

ago.”

The crowds dispersed quickly, leaving the commard almost deserted. Kellea and Paulo had wakened

and joined us at the window, and we explained what we’d seen and Bareil’s misgivings.

“What are the possible outcomes of this examination?” asked Kellea.

“If he is found to be the Heir and sound of mind, then he will be able to assume his throne and do as

he pleases. If it is determined that he is an impostor, he will be executed immediately. If he is found to be

the true Heir, yet of unsound mind—which is what I fear—I do not know. In a thousand years such a

thing has never occurred.”

“I say we move ahead,” said Kellea, turning her back on the window. “It sounds as if we can’t count

on the Prince to be of any use. If he can, then all to the good, but we can’t wait to find out. We must go

after the boy now—on our own, if that’s the only way.”

Kellea was right. The Prince—Karon—was on his own. I had to put aside fear and anger, to crush