Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (35 page)

and bind the emotions that had been driving me to lash out so thoughtlessly. Our opponents were

sorcerers whose powers I could not imagine. I would fight for my son, but I doubted this battle would be

fought with swords and troops. “How long until the results of the Prince’s examination are known?”

Bareil settled on the stool by the fire. “Days, certainly. More likely many weeks. In such a state as he

is in . . .”

“Then, as Kellea says, we must prepare to do this ourselves,” I said. “But I’ll not risk Gerick’s life by

acting without thought. You’ve said they’ll want to teach Gerick . . . train him . . . raise him in their ways

... is that right?”

“That is the only plan that seems likely, though, of course, I cannot say—”

“That will take time. So we must take advantage of it. We have to find aid we can trust, and a plan

that will work. We must learn how to live in this world: the customs, the language, the geography,

whatever else Bareil can teach us of the Lords, the Zhid, and Zhev’Na. We’ll need clothing that will not

be remarked. If it means six weeks instead of six days until we’re ready, then that’s the way it must be.

Proceeding rashly could cost us everything. Will you help us, Bareil?”

The Dulcé bowed to me. “It will be my pleasure to share all I can bring forth. The Prince commanded

me to be of service to you during his absence.”

My anger threatened to break loose again. “Do you mean he told you he was going to go through

with this? Knowing the risk, you let him go without waking me?”

“He saw no alternatives and no benefit in further discussion. Though he did not understand Master

Dassine’s reasoning, he said he sincerely hoped it did not involve the Preceptors putting a knife in him

and trading him for the boy, for such was the only rational plan he had heard.” The Dulcé buried his grief

in his sweet smile. “It was a jest, my lady, and he did not forbid me to tell you of it.”

CHAPTER 20

Gerick

The sun on my face was bright and hot. I pushed back the blanket, only to pull it right back up again

when I realized I was naked. I sat up instead. The bed was huge and high off the floor, but hard, more

like a table than Mama’s bed with its piles of pillows. The bedchamber was as big as Papa’s room at

Comigor, though this one looked even bigger because it didn’t have much furnishing: a few tables, a giant

hearth, some straight chairs of light-colored wood, and a few lamp-stands with copper oil lamps hung

from them. Along one side of the room were the tall window openings where the sun shone in so fiercely.

I didn’t remember coming here. Darzid had taken me off the horse and carried me through a doorway

in a rock, but that was the last thing I knew.

Clothes that looked my size were laid out on the end of the bed. As I couldn’t see any of my own

things, I assumed these were meant for me. I pulled on a linen singlet and underdrawers, and then

climbed out of the bed so I could look around. Some of the windows were actually doors opening onto a

balcony that looked out over courtyards, lower buildings, and walls. Beyond the walls lay desert— red

cliffs and dirt all the way to the horizon, smoke and dust hanging in the air. The sun that was still low on

the horizon was red, too.

I had never seen true desert country. Papa had taken me to eastern Leire once to visit his favorite

swordmaker. The land there was dry and flat and ugly, but Papa had said that true deserts were

beautiful, with fine colors, and their own kind of odd plants and interesting animals, and mysterious water

holes where everything lived together. As far as I could see, nothing grew in this place, and nothing was

at all beautiful.

I turned back to the room. The bedchamber didn’t have long solid walls like the rooms at Comigor.

The rooms were divided by ranks of thin pillars forming arches. Metal grill-work holding candles sat in

some of the arches. Strips of woven cord hung in others, moving in the hot air coming in from the

balcony. Each wall had one archway that was wider than the others and didn’t have anything else in it.

These were the “doors,” I supposed.

Beyond one of the doorway arches was a room entirely filled with clothes and boots. At Comigor I

had a clothes chest where my things were folded and put away, and Mama had a huge clothes chest and

a carved wardrobe taller than Papa to hang her dresses in. I had never seen so many garments at once,

and they were clearly for one person, as they were all the same size. Shirts and tunics were hung up one

after the other from long poles. Leggings, hose, breeches, and singlets were folded on shelves that

extended higher than I could reach. Short and long cloaks hung on hooks. And rows of shoes stood

under the hanging shirts—riding and walking boots of every cut and soft shoes to wear indoors. The

clothes were not colored silk or ruffled, embroidered things like Mama had made for me. Most seemed

to be plain, sturdy shirts and breeches and tunics like Papa wore when he went to war. On one shelf was

a wooden case that held buckles and belts, and some jewelry—a man’s jewelry. I didn’t touch any of it.

Through another archway I found a bathing room. The floor and outer walls were covered with

painted tiles of dark blue and green, and a deep pool was built right into the floor. I touched an ivory

handle and steaming water gushed out of a gold pipe that was shaped like a screaming man. I’d never

seen anything like it. When I pulled my hand away, the water stopped.

Other archways led to a sitting room with more tall window openings and another hearth. In front of

the hearth was a table big enough to eat on and a number of straight wood chairs. Across that room,

beyond another arched opening, was a wide staircase that curved downward. I thought I’d better get

some clothes on before going downstairs, so I returned to the bedchamber and put on the clothes that lay

on the bed: a gray linen shirt, black breeches and tunic, gray leggings and black leather boots that

reached over my calves.

Laid out right next to the clothes were a sword belt and a knife sheath. They were wonderful. The

knife was polished like a looking glass, and so sharp it took a sliver of wood off the edge of the table as

easy as cutting a peach. The hilt was engraved with all manner of strange beasts, and fit my hand

perfectly. The sword was a real rapier, every bit as fine as the knife. Even Papa would have approved

the point and the finish. Best of all, the length was perfect for my height. My fencing master at Comigor,

Swordmaster Fenotte, had insisted I use wooden weapons or old brittle swords that had been cut off

short, so dull and nicked and blunt that you couldn’t stick a hunk of bread with them. If the clothes were

meant for me, then surely the weapons must be intended for me, too, or else they wouldn’t be next to the

clothes. Just at that moment, I heard footsteps on the tile floor behind me. I spun about, dropping the

sword belt with a loud clatter.

Captain Darzid walked in through the archway that led to the sitting room and the stairs. He was

followed by a man wearing almost nothing. “No, no, Your Grace,” said Captain Darzid, smiling and

waggling his finger at the sword belt. “The weapons are certainly yours, just as you guessed. Wear them

as a young duke should. In Zhev’Na, a noble with a sworn blood debt is not treated as a child, but given

his proper respect. You’ll find life here very different than in a household run by women.”

“Is Zhev’Na the name of this country?” I said. I didn’t want to tell him that I couldn’t even remember

how we got here. A duke with a sworn blood oath shouldn’t be stupid enough to lose track of himself the

way I had.

“This land is called Ce Uroth, which in the local language means ‘the Barrens.’” Darzid stepped to the

windows.

“And it is indeed a barren land—stripped of softness and frivolous decoration, its power exposed for

all to see. If he wants to accomplish his purposes, a soldier must be hard like this land, not decked out in

a whore’s finery, or wallowing in weakness or sentimentality.”

He smiled then—that too-friendly smile that I didn’t like. “But more such lessons later. We’ve had a

long journey, and for the moment we are safely out of the reach of your enemies.” He waved his hand in

the air. “This house and everything in it are yours for as long as you stay in the fortress of Zhev’Na. It is

not so large as Comigor, but finer, I think, and well suited to your situation.”

“Mine ... all of this?”

“Yes. Your hosts . . . the Lords of this place . . . had the house and clothing made ready for you

when they heard you were coming. Do you approve?”

I gawked at everything all over again. “It’s very fine.”

The other man had knelt down beside the doorway, bowed his head, and stretched his arms out to

either side. Darzid poked at the man’s back with his boot as if he were something not quite nice lying in

the road, but the man didn’t change his position. “This slave Sefaro will be your chamberlain. He will run

your household and see to all your needs. He—as all Dar’Nethi slaves—must have permission before he

speaks or you must cut out his tongue. Command him as you will. Kill him if he does not please you. He

is very capable, but there are many more to take his place if he does not serve.”

The kneeling man didn’t look at all surprised at the captain’s terrible words. His skimpy gray tunic left

his arms and legs and feet bare, and his hair was cut off very short. Wide metal bands were wrapped

about his neck and his wrists. We didn’t have slaves in Leire. Prisoners were usually killed or maimed,

unless they were needed in the quarries or mines. Enemies who were not soldiers were left to work and

pay taxes to our king.

As I stared at the slave and thought about what it must feel like to cut out a man’s tongue, Captain

Darzid went on talking. “. . . look in on you from time to time, but you’ll not lack for entertainment. A

swordmaster will begin your training this afternoon—and he will not be a gibbering dancing master in

pantaloons like Philomena hired for you. Tomorrow you will begin lessons in hand combat and to learn to

ride like a soldier instead of a child. You’ve never in your life ridden such horses as we have in

Zhev’Na.”

“But—”

“Is this not your wish? To become a strong and ruthless warrior like your father and grandfather?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course it is,” I said. I was just surprised at it happening so fast. And I wasn’t certain

I ought to stay so close to Captain Darzid. Surely he would find out about my sorcery and arrest me. To

think of burning to death made my stomach hurt.

All happened just as Darzid said. That afternoon I met Calador, my swordmaster. He was tall and

thin. His arms looked like a thin layer of skin stretched over a bundle of ropes, and his eyes were strange,

like the eyes in a statue where they forgot to put any pupils in them. He wore a plain gold earring in one

ear. On that first day he made me run and jump, stretch, bend, and twist for hours until every muscle was

sore. Never once did I get to pick up my new sword. When he said we were finished for the day, I guess

he saw that I was disappointed.

“Soon enough, young Lord. We have a great deal of work to do before you take up a weapon.” His

voice was cold. “You have decent reflexes, but you are weak and poorly disciplined.”

A whole week of sword training passed before I got to try my rapier, and then only to poke at dry

leaves and shavings of wood that a slave would drop from the top of a wall. By that time I already hated

Calador. He was forever taunting me and telling me how like a dainty girl I was, and how I was too

stupid to know which end of the sword was sharp. When I did something wrong, he would make me

squat for an hour with my hands extended in front of me, holding a brick in each one. He said he could

not believe I was kin to a great swordsman and that perhaps swordsmen in my country were not of the

same quality as those of Ce Uroth. All I could think of in those hours was how I had to keep getting

better so I could beat Calador someday.

I rose at dawn every day, ate some fruit and cheese, and went straight to sword training for several

hours. At mid-morning I ate again, only a little, for after another hour of sword practice I went straight to

the wrestling ground, a small courtyard of packed sand, for training in hand combat. Two hours later,

after only a brief rest and a drink, I would walk out to the stables for my riding lessons. I didn’t need to

worry about sorcery. By sunset, I was so tired I could hardly stay awake to eat before I fell into the bed.

A big, burly slave named Xeno taught me hand combat. He was patient and coaxed me along when I

was so black and blue that it hurt even to clench my fist. He said he wouldn’t go easy just because I was

inexperienced. But I knew he could have snapped me like a twig, and that he truly
did
hold back when

things got too hard. He wore one of the iron collars, too—all the slaves had to wear them. I wanted to

ask Xeno how he got to be a slave, but like all the slaves he was not allowed to speak beyond our

business. All the slaves were afraid all of the time, even one so strong as Xeno.

My riding master was called Murn, and he was like Calador—not a slave. Like Calador he wore a

gold earring and had eyes that prickled your skin when you looked at them. He wasn’t quite so nasty as