Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (42 page)

draperies as if it were a child’s swing. A book lay in her left hand, while the fingers of her right hand ran

over the lines on the page. Her eyes were unfocused, aimed vaguely into the center of the room while she

performed this activity, and the longer I watched, the more convinced I became that she was blind and

yet was “reading” the book in some strange and marvelous way.

“Aiessa, Arielle, Aimee, we have guests,” bellowed Gar’Dena. “Look lively now. We need rooms,

baths, supper.”

All three girls were clad in flowing, high-waisted gowns of white, the sleeves banded in blue or rose

embroidery. Their elegant simplicity presented quite a contrast with Gar’Dena himself, who was

resplendent in green satin breeches and a red silk doublet in addition to his hundredweight of jewels.

“Papa, you must give us more notice,” said the tall blond girl, whose flour-dusted apron was dark

blue. “My bread is in mid-kneading, and there’s no wine to be had in the house. You sent our dinner to

Co’Meste to redeem your wager, and the guest rooms have not been swept in a moon’s turning, since

you frightened the sweeping girls. Not that you are unwelcome.” She directed the last at me with a

charming smile.

“You’ll think of something, Arielle,” said the big man. “You always do. Get your lazy sisters to help. I

will speak to our guests for a few moments, and then they’ll be ready for refreshment and beds.” He bent

down from his great height and planted a kiss on the blond curls of the youngest girl. “Who is kissing you,

clever Aimee?”

She reached up and tweaked his outsized nose. “I’ll never mistake you for anyone, Papa,” she said,

with a giggle far sweeter than the wind chimes tinkling in the softly moving air. “Unless perhaps a

rinoceroos should come to Avonar.”

“Someday when our troubles are past, I will bring you a rinoceroos, sweet Aimee. Then shall we see

if you mistake him for your papa.”

The impossibly strange mode of travel, the alien surroundings, the warmth and charming repartee . . .

everything was at odds with the noisy rancor of the council chamber. I closed my eyes to clear the

confusion, but visions of flashing knives and too much blood filled my head. My knees turned to water,

and strength and surety flowed out of me in a tidal rush.

Gar’Dena’s dark-haired daughter dropped her brush and grabbed my arm and my back, supporting

me gently. “Would you like to sit down? Papa can be so thoughtless.”

“Yes,” I said. No need for foolish bravado any longer. “Yes, please.”

“Papa, attention to your guests,” said the girl sharply. “I’ll see if I can find them something to drink, at

least, so Arielle can finish her bread-baking.”

Gar’Dena whirled about, his broad face everything of apology. He took my hand, wrapping my

fingers about his forearm and patting them gently. “Forgive me, madam, but it always seems so

interminably long between my trips home, and I miss these lovely gems of mine most fearfully. Please, let

us have a seat and speak of your future plans.”

He led me to one of the red draperies that swept in a long arc from the high ceiling. When I sat down,

the silky stuff wrapped itself around me until I felt as cozy and comfortable as if I were nestled in a cloud.

Paulo drew back when Gar’Dena pointed to a yellow drape. Instead the boy dropped to the thick carpet

just beside me. Noting Paulo’s sooty face and filthy clothing, I realized that I too was streaked with ashes

and stable dirt. Not at all like the wife of a prince, even a dead one.
Oh, gods . . . don’t think
. My chest

ached.

Gar’Dena dragged a giant pillow to a spot just in front of Paulo and me and settled his bulk onto it.

“Tomorrow I shall retrieve your remaining companion and bring her here. You’ll be much more

comfortable here than at the Guesthouse of the Three Harpers.”

My face must have shown my discomfiture.

“Yes, I know of you—and of many other things that might surprise you. Ah, thank you, my loves!”

On a low table of black marble that appeared just beside Gar’Dena, Aiessa, the dark-haired girl, set

down a tray bearing a steaming urn made of beaten gold and encrusted with emeralds. Alongside the urn

sat three gold cups and a painted, gold-rimmed plate piled high with slices of hot bread, dripping with

butter. Little Aimee accompanied her sister. The girl with golden curls felt for the edge of the plate and

set a crystal pot of honey beside it, at the same time knocking over the stack of cups. She giggled as she

righted them again. Hardly any time had passed since the tall Arielle had left to finish her baking.

Gar’Dena was the youngest of the Preceptors, so Bareil had told us, appointed by the Prince

D’Marte, D’Natheil’s father, only weeks before D’Marte’s death in battle. Neither the Preceptors nor

other Dar’Nethi kept secret their opinions that the massive gem-worker had been appointed because of

his wealth, not for his power or wisdom. Even in my exhausted confusion, I had already begun to doubt

that.

I accepted a cup of hot, fragrant saffria from the urn. Aimee offered Paulo a cup and a small plate

heaped with bread. The boy, slumped and listless at my feet, did not seem to notice. I nudged him. When

he looked up at the rosy-cheeked Aimee, his eyes grew wide, his mouth dropped open, and his hands

remained limp in his lap. I nudged him again and nodded at the plate and the cup. He shook off his

paralysis and took them, but began to eat only after he had watched the giggling Dar’Nethi girl follow her

older sister out of the room, passing right through a heavy brocade curtain without so much as parting it.

Before Gar’Dena patted his stomach and took up the conversation again, the mountain of bread was

almost gone, and Paulo’s eyes were glazed with bliss.

“Now,” said the sorcerer, “I know why you’re here, and I stand ready to aid you in your task.”

“My task?”
Careful, careful, Seri
, I told myself.
These people are master deceivers
. I had to keep

my wits about me.

He leaned forward, his broad face shining with sincerity like the full moon. “Oh, madam, would that I

could conjure your trust as quickly as my daughter does her baking. Our time is so short.”

“Time for what?”

“To rescue your son from the clutches of the Lords. To bring him out of Zhev’Na before he is

corrupted. He must not be there when he comes of age.”

“How do you know he’s in Zhev’Na? He was in your council chamber not an hour ago.”

“He was returned there as soon as ... the disaster occurred. They would not linger in Avonar in such

uncertainty. It would risk their plan.”

“You speak in riddles, sir. Do you mean to tell me that you—the Preceptors—knew my son was

captive of the Zhid and you did nothing?”

“What could be done? It is not forbidden for anyone, Dar’Nethi or Dulcé or Zhid, or even one of

your own kind to come before the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate and make petition, ask hearing, or bring

grievance. If someone brings a boy to us, we cannot say, ‘We think you come from Zhev’Na, therefore

you get no hearing.’ We claim that our world will be made whole again, and that all will be healed and

live in peace—and when he says he brings the son of D’Arnath’s Heir—we listen.”

“This makes no sense.”

Gar’Dena grimaced. “We could not wrest the boy from his protector while they stood supplicant in

the council chamber—especially as the boy remained with the man willing. The child was not afraid and

made no attempt to distance himself. It is not possible for us to trespass our laws in such a case. The

Lords know our traditions and our scruples, you see, and use them very effectively against us. But we

had to confirm the boy’s identity. Our Prince was ... as you saw. We must have an Heir, and even those

of us who suspect the identity of the boy’s protectors were powerless to change—”

“But you
knew
. Once he had passed your cursed ‘test,’ why didn’t you take him from Darzid?” I

was no longer cold, not inside, not outside. “How could you let the despicable man take him back to the

Lords?”

“Because this Darzid is not a man!” The floor rumbled with the same fury that had shaken the council

chamber, but his anger was not directed at me. He gripped his hands together until I thought he must

crush his own fingers. “We do not know who or what he is any more than you do. We know that he has

at least one ally among the Preceptors. Even if we were willing to endanger the child’s life when we know

so little, we dared not challenge the Lords in the very heart of Avonar. This city is our last defense. This

battle must take place outside these walls. Better to appear stupid and corrupt and ineffective. Let them

think they have all the time they need. And that, madam, is where you come in.”

“I don’t understand.”

He released his hands, his shoulders sagged, and a woeful grin worked its way through his oversized

gloom. “We planned to find you. A blessing to be sure that you dropped into my not inconsiderable

lap—though we were fortunate to keep you from being divided among our covetous Preceptors.”

“I wouldn’t have gone with Exeget. I’d kill him first.”

He sighed deeply. Gar’Dena did nothing small. “Such was not an unguessable reaction, madam,

though killing Exeget would not be at all simple. But since we so fortunately avoided that particular

ugliness, we wish to proceed. There is a plan and help to be had if you will accept it. If you consent, we

will send you to Zhev’Na to rescue your son.”

Astonishment and anger would not release me as yet. “I still don’t understand. If you’re so worried

about my son, then why, in the name of all gods, didn’t you send someone to rescue him weeks ago?

You don’t need me.”

Gar’Dena’s good humor went the way of his rage, leaving only a serious intelligence that one might

more properly expect from a Preceptor of Gondai. “Because we cannot send a Dar’Nethi. The rescuer

must be someone from your world. You will see why as we prepare. You were the most reasonable

choice and came highly recommended. Yet, we had to judge you for ourselves—to make sure that you

were not overwhelmed by our world, that you were not rash or stupid and likely to make things worse

instead of better. When we saw how carefully you moved, we came to believe you would do. And too,

our plan was not possible before tonight. Treacherous waters must be carefully navigated. That’s all I can

tell you. To say more would compromise our plan.”

At last I began to listen. He waited patiently as I tried to think. “Was this Dassine’s design?” I said.

“Dassine knew nothing of this plan. But he would agree that we have no other possibility.”

“Who are the others included in this ‘we’?”

“You will not know that.” A finger of anticipation tickled my spine.

“Then tell me, Master Gar’Dena—did Karon know of your plan? Was his action . . . the knife . . .

what he did . . .was that part of your plan? Did you drive him mad or did he consent to it? I need to

know.”

Paulo shot a glance at me, curiosity flashing across his dirty, tear-streaked face.

The big man closed the doors of his broad face and laid one ponderous fist upon his heart. “Of

course the Prince’s death was not part of our plan. We had hoped— But the examination was ruinous.

We thought we had shown him alternatives . . . convinced him . . . Ah, Vasrin Shaper, I cannot speak of

the matter. His death is a grievous blow to Gondai and our people. If we cannot retrieve his son, we are

undone.”

Why could I not feel Karon’s loss, even after such sober speech as this? Gar’Dena’s voice was near

breaking. I had seen the knife and the blood and the terrible wound. I had seen Karon fall, and with the

others watched life desert his pain-ravaged face. But in that precious instant we were together, he was

not mad and not desperate. And if he was not mad, then I could not believe he would ever, in the farthest

extremity, take his own life.

So I put him away for a while, laid aside my grief and regret and mourning. I only whispered an

answer to the sweet echo that lingered in my head.
You have no need for forgiveness. I embrace your

life, beloved, all that you were and all that you remain
. “Tell me your plan, Preceptor.”

CHAPTER 24

Karon

The Dulcé say that life is a tapestry, the warp and weft laid down by Vasrin Shaper—the female half

of the duality that is our god—and we who exist in the world are assigned our position and shading to

perfect its marvelous pattern. The Valloreans say that life is a garden, each of us planted in our proper

row so as to nurture or shelter those who grow beside us, or to wind ourselves about each other in

mutual companionship or mutual destruction. But I think we Dar‘Nethi have it right, that life is a path laid

down as you walk it and taken up behind you as quickly as you pass. That is why it does no good to

look back and say “if only . . .” for where you have traveled is already unclear, and it does no good to

say “tomorrow ...” for where you are going is not yet laid down. Better to savor each moment as if it

were the first or the last. Perhaps we’ve come to this conclusion because that is the source of our power

. . . the savoring.

I had never considered myself a remarkable man, but as I sat before the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate,

knowing what I did of my own life and contemplating what I was about to do, I believed I could say truly