Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (47 page)

more skilled opponents for me. Then I’d be less likely to injure them.

Some of my opponents were Zhid, and some were slaves. There was a third kind of servant in the

fortress called Drudges. Drudges were stupid and dull and never spoke, even though they weren’t

forbidden it like the slaves. Drudges never fought as practice partners. They weren’t allowed to touch

weapons, because they didn’t know what to do with them.

“They’re not Dar’Nethi, thus have no true power,” Ziddari told me, “so we have no need to collar

them. They breed, and so make more of themselves. That can be useful. If they don’t work, we kill them.

They have so little intelligence that it’s better for all. A mercy, in fact. They are nothing.”

I’d never thought of killing people as being a mercy, but if the person was too stupid even to know

what to do with a knife, it made more sense.

My training in sorcery continued, too. Notole taught me how to call my horse from anywhere within

the training grounds, how to prevent my sword from getting dull, and how to make my knife cut into a

rock. I asked her how I could get more power for sorcery, and if it could enable me to do bigger things.

She said that someday I would be able to do anything I wanted.

CHAPTER 27

Seri

Fourteen days, Gar’Dena promised, only fourteen days of living under the very noses of the Lords of

Zhev’Na. Time enough to learn where Gerick was being kept. Time enough to let the other players work

their way into position. Then would come a signal I could not mistake, even though I could not be told of

it in advance, and together these other players and I would snatch my son to safety. I could survive

Zhev’Na for fourteen days. For my son and the future of the worlds, I could do it.

The venture would be dreadfully risky. There existed only three ways to enter Zhev’Na, Gar’Dena

lectured us as we sat in his exotic sitting room on the day after the terrible events in the council chamber.

The first was as a Zhid. Of course, to retain enough of one’s soul to perform a selfless deed after being

transformed into a Zhid was an all but impossible hope. And only the most powerful of Dar’Nethi

captives were made Zhid. It was not a practical way to sneak spies into Zhev’Na.

“Unless one could counterfeit a Zhid,” said Kellea, eagerly abandoning our aimless activities of the

past weeks in favor of Gar’Dena’s plot. “Is that possible?”

“I know of only one man who ever has managed such an impersonation,” said the Preceptor. “To live

as one of them, performing acts of cruelty and vileness every hour ... how does a person with a soul

reconcile it? Only a person of tremendous strength and dedication. And only one who was once a Zhid

himself. No one else could know the life they lead, the words they speak, or how to work the Seeking or

transform another into a Zhid.”

“So, what are the other two ways?” I asked.

“The second is as a captive. Dar’Nethi of lesser power or those considered expendable are made

slaves. The Zhid use weaker slaves as a source of power, leaching away the poor souls’ life essence to

augment their own power. They forbid the stronger slaves all use of their true talents and force them to

spend their lives in unending degradation....” He faltered. “You are not Dar’Nethi, and so that way is not

for you.”

“And the third?”

“The third possibihty is yet another kind of servitude, for the Lords of Zhev’Na permit no life but

servitude. Before the Catastrophe, when our worlds were closer linked, people from your lands

occasionally wandered into ours. Those trapped in Ce Uroth by the Catastrophe fell under the sway of

the Lords. Unlike the Zhid, who have lost the ability to reproduce, and the Dar’Nethi slaves, who are

forbidden it, these unfortunates beget children. They now number in the thousands, but they have no

power, nowhere else to go, and have been in the Wastes so long they know no other life. They live in

desolate villages throughout the Wastes, breeding horses or food beasts for the Zhid, or they serve in the

war camps or the fortress.”

“And I am to be one of these?”

“We are in contact with a brave man, the one I referred to earlier, a Zhid who was restored to himself

by Dassine during his imprisonment in the Wastes. This man has chosen to remain in Ce Uroth all these

years, living as a Zhid in order to aid our cause as he is able. He can get you a place in the fortress of

Zhev’Na itself, an ordinary duty assignment that will not be remarked. From this position you should be

able to discover the whereabouts of your son, his daily routine, how he is guarded, and what possibilities

exist for removing him. If we train you well before you go, and you play your part with the same courage

and intelligence we’ve seen in you thus far, then you should be able to do what no Dar’Nethi could ever

accomplish.”

“This is why you needed someone from my world—a mundane,” I said.

“Exactly so.”

“That means I can go, too,” said Paulo. He had been listening intently while munching raspberries

from a silver bowl.

Gar’Dena was taken aback. “We’ve no plans to send anyone else. The dangers—”

“The Prince and the Lady Seri saved my life twice over. I’ve sworn to pay ‘em back for it, and the

only way I can see is to get their boy back safe. I’ll go, if I have to walk all the way on my two good

legs.”

The giant sorcerer did not laugh as many might have done at a boy of thirteen whose ferocious loyalty

was sworn with red juice smeared over his freckles. Rather he laid his wide hand on Paulo’s knee and

responded soberly. “The success of the plan can be our only consideration. For now, that requires the

lady to go alone. But we will think on how best to use such courage as yours. As for you, young

woman”—he glanced tentatively at a thunderous Kellea— “you must see that your road cannot lead to

Zhev’Na. Not yet. You are Dar’Nethi, a fact that cannot be masked. Any Zhid can lay his hand on you

and know what you are. But, as with this daring young man, I promise we will find ample use for your

skills.”

Over the next days, Gar’Dena set me to work in his kitchens, scrubbing and washing up, and to

digging in his garden so as to roughen my hands. As I worked, he helped me build a new identify, to

forge new habits and thoughts and patterns of speech, tempering them with constant review. I asked

Gar’Dena if Bareil could perhaps be brought in to help me learn my role, but the sorcerer scoffed at that

idea, saying that the Dulcé had taken no new madrisson and was therefore useless. “A Dulcé unlinked is

little more than a child, you know. Young Paulo here has more knowledge at his bidding than would

Bareil.” I disagreed, but Gar’Dena would not budge.

Paulo grumbled that he would be happy if he was but allowed to use what knowledge he had.

“I don’t know that I trust these Dar’Nethi or their schemes,” I told the boy privately. “I may need you

to come rescue me.”

I spoke half in jest, but Paulo did not. “I’ll do it,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Be sure of it. I’m

watching your back.”

On the fourth day of my stay with Gar’Dena, Aiessa burst into our workroom with the terrible news

that a Zhid raiding party had attacked three outlying settlements, killing or capturing all who lived there.

Gar’Dena practically pounced on the girl. “The names, child. What are the names of the settlements?”

“Vilkamas, Sen Ystar, and Nithe.”

At the names, the sorcerer clasped his huge hands, pressed them to his brow, and closed his eyes.

“Have your sisters light the war flame, my Aiessa. Remind them to take into their hearts those who have

fallen and more especially those souls who find themselves this night under the yoke of the Lords. May

their courage and honor light our Way.” The girl nodded and hurried away, and Gar’Dena turned back to

my lesson. “You must be ready to go at any moment.”

We drilled for two more hours, Gar’Dena trying to trip me up with questions about the squalid work

camp where Eda the sewing woman had spent her whole life, and how she had come to be in service at

the fortress of Zhev’Na. “. . . And when was your mate killed?”

“The people of our work camp were honored to serve the Lords in a battle exercise a twelvemonth

since. My mate did not return.”

“And why were you not returned to your work camp?”

“Only I and three others survived the battle exercise. It was not in the best service of the Lords to

send so few back to the work camp.”

“And how did you come to Zhev’Na?”

“I’ve worked for these past months in the war camp of the Worships, but I was not suited to tent

making. The keeper said I should perhaps be killed because I was useless, but then he heard that there

was a lack of sewing women at Zhev’Na. I am greatly honored to be allowed to serve the Lords here,

and I work diligently to improve myself.”

“And what is your present service?”

“I sew, Your Honor, linens and tunics for the Worships, for such is simple work suited to my poor

skills. I repair what needs it and change the linens in the rooms where I might be assigned. On occasion I

am called on to stitch tunics for slaves, though only for the glory of the Lords of Zhev’Na would I

perform any service that might benefit vermin slaves.”

On and on we went, until Gar’Dena’s head jerked up. A streak of blue light creased the air—a

message had arrived. The Dar’Nethi would drop an enchanted stone into a flame to alert a distant

correspondent that he wished to speak in the other’s mind. “It is done,” he said, almost reverently, after a

moment’s quiet as the sender communicated the message. “The first move is made. You go tonight. You

may wish to sleep for a while now, my lady, as it will be many days until you can rest in safety. I will

assist you to sleep if need be.”

“I couldn’t rest well anyway,” I said. “Tonight is my husband’s funeral procession. As I cannot

attend”— Gar’Dena had declared it too dangerous—“I intend at least to watch what I can of it.”

The people of Avonar had at last been told of the death of the Prince D’Natheil. The Preceptors’

examination had revealed that his mind was too damaged by his summer’s battle on the Bridge to allow

him to assume his duties, so they told the shocked populace. Cast into despondence, he had taken the

sorrowful step that was the final proof of his illness—taking his own life. The Preceptorate would

deliberate on the succession, but, of course, nothing could be done until the Prince’s son came of age.

And so in the last hours before I was to go to Zhev’Na, I stood on Gar’Dena’s balcony with the

Preceptor and his daughters and watched the funeral procession of the Heir of D’Arnath. Karon’s

funeral. As the sun slipped behind the peaks of Eidolon, the Dar’Nethi spilled out of houses and shops.

Dressed in white, each carrying a glowing white sphere, they converted every lane into a river of light.

As the procession passed slowly through the grand commard, they began to sing, first the men, then

the women, and then the children. They sang the story of Vasrin Creator and the dawn of time, and of

Vasrin Shaper who set men and women free to walk their own paths through the world. And then they

sang of D’Arnath and his Bridge and his oath to sustain it, and of the sad young Prince who had lost his

father and brothers and been thrust onto the Bridge too early in the desperation of his people. They sang

of the unknown Exile who had opened the Gate, and of the Prince’s mysterious journey to the other

world that had resulted in the renewal of life in the Vales of Eidolon.

The rite was heart-wrenching and exhilarating. Only when they carried the white-silk-draped bier past

the window did I falter. But I closed my eyes and prayed that the songs of the Dar’Nethi would echo far

from Avonar. “Wherever you are, my dear one, listen well,” I whispered. “Let the beauty of this night

give you comfort.” I would not grieve. I would not.

Even after the procession wound out of sight, the singing rang through the frosty air, echoing off the

mountain peaks well into the night. But time for my departure had come, and I could no longer permit my

thoughts to linger on either beauty or sorrow. I donned the shapeless garb of black and brown and

allowed Gar’Dena to tie a red kerchief over my eyes.

“Please forgive this,” he said. “Each piece of our mosaic must remain separate lest we reveal the

whole picture too soon.” He led me through his warm house, scented with spices and flowers and baking

bread. And then we stepped through a magical portal, so the chilly prickle of my skin told me, into an

echoing room with no scent but cold stone.

“Now, my dear lady”—Gar’Dena spoke loudly into my ear, as if my blindfold might be hampering my

hearing— “our honor and blessings go with you. In fourteen days you will be contacted, and shortly after,

as the Way leads us, we shall be together again, rejoicing at our success, your son safely in our care.

Until then . . .” He grasped my hand in his meaty one and kissed it. “Now, take three steps forward, turn

immediately to your left, and then left again.”

Three steps forward. A tremulous disturbance of the air. Another chilly ring surrounding me. As I

turned left and then left again, a grim voice spoke in my head.
Do not be afraid. You are not alone. . .
.

One more step and the air and space around me changed dramatically. Hot. Dry. The scent of smoke