Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (61 page)

I saw him for the first time on my second day in the house. My task of the morning was to scrub a

tiled passage that opened onto one of the inner courtyards. The dawn provided scarcely enough light for

me to see what I was doing. In the way of Drudges and slaves, I shrank back into the shadows at the

ring of approaching footsteps. Gerick strode past me and into the yard.

Though his build was still slender, he had grown two hands taller and his shoulders and upper arms

had filled out. A green singlet exposed his deeply tanned arms, and his brown breeches, leggings and

boots were well fitted. Alone in the fencing yard, he removed his sword belt, hung it on a hook on the

wall, and began to warm up. His movements were like a ritual dance, done to no music I could hear.

He was beautiful. His shining hair fell softly about his sun-bronzed face as he stretched and spun, a

few thin braids dangling in front of each ear, and even as his exercise grew faster and more violent, he

showed no signs of the awkwardness one might expect from a boy so young. His features were

composed, peaceful, his mind seemingly focused inward . . . until a Zhid warrior appeared across the

courtyard.

“What shall we work on today, young Lord?” asked the newcomer. “You fall short in so many areas,

it’s hard to know where to begin. Every day, it seems, our greatest challenge is to decide what you’re

worst at.”

Gerick’s only response was to halt his exercise, buckle his sword belt about his waist, and stand

waiting, his face now cold and expressionless.

Throughout the morning the swordmaster continued in this manner, casting insults, taunts, and

humiliation. Gerick did as he was told, repeating moves a hundred times with no complaint, no argument,

and no change in his haughty demeanor.

The stone walls of the passageway became a furnace as the sun grew high. The fencing yard would

be worse, as it had no scrap of shade, but the rigor of the training exercises did not diminish. At

mid-morning Gerick donned his leather practice armor, and a slave was brought to spar with him. The

swordmaster faulted Gerick’s every move. Whenever he wished to pause the match, the Zhid would use

a whip on the slave, a lithe, quick youth of eighteen or so.

After the third time the slave was left gasping in the dust by the swordmaster’s lash, Gerick spoke

tightly. “If you have some reason to kill this slave, then do so and bring in another.”

“Shall I direct this practice like a nursery, then?” snarled the Zhid. “Childish sensibilities have no place

in true warfare. Is this the weakness of your blood showing itself?”

Gerick strolled over to a barrel and drank deeply from a copper dipper. Then he returned to the

sneering Zhid, who stood leaning against the wall. Almost before one could see it, Gerick had a knife

pressed up against the swordmaster’s ribs. “You will direct my practice the way you think best, but if you

ever speak to me in that way again, I will carve out your liver and have you staked out right here until

your skin cracks like an unoiled boot. I’ve done it before with those who crossed me. Consider it.”

As quickly as he had unsheathed it, Gerick put away his knife, returned to the slave who waited in the

center of the yard, and raised his sword in a ready stance. His face was expressionless again. There was

no sign the incident had ever occurred.

The Zhid did not lash the slave again. When he wished the match to stop, he brought up a wooden

staff between the two boys. One might think him chastened by his pupil’s rage, unless you saw his smirk

when Gerick’s back was turned.

I had come near scrubbing grooves in the stones at the wide entry to the fencing yard. As I moved on

down the passage, I could no longer see the yard, but the clash of weapons and the shouted instructions

of the swordmaster continued throughout the morning. It was difficult to associate the cold-eyed youth in

the fencing yard with the child I had met at Comigor. Even such a brief glimpse revealed a great deal that

I didn’t want to know. No need to hear the deepening timbre of his voice to know there was nothing of

the child about him any longer.

Gerick trained in the fencing yard almost every morning. Even if I wasn’t cleaning an area that allowed

me a view, I would walk by, if only to catch a glimpse of him. I had no idea how to approach him. All

midnight imaginings of revealing myself to a terrified child, grateful to be rescued from a villainous

captivity, had crumbled on that first morning. And the days that followed did nothing to reverse my failing

hopes.

Late one afternoon a ferocious wind storm hit the fortress, a howling, choking tempest of red sand

that could flay human or beast. Gerick was in the stableyard when a horse broke from its tether, driven

wild by the whirling sand. A young slave yanked Gerick aside, dragging him to the ground as the horse

reared and kicked and galloped out of the yard. The slave had saved Gerick from certain injury, yet,

once back on his feet, Gerick knocked the youth to the ground with the back of his hand and kicked him

viciously. “Touch me again, and I’ll cut off your hands,” he said to the cowering youth.

On another day the entire household was called out to the Lords’ Court. We gathered in awkward

assembly— Drudges, slaves, Zhid—to witness the lashing of a Zhid warrior, one of the house guards

whom Gerick had found asleep at his post. The Zhid was bound to an iron frame. Gerick gave the

warrior two lashes, and then turned the whip over to a burly Zhid. Cold and imperious, Gerick watched

as ten more lashes were administered, and the torn and bleeding warrior was dragged away.

My companions chided me for my tears. “The guard deserved his punishment,” said Dia. “What if

someone had come to harm the young Lord? The Worships have their duties just like us.”

I didn’t tell her that it was not for the Zhid I wept.

I quickly lost my fear that Gerick might recognize me. He took absolutely no notice of any servant,

whether Drudge or slave. Two slaves were always within range of his call, but never did I see him

acknowledge their existence by word or glance. It might have been the wind that fastened his cloak about

him before he went out in the evening, or the weight of the air that deposited a cup into his hand at the

end of his sword practice. Several times he came close to stepping on my hand as he walked past me,

and once I rounded a corner and came near running into him. I was shaken, as his face was now almost

on a level with mine, but his eyes never wavered from his destination, and he made no response to my

mumbled apologies. I feared I might be too late to save him.

Then came a morning when I walked past the fencing yard, but did not see Gerick, only the

swordmaster, fuming, his hands on his hips. “You, woman. Yes, you, dolt,” he shouted angrily to me.

“Go to the young Lord’s chambers and find out why he leaves me here waiting. Be back apace or I’ll

have you whipped.”

When I reached the top of the stair, a slave informed me that the young Lord had injured his knee and

would not be attending his lessons. I reported this to the swordmaster, who summoned the surgeon.

From the shadowed corners of Gerick’s apartments, I watched the Zhid Healer work his vile perversion

of Dar’Nethi healing. The air grew heavy and dim, laden with the foulness of that enchantment.

Gerick threw Mellador out of his rooms, forcing the surgeon to carry the dead slave himself rather

than wait for others to remove him. When Gerick was alone, he began speaking—to himself, I thought.

But the oppressive air made me think of the Lords’ house, and the jewels in his ear gleamed bright and

hot through the murk. He was speaking with the Lords.

After a moment, he gave a quick shudder, and looked around the room as if he had just returned

from some other place. I didn’t move, but he caught sight of me, registering no more surprise than if I’d

been a convenient chair or table. “Tell my slaves they’re wanted in my bathing room.”

I made my genuflection, but before starting down the steps, I looked back and saw my son standing

alone in the center of his fine room. He had wrapped his arms tightly about himself and was shivering

violently, as if he stood in the snows of Cer Dis rather than in the heart of the blazing desert. My heart

clenched fiercely. He was not yet theirs.

CHAPTER 37

V’Saro

My existence in Zhev’Na was little different from that in the desert camp. The pen itself was identical,

though only five of the cells were occupied. The rules were the same. The food was the same. The stench

. . . the vile washing sink . . . the storage building and surgeon’s room with iron rings in its stone walls . . .

the blazing furnace of the sun that sapped the body and spirit . . . the bitter nights . . . the unending

fighting, blood, and death . . . the collar . .. that, too, unchanged.

The only difference was the quality and prestige of my opponents. They were the highest-ranking

officers in Ce Uroth, and therefore the finest warriors, for the Zhid had no other criteria for advancement.

I no longer had to run in place at the end of the day to make sure I was exhausted enough to sleep.

Staying alive required everything I had.

Staying sane was something else again. Only the nagging voices in my head kept me holding on,

though I tried my best to silence them. Everything seemed to be slipping away from me—my identity, my

memories, my life—while my strange and terrible dreams were taking on the harder edges of reality.

Who could not view such happenings as madness?

I squatted beside the stone sink, where I had just washed off the dried sweat and blood from the

previous day to prepare for my morning’s opponent, a seasoned warrior named Gabdil. Gabdil’s

slavehandler was late fetching me, so my tether chain had been fastened to a ring in the wall, and I was

left shivering in the chill shadows of dawn, dully pondering how I was going to stay warmed up. I could

afford no disadvantage with Gabdil.

From outside the gate came a woman’s voice, asking the guards where she could find the

slavekeeper. “I’ve a message from the chamberlain in the Gray House. A slave sparring with the young

Lord has been wounded in the foot and needs to be brought back here. The house slavekeeper has no

handlers to spare for the task.”

I shot to my feet, my heart racing as it never did when I was fighting. It wasn’t that I’d not heard a

woman’s voice in my time in Ce Uroth. A few female servants and slaves worked about the camps, and

a surprising number of women could be found among the Zhid warriors. But this particular voice ripped

through my head like a sharpened ax.

“Keeper’s through the door there to the left, across from the cistern,” said the guard.

I glimpsed only the back of her as she walked through the gate and into the room where the stores of

graybread and tunics were kept. She wore the black skirt, brown tunic, and red kerchief of a Drudge.

My cursed tether was too short, and I came near choking myself trying to get a better view. When the

voice of Gabdil’s aide growled outside in the courtyard, panic bade me devise some ruse to prevent me

being taken until the woman reappeared. But she finished her business quickly. When she walked out of

the storehouse, the full light of dawn fell through the barred gate onto her face. Only five heartbeats . . .

maybe ten . . . but I knew her, and knew she had no relationship to a swordmaster from Sen Ystar . . .

and neither had I.

The fantasy of V’Saro’s life crumbled in that instant, but before I could even begin to sort through the

rubble, the Zhid slavehandler dragged me out to the sparring ground. Gabdil, a warrior with a reach a

handspan longer than my own and upper arms as thick as my thighs, had already killed a slave that week,

a man who had survived three months in Zhev’Na.

Forget the woman
, I told myself.
If you don’t pay attention, you won’t live to learn anything
.

A
hundred times that day the woman’s voice echoed in my mind, and her face floated before me in

the glare. Brutally I forced myself to concentrate. In our initial sparring, I took a deep cut in my

arm—happily not my sword arm— and Gabdil complained that I wasn’t as good as he’d been told.

Fortunately, the rest of the day was restricted training, a set of patterned practice moves endlessly

repeated, working on flow and control and fluid transitions between stances. There were ample

opportunities to get hacked or skewered, but it was not as likely as in full combat when an instant’s lapse

could mean your life.

In mid-afternoon I was returned to the slave pen, trembling with fatigue, not from the work, which

had been light as my days went, but from the sheer effort of concentration. The surgeon assigned to this

slave pen set about stitching my arm, but I scarcely noticed, for as soon as I allowed my thoughts to

wander, the world came into sharp and terrible focus, and I knew what a wicked predicament I was in. I

remembered the woman’s name and my own, and was already beginning to retrace the events that had

placed the anointed Heir of D’Arnath so abjectly at the mercy of his enemies.

The slavemaster had died in his bath. Ludicrous. No wonder the news of it had thrown

me—V’Saro—into such despair, for Gernald the Slavemaster, the Zhid whose soul Dassine had healed