Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (62 page)

so long ago, had been the key to Exeget’s plan. Slowly, cruelly, carefully, over the years, Gernald had

worked himself into a position of power in Ce Uroth, an impregnable position, so that he could safely

open a portal to Avonar itself, knowing that such a breach in the armor of the Zhid might someday make

all the difference in our long war. And then, at the very culmination of his long endeavors, his heart had

given out, and he had slipped under the soapy water, stranding all of us in bondage.

The plan had been ingenious, though to believe Exeget and Gar’Dena could transfer me out of the

council chamber before I was dead required a great deal of trust on my part. To let me die again would

be an enormous risk, and neither of them was a true Healer. But their enchantments had worked

flawlessly. In four days I was completely recovered and living happily in Sen Ystar, trying to rebuild a life

that had never existed. Then came the attack, and the desert, and the collar.

I was never supposed to be sealed into the collar, of course. Gernald was to be waiting for V’Saro,

the swordmaster of Sen Ystar, who was to be given a seal that would leave his powers intact, and who

was to have his temporary identity removed so that he would know what he was about. But the

slavemaster had died in his bath, and I was left as V’Saro the slave, who had terrible dreams and

believed he was going mad. And the fourteenth day had long passed.

Seri was here. Gods have mercy. I had assumed that the two who were to receive my signal and

provide the information I needed to rescue my son were others like Gernald. But Seri, too, had been

caught in Gernald’s disaster, abandoned in this villainous place, and my son had been left to the Lords’

mentoring for almost a year.

“Your scars tell me you’ve had much worse wounds than this, V’Saro, and much less skilled care.

Why do you look like death itself tonight? Is my needle too dull?”

I just shook my head.

Exeget had found it necessary to explain fifty times over why we couldn’t seize my son from the

council chamber. As the man and boy had come together as suppliant to the Preceptorate, Ce’Aret and

Ustele would not consider separating them, insisting that such interference would be a violation of our

law. And neither Exeget nor Gar’Dena understood Darzid—who he was or what was the extent of his

power. But their greatest concern lay with the jewels, the link between the boy’s mind and the Lords.

Take him by force in the council chamber, and the Three would destroy him, or, if they had already

corrupted him sufficiently, he could possibly channel all the power of the Lords into the very heart of

Avonar. Listen, watch, observe, they had told me. Anything more was too great a risk. Stealth and

surprise would get him back. A quick strike into the heart of the Lords’ stronghold. Stupid, how things

work out.

And of course, once I remembered all these things, they did me no good at all. Neither Karon nor

D’Natheil could suggest any escape from my captivity that V’Saro had not already dismissed. The

terrors of my dreams were banished, but those of my days were grown far more desperate. With

Gernald dead, Exeget could not get Seri and Gerick out, and the odds of my living until I could find a

way to do so were depressingly slim. If I were to die, Seri would likely live out her days in this vile place,

and Gerick would become the instrument the Lords had long desired. And that was only if I died

undiscovered. I could well imagine the unpleasantness if my identity became known.

So I could not die, and I could not be discovered, which meant I had to keep up my deception. The

difficulty was that I didn’t know how long I could manage it, now I was myself again. I had no defense

against Zhid compulsions. One misstep and they would have the truth out of me. And even more

disturbing ... I had to fight. I had to continue doing my best to kill whoever walked onto a training ground

with me, and doubt that I would be capable of such an act consumed me.

For so many years I had believed that nothing . . . nothing ... was worth taking a life, certainly not the

preservation of my own life, and not even the preservation of the lives I cherished most. I had not yet

come to terms with the dreadful consequences of my idealism, but on that night in the slave pen of

Zhev’Na, I told myself that I no longer had the luxury of choice. I was fighting a war, and my son’s life

was bound up with the safety of two worlds. I just didn’t know if that would be enough when next I

faced a living man with a sword in my hand.

I could not sleep for thinking of Seri and Gerick and preparing myself for the morning. Daylight

arrived far too soon. As always, I was led to the day’s sparring ground by the chain hooked to my collar.

Gabdil again.

“These keepers insist that you can fight, slave. I don’t believe it.” The big man grinned and tossed me

a two-handed great-sword—my favorite weapon. “I think you are Dar’Nethi vermin who plays at

swords the same way your people play at sorcery. The Lords of Zhev’Na will teach you one discipline,

and I will teach you the other.”

Anger stirred in my gut. No blank-eyed, unimaginative, misbegotten Zhid knew more of swordplay

than the Prince of Avonar. I lifted the weapon up to the light, letting the sun glint along its shining edge,

and then I pointed it at the empty eyes staring at me, as if to say “I’ll put it there,” and took my ready

stance.

V’Saro had been but a mask, a flimsy veneer of experience and memory painted over my soul, with

skills and inclinations that were very much my own. The Dar’Nethi Healer’s invocation was at the core of

V’Saro’s being, and he risked mutilation to comfort his injured cellmates, because I was Karon, a Healer

incapable of any other response to their suffering. And V’Saro knew how to wield a sword with deadly

precision because I was D’Natheil, who valued nothing in life save the art of combat. It might take me a

full lifetime to become accustomed to this other set of habits and instincts existing alongside my own, but

when I raised my sword on the first morning of my second life in Zhev’Na, I was glad he was with me.

D’Natheil did not think. He fought. And so my life continued.

“The Wargreve Damon has asked for this one?” The slavekeeper ticked off an item on his list.

The slavemaster, hands clasped behind his back, chuckled. “The wargreve asked for a challenge.

Says our stock is poor these days; threatens to report unfavorably to the gensei if he doesn’t break a

sweat today. We’ll see what he thinks of V’Saro.” The slavemaster had begun visiting the stable often,

especially on days I fought wager matches.

The keeper flicked a finger at a slavehandler who unlocked the cell gate and motioned me to kneel

with my hands behind my back so they could shackle them together. I threw the piece of half-eaten

graybread back into my basket and complied. As my wristbands were linked together and the handler’s

boot informed me it was time to stand, my stomach constricted in the now-familiar anxiety. Uncounted

days had passed since I had learned my identity. Nothing had changed. I had to keep fighting. I had to

keep winning.

“Wargreve Damon is a brilliant warrior,” said the keeper.

“If he takes this one, he’ll be almost as good as he thinks. Of course, if V’Saro takes Damon, we’ll

have grief to pay to the gensei. But it might be worth it.”

Most unsettling to hear my day’s opponent was the protégé of a gensei—a general. The nearest I’d

come to death in my months in the slave pens had not been from a wound of my own, but on the day I

had lamed the protégé of another gensei. Only the intervention of the slavemaster on behalf of “the

Lords’ property” had kept me alive.

My spirits sank even lower when I was delivered to the training ground and saw Damon. He was big

and young, and as I was unshackled and given a weapon and a thinly padded leather tunic, I watched

him use his long-sword to hack a thickly padded practice drum into as precise, thin slices as if he were

slicing butter with a dagger. This one was good.

“Is this the best you can do?” He surveyed my battered body and shabby turnout scornfully. “I said I

wanted a challenge.”

The handler bowed. “The slavemaster says to report any dissatisfaction.”

We set right to work. Interesting. The young Zhid used incredible speed and brilliant instincts to mask

abysmally poor technique. He was every bit the dangerous opponent I had judged him, but in the first

hour I spotted a weakness in his defense. Stubborn and prideful, he would never evade or step away

from a strike, but always chose to parry, assuming that his quickness would allow him to reset and

counter. But his favorite parry was soft, his blade angled improperly, a blatant opening that would permit

me to kill him easily. Yet, as I had learned before, killing the fool would be a risky proposition.

The Zhid had no children, but they were inordinately possessive of other warriors they had taken on

as protégés in a murderous perversion of Dar’Nethi mentoring. To injure the wargreve would draw the

angry notice of a gensei, but if I didn’t exploit this weakness, Damon could very possibly wear me down

enough to take me. An untenable situation.

We completed an exercise.

“Excellent, Damon,” said the young man’s Zhid swordmaster. “Perhaps a bit forceful, but excellent

overall. Shall we try it again? Position, slave!”

The swordmaster spent most of his time praising his pupil’s skills and little giving any meaningful

critique. As the hours of practice passed, he showed no sign that he had noticed the glaring weakness so

obvious to me.

By the time we stopped for a midday rest period, the wargreve had scarcely broken a sweat. I

walked over to the water barrel, waiting until my back was turned to gulp for air and leaning casually on

the wall as I drank, as if I didn’t really need the support for my aching shoulders.

“Position, slave!”

I returned to the center of the courtyard. The heat beat on my head and shoulders like the hammer of

Arot, the Leiran god who forged his own weapons to battle chaos. I had to act. I ducked a stroke that

came near removing what hair the slavekeeper’s hacking had left me and made a wide spin that brought

me up next to the swordmaster, well away from my opponent. Quickly I slapped the back of my hand to

my lips. The swordmaster looked puzzled—such a thing was unusual in the middle of a match—but he

held up his hand to stay the wargreve’s blade that hung unpleasantly close to my head.

“What is it, dog? Surely you recall that a slave cannot yield?”

“Swordmaster, there’s been a dreadful mistake. You cannot mean for me to fight this youth.”

“A mistake?” snarled the wargreve, not giving his instructor a chance to respond. “Our profound

apologies. If you’re mismatched, then you’ll just die all the sooner. I’ll just have to sacrifice the day’s

training.”

“I am not the one matched above his skill. We Dar’Nethi hold our honor dear. I’m sworn to fight to

the best of my ability, and that I will do, but when I’ve been put up against a beginner, I must issue a

warning. If this fight continues,
you
will be the one to die.”

The young man laughed harshly. “A beginner? I’ve not lost a match since I was transformed.”

“I can well believe it, but I’d wager you’ve not fought one who was a swordmaster in his own right

and sees the flaws in your training. I’ll take you before your swordmaster counts a hundred.”

He snarled and raised his sword. “Raise your weapon, slave. Your futile existence ends here.”

The swordmaster rubbed his jaw uneasily. If harm befell the young commander, the fellow would

likely not see another sunrise. “Wait, Damon. . . . Tell me, slave, what do you see?”

“A fatal flaw. If the wargreve will agree to instant immobility when I say halt, I’ll show you.”

The two discussed it out of my hearing. Eventually— reluctantly—the wargreve agreed. My

reputation carried some weight. So we began again, and I led him through the moves that would create

my opening. Praying that his curiosity would outweigh his pride and stupidity, I called, “Halt!” The edge

of my sword rested on the heart vein in his neck. If he had continued his move, he would have driven it

home. He looked like death—even for a Zhid.

“Though I delight in killing Zhid, I cannot fight one so overmatched,” I said, speaking slowly and

deliberately so he couldn’t see how winded I was. I lowered my weapon.

“I’ll show you who is overmatched, you insolent pig!” He came at me again. I led him again and cried,

“Halt!” He dared not do otherwise. His glare might have ripped a hole in plate armor. My edge was in

exactly the same spot as before. I thought it excellent that Damon was so well disciplined.

“You must show him this move, slave,” said the swordmaster. “Command the slave to show you the

move, Damon. Then you will be flawless.”

I shook my head.

“You dare refuse me?” said Damon, with a menacing glare.

“I can show you this move, but you’ll be far from flawless. You’re a beginner, a brilliant one, but a

beginner, nonetheless. I could move on you a hundred different ways and have the same result.” A slight

exaggeration, to be sure, as I could scarcely hit my arms. “Speed and instinct will never best craft. Send

me back, and pick a new sparring partner of your own level.”