Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (72 page)

I could not read thoughts like the Dar’Nethi or live inside another’s mind like the Lords, but when I

embraced my son for that one brief moment, I knew I’d been right about him. In the past months I had

tried to find ways to tell him he wasn’t evil. Paltry things they’d been, pitiful, but all I could find or make

in late nights or early mornings when the other women were asleep. I wasn’t sure he had understood my

message. But he had tried to save me, and he had been gentle and apologetic when my capture became

inevitable. So I clung to the hope that he would yet refuse the destiny they planned for him. I doubted I’d

have an opportunity to do more. I knew how many months had passed. He would turn twelve any day

now.

My interrogation by the Lords was amazingly benign. An old woman had laid her dry, scarred hands

on my head and taken possession of all I knew. It was over in moments. I felt as empty as if I had

vomited up everything I had ever eaten, but at least I betrayed no one who could be hurt by it.

Gar’Dena’s care to keep the pieces of the puzzle separate had been the most successful—I suppose the

only successful—part of his plan. The old woman already knew Gar’Dena was the enemy of the Lords,

and she told me, somewhat wistfully, that Gernald the slavemaster had been dead for a year and could

not be called to account for his part. So our failure was explained at last. The Zhid slave-master was

surely the one who was to have given me the signal and taken me and Gerick out of Zhev’Na.

Once the woman was satisfied, I was left alone in a well-appointed suite of rooms. Clean clothes

were laid out on the bed. The bony, dark-eyed slave girl I’d seen in the Gray House brought my meals,

scurrying away in terror when I tried to speak to her. A bathing room held soap and towels, and hot

water was available at a touch. It was the best I had lived in over a year. But I knew prisons, even fine

ones. Though I used the bath and the clothes, and ate the food, afterward I sat and awaited the end of

the world . . . or at least my small part of it.

After two days of listless idleness, I discovered paper and pens and ink in a small desk. Though I had

no illusions that he would ever see it, I wrote a letter to Gerick, telling him the story of Karon and me, of

Tomas and Kellea and Paulo, of D’Natheil and Dassine and all those who were a part of his life.
You

have been beloved since the day we first knew you. . .
.

Late on the evening of the fourth day of my captivity, Darzid came to me. The harbinger of evil. The

companion of demons. He wore his usual sleek black and sprawled languidly on a red couch, facing me

across a narrow span of gray marble.

“Are you comfortable in the Lords’ house, my lady?”

“As comfortable as one can be in a tomb.”

“Surely you find this better than sleeping with rats and eating cold gruel. I must admire your fortitude

in the face of Gar’Dena’s failure at plotting.”

“You may tell my son that you were kind and beneficent before your masters dispensed with me.”

He burst out laughing. “It is so delightful to deal with you, Lady Seriana, and most especially to

confound you. The Lords will not touch you. Your son will determine your fate entirely.” He leaned

across the table, his dark eyes as sharp and brilliant as obsidian. “Is he not an exceptionally fine young

Lord? He is everything the Lords of Zhev’Na could have wished for: intelligent, determined, honorable,

spirited—just like his mother. And he carries his father’s considerable talents nobly. Unfortunate that the

madman cannot see how his progeny has been nurtured to his fullest potential. Young Gerick will be the

most powerful sorcerer the universe has ever produced.”

“You’ve let him believe he is evil.”

“But he is! Deliriously so. And no charming stones or mysterious star maps will change it. Did you not

see his soul laid bare before you when you so foolishly revealed yourself? He feeds on the darkest

passions of two worlds and begs for more. His blood is in a fever for it, and tonight you will watch as he

is given a surfeit of what he craves.”

“And he will do the same for his masters—give them what they crave.”

“Oh, yes. On this night D’Arnath’s Bridge will fall. The universe will be reborn.”

“What is your part, Darzid—other than murderer, executioner, deceiver, and corrupter of children?

How did you come to be the vulture that feasts on the corpses of so many noble spirits?”

“Ah, my lady, do you remember long ago when I tried to tell you of certain fantastical visions and my

difficulty remembering my past?”

“Of course I remember. You—”

“I asked for your help, but you couldn’t be bothered and sent me away. Now I’ve remembered.

Come with me, and you’ll see why you could never win.”

He jumped to his feet and held out his arm, but I wouldn’t touch him. He only laughed the more,

snapped his fingers, and we were in a different place altogether.

We stood in the center of a shining black floor, a vast empty space encircled by ranks of towering

pillars of black marble, each hung with a glass-paned lamp. Above us hung a star-filled night sky ... or the

seeming of it. Our footsteps caused a hollow echo as we walked toward a row of four black marble

thrones that stood on a wide curved dais. Two of the chairs were occupied, one by the gray-haired

woman who had questioned me, and the other by a tall man with long hair, a beaked nose, and a wide

forehead. The two wore dark robes and strange masks of gold that covered the upper halves of their

faces, with gems set in place of eyes. Death itself would have been a warm and cheerful contrast to their

presence.

“Welcome, madam,” said the tall man ... if man he was.

“Once a man,” he replied. His voice touched my mind like a clammy finger running down my spine.

Depraved. Dead. “Now much more than a man. Parven is my name. To my right is my sister Notole

whom you have already met. And of course you know my brother Ziddari from of old.”

“Ziddari . . .” The one who stood beside me chuckled as his face dissolved. And then his own gold

mask was visible, the metal not just a covering for the upper half of his face, but grown together with his

flesh, its blood-red rubies flashing in the lurid lamplight.

“Old friends can still spring surprises, can they not?” Though his voice had taken on a deeper

resonance, the cynical amusement was the same.

Darzid . . . Ziddari . . . the third of the Dar’Nethi who had survived the Catastrophe of their making.

A Lord of Zhev’Na. Never in my remotest supposition . . .
Stupid, stupid woman
.

“How could you have guessed? You knew nothing of the Lords. And I was not exactly my usual self

in all those years—a matter of being away from home in disguise for too long. Wearing a mundane face

does not allow the full range of one’s capabilities, and living in your world has its distinct hazards for

those born to this one—else all this might have been settled long before you were born. But I think I am

done with Darzid now. Your son will need him no longer. Shall you mourn your old friend?”

“I will curse your name until I am dust.”

“Alas, that is very likely. Come, the boy approaches even now. Please, take your seat.” He snapped

his fingers again, and a plain wooden chair appeared beside me. Without willing it, I sat, while

Darzid—Ziddari—took his place on the third throne.

From the depths of the polished black floor between me and the dais glowed a circle of blue light,

pulsing in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. Gerick appeared exactly in the center of it, dressed in

breeches and shirt and doublet of deep purple trimmed with silver, wearing his sword at his belt. He

stood tall before the Lords and did not bow.

They all spoke at once, three distinct voices, yet winding sinuously together. “Welcome, young Lord,”

said Ziddari.

“At last,” said the woman. “We have anxiously awaited you.”

And Parven. “All honor to you on this night that you come into your inheritance. Have you made your

choice, young Lord?”

“I have,” said Gerick, in a voice cool as glass.

“And what is it to be?”

“I will be a Lord of Zhev’Na.”

And so ended my hope. Perhaps I sighed or sobbed, for Gerick turned his head sharply, as if he had

not seen me until then. His demeanor was neither hateful nor haughty, only solemn. But he did not speak

to me and reserved his attention for the Lords.

“Yes, we have brought her here as you requested, young Lord. You can see we’ve taken excellent

care of her. Now she is yours, to do with as you will.” Ziddari’s vile expectation hung over us like a

cloud. “A fitting gift for your birthday.”

“She is to be set free.”

“What?” From all three of the Lords the word thundered, until I thought my head would burst from

the sound. Though one could not read subtle expression on faces so strange, their shock and disbelief

shook the floor under my feet.

Gerick’s voice did not change. “I have made the choice to become one of you. But before I do so, I

require safe passage for this woman. She is not important to you.”

“What weakness have we uncovered?”

“Who are you to judge of her importance to us?”

“What of your oath . . .”

“. . . your revenge . . .”

“. . . the blood oath on the body of your nurse, your truer mother?” The twining whispers filled the

vast hall like a fetid odor.

Ziddari snarled and gestured toward me. “What kind of mother is this who should never have allowed

you to be conceived, knowing your only inheritance would be the stake and the fire?”

Gerick did not quail. “My oath was based on a lie. I don’t know whether or not my oath of fealty to

you was also based on lies. My guess is that it was. But I will live with the choices I’ve made, because I

see no alternatives. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain, and I’ll do the same. All but this one thing

will proceed as you have planned.”

“How did you come by these conclusions?”

“That is no concern of yours, my Lord Parven,” said Gerick. “Now, time grows short. It is your turn

to choose.” He had them, and he knew it.

A smile crept slowly across Ziddari’s bloodless lips. “Oh, brother and sister, we have done far better

even than we knew. Do you not agree?” He leaped up from his chair and swept a deep bow to Gerick.

“We will proceed with your preparation, my clever and immensely delightful young Prince. When the time

comes for the anointing, you may release the Lady Seriana to whichever of the Preceptors you wish.

They have safe passage back to Avonar after, and so will she. Is that sufficient? You have the word of

the Lords of Zhev’Na, which has never been broken in a thousand years.”

Gerick folded his arms across his breast, took a deep breath, and spoke softly to me, though his eyes

did not meet mine. “This is the best I can do. I am what I am. It cannot be changed.”

Then he turned his back on me, dropped his arms, and acknowledged the Three with a slight bow.

“Let us begin.”

The room grew colder, the lamplight fading until each paned globe cast only a dim circle on the black

floor just underneath it. The Three seemed to grow larger as they focused their jeweled eyes on Gerick.

“You will not speak again until our work is done,” said Parven. “There must be no disruption during

your preparation. Do you agree?”

Gerick nodded. He showed no fear.

Notole moved to the center of the dais, carrying a crystal flask and goblet. “Have you come to us

fasting?” she asked.

“He has neither eaten nor drunk in a sun’s turning,” said Ziddari, from behind her. “I made sure of it.”

The old woman nodded and filled the goblet with a liquid so deep a red that it was almost black.

“This is drink such as no mortal being may taste and remain unchanged. Drain every drop, and so from

this night you will require no other sustenance save what nourishes your power.” She offered the goblet,

wreathed in scarlet-tinted steam, to Gerick.

“Don’t drink it!” I cried. “You are not one of them!”

But Gerick either did not or would not hear me. He took the goblet, raised it to each of the Three,

and put it to his lips. The first sip made him shudder, but after that he did not falter. Slowly, inexorably, he

drained the glass, forcing the last drops before taking a heaving breath, clearly fighting to keep it down.

Notole took the goblet from his trembling hand. “A potent vintage, yes? You feel it in every bone,

every vein, every fiber. Your body rejects it, for it is not the stuff of mortal life. But you have learned to

command yourself, and so you allow it to do its work, cleansing, transforming, making your body other

than it has ever been.”

Notole returned to her chair, and Parven took her place at the front of the dais. “When you first came

to us, young Prince, you offered us your sword. We did not take it from you then, for it was unproved,

unworthy of us. But you will have no more use for such trivial implements. We now require your sworn

bond that you will not raise your hand against us, your brothers and sister. Are you willing to surrender

this symbol of your former life and so swear without reservation?”

Gerick unsheathed his sword, raising it high until it caught the faint lamplight, gleaming, glinting. But

then he straightened his back and knelt before Parven, presenting the sword on his upturned palms.