Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (78 page)

thanked him for his confidence and let them go. The jeweled earring and the gold mask with the

diamonds lay at the bottom of my pack. I debated whether to destroy the vile things, but the part of me

that bore responsibility for the war against the Lords surmised that such artifacts of power might have

some use. Gerick had never asked what had become of them.

* * *

And so they were gone, and the Dulcé and I were left in the lovely, but so very empty, glade. “We’d

best be off,” I said. Up the hill, into the cave, through the Gate, and across the Bridge to this other life

that awaited me. I hated the thought of it.

My madrissé smiled sadly and placed a small, wrapped bundle in my hand. “Not quite yet, my lord.

You are between times. Before you take up this life, you must be sure of your path.”

“What do you—? Ah.” From the cloth wrapping, I pulled the plain circle of dull wood set with the

black crystal pyramid embedded in an iron ring, the object I’d taken from Dassine’s study so long ago.

Now I knew what it was—the artifact to which my soul had been bound for the ten years I had existed

without a body, ten years of darkness and pain, ten years of intricate enchantments and voracious

learning, infused with the boundless energy and devotion of my Healer and jailer, Dassine. Touching the

crystal would release me from this body’s bondage and allow me to cross the Verges if I chose to do so.

My death, so long delayed, awaited me in its enchantments.

I stared at the thing and was overwhelmed by longing, a desperate ache in the depths of my being that

was far colder and far more powerful than my yearning for Seri or my worries about Gerick. “Ah, Bareil,

how can I risk using it now? So many are depending—”

“He said when you were whole again, and the boy was safe. He robbed you of your choice when you

died, and again when he deceived you about D’Natheil’s death. And he swore by all he valued to return

the choice to you. It was Master Dassine’s belief that if you did not choose this new life freely, then

doubts would grow and, eventually, consume you. You would never be able to enter into your life fully,

and if you could not do so, then you would fail in all you would attempt. You must be one place or the

other—live or die—by your own choice.”

“A patronizing pronouncement from the old devil . . .” And not at all fair to give me such a choice

when Seri and Gerick were out of reach. What if I could not resist the call of the Verges? I was

supposed to be dead.

“I’ll watch over you, my lord, and do whatever is needed . . . after.” Bareil smiled, but tears welled

up in his almond-shaped eyes. He didn’t expect me to return.

So it was with trepidation that I stroked the smooth face of the dark crystal and left D’Natheil’s body

that had become my own. For a moment I saw that body lying on the green velvet hillside with the kindly

Dulcé standing guard, the snowy peak of mighty Karylis looming over his shoulder. Far down the track

that led to my ruined home and southward toward Yurevan, I saw the ones I loved most in the world

riding into the dew-kissed peace of the morning. And then was I plunged into darkness, the ethereal

pulse of the Verges beckoning me to the place of my belonging.

The long echo of my agony in the fire began to reverberate in my mind once more, but because I

expected it this time, I could push it aside and concentrate on the distant light that called me into peace. I

was very tired.

Where did I belong? I had lived my allotted span of years, and the Way had led me to the fire. I had

accepted my fate as I had been taught—as I believed was necessary. But in doing so, I had abandoned

Seri and my son and my friends to despair and death. To drown in such guilt would be easy. To run from

it was tempting; beyond the Verges, perhaps, I could forget. But if I had followed any other course,

made other choices, been someone other than myself, the Gate-fire might never have burned white, and

the boy D’Natheil might not have been sent onto the Bridge and been destroyed by it.

I knew D’Natheil now, not everything, but enough, and D’Natheil could never have defeated the

Lords of Zhev’Na. I had met the Lords in physical combat, in the slave pens of Zhev’Na, and in the

battleground of my son’s mind, and Dassine had been right. Exeget had been right. The Lords were the

enemies of all life, a darkness more profound than the emptiness between worlds or the universe before

its creation. They were a disease that gnawed on the healthy body of humankind, and what was needed

to eradicate them was a Healer. Somewhere in me was the way to defeat them.

An aurora of blue and rose and violet burst into a shimmering fountain that rained fragments of light

upon me like rose petals showered on a bridegroom. Such glory . . . such music from beyond the range

of my vision as the luminous fragments floated through my transparent self. I reached for one of them and

heard faint, echoing laughter, and the whole mass of them embraced me in a whirling nebula of joy that

would transport me beyond the Verges to where unknown wonders lay waiting. My soul was filled with

their beauty and with such overarching desire that I cried out. But with a soft breath I blew on them, and

they drifted away regretfully like dry snowflakes, leaving me in the cold and the darkness. “Not yet,” I

said, and I turned my back on the Verges and set my feet upon the path that awaited me.

My eyes opened to the green and silent world. “Come, Bareil,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

Seri

I stand upon the graceful balcony of Verdillon watching Gerick and Paulo wrestling on the grassy

lawn. They’ve been going at it for an hour. As they separate and sprawl on the green, panting and

sweating and laughing, I smile and finger the rose-colored stone that hangs about my neck, wishing, as

always, that it could send my thoughts to Avonar.

“Would that you could see these moments, my love,” I would say. “They are rare, but so precious,

and they give me such hope. The black moods plague him as much as ever, and nights are still the worst.

His cries are terrible when he dreams. One of us is always close by to comfort him, though he’ll not allow

it once he’s awake again. But he’s begun to study history with Tennice and show interest in Kellea’s herb

lore, and he appreciates that neither one coddles him. With Paulo he jests and teases and allows himself

to be a boy again.

“Yesterday he asked me about this house, and why your name appears in the old journal that lies

open in Ferrante’s study. I told him, then, about his father who was a student here, and how he immersed

himself in beauty, art, and history long before he became a warrior or a prince. Perhaps it will encourage

him to be less shy of you.

“Peace has settled into all of us for the moment. Sometimes, though, when I hear news of the human

war that rages in Iskeran, or I think of the horrors you face beyond the walls of Avonar, or I see a trace

of darkness in Gerick’s eyes, I believe we are like the Guardians of Comigor—you, Kellea, Paulo, and

I—standing at the four corners of the keep and waiting for the enemy to ride over the horizon. We three

will stay awake, my love. No harm will come to him while we watch. Keep yourself safe, and come to us

soon.”

Turn the page

for an exciting preview of

THE SOUL WEAVER

BOOK THREE OF

THE BRIDGE OF D’ARNATH

BY CAROL BERG

Available February 2005

from Roc Books

Karon

My senses were deafened by Jayereth’s pain. Desperately I fought to maintain my control, to prevent

her agony from confusing my purpose. We were bound by an enchantment of Healing, our mingled blood

linking our minds in the realm of flesh and spirit. If I shut out the experience of her senses, then I was

powerless to heal her, but if I could not quiet her enough to see what I was doing, she was lost just as

surely. Dark waves already lapped on the shores of her life.

Jayereth, hear me. . . . Hold fast. . . for your daughter, newly born to grace your house . . . for

T’Vero who cherishes you . . . for your Prince who is in such need of your service . .
. With

everything I knew of Jayereth I commanded her to hold quiet—just for the moment it would take me to

see what I needed to see.

She understood me, I think, for there came the briefest ebb in the death tide, an instant’s clearing in

the red mist of her pain and madness that let me perceive a host of things too terrible to know: ribs

smashed, lungs torn, blood . . . everywhere hot, pooling blood and fragments of bone, her belly in shreds

. . . Earth and sky, how had they done this? It was as if they knew every possible remedy a Healer could

provide and had arranged it so I could do nothing but make things worse.

Another instant and I was awash once more in Jayereth’s torment, feeling her struggle to breathe with

a chest on fire and a mind blasted with fear. I could not give her strength or endurance, only my healing

skill and few pitiful words of comfort. But even as I fought to knit together the ragged edges of her heart,

her last remnants of thought and reason flicked out. Her screams sagged into a low, flat wail . . . and then

silence. I had lost her.

Let her go
, I told myself,
you can’t help her by traveling the only road she has yet to travel.

That road is not for you . . . not yet
. Forcing aside the wave of enveloping darkness, I gritted my teeth

and spoke the command, “Cut it now.”

My companion cut away the strip of linen that bound my forearm to Jayereth’s, allowing our mingled

blood to feed my sorcery. The cold touch that seared my flesh was not his knife—his hand was too

experienced for that—but the sealing of a scar that would forever remind me of my failure in my young

counselor’s last need.

The red mist vanished with the death tide, and my bleary eyes focused on the ravaged body crumpled

on the stone floor of my lectorium. The only sound in the candlelit wreckage of the chamber was my

shaking breath as I knelt beside my fallen counselor and grieved for the horror she had known.
Cross

swiftly, Jayereth. Do not linger in this realm out of yearning for what is lost. I’ll care for T’Vero

and your child. On D’Arnath’s sword, I swear it
.

I envisioned Jayereth as she had been, short and plain, with brown hair, a liberal dash of freckles

across her straight nose and plump cheeks, and the most brilliant young mind in Avonar tucked behind

her eccentric humor. When I summoned Jayereth’s young husband, T’Vero, I would try to keep this

image in mind and not the gruesome reality.

“Was there nothing to be done, my lord?”

Two small, strong hands gripped my right arm and helped me to my feet. Bareil always knew my

needs. Unable to speak as yet, I shook my head and leaned on the Dulcé’s sturdy shoulder as he led me

to a wooden stool he’d set upright. Padding softly through the wreckage, he summoned those who

huddled beyond the door.

One by one the four remaining Preceptors of Gondai crept into the chamber, gaping at the

devastation. The oak-paneled walls were charred, the worktables in splinters, the shredded books in

jumbled heaps. No vessel remained un-shattered, no liquid unspilled; every surface was etched by

lightnings more violent than any storm of nature’s making. The acrid smoke of smoldering herbs mingled

with blue and green vapors from pooled liquids to sting noses and eyes. Most fearful, of course, was the

corpse sprawled in the midst of the destruction—Jayereth and the rictus of horror that had been her

glowing face.

“How was it possible, my lord prince?” one whispered.

“Who could have done this?”

“In the very heart of the palace . . .”

“. . . treason . . .”

The word was inevitable, though I didn’t want to hear it.

“. . . and her work, of course . . .”

“All lost,” I said. I had known it in the instant I’d heard the thunderous noise.

Jayereth’s discovery should have been secured the previous night. I was her Prince. It had been my

responsibility. But my own selfish desires had lured me into a night’s adventure, and so I had put off duty

until this morning. Too late. Before I could protect Jayereth or her work, our enemies had ripped her

apart and left no place for me to heal.

With a furious sweep of my hand, I cleared the tottering worktable of chips of plaster and broken

glass, then kicked the splintered leg and let the slate top crash to the floor. Only when the dust had

settled again had I control enough to address my waiting Preceptors. “Search every corner of the palace,

every house, ruin, and hovel in the city. No one is to leave Avonar. Ustele, you will watch for any portal

opening. We will discover who dares murder in my house.”

Useless orders. Useless anger. No common conspirator had wrought such destruction fifty paces

from my bedchamber. The protections on the palace of the Prince of Avonar were the most powerful

that could be devised. For a thousand years no enemy had breached these rose-colored walls, and no

Dar’Nethi thought-reading was required to understand what every one of the wide-eyed Preceptors saw.

No soulless Zhid had slain Jayereth—no lurking stranger. The murderer was one of us.