Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (8 page)

except that he needed a bath even more than he needed a meal. Paulo scowled and followed the old man

back to the stables.

Paulo and I seldom had occasion to speak. But as I made my rounds of the estate with Giorge or

rode out for pleasure, I saw him limping about the place. He always grinned before he ducked his head

and touched his brow. Allard swore that Paulo had been born in a stable, perhaps of equine parentage.

Soon I couldn’t go into the yard without seeing the two of them, heads together.

I never told anyone that I had known Paulo in my former life, though I could not have explained why.

I was certainly not ashamed of him. He was a good and talented boy who had been my companion in

adventure, brave and steady in circumstances that would daunt many grown men. It just felt good to have

a private friend.

Seille came, the midwinter season when we observed the longest night of the year and the ten days

until the new year. Seille and Long Night were celebrations bound up with the legend of a wounded god

brought from despair by the generous offering of food, entertainment, and gifts from the poorest of his

subjects. I found the truths of sorcery, two worlds, and the magical Bridge that somehow linked them

and kept them in balance more fascinating than any Long Night myth. But I had always loved the

trappings of Seille: gifts bound with silk ribbons, storytelling, pageants, pastries, evergreen boughs, hot

cider fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, and splurging with hundreds of scented candles to brighten the

cold, dark nights.

With the holidays came the first evidence of real progress with my nephew. I was surprised and

pleased to find Gerick in Philomena’s room when I went to her for our nightly hour on the Feast of Long

Night. It had seemed a bleak holiday having no family gathering to parallel the festivity in the servants’

hall, so I had asked the maids to garland Philomena’s mantel with evergreen, ordered a special supper

for the duchess, and invited Gerick to join us. Though matters between the boy and me had been more

detached than hostile of late, I had never expected him to come. But he was dressed in a fine suit and

had already lit the candles that Nellia had sent on the tray, adding their perfume to the scent of balsam

that filled the air.

“A joyous Long Night, Philomena,” I said, “and to you, Gerick.”

Philomena sighed. Gerick bowed politely, but didn’t say anything. One couldn’t expect too much.

Gerick sat on the edge of his mother’s bed while I pulled up a chair. I poured the wine and shared

around the roasted duck, sugared oranges, and cinnamon cakes. There was no conversation, but no

hostility either. When we were finished eating, Gerick and I moved the table out of the way. Philomena

frowned and said, “Aren’t you planning to read tonight?”

“On the contrary . . .” From my pockets I pulled two wrapped parcels and gave one to each of them.

I had ordered the two books from a shop in Montevial. Philomena’s was an exotic Isker romance, and

she insisted I begin it immediately. Gerick’s was a manuscript about Kerotean swordmaking, so

beautifully illustrated that I had hesitated to give it to him. I hated the thought that he might destroy it

because it came from me. But while I read to Philomena, he sat cross-legged on her bed turning every

page. His cheeks glowed in the candlelight.

When he closed the book at last, he jumped off the bed. I paused in my reading while he pecked his

mother on the cheek. “Excuse me, Mama. I’m off to bed.” Then, his eyes not quite settling on me, he

made a small gesture with the book. “It’s fine. Thank you.” Tucking the book securely under his arm, he

ran off, leaving me feeling inordinately happy. Even Philomena’s gleeful report on his most recent demand

that I be sent away did not spoil it.

A mere two days before the turning of the year and Covenant Day, I took my afternoon walk on the

south battlement, forced to confine myself to the castle because of a snowstorm that had raged

throughout the day. The wild whirling snow made me dizzy, and a sudden gust sent me stumbling toward

the crumbling southernmost cornice. As I grabbed the cold iron ring embedded in the stone, thanking the

ancient guardian warriors for protecting the daughter of Comigor yet again, I began to feel a burning

sensation in the region of my heart. I thought I had frosted my lungs or developed a sudden fever in them,

or perhaps something I’d eaten was bothering my digestion.

Before going back inside, I pulled on the silver chain about my neck as was my custom when I was

alone, drawing Dassine’s talisman from my bodice, expecting to find it cold and dull as always. But, as

the storm wind whipped my hair into my face, the snow swirled about me in a rose-colored frenzy,

picking up a soft glow from the translucent stone, banishing all thoughts of storms or loneliness or difficult

children. I wrapped my cold fingers about the stone until my hand gleamed with its pink radiance, and I

relished every moment of that burning, for I had been assured that when the stone grew warm and

glowed with its own light, Karon would arrive with the next dawn to visit me.

CHAPTER 4

I could not remember feeling so anxious in all my life, not when I was first presented at court, not on

the day I was married. I knew so much of this man who was coming, all those things that had drawn me

to him even when I believed him a stranger. Yet I was not foolish enough to think a man could die in

agony, be held captive for ten years as a disembodied soul, and be brought back to life in another

person’s body without being profoundly changed. So much less difficult had been my own lot, and I was

not the same person I had been. He was my beloved, and he was alive beyond all hope, but I was very

much afraid.

What would he be like? Though his soul was unquestionably my husband’s, Dassine had said that

D’Natheil would always be a part of him as well. I had seen the conflict between Karon’s nature and the

instincts and proclivities of the violent, amoral Prince of Avonar that remained in that body. How would

the balance between the two have settled out after four months of Dassine’s care? Perhaps he would

seem more like Aeren again, the half-mad stranger I’d found in the forest six months before who was

somehow both of them.

First I had to decide where we would meet. Large as it was, Comigor Castle provided few places

where I could receive visitors unobserved. Privacy was a rare commodity in a great house. I had only

just persuaded Nellia not to come walking through my bedchamber door at any hour as she had when I

was a little girl. But my bedchamber was hardly suitable. I wasn’t sure whether Karon would even

remember me as yet. Dassine had said he would have to “take him back to the beginning” to restore his

memories. It was all so strange!

I considered the battlements. No one went there but me, fair weather or foul, but despite the

emerging stars’ promise of fair skies, the bitter wind still howled from the wild northlands as fiercely as

the wolf packs of famine years. And the snow lay deep on the surrounding countryside, so I couldn’t ride

out.

One other place came to mind. Located on the eastern flank of the keep, where morning sun could

warm the stone, was a walled garden, wild, neglected, locked by my father on the day my mother

succumbed to her long illness. Once the garden had been thick with flowers and herbs native to the far

southeastern corner of Leire whence my mother had come at seventeen to wed the Duke of Comigor.

The customs of Comigor, a strictly traditional warrior house, allowed a bride to bring only one of her

father’s retainers to her new home, and my mother had chosen, not her personal maid or some other

girlish companion, but a gardener. The poor man had spent eleven years fighting Comigor’s bitter winters

and hot summers to reproduce the blooms and fragrances of his lady’s balmy homeland, only to be sent

away when she died because my father could not bear the reminder of her.

For many years after her death, I had climbed over the wall to read and dream in the peaceful

enclosure, watching the carefully nurtured plants grow wild and die away like a fading echo of my young

girl’s grief. Now I held the keys to the house, and with them the key to my mother’s garden, a place

deserted, secluded, and most importantly, invisible from any vantage point within the castle.

Unable to sleep for my anticipation, I wrapped myself in a cloak, let myself through the garden gate,

and strolled among the bare trees and shrubs and the sagging latticework of the arbors. The Great Arch

of the stars still lit the darkness like a reflection of D’Arnath’s enchanted Bridge.

I didn’t question that they would come. “At the sun’s next rising,” Dassine had said, “at whatever

place you are.” If I’d told anyone in the world what it was that I anticipated so anxiously as I awaited

dawn in my mother’s garden, that person would have thrown me in an asylum. I wrapped my hand tightly

about the pink stone, allowing its heat to warm my freezing fingers.

The sun shot over the garden wall, causing me to blink just as a streak of white fire pierced the rosy

brilliance. Squinting into the glare, I spied a short, muscular man, who leaned on a stick as he hobbled

toward me along the gravel path. His white robe flapped in the breeze, revealing a rumpled shirt, knee

breeches, and sagging hose. Dassine. Alone. Bitter disappointment welled up in my throat. But when the

sorcerer raised his hand in greeting, I glimpsed another figure. That one remained at the far end of the

path, almost lost in the fiery brightness. Tall, broad in back and shoulder, he too wore a white robe. A

white hood hid his face.

“Good morning, my lady,” said Dassine, his breath curling from his mottled beard like smoke rings.

Though tired lines surrounded them, his blue eyes sparkled. Gray-streaked brown hair and beard framed

his ageless face like a striped corona. “Am I never to find you in a warm place? This weather makes my

bones brittle. One snapped limb and you will never be rid of me!”

“There aren’t many private places here.”

He craned his neck to survey the pile of ancient rock that was my home. “Indeed. I am astounded to

discover where you have settled yourself. Is that not your brother’s pennant?”

“It’s a long story.”

“And you’re not particularly interested in dwelling on such trivialities while my companion stands at

the far end of the path alone. Am I correct?”

I was near bursting. “How is he? Does he remember—?”

“Patience! I told you it would take time. Do you remember my condition for bringing him?”

“That I must follow your instructions exactly.”

“And you still agree to it?”

“Whatever is best for him.”

“Precisely that. Sit down with me for a moment.” He plopped himself heavily on a stone bench. I sat

beside him, but my eyes did not stray from the distant, still figure in white.

“You are not a prisoner here?” said Dassine.

“I’m here of my own will and have full freedom of the house.”

“Your brother’s house seems an odd place to welcome the very one who caused the black flag to fly

over these battlements. Is it safe?”

“Safe enough. I’d never endanger either one of you. Only one old woman here causes me any

discomfort, and I can deal with her. I’m only here because I came upon an opportunity to repay my

brother for all that happened.”

“Just so. Well, then ... we have made progress. Over the past four months I have given the Prince the

memories of his youth—both of them. He remembers his life as D’Natheil up to his twelfth birthday,

when he was sent to the Bridge the first time. I don’t think I can take him farther than that, for as I told

you, the disaster on the Bridge left little soul in D’Natheil. It’s as well. Karon doesn’t need to know more

of what D’Natheil became in those next ten years. Sufficient that he knows of D’Natheil’s family—his

family—and Avonar, and most importantly, he knows of the Lords and the Zhid, the Bridge, and his duty

as the Heir of D’Arnath. I think he will be able to pass examination if it comes.”

“Examination?” Gondai, the world that lay across the Bridge, was such a mystery. I knew only bits

and pieces about the Catastrophe—a magical disaster that had destroyed nine-tenths of their

world—and the ensuing centuries of war between the Dar’Nethi and the Lords of Zhev’Na.

“D’Natheil’s body has clearly aged more than these few months that have passed since he came to

you last summer. If the Preceptors have doubts about the Prince’s identity, they will examine him to

determine whether he is truly the son of D’Marte, and thus the rightful Heir of D’Arnath. His physical

makeup will be examined, and his patterns of thought will be read and matched to those of his ancestors.

The tests will question knowledge and conviction, flesh and spirit.”

“So he must
believe
he is D’Marte’s son.”

“Exactly. For him merely to accept that he was Prince D’Natheil
at one time
is not enough. He must

live as D’Natheil, as well as Karon, now and forever.”

“And what of his other life?” His true life, as I thought of it: his childhood in Valleor, his education at

the University, his years in hiding, his scholarly posts, our meeting, our marriage. And then the horror that

had ended it all: arrest, torture, burning, death . . . until this man beside me had snatched his soul before it