Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (39 page)

are blond and fair?”

My stomach tied itself into a knot, and my skin felt cold again, though it wasn’t even night. The red

sun shone hot and bright on my skin. “Would it be true?”

“Yes.”

“Then that would mean that Papa or Mama was a sorcerer, too—”

“You know better than that.”

“—or that one of them, or both of them, were not my parents.”

Darzid leaned on the balcony rail and gazed out into the desert. “Tomas was far too powerful for your

mother to amuse herself with other men. And I can tell you that while Tomas had women other than

Philomena on occasion, none of them were Dar’Nethi.”

The knot pulled up everything so tight, I felt like there was a big hollow place in my stomach. “Then

who am I?”

From the pocket of his black tunic, Darzid pulled a flat square of ivory. He put it in my hand. It had a

looking glass set into it, and of course when I looked at it, my own face looked back at me. How could

Papa not be my father? I could see him in my face. My chin was pointed like his. My hair was the same

color, my eyes, too. And even darkened from the sun, my skin had the same red-gold cast. Nellia had

said a thousand times how like Papa I was, and how no one but the children of Comigor had such

coloring. . . .

The mirror clattered to the floor, and I clasped my hands behind my back as if it had burned me. I

wanted to be sick.

Darzid nodded. “You’ve guessed it then. A hard thing to discover that what you believed all your life

was false.”

Seri. I was Seri’s child . . . and her sorcerer husband’s who had been burned alive.

“You and your cousin were born on the same day. Tomas’s son was born early, weak and sickly,

like all Philomena’s children. There was no possibility he could survive. The serving sister who attended

both mothers had overheard what was planned for the sorcerer’s child and tried to switch the two of

you. I caught her at it and decided that it would be amusing to see what became of you. I made sure the

nurse was sent to Comigor with you and would watch out for any sign that you had inherited your

father’s . . . skills.”

“So the baby Papa killed . . .”

“. . . was his own son. He never knew it.”

“Was he cursed by Seri’s husband? Is that why he was born early?” Everything in the world was

flipping upside down. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had started rising right back up from

where it was setting.

“Perhaps.”

I didn’t know what to think. Seri. Seri was my mother. I hated her because her Prince had killed

Papa, and she had brought him to kill me and Lucy. But surely that meant she didn’t know the truth

either. I tried to remember things about Seri, but everything was all blurry and confused. And the baby

Papa killed hadn’t been a sorcerer. That changed . . . something. . . . Before I could clear any of it up,

Darzid tapped me hard on the cheek, calling me to pay attention.

“There’s more. Worse than what you have already heard.”

“I can’t see how it could be worse.”

“You should know your father’s name, don’t you think?”

“He was evil, and he’s dead. I don’t see why it matters except that he made me evil like him. I didn’t

belong there. I shouldn’t have been born in that other world at all. And Papa . . . Tomas . . . was my real

father.”

“Don’t be sentimental, Gerick. You were so afraid of Tomas that you stopped talking to him. He

would have slit your throat or had you burned if he had even suspected what you are. But the identity of

your father has everything to do with who you are, and what you are, and what you will be in the future,

for there has come about something so unusual—even for this world that is so strange to you— that it

would take days even to speculate on how it was done.”

“I don’t understand.” My head was spinning with hot and cold and red sunlight glaring in my eyes and

his words that just would not stop telling me awful things.

“It’s in the names. The names will tell you. You see, Serf’s husband, your father, went by the name of

Karon.”

“Karon? But that was the other name they called—”

“—the Prince D’Natheil. Yes, indeed. It appears that your real father is not dead at all, but has been

brought back to life. He is now one and the same as our enemy.”

“I don’t understand how it could be possible.” Two different people . . . yet the same. A dead person

come to life again.

“It is indeed an immense enchantment, worked by the old man you saw talking with Seri—the last

gasp of a once-talented people. We will teach you all about it and what it means for your place in the

world. But for now, you must be ready to face him.”

“Face him? The Prince?” I could not call him my father. I pictured the tall man who had walked with

Seri in Grandmama’s garden and could not imagine how the Lords thought I could fight him.

“Yes, this is the most magnificent part of the whole business. D’Natheil has made a great mistake, a

mistake that could cost him his control of the universe, not to mention this perversion that he calls his life.

You are the key. We didn’t know your test would come so soon, but it’s all to the good.”

Ziddari went on to tell me of how I would be taken into the heart of our enemies’ stronghold, and

asked to stand in the presence of my father, the Prince, who also happened to be the man King Evard

had burned to death shortly before I was born. “The two of you will be tested, to verify your relationship.

The burden is on him, not on you. You have only to be present.”

“Why would he admit that I’m his son if it could lose the war for him?” I was confused.

“He will have no choice. The enchantments that caused him to live past his own proper death have

unsettled his mind. In a vain attempt to retain his hold on his power, he has put himself in a vulnerable

position. If we play our parts well, then, before another day dawns, you will be acknowledged his

successor.”

“But his followers won’t acknowledge me if I’m allied with his enemies.” There was Darzid, thinking I

was stupid again.

“Oh, they will acknowledge you. For a thousand years they’ve locked themselves into the stupidities

of breeding and bloodlines. They’ll soon discover their mistake. You are no longer the Duke of Comigor,

but by sunset tomorrow you will be the Prince of Avonar, sovereign of all Dar’Nethi and Dulcé. And on

the day you come of age you will be anointed the Heir of the cursed D’Arnath. D’Arnath was the only

one of the Dar’Nethi who ever understood the full depth and breadth and uses of power, and in his pride

and selfish stupidity, he reserved it all to himself and his Heirs. In a little more than one turning of the year,

on the day you complete your twelfth year of life, all of it will be yours.”

CHAPTER 22

Seri

I had assumed we would be able to approach some Dar‘Nethi, one of the Preceptors, perhaps, who

might help us develop a strategy to rescue Gerick. But the Dulcé knew of no one we dared trust with the

secret of Gerick’s parentage, especially before the Prince was examined. And the shamefaced Dulcé

confessed that, without some urgent prompting such as the threat of a compromised Heir, no Dar’Nethi

would give a moment’s hearing to a mundane woman who wished to go to Zhev’Na, especially in this

time of tenuous peace. Even Kellea, a Dar’Nethi unknown to anyone and inexperienced in her art, would

be viewed as highly suspect, perhaps even a Zhid spy. For the moment we must proceed on our own.

I believed Bareil grieved sorely for Dassine and Karon. The full weight of events seemed to descend

on him the day following the Prince’s departure. We had spent the morning discussing our plans to learn

our way about the city. Bareil participated enthusiastically, dispensing advice, encouragement,

information, and funds in the form of a cloth bag bulging with coins. But just about midday, as he was

marking streets and shops on a sketch of Avonar, his voice trailed off and his hand began to tremble. He

stepped away from our small table and rubbed his temple.

“What is it, Bareil? Are you all right?”

“Ah, my lady, I need— I must leave you.” Indeed his olive complexion appeared sickly and washed

out. He grabbed his cloak from the hook by the door, his pack, and D’Natheil’s sword belt and

weapons from where he had laid them carefully out of the way. “I should put these things where they’ll be

safe. Careless of me to keep them here. I’ll be back ... I don’t know when I’ll be back. Please excuse

me.” With no more than this, he barged through the door and hurried down the passage.

We didn’t see him again until evening. He brought us a roast fowl and a thick, savory pottage of grain

and vegetables, but he declined to eat with us. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I cannot remain here with you.

Master Dassine’s house must be set to rights in case the Prince wishes to take possession of it again ... or

give it to someone else . . . I’ve asked a Word Winder to reinstate the house wards.” He seemed

hesitant, unsure of himself as I had not seen him in our brief acquaintance. “I’ve arranged for you to stay

here at the guesthouse as long as you wish. I would invite you to come to Master Dassine’s

house—Master Dassine and the Prince would be honored—but you would surely be remarked.”

“Won’t you be in danger? You were almost killed. . . .”

“Now that the Prince is with the Preceptors, I have little to fear. No one will bother a Dulcé without

his madrisson. Nothing could be learned from such a one. Please . . . be assured I will help and advise

you in these matters as I’ve promised.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, Kellea and I worked very hard to learn the common language

of Avonar. I had picked up the rudiments from the Dulcé, Baglos, on our summer adventure in the days

before Karon/D’Natheil had recovered his power of speech and understanding of Leiran, and so was

able to gain a reasonable understanding of the spoken language in good order. But I stumbled badly

when trying to speak it myself. Kellea, on the other hand, drew on her sorcerer’s power to become fluent

within the first week. I was sorely jealous.

Paulo would not sit still for any teaching. He swore that his head had no more room for extra ways of

saying the same thing, and spent our study hours exploring the streets and byways of Avonar.

As he had promised, Bareil came to the guesthouse every day, but only for an hour or two at a time.

His demeanor was subdued and reticent, as if he weren’t sleeping well. He told Kellea how to find us

clothing of colors and styles appropriate to Avonar. While only slightly different in style from ordinary

skirts and tunics, bodices or breeches—the Dar’Nethi seemed to prefer loose-fitting or draped tunics

and shirts rather than close-fitting—the garments were colored in vibrant, gem-like greens, reds, and

blues that Leiran dyemasters had never discovered. And no Leiran or Vallorean seamstress could have

imagined such materials or construction: fibers softer than silk, yet of such resilience that an Isker peasant

could wear such a garment for a lifetime; stitches that were perfectly uniform and almost invisible;

embroidery of such charming and complex design that the queen’s whole staff of needlewomen could not

produce one sample of it in a year.

But such details, marvels at any other time, were lost on us as we drove ourselves to discover some

way to retrieve Gerick from the heart of the Wastes. Together we reviewed all that Bareil had told about

the stronghold of the Zhid and whatever he could supply of Dar’Nethi scholarship regarding the Lords.

But we were unable to discover any way to transport ourselves to Zhev’Na, much less a way to wrest a

child from the Lords’ clutches.

I demanded patience of myself and the others. Though my fears screamed for instant action, my brief

encounter with the Zhid had taught me that I had no weapons to fight them face to face, and so far we

had discovered nothing new that would give us the least chance of success. Bareil’s history lessons told

us that the Lords wanted Gerick to come of age in their care, so they weren’t going to kill him. Kellea

hinted that I was coldhearted to let my son languish in Zhev’Na, but I believed that if I were to save him,

then, for the moment, I had to let him be. We would study and learn and find a way.

We heard no reliable news of the Prince. Rumors flew about Avonar that D’Natheil was dead or

mad, that he was preparing for an assault on the Wastes, that he was laboring on the Bridge, or that he

had gone back across the Bridge to lead the Exiles back to Avonar. Few Dar’Nethi took any of these

stories seriously, Bareil told us. Most believed that the house of D’Arnath had its own ways that could

not always be explained. Had not the present Heir been cloistered with Dassine for ten years, only to

come forth to win a great victory and preserve the Bridge? Because of what D’Natheil had

accomplished, every day brought a renewal of power that had been lost to the Dar’Nethi for centuries.

The Zhid no longer attacked the walls of Avonar. Prominent citizens spoke of forming expeditions into

the Wastes to rescue those Dar’Nethi still captive, but these ventures would require years of preparation.

The Dar’Nethi had no more information about Zhev’Na than we did.

And so we worked and we studied and we listened, but truly made no progress at all.