Son of Avonar (54 page)

We set out on the tinker's route, still with no sign of pursuit. About twelve leagues west we were to watch for a fork in the road, the rightmost continuing west and north to join the main route that ran from Montevial all the way west to Vanesta. The less-traveled left fork, hardly a road at all, would bear slightly southeast to skirt Pell's Mound, then angle straight south to Yennet.

The second day from the tinker's well dawned overcast, and the thickening clouds glowered and grumbled as the morning progressed. Thunder rolled across the rocky fields, and at midmorning the black sky erupted into chaos.

Baglos was in the lead, hunched down in the saddle, his gray cloak pulled up tight against the lashing rain. Paulo on his Molly followed behind the Dulcé. Sometime near midday, the boy reversed direction and stopped, blocking the road and forcing me to stop in my turn. I yelled at him in irritation. “Keep moving, Paulo. We've no wish to be out in this any longer than need be.”

The boy had his huge cloak draped over him and his horse, like Isker women who rode to war behind their husbands, forbidden to expose anything but their eyes. Without poking so much as his nose outside his shroud, Paulo gestured toward a muddy rut that led off to our left into the rain-swept meadows. The soggy landscape was dotted with sparse clumps of pine and birch trees, and massive, oddly shaped piles of granite poked out of the ground like the debris of a giant rock-boring mole. The rut was straight enough, one could imagine it might be a path.

“Good eyes, Paulo,” I shouted over the roar of the storm. “Catch Baglos and tell him we've found the turning. I'll wait for the Prince.”

D'Natheil had lagged behind us all day. Indeed, from our first night out of Montevial, he had withdrawn almost completely from our society. He rarely spoke, and when we camped, he ate little and slept less, patrolling the nearby ground while Baglos or I was on watch, and taking the late watches alone when the rest of us were asleep.

More than half an hour passed until he came into view. Irritated at having to wait so long in the cold rain, I didn't wait for him to join me, but waved and rode on up the muddy track, hurrying to catch up with Baglos and Paulo. With every step away from the main road, the track looked less like a road and more like a stream. The wind ripped and tangled my cloak, ensuring that no patch of clothing or skin stayed dry, and the gusts felt as if they'd come straight off of the snow-capped mountains to the southwest, making a mockery of my summer clothing. Soon the water and mud flowed from everywhere, and I was losing all sense of direction. As a girl I had delighted in watching storms rumble across the barren hills beyond Comigor. But turbulent weather lost a great deal of its charm when one had no three-foot-thick walls or six-hundred-year-old roof to keep it out.

Baglos halted in the middle of the open downs, Paulo beside him. Sheets of rain and lowering cloud obscured the view in every direction. “I can no longer assure you that we are on the path,” said the Dulcé when I joined the two. “I don't know what to do.”

My hair stuck to my face and dribbled cold rivulets into my eyes, and my teeth were chattering so I could hardly answer. “How far is it from the fork to the village?”

“The tinker said half a day, but that would be in fair weather. And if we've strayed . . .”

“I suppose we'll have to wait for D'Natheil and see if he can tell us more.”

The Prince had fallen behind again. We had another long, wet wait until he came into view. About the time D'Natheil emerged from the curtain of rain, the hairs on my neck rose, and, not fifty paces from where we waited, a lightning bolt struck a pine tree, exploding it in thunderous fire. I had to haul sharply on the reins to control Firethorn, and Baglos clung to the neck of his mount.

“Can you not guide us, Dulcé?” asked the Prince as soon as our beasts were under control. His mount had stayed quiet under the simple pressure of his hand.

“No, my lord. To my devastation it is not possible just now. I have no reference in the storm.”

“Then head for those boulders to our right. I'll be along.” D'Natheil seemed agitated and distracted.

“Yes, my lord.” Baglos turned his jittery horse.

The Dulcé led us toward a huge slab of granite that, in some long-past time, had split and shifted, leaving a great seam down its middle. The split was a boon for drenched travelers, for the two pieces leaned together at the top as if trying to rejoin, creating a deep, but narrow and blessedly dry niche at the base.

Paulo tethered the horses in the lee of the outcropping, and the three of us crowded into the niche. I huddled to one side, sinking to the damp ground and pulling my wet cloak about me tightly. Dribbles of water splattered from the edge of the rock onto the Dulcé's pinched face as he hunched beside the opening, peering into the gray downpour to watch for D'Natheil. Paulo curled up in the farthest recess of the crack and promptly fell asleep. The boy seemed capable of sleep in any circumstance. I envied him.

A bedraggled D'Natheil soon appeared from out of the storm, leading his horse. In his arms were sticks of soggy wood and some dripping brush. Baglos took the Prince's horse and settled it with the others, while D'Natheil threw his bundle down in front of me. Crouching down beside it, he blew softly across his palm and passed his hand over the sodden pile. This time the sensation was not lightning. A tiny flame curled up from the pile, and, in moments, a sizable fire was blazing.

I crowded close and relished the moment that my bones began to thaw. “You did that very well,” I said, as soon as my teeth stopped chattering. “I don't know what I'd have done without it.”

D'Natheil stared into the growing flames. “Survived.”

The word took me aback—he was so grimly serious. “Probably so. It never seems likely at the time, though. And this is far better.”

“Would that the Preceptors could see it,” Baglos mumbled to no one in particular, as he passed around his silver flask of sweet, potent wine that always seemed to appear when there was most need.

Thunder rumbled. The rain pounded harder, causing spits of moisture to bounce through the opening in the rock and hiss as they pelted the fire. “Baglos, tell us about the Preceptors . . . about this Dassine,” I said. “Do you know him well?”

As always when I asked a question about the other world, Baglos deferred to the Prince. “Would you have me answer, my lord?”

“Have you learned nothing, fool of a Dulcé? Clearly this woman is inextricably entwined in our fate. Without her assistance and counsel, we would have been defeated long ago, and so whatever instruction you've been given about circumspection should not and will not apply to her. Is that clear?”

“As you will,
Giré D'Arnath
.” Baglos quickly bowed his head, hunching his narrow shoulders.

But for once the Prince's annoyance bore no more weighty consequence than the reprimand. D'Natheil's mind was somewhere else altogether. Though his eyes were on Baglos, he was not truly looking at the dark head lowered so humbly before him. “You must follow her lead, Dulcé.” His voice had fallen so quiet, I could scarcely hear him. “Answer her questions. Do as she commands you whatever the circumstance.”

“Yes, my lord. As you say.” As always when D'Natheil issued a command, the Dulcé's face went blank for an instant before resuming its normal animation. I wondered if that moment was when he retrieved his scattered knowledge and brought it to the fore, but the question seemed too intimate to ask.

And so, as D'Natheil's fire burned brightly, its enchanted fuel as inexhaustible as the dreary downpour, the Dulcé told us of the voice from the other world.

“The Preceptors are seven men and women who are considered the most wise and powerful among the Dar'Nethi, appointed by the Heir to aid him in his work of teaching and guiding the Dar'Nethi in the Way and opposing the Lords of Zhev'Na. They serve until they die or withdraw from service or are asked by the Heir to step down—this last a rare occasion. Master Dassine is a Healer, first named to the Preceptorate by D'Natheil's grandfather. He is frequently at odds with the other Preceptors, as I have told you, and often refuses to consult with them when he ought. He has studied the lore of the Bridge and championed our duty to preserve it at all costs, until many accuse him of being more concerned with mundanes and this world of yours than with our own.”

“What is Dassine's disagreement with the other Preceptors? Was it only the decision to send D'Natheil onto the Bridge when he was twelve?” I asked.

“The conflict centers on the conduct of the war. Many years ago when D'Natheil was a child, Master Dassine was chosen to venture into the Wastes to learn more of the Lords and the Zhid. He was gone for three years. Everyone assumed he was slain or enslaved, which are much the same. But to our astonishment he returned to Avonar, crippled in one leg and asserting that he had escaped from slavery. No one has ever managed such a thing—the slave collars of Zhev'Na prevent any use of Dar'Nethi power—and Master Dassine refused to say how he had accomplished it. Even before he was fully recovered from his ordeal, he called a meeting of the Preceptorate that resulted in much argument and strife.”

Baglos shifted closer to the fire, and his speech took on a greater urgency, as if the heat that warmed his flesh inflamed his story as well.

“You must understand our situation. The Catastrophe was an enchantment gone awry. It sucked our rivers dry, burned our meadows and forests, and left most of our world a reeking ruin. Those Dar'Nethi who stood in its path were likewise devastated, the fortunate killed outright, the others become Zhid. But in the years when the Heirs of D'Arnath and J'Ettanne preserved the Gates and walked the Bridge, the Wastes began to heal, and the power of the Lords and the Zhid declined. But when J'Ettanne's people failed us, no longer walking the Bridge as they were sworn to do, and D'Arnath's Heir tried to maintain the Bridge alone, this progress was reversed.

“As the Zhid grew stronger again, the Dar'Nethi were forced to become warriors, the Heir first among them, so as to uphold his oath to preserve and defend the Bridge. In his pronouncements to the Preceptorate, Dassine claimed that the Lords were more terrible and the Zhid more numerous than anyone had ever suspected, and that the Dar'Nethi must reverse their thinking on how to contain them. The argument was never explained to me, but many called Dassine a traitor. Master Dassine has often been heard saying he might not have gone to the trouble of his journey for all the good it did.”

Baglos glanced at D'Natheil and reddened a little as he continued. “The matter of the young prince compounded their disagreements. It was while Master Dassine was away from Avonar that D'Natheil was named Heir and Master Exeget appointed as his mentor. Master Dassine proclaimed that Master Exeget was the greatest fool who was not Zhid and that he had done his best to destroy our last hope. He had no right to speak of Master Exeget so. Master Exeget is the head of the Preceptorate, a man of great talent and the highest influence. The terrible mistake of D'Natheil's too-early encounter with the Bridge grieved him greatly.”

“You don't like Dassine,” I said.

“The Dulcé serve all as our gifts permit.”

“You were surprised when Celine released his message.” He had stumbled out of the room when Dassine's message was unfolding in our heads.

“I was not told of Dassine's enchantment—his message, or the locking and unlocking of the Prince's voice, or this harm to his memory that Master Dassine must have caused as well. Master Exeget did not know of these things, or he would have told me.” Baglos flushed. He took a hurried sip and stowed the silver flask away in his pack. “There are many things I wasn't told.”

I could sympathize with that. “How could Dassine know me, Baglos? I've wondered about it since that day. How did he know to send D'Natheil to me?”

“I don't know,” said the Dulcé. “My preparation was so hurried. I heard no mention of a mundane woman. Since his return from the Wastes, Master Dassine had speculated that the Exiles were all dead. He was proven wrong when they opened the Gates, as I have told you. But Master Exeget did not believe we could expect help from the Exiles on this journey. My master knew no one that could help . . . no one . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Your master . . . this Exeget was your master, then. You were
his
Guide?”

Baglos shifted uneasily, glancing up at D'Natheil, but the Prince was not listening any more. He stood in the opening of the niche with his back to us, staring out into the rain. So the Dulcé answered me as he had been commanded. “I was Master Exeget's madrissé for eight years. I accompanied him to D'Natheil's crossing. When Bendal was wounded by the Zhid, Master Exeget commanded me to take the madris with D'Natheil.”

And so Baglos, sworn to obey his linked madrisson, had been given little choice in the matter of this journey.

Water poured from the heavy clouds. Baglos was reluctant to continue his story without the Prince's attention, and so our conversation moved back to the Writer's diagram. I didn't even have to look at the journal any more, but traced the familiar lines and symbols in the damp earth while we considered the land we traveled. Could Pell's Mound be one of the marks on the diagram? Or the ruined castle or the Glenaven River? Was there significance in the names? Baglos maintained his position that the diagram made no sense as a map. It was discouraging to feel we were on the brink of what we needed to know, yet were no closer to deciphering it than Karon and I had been ten years previous.

My head grew heavy, the warmth and smoke sapping my energy and making it increasingly difficult to think. I had the sleepy impression of the Dulcé snoring, and D'Natheil disappearing through the cleft in the rock, back into the storm. I wondered vaguely if the man ever slept.