The Soul Weaver (42 page)

“Blazes.”

“He's been able to work no healing since that day. The foundation of his life has been destroyed. He sees his soul as lost, and his wife lost, and his son, and he can do nothing at all about any of it.”

The Prince carried Dassine's crystal with him everywhere now—his suspended death awaiting his touch. I feared for his life as well as his reason and his soul.

“Why are you telling me this? I'm a nobody horse trainer. You need a sorcerer to help him.”

“Because yesterday when he sat at your bedside, I saw the spark of his last hope. He desperately wants to believe you. He wants you to convince him that his son is not what he thinks. He knows that if he slays his own son, he will lose himself forever, but unless you give him a choice, he will have to do it.”

“But I've got no proof, only what I know to be true. And if I tell him what I know—even if I could—it would just show him where to find the young master so as to kill him. The Prince even said that's what he intends.”

“So it appears we're at an impasse. You need to speak to the Lady, in hopes she can sway the Prince to listen to his son. But the Lady cannot hear you, or if she hears, she can do nothing about it. The young Lord himself cannot appear before the Prince to state his arguments, because he would end up without his head. And please, explain to me once more, why is it you cannot plead his case before the Prince?”

The boy kicked at a crate of shallots. “Because the young master put an enchantment on me that I could only give the message to the Prince if the Lady was dead! We never figured on her being like this.”

“I was hoping that's what you meant.”

The boy's face twisted into such a perfect image of confusion that I burst into entirely inappropriate laughter, a habit I've never overcome since my far-distant youth.

“Tell me, good Paulo,” I said, when I had sobered enough to say it. “What do you know of this Radele?”

I had warned the Prince not to put his family at Men'Thor's mercy, not in such a delicate matter as young Gerick. But full of self-condemnation at his indiscretion and mistrusting his own affection for the boy, he had chosen a bodyguard who would be impervious to such emotion, the son of Men'Thor and grandson of Ustele, the only Preceptorate member to suggest publicly that D'Natheil should be overthrown and another Heir named to lead Avonar to war with the Zhid. The Prince believed that Ustele's and Men'Thor's opposition was rooted in legitimate care for Avonar. I had no such conviction.

Paulo spoke grudgingly. “Radele is a good fighter. Helped run off the bandits from the merchant caravan we traveled with. And he's a gentleman, I suppose. Educated. Manners and all that . . .”

“But he disdains those who are not Dar'Nethi.”

“Every moment of every day he was looking down our necks, all the way down into our boots, thinking we were dirt. But what he hated most was the young master. The young master knew real quick that Radele wasn't there to protect him. The Lady maybe, but not him. Radele was there to watch—” The boy abruptly clamped his mouth shut and glanced up at me. “Why do you care? You're Dar'Nethi, too.”

“Did you ever see Radele do anything but watch?”

“I don't know what you mean.” I felt him withdrawing. “I don't know what you want.”

“As you said, Radele is an extremely skilled warrior. He is also a Dar'Nethi of more than moderate talents, as are his father and grandfather. Let me tell you a story from the long past, before old Ustele was named Preceptor. A woman called S'Patra, a Speaker of immense talent, was a candidate for Preceptor, as was Ustele. D'Natheil's grandfather was torn between the two. Both were renowned for skill and loyalty. Both had fought the Zhid for years on the walls of Avonar. But S'Patra and Ustele had very different ideas on whether to concentrate our efforts on strengthening the Bridge or pursuing the war. Eventually, the Heir named S'Patra to the Preceptorate.”

Paulo was listening intently.

“In her term as Preceptor, S'Patra discovered how the Heir might cross the Bridge, even though it was designed to allow no passage. But indeed, in the ensuing months, the war went very badly. The Zhid captured much of the healthy land that remained outside the Vales, making it a part of the Wastes. But only a few months into her tenure, S'Patra fell victim to a wasting disease of the mind, a strange malady that left her in silence. Ustele, as you might imagine, was named to take her place. After the Prince called on me to help with the Lady, I searched through our archives and discovered this incident. A rare illness. Only a few similar cases occurred through the years. Another victim held a position of influence as a judge, a position Men'Thor took over when the man was stricken, thereby coming to great prominence in our community.

“So, you see, these stories make me wonder. I see no cause for the Lady Seriana's condition. She is no frail creature to be confounded by adversity, but a strong woman, who has borne immense trials with fortitude. Ustele and his family have no use for the Prince as we know him, and perhaps they also know that if anything would transform the Prince in the way they desire, it would be harm to his wife at the hand of his son.”

It was when I mentioned the silencing that the boy remembered something. When I fell quiet, he sat thoughtfully, chewing on a knuckle. I let him be for a while, but the night was passing, and eventually, I spoke up. “Tell me what you remember, young Paulo. We are allies.”

He let out a slow breath. “There was something . . . a man Radele said was listening at our door in Montevial, and we were afraid he'd heard things to compromise the Lady and the young master . . .”

Paulo told me the disturbing tale of Radele and his enchantment—surely the same silencing spell used on the Lady—and how the only way for the spell to be released was for the man to recite something in his head. “A list, you say, to undo the enchantment, but no hint of what list it might be?”

The boy shook his head. “None. Only that it was things the man had no means to know.”

A list could be anything—kings, flowers, stars—connected to Gondai, it seemed, if a man of the mundane world had no way to know it. Even so, I could not even begin to guess what it might be. I needed more information. “Paulo, I ask for your consent to read you. Something may be buried in your memories of Radele or of that particular event that can tell me what I need to know to unlock the Lady's enchantment. I'll swear on anything you wish that I'll not probe beyond Radele. I'll not pry into your secrets.”

“I give you no leave to do that!” His voice was steel, all his mistrust and wariness brought back instantly. “I won't allow it.”

Swallowing my disappointment, I prayed that a night's consideration would change the boy's mind. I couldn't blame him. He was in an unfortunate position.

“Then I'll ask that you watch and listen carefully as you serve your Lady, especially when Radele is about.”

“I will,” he said. “I'd give most anything to help her.”

“I believe you.”

I had to leave the boy as I'd found him. Apologizing, I secured his wrists and ankles to the pipes again. Then I took myself through the dark and silent house to my rooms, thinking to steal a few hours' sleep before returning to my post in the desert. If I was clever, no one need know I'd ever been away. But, of course, that was before I cast a word at the lamp that sat on the perennial stack of books by my bed. The white flame burst into life and revealed Radele lounging in my favorite chair. The sword and knife I had deposited on the bed upon my arrival were firmly in his hands.

“An interesting young man, is he not, Preceptor? Filled with secrets we would give our fortunes to know, yet he has no power, no talent, and cannot make sense of two words together if they happen to be written on a page. How far are the Dar'Nethi fallen when such a lump of ignorance is our Heir's last spark of hope?”

“Or when a Dar'Nethi stoops to spy upon his Prince or his Preceptors?” What a fool I'd been not to take the simplest precautions. He must have heard everything.

“Spies are the tools of the enemy, Master Ven'Dar. The Prince has commanded me to watch and guard, and I do his will. You, on the other hand, have trespassed his express command that no one is to speak to the boy or attempt to learn what he has to tell.”

I wrestled with a balky latch and threw open the window, regretting my decision to choose a bedchamber on the second floor of the house. I was not decrepit, but my bones would not tolerate a two-story leap to the flagstone courtyard.

“We will not argue the definitions of spies or traitors, or even of enemies, Radele. I've come to my home to sleep for a while, so I respectfully request that you withdraw.”

“That is not possible, Master.” The young man stood and tossed my weapons on the floor, well out of my reach. Then he walked around me slowly, getting closer with each circuit, forcing me to turn if I wished to keep watch on him. Which I did. He shook his head as he eyed me. “We are at a dangerous pass. Your attempt to keep our Prince weak, encouraging his unhealthy attachment for people who are not our own, has become intolerable. It's time for you—”

“To be silenced?”

His expression did not change. “D'Arnath created the Bridge to maintain the balance of the universe, not to enslave our world to the other. I never appreciated it so fully until the Prince sent me there. We
diminish
ourselves by associating with the mundanes, Preceptor. You should see how they live—the noise and filth and ignorance, the violence they perform against each other. They do nothing but strengthen the Lords. Those who are so enraptured by them must be convinced to let go.”

“It must be marvelous to have so clear a vision.”

Radele quit his circling, opened the door, and motioned me into the passage. “Master, your meddling must cease. For now, I will escort you to safer quarters.”

“And if I insist on sleeping in my own bed?”

“That will not be possible.”

We Dar'Nethi were not accustomed to political dispute. Since the Catastrophe, our goals had been so singular and so formidable that we'd had little difference of opinion that could be translated into conspiracies or intrigues or struggles for power. The Preceptor Dassine changed all that, of course, with his belief that a dying young Healer named Karon, a descendent of our long-exiled brothers and sisters, held somewhere in his essence the secret of defeating the Lords and repairing the damage they'd done. Dassine had been stubborn, rash, not trusting his fellow Preceptors to believe a man born so far from our war and returned to life and power under such bizarre circumstances could untangle our predicaments. Yet time and circumstance now conspired against long debate, and our influential people were choosing up sides. I, who had spent my life in the study of those beliefs and practices that made the Dar'Nethi unique among the races of living beings, believed Dassine was right. I could not allow Ustele and his purists to destroy the prince Dassine had given us.

And so, as Radele raised his hand to work his silencing on me, I raised mine to cast a winding over him. My enchantment was formed of
doubt
,
uncertainty
,
wavering
. . . drawing the essence of the words to shape the spell. I overwhelmed him with
questions
and
ambiguity
, stuffed his belly with unnamed
anxiety
, bound his hand with
indecision
—a devastating fate for a young man so sure of himself.

Radele's hand trembled and fell, and he watched uncertainly as I moved past him toward the door. Unfortunately, I didn't get very far. A tall, straight-backed man in red filled the doorway.

“Ah, Preceptor Ven'Dar, none of this . . .” I felt the abrupt starved dizziness of a Word Winder whose cast has been snapped before completion, something like having one's stomach and eyes excised at the same moment. It is a most distressing sensation, especially when one suspects something even more unpleasant is to follow.

Men'Thor was an imposing man. His padded doublet was elaborately embroidered and immaculately clean, his boots brushed. His gray hair and beard were trimmed and neat. His whole demeanor cried a reproach to my sand- and sweat-crusted skin and my rumpled shirt and breeches, though he, too, had come here from the battlefield.

I reeled in my cast, taking a breath and squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to convince my mind that my body was still attached. Of course, as I recovered, I considered whether to cast again. Men'Thor, whose expression never changed, whose voice was always calm and equitable, and whose mind could not be influenced once it was settled on an idea, was a very powerful sorcerer. I was likely stronger. But I was not interested in dueling with any Dar'Nethi, as long as the man prevented his son's vicious foolery. Though Men'Thor and I disagreed on many matters, including strategy and ethics, we shared a common enemy—the Zhid and the Lords. So I held back.

The only unpleasantness I had to endure for the moment was Men'Thor herding me back toward Radele, appropriating my chair that his son had so recently vacated, and lecturing us both like schoolboys. “Master Ven'Dar would be well within his rights to have you exiled, boy! How shall a father represent his fool of a son to repair such injury? How shall a Dar'Nethi justify raising his hand to his Preceptor or a Preceptor to one of his own brother Dar'Nethi, while, at the very moment, the Vale of Seraph burns at the hand of the Lords of Zhev'Na?”

“Seraph!” I said. Seraph, the southernmost Vale of Eidolon, was a land of sparkling streams, green hillsides, and white cliffs hung with red-flowered vines. Its perennial springtime produced the sweetest airs in Gondai. The white stone towns and villages housed hardy folk who prided themselves on their abundant fields of grapes so near the edge of the Wastes.