The Soul Weaver (46 page)

“He was here, then. While we were asleep? Astonishing that he could pass my wards . . .”

The Lady knelt by the boy, shaking her head, and my words dwindled away. How foolish is all certainty that can so easily lead us away from the obvious. She kept her tear-filled eyes on him and stroked his hair, and only then did I begin to understand. I recalled how her expression had changed as she looked on Paulo the night before, and the words that had formed on her lips. “Oh, my dear one . . .” She had not addressed the boy Paulo, but her son, recognizing him within the body of his friend. Her son had possessed Paulo, displaced a living soul for his own purposes.

I dropped the letter on the floor, overwhelmed by revulsion, the reaction bred into me by fifty years of hearing tales of the Lords of Zhev'Na and their hideous games.

“Is there any chance Paulo can survive this?” whispered the Lady.

“I've known no one to survive such a violation. Paulo will be dead when the . . . being . . . leaves him. Unless I kill him first in order to kill the one controlling him.” I was horrified, nauseated. Yet . . .

I retrieved the folded paper and studied it again. A trap, surely. A devilish son begging his father to enter his mind . . . to open himself . . . to leave himself, the Prince of Avonar, vulnerable.

Yet, the words were so at odds with such villainy. The words . . . Interpretation of words was my life. Never had I read words so fraught with loneliness and pain, a desolate honesty that belied the writer's tender years. I could not reconcile what I assumed . . . what I believed . . . what I had been taught . . . with what I read.

Could the boy I knew as Paulo truly be the heinous manifestation of a depraved Lord of Zhev'Na? I thought back to our first encounter in my tent in the desert, and then in the root cellar that became our prison cell. He had clearly been himself in our first interview. When could the displacement have taken place? The youth's care for me in the days of my madness had been kind and earnest, and the only alteration in his manner came after . . . no, just before I broke Radele's enchantment, when his hands grew icy, and his voice fell silent, and I . . . I was changed . . .

“Great Vasrin!” I bent over the sleeping youth and shook him with a vigor that would have roused a dead man—as indeed the Lady believed I was trying to do.

“Master Ven'Dar, have mercy. Leave him in peace!”

I ignored her. “Paulo! Wake up! I know it's you.”

“Cripes, can't a body have a decent sleep without somebody has to bully 'em up and—?” The lanky, disheveled boy sat up, rubbing his face and yawning. When he caught sight of the Lady, her mouth open in shock, he stopped in mid-complaint. “Oh, my lady, it's a fine thing . . . a fine thing to see you.”

“Then you're not—” She picked him apart with her eyes, and then glared at me as if I'd pulled some student's prank on her. “He's all right. And himself. We must have been wrong.” She snatched the letter from my hand and read it again, while I tried to contain my excitement. If this were true . . .

“Paulo, we were afraid for you,” I said, squatting so I could look him in the eye. “You weren't exactly yourself last night.”

The boy leaned up against the curved stone wall, scratched his head, and sighed. “He wouldn't hurt me. He knew it was a risk, and he hated the thought of it, being so evil a thing as it is, and not even sure how it is he does it. He let me decide. I agreed it was the only way.”

“So you know what happened,” I said. “What he did to you.”

“Of course, I know. We planned it. Well, we didn't plan he would have to take over like he did. Only that he would hide . . . inside me . . . and be here to help if he was needed.”

“So he left his own body and took up residence in yours. And when he saw I could not free myself, he left your body and came into mine.” The sustaining hands. The strength and reason I could not muster on my own. Directing, not controlling my thoughts and actions, though sharing an awareness of my memories and capabilities. And when the deed was done, he had relinquished his control, returning my mind and soul intact. Not corrupted. Not dead. Free.

“We never expected the Lady to be so bad off. And then you was the only one as could help. He had to get you free.” His steady gaze met mine and nothing . . . nothing lived in him but simple truth.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Lady. “I thought Gerick had taken Paulo as he did Gar'Dena. Why isn't Paulo dead?”

I had to work to keep from laughing aloud, struggle to remember the dire situation of the world. This discovery would not even be a footnote in history if we didn't think carefully about its consequences. But my excitement could not be contained.

“Madam, young Paulo lives and breathes and delights us with his company even after sharing his person, because your son is no more one of the Lords than are you. It is the myth, the legend, the hundredth talent in the list. Twice I tallied the names last night, not knowing that the one who enabled me to speak the list was its capstone . . . its enigma. Who could relinquish his own life so completely, taking unto himself the full body, mind, and spirit of another being—lending strength or courage, skill or knowledge—and then be able to yield the other soul undamaged? Who could do such a thing and himself remain whole?

“Your son, my lady, is Dar'Nethi and he is sixteen years of age, and, as happens with most of us, his talent has come upon him with ungainly, overwhelming, and mystifying suddenness. And in a charming convolution of the Way, it seems he has turned out to be a Soul Weaver, the rarest of the Dar'Nethi talents, bearing a gift that carries the most magnificent possibilities and the most complex ramifications, and he doesn't even know it.”

 

I spent five days bathed in blood. My anger had burst all its bounds when I walked the blackened ruins of Ephah, past the poles on which children had been spitted like suckling pigs and the pits where old men and women had been set afire. When word came that Zhid marauders had been sighted near the Vale of Seraph, I would hear no caution, but led twelve hundred warriors in pursuit. They drew us into the Wastes, where three thousand smirking Zhid lay in ambush. But they would have needed twice that number to evade my wrath, and when they were all dead or run away, I wept because none were left to kill.

On the blistering evening of our bloody victory, we rode back into the encampment just as the last light faded, dropping a mantle of darkness over the dead and wounded we had packed into carts or draped over horses. After an ordinary foray, warriors would light fires and heat water for bathing their wounds and those of their fellows, for washing off the filth of battle, for preparing food. Sounds of camaraderie and consolation would give a wholesome texture to the night: men and women rattling pots and restoring weapons, singing songs or telling tales. But as this night crept around us, the camp remained dark. Warriors dropped onto the hard, bare ground and did not move. But I didn't think they slept.

I slid from my horse and shoved the reins at a smudge-eyed boy who gawked at my scorched, blood-soaked gauntlets. “Have him ready for me at first light.”

“Aye, my lord.” The boy dropped his gaze.

Two aides rode up behind me, their pale, sand-crusted faces like some primitive artwork in the deepening dusk—inhuman. I gave orders for the watch, sent news and a commendation to Men'Thor, who had led his battle-weary company all the way to Avonar to fortify the garrison, and dismissed them. A few hours' sleep and then I would return to the business of Paulo and my son. I could not allow Gerick to live one more day, to betray us one more time.

“My lord!” Bareil held open the tent flap. The Dulce's garments were sweat-stained and bloody. While I'd led the troops into the desert after the Zhid raiders he had remained in Seraph Vale, helping with the survivors and seeing that all the information they could give us about the attack was recorded for me to review. “I was just about to ride out in search of you. I've sent for Master Ven'Dar, as you commanded me, but neither his aides nor Bastel have seen him for several days. They believed him to be with you. And you've an urgent message from Nentao. The quartermaster says it came five days ago.”

Nentao . . . Seri.
My annoyance with Ven'Dar's lack of communication would have to wait. I yanked off my stiff gauntlets and threw them on the ground, snatched the paper from his hand, and broke the seal. Every crack and ridge in my hand was caked with dried blood. “Five days! What incompetent bastard let it lie here five days?”

Five days! I rode out without changing my blood-soaked garments, without cleaning the death from my hands. I recklessly conjured an early portal to Avonar, and by the time the night was spent, I was galloping up the winding road to Nentao, dread sitting in my belly like lead. When I smelled the telltale of charred timber on the dawn wind, I could not contain my fear. Bellowing like a speared boar, I spurred my horse unmercifully until I reached the smoldering ruin.

“Where is she?” I leapt from the saddle and charged through the billowing smoke toward the blackened stonework, nearly throttling the first person who chanced within my reach. “Tell me she's dead and you'll wish you were likewise.”

The man in the red shirt didn't answer, only choked and gasped and fought, dragging me to the ground with his struggle.

“She isn't here,” said the calm voice behind me, “and killing my servants won't get her back . . . my lord.” Men'Thor peered down his straight nose and bowed slightly. What a portrait I presented: groveling in the dirt with a common soldier, the filth of battle dried on my clothes. “Radele says Ven'Dar has abducted both your wife and the Destroyer's minion. And it appears as if the Preceptor is responsible for two murders a few days ago. The situation is unfathomable. The man must have gone mad.”

“Seri and Paulo abducted? By Ven'Dar?” I shoved the gasping soldier away and scrambled to my feet, fighting for composure, for clarity. “Why the devil would he do such a thing? Where did he take them?”

“Having just arrived myself, my lord, I've no answers for you. No sooner did I walk into the house than the man set the place alight over our heads. One of my men saw the three of them ride deeper into the Vale, but we've searched and found no sign of them. Ven'Dar's surely made a portal to transport them elsewhere. They could be anywhere by now.”

Calm yourself, fool. Breathe. Think.
I could not help Seri if I could not think. Heat pulsed from the rubble. I ducked under a smoldering beam and wandered through the broken walls, waving a hand at the destruction. “You're saying Ven'Dar did
this
, too?”

Men'Thor folded his arms as we moved through the ruin, scuffing the ash with the toe of his knee-high boot. “The Preceptor cast as he escaped. We're fortunate no one else lies dead. Happily Radele had dismissed the servants. The whole thing reeks of madness . . . of the Lords.”

Blackened piers and beams stood at rakish angles, a macabre pattern against the morning. Wind sighed across the hilltop, swirling smoke and ash in our eyes and fanning the embers. This was lunacy. I could certainly comprehend that Ven'Dar had decided he could no longer support me. But beyond the simple matter of desertion, nothing of this story held together. Two guards murdered by a man who so treasured the Way? By Ven'Dar, who understood and grieved for what I had become? Persuasion was Ven'Dar's favored weapon, not a knife, not fire and destruction. He wielded power backed by virtue and wisdom, not hostages or blackmail.

And a mystery of less mortal consequence, yet still profound: Nentao had once belonged to Exeget, Ven'Dar's mentor. This house and garden had held everything that remained of a brilliant, honorable, difficult man that only Ven'Dar had truly loved. What circumstance could cause him to destroy a place he so treasured? If it was the Preceptor . . .

I whirled on Men'Thor and gripped his arm. “Are you certain it was Ven'Dar? Did you read him?”

“These events transpired but moments after my arrival, lord.” A man of infinite patience was Men'Thor. “If you remember, I have been fighting Zhid the past five days. Besides . . . I would never take it on myself to read a Preceptor.” Men'Thor's voice did not falter, though my fingers ground his flesh against his bones.

“You took it on yourself to come here unasked.”