The Soul Weaver (47 page)

“On the contrary, sire. You did not respond to my son's urgent message and so, very properly, he summoned me. Radele indicated that your wife was ill beyond the continuing sad state of her mind, a disease of enchantment the Healers did not recognize. My son was concerned for her life.”

“Not enough, it seems.”

Men'Thor's jaw tightened, bulging his cheeks; the sinews of his arm stiffened like taut rope under my fingers. Yet even now his voice remained even. “Speak as you will to me, sire, but I'll not have my son's abilities or loyalties questioned, even by you. Neither man, nor Zhid, nor cowardly tool of the Lords of Zhev'Na has ever prevailed against my son in combat. He has defended your kingdom since he could hold a weapon, as have my father and I. Tell me the same of
your
son, Your Grace.”

His words laid down a gauntlet that I could not pick up. I released his arm.

“Yes, Men'Thor. Radele is very accomplished. And a man of honor, as is his father.” That's why I had chosen the noble bastard to watch Gerick and to guard Seri. “Where is the man who witnessed Ven'Dar's escape?”

Men'Thor called out to one of his guardsmen that the Prince wished to see H'Kale as soon as possible. It was Radele, his mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line, who held a youngish man firmly by the sleeve and dragged him stumbling through the ruins a few moments later. “Here's the fool who let them get away,” snapped Radele.

The fellow fell to his knees, stammering. “My lord, I've never seen the like. The spider . . . I've a horror of them . . . caught me up . . . By Vasrin Creator, I saw it as the size of a dog, and so real . . . I felt the pincers . . . felt the web sticky . . .”

“Just tell me where they went—the Preceptor and the others.”

“Into the Vale, my lord. I'll swear it. Down the track where I was caught, back behind the stable, and then up farther into the hills. They didn't circle back as . . . some others say. On my mother's bones, I'll swear it. First the youth and the Lady, and then the Preceptor close behind just after he set the fire.”

Radele sneered at the blubbering young guardsman, gripping his hair and jerking his head back, allowing us to see the slimy evidence of terror dribbling from his nose and mouth and smeared across his cheeks. “You're either blind or traitor, H'Kale. There's nothing in the Vale within a day's ride. We sent—”

“Did you search the tower, Radele?”

“My lord?”

“Ven'Dar's tower in the Vale. Did you examine it?”

“We searched every house and rock and glade within ten leagues of this house. We saw no tower.”

“Bring my horse,” I bellowed, kicking the young guardsman to his feet and sending him stumbling through the blackened ruin, before confronting Men'Thor and his son again. Blind, self-important fools. “Are you a complete imbecile, Radele? Every Word Winder has a retreat. He's just cast a winding to hide it.”

“A winding!” Men'Thor whirled on Radele. “You didn't look for enchantments in the Vale?”

A properly stunned Radele hurried along beside me as I hurried out of the ruin. “Ah, my lord . . . I wasn't told . . . I didn't know . . .” Was it panic I detected in his voice? “Please, my lord, you must allow me to redeem this oversight. You and my father have fought these past days . . . the guesthouse is unharmed . . . you should rest . . .”

But I had no time to let a preening fool restore his honor. “I'll rest when my wife is secure.”

I raced down the track into the Vale, while Men'Thor and Radele were yet calling for their mounts.

 

Sunbeams glared in my face as I came to the barriers, enchantments so subtle you wouldn't realize they existed unless you noticed how your eyes constantly strayed from the path. Your inclination was to veer off in any direction but straight ahead. And no sooner did you glimpse the white tower than your eyes slid off it and you forgot it existed . . . unless you had once been privileged to be a guest there . . . unless your dying wife was being held hostage by a man to whom you had bared your soul and a youth who held allegiance to your mortal enemy.

I pushed through the barrier, knowing the intrusion would warn Ven'Dar—if the man was indeed Ven'Dar and not my son destroying yet another of my friends. At the same time, I reached ahead with my thoughts, calling out the traitor.
Give them up, Ven'Dar, or I'll have your head even before I take the Destroyer's!

When I rode into the tower clearing, a grave, unsmiling Ven'Dar stood waiting for me. His clothes were filthy, his graying hair damp and tousled. As I dismounted and approached the tower, he knelt.
“Ce'na davonet, Giré D'Arnath.”

I halted twenty paces from him and drew my sword. Love radiated from his posture and his words, telling me that he was indeed the Preceptor and not some depraved hybrid of my son's creation. But on this day I had no answer for his affection. My soul was barren, and I did not trust my hand. “I don't want your honor, Ven'Dar. I want my wife, and I want my prisoner.”

Ven'Dar gazed up at me solemnly. “Come inside with me, my lord. We've precious little time.” He got to his feet and motioned to the small doorway that led into the curved white wall.

I did not move. My senses roamed the simple structure and the soft green of the surrounding glade. I could not feel her. Always I had been able to sense the exuberance of life that surrounded Seri, from the first time she hurried into the drawing room at Windham, breathless, flushed with youth and the evening wind, ready to argue and tease and steal my heart. Even in these last months when her mind was lost, I yet felt the air around her golden . . . pulsing . . . her life ready to burst forth in a ferocious embrace if I could but find the key to unlock it. But not on this day. She was not here. “By every god and demon in this universe, Ven'Dar, if you've harmed her . . .”

“I beg you withhold judgment, sire. We must not be out here when the others arrive. Please come up.” Ven'Dar turned his back and started up the curved stair with no more concern than if I were a simple Reader come calling to examine the enchantments on his rain barrel, or a Glazier come to fill his empty windows with colored glass to shape the sunbeams.

I would kill him. Abandoning the glade, I took the steps three at a time, following him into a round, sunny room that was just as I remembered it—unoccupied by anyone save ourselves.

“You're a dead man, Ven'Dar.” I raised my weapon. “Tell me where she is in two heartbeats, or you'll never see another sunrise.”

“You're correct about the urgency, my lord.” He gestured toward the window. “Men'Thor and Radele are on their way. My enchantments will slow them, but we've a quarter of an hour at best. Unless you can convince them, firstly, that I am dead, and secondly, that I have revealed nothing of importance, I fear that neither of us may live another day unless it be in a prison cell or a madhouse . . . unspeaking. They've gone too far. It is your throne they want.”

“You're already mad. Ustele's house is nothing if not loyal. You accuse them to mask your own treachery.” Sunlight glinted on my sword, now hanging on a direct line with his neck. “Where is my wife?”

“Your wife and young friend are safe for now, both from your enemies and from you. Put away your weapon, my lord. Trust me. If I can tell you nothing of interest, you will have ample opportunity to make an end of me.”

Fool that he was, he walked right under my blade, laying a hand on my shoulder as he had so many times. And for the first time since Paulo had run away from Ven'Dar's tent, the rage drained out of me, leaving me hollow and dry and unimaginably tired. My tunic and breeches were rusty with blood. I smelled of it. It was under my fingernails, and in my pores, and I didn't think I could ever wash it away. I lowered my weapon, sank to the floor, and leaned my back against a crude wooden chair. “You cursed idiot of a sorcerer. What have you done?”

“Better you ask Men'Thor and his son what it is they fear about your wife.”

“I'm too tired for riddles. You cannot convince me Seri's illness is Men'Thor's or Radele's doing. They have nothing to fear from me. I do exactly as they want—not because they say it, but because I have no choice.”

“They are not convinced of your choice in the matter of your son, and to such men uncertainty is more dangerous than the evils they fight. It can lead them to violate the very law they profess to defend, to aid an enemy they would die to defeat.”

“There is
no
uncertainty. I know what I have to do about Gerick. It is not what I want. And it's not because of what he did to Seri—only that what he did to Seri is proof of what he is. He is
not
my son, not since he stepped into the oculus in the halls of Zhev'Na. It doesn't matter that I won't remember that fact when I kill him, and it doesn't matter what will happen to me as a result. He has to die. There is no other answer.”

Ven'Dar lifted a worn leather bag from a hook on the wall. Then he crouched beside a deep wooden chest and selected a few of his tools—a wooden mallet, a small steel-headed hammer, an adze, a drawknife—wrapping them in rags from a pile on the floor and packing them into the bottom of the bag, talking as he worked. “I cannot give you the answer you desire, my lord. But I can tell you this: Men'Thor and Radele have stolen your wife's mind and conspired to steal her life because they fear she can make you waver in your duty. As things stood one day ago, I would have judged them foolish to doubt your resolve; I believed you would indeed kill the boy. But today I can provide another view of your dilemma, one which may charge your heart to discover an alternative. If not, then we are no worse off than before. But before I present my case, I must know you will listen to Paulo's tale and my own with all of yourself—your true self.”

“You know I can't control who I am. Not any more. The balance is lost. D'Natheil has won.”

“But you, my good friend Karon, are still with us. I hear your voice even now.” Retrieving a few books and scrolls from a small writing table, he slipped them carefully into the bag atop the tools.

I jumped to my feet again. “Then tell me why I had to leave Nentao six days ago because I was ready to torture Paulo until he told me what I have to know. Tell me why my hands, even now, demand to set this blade at your throat until you tell me what you've done with Seri. It's too far, Ven'Dar. All I can think of is death. I can't find my way back.”

“Perhaps I can lead you back.”

My fingers traced the vines engraved on my sword hilt. I could not allow myself to look at the man who had been my closest friend in this broken world until I was sure I could get through the next moment without taking his head off. My chest felt as if bands of molten steel constricted it, and my jaw like a locked cage, so that my voice came harsh and rasping. “I would pay handsomely for such a boon. But while you continue your fruitless speculation about what we have already determined to be irrevocable,
tell me
where are my wife and my prisoner!”

Ven'Dar remained unflustered. “As I said, they are out of harm's way for the moment. You cannot find them on your own. I sent them through a portal, destroying it behind them lest you be too hasty in your anger or Men'Thor too hasty in his ambition. Now, fair warning: I will speak no more of your wife or the boy until you can convince me you'll give fair hearing to young Paulo. And your word alone will not be enough.”

“How dare you bargain with me?”

He tapped a finger on the pens that lay on the writing table and then made a small gesture of dismissal. Setting his bag on a windowsill, he began buckling the straps that would hold it closed. “How dare I? Because of who you are. I trust you, my lord, and all I ask in return is your trust.”

“You ask the impossible.”

He turned to me then, his face radiant, as if he were himself a winding, an enchantment of faith and hope set here in this tower to sap my strength and resolve. “But you see, my good friend, only this very morning have I discovered new evidence that the impossible is possible. Do not doubt. This is the chance you craved when you sat by Paulo's sickbed six days ago—yes, I saw it in you. Trust me. That's the first step. Then the rest will come as may be. . . .”

“I cannot allow my heart to get involved in this. I have responsibilities.”

“. . . I need you for three days . . .”

“Impossible.”

“. . . only a small delay in this pernicious war. You tell yourself you've committed so many sins; allow yourself this one more. One that might make a difference.”

“The war—”

“—can proceed without you for three days. So . . . first, we'll need a little blood. . . .”

I raged and threatened, but he sighed and promised I would never see Seri again if I did not follow his direction. I spat and cursed, and he smiled and said mad fury was exactly what I needed. And he told me what I had to do. . . .

Trust him. When he would tell me nothing of importance. I was truly a madman.

 

“Burn this damnable place!” I yelled. “I want fire to break the stones, to scorch this patch of earth until it looks like the Wastes. Fail to do my will and you add your blood to that already on my hands.”

I did not believe Ven'Dar about Men'Thor and Radele, but I left nothing to chance. As I emerged from the tower stair, I held my bloody sword and dripping dagger where they would shield the most vital parts of my anatomy. Yet, even if Men'Thor or his son meant me harm, I guessed that the agonized cries still lingering in the glade might distract them.

“My lord Prince, what's happened? Those screams . . .” Men'Thor stood at the bottom of the stair, complexion gray, eyes flicking from me to the tower and back again, weapons drawn but aimed in no particular direction. Radele moved in on my left quarter.