The Soul Weaver (48 page)

“Do not question me!” I spun around just enough to keep both men in front of me.

Mindless rage was all too easy. No contrivance made my hands grip the hilts of my weapons so firmly the mark of their engraving was etched into my flesh. “Burn this tower. I don't care how much power it requires. Everything of the traitor is to be destroyed along with him. It will be her pyre . . . ah, gods, if I could but kill him again! Every day remaining in this blighted life I would slay him again for my pleasure.”

“My lord, tell us what's come about . . . the Preceptor . . . your wife . . . When we heard the shouts, we tried to come to your aid, but the villain had set impossible barriers on the stair.” Radele was exceptionally pale, his speech halting . . . uncertain. It is no small thing to lose your sovereign's wife whom you were set to guard with your life, and to have your undefeatable prowess so easily dismissed by a quiet, gentle man older than your father. And I didn't know what else was making the young man so anxious, but I was going to find out.

“The Preceptor—Ven'Dar the traitor, the murderer—is dead. He tried to tell me some tale of enchantments and how he'd tried to bring Seri back to me by playing with words. He danced and dallied and promised to reveal secrets and betrayers. But when I forced him to still his prattling and give me my wife, he could show me only her corpse. Ah, cursed be his name forever! The traitorous servant of the Zhid has killed her.”

I shoved my bloody hands in Men'Thor's face, and he stepped back, his mouth hanging open, his eyes aghast. “I opened his belly for it . . . slowly, a finger's breadth at a time, so he would feel it. Now I want him to burn.”

“Perhaps I should go up . . . to stand witness for you, confirm his death and that of your lady . . .”

“You will not touch Seri. No one will lay eyes on her. If you have no wish to burn with her, then let my will be done this instant.” I dropped to my knees, wrapped my blood-soaked arms about my belly, and groaned. “Help me, Men'Thor. I cannot grieve. I cannot follow the Way until it's done.” My weapons remained securely in my grip.

Men'Thor's worried glance focused on the tower. A faint trace of enchantment slithered through the noonday—he would find no life remaining in P'Clor's Tower—and then he nodded to Radele. The young man touched his finger to every stone that formed the base of Ven'Dar's tower and to the laurel and blueberry shrubs that crowded close. Was the bastard an Effector like his misbegotten sire? I realized I didn't even know.

The heat grew quickly as Men'Thor hovered at my shoulder. He crouched in front of me and laid a hand on my arm. “My lord, this is grievous news. We have differed on many things, but never would I wish—Please, allow me to aid you in whatever wise possible, grieve with you until the Way leads you past this sorrow. But time and danger press . . . and I didn't understand about the prisoner. Is he dead, too, then, or must I send someone in pursuit?”

I spat. “The prisoner is a nobody, a stable boy, a messenger. Ven'Dar sent him back to his master—but I extracted his message from Ven'Dar before he died.”

If I'd not been waiting for it, I might not have felt Men'Thor hold his breath. “Then you know the location of the Destroyer.”

“Paulo was to arrange a meeting between my wife and my son three days from this. Ven'Dar, in his arrogance of power, promised Seri would be there. But I'll take her place. The Destroyer's neck will meet my sword, and his black heart will do no more murder.”

With that, Men'Thor was satisfied. He offered again to stand vigil and grieve with me as was our custom. His hand was relaxed and kind as he lifted me to my feet and led me to a grassy hummock, making me sit down. He offered me water to clean my face and wine to soothe my thirst. In his vibrant baritone, he sang a chant of memory and acceptance, words so deep and heartfelt I could almost feel them myself.

But I pushed his hand away, and his cloth and his flask and his song. “Not yet, Men'Thor. I cannot. Not yet.”

Ven'Dar had sworn to me that Seri yet breathed. I could not judge his truth, and, as I had witnessed for four months, breathing had little to do with life. To share a death chant might help me let go of her, but I could not accept her physical death yet, not even in sham.

We watched Ven'Dar's tower burn until nothing but a blackened ring of charred stones remained in the middle of the forest. The sun hung bloated and bloody on the western horizon as we rode down the Vale, past the smoldering rubble of Nentao, and on toward Avonar. I carried the image with me—the charred ugliness of something that had once existed in harmony with the world—and I believed it a reflection of myself. Ven'Dar had told me that I could rebuild what had been, that he would show me the way, but I could imagine no revelation that could change anything. I would go to the mysterious rendezvous he planned, but I would not listen to the voice of the Destroyer. Instead, I would kill my son, and I would be D'Natheil forever.

“But, my lord Prince, how can we afford two more days of delay? What if another of the Vales is attacked? Only your presence rallied our warriors; only your power and your sword enabled us to take on so many.”

“I have taken the life of a Dar'Nethi, N'Tien. I held Ven'Dar's bowels in my hand—an act of madness and revenge—and it matters not in the least that his execution was justified. The law is clear. I must be purified before I can act again as the Heir of D'Arnath. And on the day I confront the Destroyer, I must have all my rightful powers.”

The slender Dar'Nethi chewed the end of his drooping moustache like a nervous schoolmaster. “But, my lord—”

“You will sit here and deploy our warriors as you see fit. You have a better head for it than anyone in Avonar, including me. Ce'Aret will govern in my stead. Ustele will hold the desert portals and Men'Thor the temporary command, as I've instructed him. Mem'Tara is new to the Preceptorate, but her experience in combat over the past fifteen years speaks for itself. With Ce'Aret's advisement, she will lead the defense of Avonar. I've charged Radele with the safety of the Vales.”

The wizened old woman who sat behind the long table nodded and wagged a bony finger at N'Tien. “The Prince is correct. If the fiend Ziddari himself sat in this chamber or Parven or Notole had taken up residence in the Prince's palace, it would make no difference. The Heir cannot lead with Dar'Nethi blood on his hands. I would stick my knife in him myself before I would permit it.”

Ce'Aret's words were as brittle as the bones beneath her dry skin. It was difficult to avoid peering under the long council table just to make sure her weapon was not already aimed at my spleen.

Earlier in the day, the old woman had interrogated me about Ven'Dar's death, battering me with her disbelief. The Heir was bound in service to the Preceptorate, so no privilege of my sovereignty could prevent her questioning. She had respected Ven'Dar immensely and could not easily accept the story of his rebellion and Seri's death in his care. Only the need for hasty resolution and my sworn word on the sword of D'Arnath had prevented her demanding a more thorough investigation. What was one more lie beside those already spoken? But Ce'Aret's hard gaze had never wavered all through the Preceptors' meeting. My skin felt bruised.

The ranks of my Preceptorate had become pitifully thin: Ce'Aret seated at the center of the long table, shriveled, bitter Ustele on her left, the dark-haired, large-boned Alchemist Mem'Tara on her right. Four empty chairs. N'Tien, my gloomy chief strategist, sat at one end of the table jotting notes on his list of deployments. A few chairs faced the Preceptors' table from the center of the chamber, available for petitioners or spectators. Men'Thor and Radele sat in two of them, exchanging sober whispers and passing messages to the three field commanders in attendance. D'Arnath's chair—a plain, high-backed wooden chair of great antiquity—faced the council table, offset slightly to one side so Avonar's prince could see and hear both Preceptors and spectators. I had been in and out of the chair all morning, too restless to sit still for long.

“So we are agreed, then?” I said.

Ustele hammered a stubby forefinger on the council table. “It is unforgivable to take time at this, our most desperate hour, to wallow in a discredited custom. No right-minded Dar'Nethi has undergone the Rite of Purification for seventy years; only the weak-willed seek it out. We should seal the caves with the cowards still inside.”

“I cannot but agree with you, Master Ustele,” I said, “and I have a thousand things I would prefer to be about, but the law is clear. I'll not let a missed provision stand between me and my legitimate claims. Are you not the one who holds me to the law so strictly? I'd not give you arrows to loft back at me.”

“Who will accompany you to the pools, my lord?” asked Mem'Tara quietly, as Ustele settled back in his chair with an expulsion of disgust. “It would have been Ven'Dar's office.”

“Bareil will be my companion.”

“A Dulcé,” muttered Ustele, curling his lip. “I should have expected it. You have no taste for your own kind.”

“A most unusual choice,” said Mem'Tara. “Surely many Dar'Nethi would gladly serve you in this way.”

“My madrissé has served the Preceptorate longer than anyone save Ce'Aret and Ustele. He bears the necessary knowledge and full respect for our customs. No sorcery is required of the companion.”

They talked among themselves about the novel concept of a Dulcé taking a Dar'Nethi for purification. I half expected Men'Thor to volunteer Radele to supervise the rite, but he was too busy reveling in his new importance as the permanent commander of Ven'Dar's troops and temporary high commander, already writing lists and sending messages even as he listened to our debate. His son's appointment as a sector commander had almost set him crowing. The whisperings had already sped through the chamber and into the outer rooms. Everyone in Avonar would be expecting an quick appointment to the Preceptorate for one or both of them. I had best make certain Men'Thor's initiative was severely limited during my absence, or he would have us knocking at the gates of Zhev'Na before sundown.

“And so when will you begin the ordeal, my lord?” asked Ce'Aret.

“Within the hour,” I said. “That's why I assembled the Preceptorate so early. You can be sure I'll make this business take as little time as possible. I've already sent my orders to those in the field, and you certainly have no need of my direction, Preceptor Ce'Aret. Avonar has never been out of your care. You can tell Mem'Tara all she needs to know.”

“And the announcement of Ven'Dar's crimes and his death?”

“Nothing is to be said until I say it. We will leave the Destroyer in uncertainty. Tell Ven'Dar's troops he is on a mission for me. Say anything you choose save the despicable truth.”

“So be it. Vasrin Shaper and Creator grant you balance, my lord Prince,” said the old woman, echoed by Ustele and Mem'Tara. I rose to leave, and everyone in the room rose with me. I didn't look at any of them.

 

The Caves of Laennara were entered by a gated arch in a sheer limestone wall near the lower end of Kirith Vale, but their proximity to the city was in distance only. Every step along the steep, pebbled path that led from the road to the gate was an unfathomable separation from everyday life. The air became noticeably thinner, as if we had scaled one of the peaks that soared beyond the wall, and the normal sounds of the surrounding forest were muted: the rustle of the leaves soft, the darting movement of the rivulets of water that cut through the grass but a whisper, like exuberant children hushed by their mother.

The petitioner, the one who had come to cleanse himself of the burden of life-taking, kept silence on the road to the caves. You were supposed to gaze upon the forest, the sky, and the stream, the deer, the foxes, and the birds, taking their essence into your soul, building power for the ordeal ahead. Your companion walked ahead of you bearing a gold luminant, a small box of gold or brass with pierced sides, a lid, and a handle, designed to hold a living flame that would be used to light the lamps hung in each of the seven caves.

On the morning I left Avonar to begin my purification for taking Ven'Dar's life, I did as was required on the road, gathering power for what was to come. Of course, I had no intention of undergoing the purification rite. Unless something had gone dreadfully awry, Ven'Dar should have slipped safely out of his tower before the fire. He was to meet me in the first cave and lead me to Seri and Paulo and my son.

I almost regretted that I would have no time to try the Pools of Laennara. Though I'd not slain any loyal Dar'Nethi in anger—not yet—a great number had perished because of me. My guilt drew no distinction between warriors sent into battle by my command or enemies slain by my own weapons. Nor could I distinguish between Dar'Nethi blood and the blood of the Zhid. Zhid, too, were Dar'Nethi—changed, made soulless and cruel—but Dar'Nethi just the same. Was I the only one who had ever considered it? My soul could use a cleansing. Yet another death, my own son's death, was the only purpose in my journey to Laennara. Neither balance nor peace nor purification had anything to do with it.

I followed Bareil past the black latticework gate and through a narrow passage. The tiny flame peeked out of the sides and out from under the gold lid of the luminant, its gleam no bigger than a firefly, doing little to relieve the blackness as it led me onward and downward.

Seri would have hated that passage. A childhood mishap had left her with a terror of dark, confined spaces. Shamed by such “weakness,” she had tried to hide her fear from me when we were first married, not understanding what joy it could give a lover to share such an intimate part of the other . . . and to be able to soothe it.
Ah, gods, Seri . . .
As always when I thought of her any more, rage boiled in my gut and pulsed in my arms, engulfing all other emotion. What could ever soothe the pain of her loss, her death in all but breathing?