The Soul Weaver (51 page)

 

“Watch for my signal: two flashes, a pause, and then one more. All will be well, my lady. You'll see.” With a touch of my hand, Paulo vanished into the night. A very dark night.

The ruins of Calle Rein—the Lion's Grotto—lay like a smudge of soot on the black cloak of the desolate valley. Only a few stars glimmered in the enveloping midnight, the last outriders of the glittering heavens of Avonar, just as the ragged thornbushes and the gray, brittle grasses that braved the scree were the last remnants of life and growth that marked the border of the Wastes. Not a breath of wind stirred the chill air, and only the screech of a hunting owl, echoing from the barren cliff walls behind me, marred the heavy silence.

There . . . A pinprick of light flared briefly from the ruin, as if one of the lonely stars had given up its fight against the encroaching darkness and fallen into the valley. Had someone noted the dark figure so carefully picking his way down the rocky slope toward the light? Who was waiting inside the broken stone walls so far below me?

Foolish, all our precautions. If the one who awaited us in Calle Rein was not who he claimed to be, then the place would surely be surrounded with enchantments—wards to let him know his grand trap was sprung. But if he was only what he claimed, and he was alone, we had nothing to fear.

The excitement and anticipation that sharpened my vision, pricked my ears, and made the hair rise on my neck at every whisper had no relation to the truth of the night's events. Such reactions must be a remnant of a primeval innocence, when life was a constant wonder, and survival depended on the scents and sounds carried on the night wind.

Dread was my proper companion as I hid in the rocks above Calle Rein, and her brother grief hovered on the dark horizon, for unless some miraculous circumstance intervened, my child would die before morning, and the true heart of my husband die with him. It was a mutual sacrifice of such unfathomable proportion that only the salvation of three worlds could demand it. And I—a woman of some experience, but not the least shred of power—was the only voice that dared cry out that the price was far too high. I could not allow it. Not if the Lords of Zhev'Na themselves were to die alongside my son at the hand of his father—not even for that could I permit it.

 

I had stayed with Karon all through the Rite of Purification, hiding in the shadows while he struggled with his demons. No reassurance of Ven'Dar's could alleviate my terror when he dropped below the surface of each pool and failed to emerge for hours at a time.

“Is it truly necessary to put him through this, Preceptor?” I said, after watching my love stagger blindly from the Pool of Darkness to the Pool of Oblivion. “If it won't reverse the change . . .”

“He is D'Natheil, my lady,” said the Preceptor. “And while the essence you cherish is still part of him, it has become subservient to D'Natheil's passions. The rite can push one to the limits of endurance, but if anything can quiet the rage that consumes him, if anything can allow even a small part of what he was to emerge, it is this.”

And so I wasn't sure what to expect when Karon crawled from the Pool of Rebirth, and I couldn't even attempt to interpret the tears that tempered his smile. But whatever the truth of the rite, I felt a lifetime of love in his fierce embrace.

“You didn't describe this part, Ven'Dar!” he said hoarsely to the man who stood just behind me. “I'd never have dallied so long if I'd known a miracle was awaiting me.”

“It's a benefit I've added just for you, my lord. But if you recall, I most certainly told you that your lady awaited you at the end of it.”

“What winding have you cast to make this most magnificent of gifts possible?” His cold thumbs traced my cheeks, my neck, my lips, my brow.

“It was not my own doing, but that story will have to come with the rest. Right now, I'll look after our fire and our supper.” The smiling Preceptor bowed and retreated into an adjoining chamber.

“A day of visions. If you're yet another, don't tell me,” said Karon, burying his face in my hair, scarcely able to speak for his shivering.

“A day of enchantment,” I said, kissing his shoulder and his neck. “More than a day, in fact. I've hurried the hours along, but now I don't want it to end.”

He pulled away enough that I could see the cloud of sadness that crossed his brow. “Seri, I must tell you—”

I put my hand to his lips. “Not yet. The Preceptor has a fire ready in the next room. Much as I would love to tarry with you in this beautiful place, you're getting me dreadfully wet, and I'll soon be as cold as you are. Everything else must wait.” The hard knot in my breast, loosened for a single moment, wrenched tight again.

Ven'Dar had not only a fire in the next room, but soup and tea and dry clothes . . . and Paulo. We had debated whether to have Paulo with us or not, and came to the conclusion that we gained nothing by waiting. Karon would be expecting him. And indeed when he caught sight of our young friend tending the fire, scarcely daring to peek out from under his shaggy hair, Karon gave Ven'Dar a curt nod.

For a while none of us spoke of anything save commonplace arrangements for food and fire and places to sit. The important things were too large and everything else trivial.

Karon relinquished my hand only long enough to pull on the breeches, shirt, leggings, and wool tunic Ven'Dar gave him, and to tie back his wet hair with a leather thong. But once we were seated beside each other on the floor of the cavern, he twined my fingers in his cold left hand as he used his right to drink three mugs of steaming soup and three more of tea. When we'd finished our refreshment, however, he kissed my hand and laid it carefully in my lap, leaned back against a block of granite, and looked from one of us to the other like a magistrate facing three pickpockets. “So, who is to begin?”

Ven'Dar answered. “Young Paulo has the most fascinating story to tell, my lord. But I will begin with the small part I have witnessed and my theories as to the nature of our dilemma. I believe it casts a critical light on Paulo's tale. Your wife is both our evidence and our advocate.”

“So you can speak to me now?” said Karon, cocking an eyebrow at Paulo.

“It wasn't my choice, my lord. You'll see.”

“Tell me your tales, then, all of you. I'm listening.”

Ven'Dar began with the story of his imprisonment by Radele, and his belief that Men'Thor and Radele intended to goad D'Natheil's anger to make Karon receptive to their beliefs about the conduct of the war. The Preceptor then told of Radele's silencing enchantment and how Paulo had discovered the secret of the list of the Hundred Talents that enabled Ven'Dar to set us free.

“Men'Thor and Radele . . . and Ustele, no doubt. And I never suspected,” said Karon, his eyes stormy. “Naive fool that I am. Though Men'Thor annoys me to distraction, I've always believed him a man of honor. He offered to grieve with me and seemed sincere . . .”

“He longs to be a Preceptor. His initiation robes have been prepared for many years,” said Ven'Dar.

“He can wear them in the Wastes after his banishment! And it was all so pointless. Silencing Seri . . . yes, it perhaps accelerated what was happening with me anyway. But your story changes nothing of true importance: Jayereth, Gar'Dena, the betrayal, the initial attempt on Seri's life. Radele was searching the ruins of the main house when she was stabbed; I saw his light moving through the windows. We were hunting Gerick, while Gerick was standing over Seri with a bloody knife in his hand. Paulo saw Gerick, not Radele, back away from her and bolt.”

“Oh, but my tale does change matters, my lord,” said Ven'Dar. “You've heard only the first hint of the true mystery. Leave off thoughts of Men'Thor and Radele, and hear my story again. How was I able to use Paulo's information when I could not so much as distinguish day from night? My thoughts were wholly out of my control. Something else . . . someone else . . . intervened . . .”

As Karon leaned forward, intently focused on the Preceptor and his story, Ven'Dar described the mysterious infusion of strength that enabled him to free himself and then me. “. . . No one imposed the list on my thoughts; the knowledge was my own, couched in the terms I have used for thirty-five years to articulate it. But I was provided with the strength, focus, and reason to use what I knew. The second hint of the truth came when your wife emerged from her captivity, looked into the eyes of this youth, and saw something she did not expect to see. And the third came when I awoke in my tower the next morning and found a letter from your son. . . .”

 

“I've never heard of a Soul Weaver.”

Karon was visibly shaken by Gerick's letter. I felt his desire to believe in Ven'Dar's theory, to grasp some hope out of the tangle of revulsion and grief. But his responsibilities left him no such freedom as I had, to believe as soon as he heard, to accept without rational explanation.

“We've no written record of a proven Soul Weaver. Few believe such a profound talent could even exist. But my studies of the talents have allowed me to spend a great deal of time considering the legend of soul weaving.” Ven'Dar's face was alight with discovery and wonder. “Unlike the ordinary Dar'Nethi who mind-speaks, reading or hearing the thoughts of another person, or the Healer, who can link his own mind with the body and mind of the other, seeing the damage done to him and sharing the pain of his injury or disease, a Soul Weaver actually becomes one with the other. The Soul Weaver leaves his own body behind and subjects himself to the physical dimensions of the receiver, taking or yielding control of the body and mind as he wishes or as need demands. Courage, skill, knowledge, will . . . all these things the Soul Weaver can offer or withhold, and then, when ready, relinquish the mind and body of the other, separate himself, leaving the other soul intact. Such acts would require a clear sense of self and monumental self-discipline. To subject oneself to the physical boundaries and mental confusions of another being, giving such help as I received, while resisting the temptations of control and exploitation would require an immense generosity of spirit. Easy to see why nature would make it so rare a gift.”

Karon propped his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his clenched fists. “But the Lords do this thing—possess. How can you know this is not just the manifestation of his true identity, dressed with an honest face for his own devious purpose?”

“Of course, I cannot. Yet, it's this ability of the Lords to possess another that's always made me believe that soul weaving was not just a myth.
Everything
the Lords do is a perversion of true talent. Think of their ‘healing' that destroys one life while preserving another, and their mind-speaking that withers the soul, locking one being in subservience to another rather than enlarging the realm of understanding between the two. Even their Metalwrights devise such things as an oculus that allows them to draw on our worst parts—our hatreds, fears, our cruelties and despair—enhancing and growing their power. Is it not inevitable that the Lords' version of soul weaving would leave only death in its wake? The boy himself feared that he had killed Paulo the first time it happened. But Paulo lives, his mind free and undamaged.”

“What the young master does isn't wicked, my lord,” said Paulo, speaking up for the first time from his place in Ven'Dar's shadow. “My . . . thoughts . . . my feelings about things . . . get all mixed up with his. It's so big a thing going on inside me . . . I can't tell you how big it feels . . . but it isn't wicked. I would know.”

“And what of Gar'Dena?” Karon remained the prosecutor, determined to squeeze the guilty truth from us. “When my trap was sprung, I probed Gar'Dena's mind to find out why he would betray us. But he was
not
Gar'Dena. I could not mistake Gerick. And when Gerick left him, Gar'Dena died. The boy so much as admits the deed in this letter. If this is his own gift, and not a perversion of the Lords, then why, in the name of all the stars, did he betray us?”

Karon crushed Gerick's letter in his hand and threw it at the little fire. It bounced to the side on the uneven floor, stirring up ash and sparks. Ven'Dar retrieved the letter before the floating sparks could settle on it, smoothing the crumpled paper against his knee.

“Read this again, my lord.” The Preceptor's eagerness and wonder had dimmed, but not his urgency or conviction. “Your son neither denies that he did these things, nor does he supply any easy explanation. He understands it no more than we do. Less, in fact, because he has so little knowledge of Dar'Nethi talents. More is involved here than soul weaving, though I am convinced your son's talent is the mechanism by which these horrors are accomplished. Paulo, tell the Prince how young Gerick came to believe he was the betrayer, even though he has no remembrance of the deeds.”

“To explain it, I got to tell you where we were, and what happened there . . .” Paulo told Karon of the strange land called the Bounded, and of the Singlars, the Guardian, the firestorms, and the Source, and of the day Gerick saved his life by taking over his body and then gave it back again.

“Is it not a marvel?” whispered Ven'Dar.

Karon did not answer, but motioned for Paulo to continue. And so he did, telling the story of Gerick's devastation when he saw the oculus in the cave of the Source and heard the revelation of his own crimes, and how he then made this desperate plan to arrange his death on his own terms.

Karon shook his head and scraped his fingers through his hair. “I can't see beyond the Lords, Ven'Dar. I hear speculation and possibility and the faith of a true friend. But I hear nothing to prove that his connection to this new world is a result of Dar'Nethi talent and not the Lords taking control of the Breach as they have craved for a millennium. If I do as Gerick asks, link with his mind, only to find I have linked with the Lords . . .”