The Soul Weaver (58 page)

From the crowd swelled murmurs of wonder, of disbelief, of confusion and dismay that the Prince had gone mad to name one that two days of rumors had claimed dead or disgraced. But when Ven'Dar stepped through the door at the back of the balcony, opened his palms, and knelt to Karon, the murmurs erupted into cries of joy and approval, of hope long held close and faith renewed, until the sound rolled through the city like a hurricane. Discontent rumbled beneath the wind, not a few jeers and shouts of anger invoking the name of Men'Thor. But when Karon raised up Ven'Dar and embraced him, the roar from the people came almost as one,
“Ce'na davonet, Ven'Dar, teca Giré D'Arnath!” All honor to you, Ven'Dar, next Heir of D'Arnath.
“Ven'Dar! Ven'Dar!”

Mem'Tara rose immediately and bent her knee to Ven'Dar, and Ce'Aret, after a stunned moment, embraced the Word Winder as if he were one of her long-lost sons. But Ustele folded his arms and maintained his seat, while Men'Thor and Radele and two or three others abruptly disappeared from the balcony through the doors at the back.

“He's killed him,” I said to no one and everyone.

“Did he not say tomorrow?” said Bareil, softly, from behind me.

“No, not Gerick—not yet—but Ven'Dar. He has purposely humiliated Men'Thor before the host of Avonar. He cannot believe Men'Thor will accept it. Ven'Dar's life is at terrible risk.”

“Surely then, the Prince will watch.”

Surely . . .
Of course. Enrage Men'Thor so he'll make a mistake. Remove his threat by catching him in undeniable treachery. And name Ven'Dar as the successor, so that when Gerick is dead . . .

As thunder follows the lightning flash, I saw the truth at last. I did not know Karon's plan, but I knew what was to be its result. He was going to die, too—and not just the part of him that was my husband. At some time in the past hours, he had decided he was not going to leave D'Natheil behind to destroy Avonar.

“My lady, I must . . . are you all right? You look unwell.”

Wordless, I waved off Bareil's hand. I was very much not all right.

“I must go to the Prince, my lady, as I was commanded. Is there a message I could carry for you?”

There was far too much, even for a Dulcé, who could bear the knowledge of a hundred libraries at once. What could be said?

“Just tell him . . . I understand the implications of his choice.”

And at last I also understood why it was so important that I remain hidden. I was evidence against Men'Thor. If Men'Thor detected Karon's trap or decided to bide his time, Karon needed evidence to indict him anyway. He would want to leave Ven'Dar free to teach and to guide the people of Avonar without the threat of Men'Thor's meddling. And I had left Roxanne in the Precept House, carrying the knowledge of my existence and my whereabouts.
Fool of a woman, why didn't you think?

And in all my newfound understanding, I found no hope for Gerick. In his attempt at Calle Rein, Karon had discovered something that precipitated this convoluted strategy, and I could unravel no twisting of plot and no cleverness of words that was going to keep Gerick alive. Vaguely I considered making my way down to his prison again, but his cell had no visible lock, and I had no shred of power. I had come to the limits of my abilities and understanding.

So I did nothing. As the excited crowds wandered back to public salons or their homes, I sat in the window seat, still envisioning Karon on the deserted balcony, the wind caressing his long hair like a lover's hand. Gentle Aimee brought me a shawl and a cup of tea, thinking to quiet my shivering, but though the nights of the waning summer were indeed growing cool, a blanket of goose down would not have warmed me. So the girl led me to the candlelit bedchamber and took off my shoes and covered me with the soft blankets she had chosen just for me. “Try to sleep, my lady, while I fetch the princess. I'll wake you before dawn.”

Curled up in the dark nest of the great bed, I had no choice but to let go of everything. I couldn't think any more, for there was nothing I could bear to think on.

Sometime deep in the night, long after the vigil candle had burned itself out, I was roused from my exhausted half-sleep. A wide hand lay on my cheek, gently brushing away my dreamer's tears. “Do not weep, beloved,” came a voice in the dark. “All that can be done, I will do. Listen carefully to me. You must not give up, even in the depths of sorrow. I need you to play the part that only you have ever been able to play. Follow the Way, my love, and know that you will be with me forever.”

Before I could shake off the heaviness of sleep or open my eyes to see his face, he kissed my eyelids softly, and I sank into a peaceful, embracing slumber. When Aimee shook me awake in the dark hour before dawn to report Roxanne still missing, I might have thought it was all a dream, save for the rose of blazing scarlet that bloomed at my bedside.

 

D'Natheil hated waiting. His irritation would begin as a tightness in the jaw, proceed through nervous chewing of lips and fingers, leak out into restless movements of increasingly destructive tendency, and finally explode in some verbal or physical violence that served no purpose but to grow the dark and bitter core of anger that lived inside him. Inside me.

There had once lived a Gardener in Avonar, my lost Avonar, who enchanted the city gardens to bloom for one day longer each year, so that after thirty years the city was known for its marvelous climate that allowed flowers to bloom a full month longer than others. His was a story told to J'Ettanni children to teach them patience. In a life where any oddity could get you burned alive, and among a people where the savoring of every moment, every sensation, resulted in an increase of the glorious power at the root of being, patience was very near the pinnacle of the pyramid of virtue.

The necessity for patience was one of the fundamental conflicts between D'Natheil and me, the reason he had never been able to summon the power he wanted to wield, the reason I could no longer heal, and the reason I would never be able to lead the Dar'Nethi as they needed. This was, perhaps, the hardest truth revealed by the Rite of Purification. I had emerged from the Pool of Rebirth renewed in spirit and found Seri living and herself again, the most precious gift I had begged from life standing before me, yet I could not savor the moment for needing . . . wanting . . . craving to get on with the business of executing my son. I was as much myself as I could ever be, and it was not enough.

So, as I lay hidden just beyond the Gate of D'Arnath's Bridge, watching through the wall of white fire as my friend Ven'Dar knelt in serene meditation waiting for someone to murder him, I found myself with jaws clenched, plunging my dagger over and over again into the cold mud in front of my face. Cold mud was the current aspect of the small island of stability I could create from the constantly shifting chaos behind the Gate. After today . . . no more. No more blood on my sword. No more feeling the exhilarating surge of enchantment when I slipped through the roaring Gate fire. No more of this unending dispute between the man I was and the man I wanted to be. No more of anything, if all went as I planned. As I ground my dagger into the gritty slop, I almost laughed aloud at the word.
Planned
. A comet streaking through a conjunction of the planets was more under my control than the hours to come.

Ven'Dar had been kneeling on the pearl-gray stone for hours, motionless, his arms outstretched to embrace D'Arnath's fire. He was most likely freezing. His white robe was thin, and the chamber of the Gate was chilly, the Gate fire a manifestation of enchantment rather than flame. But the cold, and the creeping dread of a knife in the back, and the nagging anxiety as to whether his friend, the Prince of Avonar, was still there behind the roaring curtain, still awake, still watching, still sane, had been stitched with patience into the tapestry of Ven'Dar's life as he took his next step along the Way. I envied Ven'Dar his patience and his cold and his fear. D'Natheil didn't understand the Way and did his best to keep me from feeling anything but his anger.

A weapon snatched from an assailant's hand, imprinted with his will to do murder, would be so much better. Even Ustele would not be able to argue with it. Then I'd have done all I could do for my people's future, and I could safely move on to the day's other matters: my son and the Lords of Zhev'Na and dying.

You could have left yourself more time.
Yes, speed was necessary to keep them off balance, but so many things could go wrong. I had just wanted it done.

To my relief, it was only a short time later that the door to the chamber of the Gate—purposely and publicly left unwarded as Ven'Dar began his vigil—swung open. Men'Thor, still arrayed in his elaborate finery, strode through. I wiped the mud from my dagger, drew my sword, and crouched low, ready to spring. Timing would be everything. Ven'Dar's life and Men'Thor's guilt must both be preserved. I felt neither satisfaction nor fear, only the urgency to get on with it.

Men'Thor was alone and his hands were empty as he stood glaring down at my friend like a stern father ready to mete out judgment to an errant child. “What winding did you cast to place the ruin of Avonar in your hand, Ven'Dar? What enchantment did you conjure to force the mad Prince to waste this magnificence—D'Arnath's holy fire—and leave it blazing at the feet of a minor magician?”

I could scarcely hear the brittle words, squeezed through Men'Thor's icy composure. Ven'Dar, lost in his meditation, showed no awareness of his companion.

“Of all the obstacles in my path, I never thought
you
would be the one to cause me to stumble. I never gave you credit for artifice. Why aren't you dead?” He walked around Ven'Dar like a disdainful tailor inspecting his client's worn apparel. “And now what am I to do with you? Will we be forced to make do with our mad Prince, and have you constantly at his ear encouraging his unhealthy yearning for these mundanes? At least you are one of us . . .”

If sound had any meaning behind the roaring Gate fire, Men'Thor would have heard my sigh when he pulled the dagger from beneath his gem-studded belt. Soon . . . soon it would be done.

“. . . but you're a coward, aren't you?” He waved the knife before the Preceptor's unseeing eyes. “You and your discredited philosophies that have left us at the mercy of our enemies, denied us the advantages of our power, reduced us to tricksters, hardly better than these shallow, ignorant creatures from the other world. I'll not have it. Do you hear me? I'll fight you with every voice and heart I can muster to my cause.”

“Voices and hearts are not enough, Father. We need more forceful, more visible weapons in this particular war.”

I'd been so intent on watching Men'Thor's knife that I'd not seen Radele appear in the doorway. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his breast, smiling. “Even now the witnesses gather to watch the Prince invest his successor, but how much faster would they come and how many more of them, if they knew they were to witness our first true victory over the Lords. At last they'll see what viper has been nurtured in their midst and how close we've been to a second Catastrophe, a final Catastrophe. Then shall the people of Avonar decide who is to bear D'Arnath's sword.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll see. You will have everything you deserve, Father, and more.”

The smiling son gave an exaggerated bow and held the door for his father. His laughter echoed across the Gate fire as he followed Men'Thor from the chamber. Men'Thor's knife was safely—annoyingly—back in its sheath.

No sooner had they gone than somewhere beyond the palace walls the sun broached the horizon. I knew the time, for Ven'Dar's arms fell heavily to his sides, and he began to stretch the cramps from his neck and shoulders, easing himself off the floor.

“I gather I'm still alive,” he said, grimacing as he rubbed his knees, while at the same time trying to huddle his arms into his thin robe. “Though I'm cold enough to be a corpse, I don't think a dead man's knees would ache so much. Did our honey catch any flies?”

I stepped through the Gate fire, sheathing my dagger with such force that I split the leather. “My plotting's been no more successful than anything else. But it's not over. They're up to something. Come. Paulo is to meet us at the council chamber, and I'll send Bareil for Seri.”

I started for the door, but Ven'Dar lingered, letting his gaze dwell on the towering wall of white fire, its full extent unseeable in the brilliance far above our heads. “It is magnificent, is it not? Such purity. Such power. I close my eyes and see it still; everything I look on is made more than it was. To have it be a part of me . . . it's as if I've been given new eyes. Is it that way for you?”

“Now is perhaps not a good time to ask me,” I said and slammed my palm against the door, careful to watch for any ambush along our way.

As I had commanded him, Bareil was waiting for us in the small, book-lined anteroom off the council chamber. Ven'Dar sank into one of the enveloping chairs and dived most appreciatively into the steaming saffria and crusty bread Bareil set out for him. I had no time for such—and no need.

“Paulo?” I asked.

“Asleep in your private chamber, my lord,” said the Dulcé. “He arrived two hours ago.”