Guardians of the Keep Read online

  Behind the shirts, breeches, and ceremonial robes hung a plain sword belt. A great-sword, its simple hilt finely engraved, its guard a graceful sweep of vines and leaves, and a silver knife were sheathed in its finely tooled scabbards—D’Arnath’s weapons, heirlooms so precious that the lives of worlds had depended on them for a thousand years. I buckled the sword-belt beneath my cloak and helped Bareil to his feet.

  The Dulcé took a moment to open the painted cabinet and rummage about on the worktable and shelves, then clucked in frustration, rubbing his head tiredly. “There’s one more thing you should have, but I can’t find it. An odd little thing—”

  A monstrous crash sounded from upstairs—the front door giving way.

  “I believe I have what you’re looking for. And I really think we should go.” I grabbed a short cloak from a hook by the garden door to replace his ripped and bloody one. I would have him tell me about the crystal later.

  “Indeed. This way, my lord,” he said, and while still frowning at the jumbled mess of the study, he turned and vanished through the study wall. I could see no evidence of where he’d gone. When I traced my fingers along the wall, it was as solid as the floor on which I stood. I felt like an idiot trying to figure out how to escape through immutable stone.

  “My apologies,” said a grinning Bareil as he re-entered the room through the very place I had deemed impenetrable. “Step to the corner of the table, just so, and then turn left”—he angled his hand and jerked his head to his left—“and left again immediately. No enchantment is required.” He swiveled and disappeared once again.

  It was as he said. I stepped to the corner of our worktable, made an immediate left turn, but instead of banging my hip bone on the table, found myself in a gray stone passage. From the corner of my eye I could still see Dassine’s lectorium. The trampling of boots on the stair induced me to forego wonder and make the second left turn.

  I stepped into a small study, crowded with a writing desk, a hanging lamp, a bookcase, and a large leather-bound chest that Bareil was already unlocking. From the depths of the chest, the Dulcé pulled out two small cloth bags. He tossed one to me, and the heavy, fist-sized bag clinked pleasantly. After relocking the chest and using the desk to haul himself back to his feet, he stared at the jumble of papers and manuscripts littering the desk. He sighed deeply. “If you please, my lord . . . burn them all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Master Dassine could protect his work, but we cannot. Quickly, if you would.”

  With so much paper to work with, fire was easy, and in a moment nothing was left but a whirling cloud of ash and smoke.

  “All of the information is inside me,” said the Dulcé wryly, as he pulled open a door and nudged me into the cold sunlight of a deserted alleyway. “If you ever hope to know what was written here, I suppose you’ll have to keep me safe.”

  “One of my highest priorities,” I said, keeping my voice low as he did. “Now, can you tell me where we are? I’d like to see who’s coming after us.”

  “Unfortunately we’ve no vantage that will allow us to observe our pursuers; we’ve left them well behind. I’d think you might recognize this place, my lord,” he whispered cheerfully, as he led me between two buildings of pink brick and peeked about the corner into an expanse of empty courtyard, paved with white flagstones. “We’re just outside the westernmost walls of S’Regiré Monpassai d’Gondai—the Palace of the Kings of Gondai. The structure you see across the way has been the home of your family for at least twelve hundred years. This is the very courtyard where Master Exeget’s servants found you huddled by a burning barrel on the night you were named Heir.”

  My eyes were drawn upward by the graceful, rose-colored towers beyond the white flagstones. A banner of white and gold flew atop the tallest tower: two lions rampant supporting an arch, topped by two stars. The banner of D’Arnath. Indeed, I remembered the night of which the Dulcé spoke... .

  Bitter cold. No one had enchantments to spare to keep the fires burning, so anything that could burn was dragged out, broken up, and tossed into the flames to keep the soldiers warm: crates, tables, chairs. Three soldiers were drinking wine and telling of a bloody encounter on the walls the previous night and how the Seeking of the Zhid had crept over the walls like a pestilence, seeping into those who stared into the darkness too long alone. Sleet pelted our faces and dribbled down our necks. . . .

  “My lord!” Bareil was shivering in the frigid breeze. “If you please, we must move on. I know a hiding place close by. We can sleep and eat safely, and you can decide our next step.”

  “Lead on.” I shuddered and pushed the memories aside.

  Like a stargazer who witnesses his first eclipse, or a student of history who stands atop a ridge watching his first battle, I was beginning to believe there might actually be some truth to all I’d learned in the past months.

  We hurried across the courtyard and down a short flight of broken steps that descended between two short walls, ending at a narrow, shaded lane clogged with dead leaves and dirty clumps of snow. But instead of following the lane to right or left, Bareil glanced back at me, angled his hand left and then left again, raised his eyebrows, and disappeared. I tried to remember exactly where he’d stood. Then I made the turns and stepped into a stuffy passage that smelled like cooking bacon. Two oil lamps on the wall left the passage no better than dim, especially after the brilliance of mid-afternoon.

  Bareil was moving carefully down the passage, past six or eight plain wood doors. No side passages. No people. No ornamentation that might be expected in a palace. Perhaps these were servants’ quarters. With a key pulled from his pocket, the Dulcé unlocked a door at the far end of the passage. He stood aside for me to enter and bowed me in.

  The chamber was small and plain, holding little more than a low bed, a square table, two straight-backed chairs, and a small tiled hearth with a clean brazier. On the table sat four pewter mugs and small brass urn, the steam rising from it the source of the fruity, pungent aroma of saffria that pervaded the room. Above the entry door was a small bronze mask of a single head with two faces, one male, one female—the common image of Vasrin. Daylight, extraordinarily bright, clean, and sharp-edged, spilled through a clean casement onto a small wood floor. Drawn to the window, I gazed out on a scene of such beauty and wonder that I could explore its marvels for a year and never note half of them. A cityscape of white-and rose-colored spires sprawled across the steep foothills of a range of snowcapped peaks that stood starkly white against a deep blue sky. Arched bridges spanned at least five sparkling waterways, and smooth paved streets wound between the houses and gardens, up and down the steep hillsides, coming together in a broad commard spread out before me.

  The grand open space was paved with the same luminous white flagstones as the small courtyard we had crossed to get here. Crowds of men, women, and children of all stations and appearances hurried across the commard amid winter-bare trees that glittered with frost, and fountains poised in frozen exuberance. In the center of the space, a monumental sculpture depicted five leaping horses, the middle one ridden by a woman, her hair and garments and the horses’ manes and tails flying in the imagined wind.

  Around the edges of the commard, vendors dressed in costumes of red, green, and yellow satin hawked sausages on sticks and drinks dipped from steaming pots, sets of colored balls, silk birds, and fluttering banners that twirled and spun in the air above their heads. Two women in silver masks sold small glittering clouds the size of one’s palm. Standing almost directly under my window, a young girl opened her hand and released one of the clouds, scattering its sparkling elements about her head. The music of a lute and viol drifted upward, fading only as the girl walked away. Sword-makers and armorers spread samples of their wares on broad tables to lure wandering warriors to their shops down the side lanes. It was as if I gazed on some fantastical painting, brought to life by a Singer like my mother.

  But my perception took another jolt as I gaped
, for beyond the commard, perched on the hillside above the steeply sloping sprawl of gardens and open commard, was the same palace I believed we had just entered by a hidden door—rose-colored towers, white and gold banners flying. What’s more, though we had gone down from the courtyard and ascended no steps, we were now situated well above ground, perhaps on a third floor, overlooking what appeared to be the front gate of a modest inn.

  I spun about to inquire what was going on, but Bareil had sagged onto a wooden chair, leaned his small hands on his knees, and dropped his head forward. “Your pardon, my lord, but I find myself a bit soggy at the knees.”

  Pulling the flask of brandy from my pack and yanking the cork, I knelt in front of him. “I understand the vintage is exceptional,” I said. He reached for it, but his hand was shaking, so I held the flask as he drank. “Can you tell me this, Dulcé, did you not say we were at the west wall of the royal palace?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He took another sip from the green flask, then leaned back in the chair, sighed, and closed his eyes. “Thank you, my lord. Most thoughtful.”

  I left the flask beside his feet and returned to the window. “So, do my eyes play tricks or is that the same palace there beyond at least twenty hectares of open ground and halfway up a steep hillside, its west wall tucked securely up beside it?”

  “It is.”

  “Then these hidden ‘doorways’ do not connect one space to an adjoining one as a person might expect?”

  “It would depend upon whose expectations were being satisfied, my lord. If one recalled one’s childhood lessons—that were evidently not well attended by certain royal children—one might recall the ways of portal-making. To connect one place to another is not a simple practice, but not uncommon either. Master Dassine was better at it than most. He was able to make undetectable portals that would change direction at his will. I suppose they’ll all remain fixed now he’s gone, and thus less secure. As soon as I can remember the steps needed, you must destroy the one we just used lest it lead your enemies here.” The Dulcé smiled as he looked about the room. “Master Dassine enjoyed this house—The Guesthouse of the Three Harpers—and would often come here to play a game of sonquey or drink saffria with friends in the salon downstairs.”

  I wanted to know more. Much more. The touch of the world, the breath of fresh air, and the sight of the strange and marvelous city awakened excitement I’d not known in long months. But my hands were grimy from the garden soil where I had buried Dassine, and Bareil’s tunic was stained with blood that should have been running through his veins and putting some color in his pale lips. I moved away from the window and sat on the floor by the Dulcé’s feet. “Tell me what happened, Bareil.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes, the pleasure draining from his face. “Master Dassine received a message yesterday morning, just after he had put you to sleep. I can recite the message for you, if you wish. . . .”

  “Please.”

  “It said, ‘I have learned news of the most dreadful import. Our time has run out, and we are forced to deal with each other. The Third lives, and has obtained the prize he always wanted. Come to the observatory sculpture garden at sunset.’ “

  “And that was all? Who sent it? What does it mean?”

  “That was all. Though the message carried no signature, I believe Master Dassine knew who sent it. He did not tell me. Something in the substance of the message caused him to cast aside any misgivings, as if it had confirmed his worst expectations.”

  “What expectations?”

  In some way the Dulcé’s words were made more worrisome by the calm sobriety with which he delivered them. “My master feared this unnatural quiet. Night after night he would worry at it. He has watched the Zhid closely since you were a boy, listened to rumors and speculations and the changes in the world, charted Zhid movements and their preparations, trying to understand the Lords who manipulate them. Over the past few years he has seen disturbing signs that he did not understand. I am unable to tell you of these particular concerns now, although, when you are ready, you may ask me again and learn of them. You understand?” He opened his eyes to make sure of my answer.

  “I understand.” How strange it must be to have more knowledge than can be touched with one’s own mind, to know that another person must command your intellect to make it truly useful. Did it bother him? Perhaps when I knew him better, I could ask.

  Bareil continued. “ ‘We have become complacent,’ Master Dassine has said ever since your victory at the Bridge. ‘We go about our lives as if the past thousand years have not happened. Why were the Zhid pulled back from battle? The Bridge is strong and the Gates are open, but the Zhid are not diminished. . . .’ ” Bareil left off and sat staring at the blank walls of the room as if continuing Dassine’s monologues within himself.

  “And so he went to this meeting?”

  “Yes. Though he expected to be gone a slightly longer span than he usually left you, you were unlikely to wake before his return. As was usual when leaving the house, he commanded me to stay with you. There was always a risk that something would happen to him. That’s why he stored the knowledge of his purposes and methods in me, so I could help you if the worst befell. Last night he commanded me doubly”—the Dulcé closed his eyes again—“but I disobeyed, and the worst befell.”

  “You followed him.”

  The Dulcé nodded. “The open nature of the sculpture gardens forced me to remain at a distance, so I could not hear what was said or get a close look at the one who awaited my master at the appointed time. They talked for perhaps half an hour until the murderers attacked. When Master Dassine fell, I, like a fool, drew my sword and ran to his defense. Nowhere is there a Dulcé less likely to win swordfame than I, and I knew my duty lay here . . . but I could not abandon him.”

  “I’ll not argue with your choice. Did he put up no defense?”

  “The assassins bore swords and knives, not enchantments. Master Dassine distracted their swords and snagged their feet with confusion, but there were too many of them. I noticed only one thing as I fell. The one who had called him there remained standing.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I could not see a face, only that the person wore a blue Preceptor’s robe with a gold stripe down the side of it.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I was afraid the murderers would discover that I yet lived, so I crawled under a bench, hoping to regain some strength, but I fell out of sense. Later in the night I became aware of people with torches, hunting Master Dassine. One searcher said, ‘I’ll not believe Dassine is dead until I see his body. You must find him. I will destroy whoever is responsible for this.’ ”

  “And who was it?”

  “The Preceptor Madyalar. I tried to call out to her for help, but no one could hear me. Some time later, others came to search searching the gardens—in stealth, my lord. Quiet voices, hooded lamps. Master Exeget led this second party—I recognized his voice—and he was furious that Master Dassine was nowhere to be found. I remained hidden until they were gone. I trusted no one to help, so it took me a long time to get back to the house. Too long, it seems.”

  “And did you see what Master Exeget wore?”

  For a long moment Bareil did not answer. “His robe was blue, my lord, with a gold stripe down the side of it.”

  Bareil’s testimony only confirmed my suspicions. From the moment Bareil had implicated a Preceptor, I had believed Exeget guilty. Madyalar must have got wind of the attack and come to aid Dassine, giving Exeget no time to make sure of his old adversary. I would give Exeget a hearing before I passed judgment, but if he was responsible, I would kill him. Dassine could not have intended me to give myself to his murderer.

  So then, what of Dassine’s mystery? “Dassine told me that a boy has been taken,” I said. “Abducted by the Zhid, I presume. He said that if they took the boy to Zhev’Na, then I was to surrender myself to the Preceptorate for examination. Do you know what he was talking about?”


  “Not at present, my lord. If I possess this knowledge and you wish to command me to speak it, we must perform the madris.”

  “If you’re willing, it would be a great service,” I said.

  The Dulcé grinned. “I’m honored that you would consider my sentiments in the matter, Your Grace, but as you have surely concluded and I know for certain, Master Dassine intended us to be joined. My guess is that if we do not, he will fly back from beyond the Verges to hound us until we do so.”

  “So I’m not the only one he bullied into obedience?”

  “Oh no, my lord, far from it . . . though I think perhaps with you he enjoyed it more . . .you being his prince and all.”

  At that we both burst into delicious laughter laced with grief, and raising the green flask, we drank to the memory of our demanding master.

  CHAPTER 11

  The first time I participated in the madris, it had been a hurried business. The Dulcé Baltar and I and the seven Preceptors stood in the Chamber of the Gate next to the curtain of roaring white fire. All of twelve years old, I had feared nothing in my life until I understood that I was to step through that wall of flame into the Breach between the worlds, balanced on a thread of enchantment. My mouth had gone dry and my stomach had churned, my terror so overwhelming that I could not attend to the rite that was taking place.

  The memory still confused me, for sometimes I envisioned Baltar, a solemn young Dulcé, who, though he was not a mote taller than me, had been lean and hard with powerful shoulders that emphasized my boyish stringiness. But sometimes Baltar wore another face, a rounder, older one, that burst into laughter, tears, worry, or delight with the ease and frequency of a child. I towered over him. It made me wonder if I had actually linked with a different madrisse—perhaps before my latest attempt to repair the Bridge—the one I could not yet remember. I could retrieve no name to go with the second face.