Son of Avonar Read online

  The drought-starved meadow was just as I had left it the previous day, an ocean of limp gray-green rippled by the hot breeze, cheered here and there by a clump of stareye or stately stalks of pink and silver lupine. The cottage sat squat and peaceful in the middle of it.

  Paulo gave a whoop and let Thunder race the last distance across the meadow. Jacopo came out of the house to meet us and steadied me as I slipped from the saddle. “So Paulo has brought you home riding, eh? He’s quite a boy, wouldn’t you say?”

  Paulo grinned and led the horses off toward the copse and the spring.

  “Where’s Aeren?” I said.

  “He’s been poking about the woodpile all morning. A strange one, he is. Never know whether he’s going to break your neck or shake your hand.” Jaco peered over my shoulder at my companion, who was straightening his tunic and straining his eyes about the meadow. “Looks like you’ve been successful in your business.”

  “Yes, this is Baglos, a friend of Aeren’s. Baglos, this is my friend Jacopo. . . .”

  Aeren strolled around the corner of the cottage carrying a forearm-sized piece of wood. At the sight of us, he increased his pace straightaway. Giving Baglos not so much as a passing glance, he planted himself just in front of me and, with unpleasant grunts and most explicit gestures, expressed his displeasure at my long absence.

  Before I could respond, Baglos crowded in between us. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the young man’s hand, and kissed it. Aeren growled and jerked his hand away, waving the kneeling Baglos aside. When a confused Baglos failed to move, Aeren snarled and raised the piece of wood over the man’s dark head.

  “Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath! Detan eto.” As he cried out, Baglos raised his arms to shield himself.

  Aeren paused and dropped his hand, flicking his fingers toward his own ears and then toward the smaller man’s mouth, as if he’d heard something in the exclamation that interested him.

  Baglos showered Aeren with words in a flowing musical language, most of them shaped as questions. Aeren understood the words, which seemed to soothe his dangerous irritation, but I saw no light of recognition in his eyes, and to none of Baglos’ questions did he answer other than in the negative.

  After a goodly time of this, Aeren pointed to his mouth and then to his head with a most humorously eloquent gesture, telling Baglos that the two appendages were equally useless. Aeren’s changing humors were as spring on the northern moors, a continual race between sunlight and storm. Baglos bowed and backed away, gazing sorrowfully on the young man who sat down in the grass and turned his attention to his limb of birchwood, peeling off the bark as if he were expecting to find something underneath, but wasn’t quite sure what it might be.

  “Ah, woman, I did not believe it possible that D’Natheil could have truly forgotten himself,” said Baglos, holding his clasped hands to his chest, the color of his complexion gone sallow. “But your surmise is entirely correct. He recognizes nothing I speak of. We are lost if he cannot remember. And I cannot guide if he has forgotten the words to command me.” He tugged at his disheveled tunic, straightened his shoulders resolutely, and bowed to me. “But this is not your burden. I will take him away now, and we will trouble you no more.”

  “No!” I blurted out the word more forcefully than I intended. “You can’t take him away yet. We should eat something before you go. He’s been ill. . . .”

  “He does not belong in this place. He has duties. In the name of the Dar’Nethi Preceptorate, I thank you for your kindness.” The forlorn Baglos cast his eyes down and walked back to Aeren, bowing once again. “Ce’na, D’Natheil”—Aeren’s head popped up as he spoke—“ven t’sar—”

  “Baglos, look,” I said. “He recognizes his name.”

  Baglos had already noticed and dropped to his knees beside the young man, chattering rapidly. An exasperated Aeren soon clamped his hand over the smaller man’s mouth and toppled him over backwards.

  “Give him time,” I said, helping Baglos sit up and brush the grass and dirt from his shirt. “Take it more slowly.”

  But the little man waved off my help. “Foolish woman. There is no time. Everything is prepared . . . waiting . . . This was not part of the plan. The Zhid have done this—I felt their icy breath at the crossing—and I’ve not the skill to reverse it. Everything depends on me, but with this . . . I don’t know what to do.” Such profound distress surely had origins somewhere far beyond irritable masters and momentary confusion. Our last hope, he had said.

  “He understands your language. Perhaps if you were to tell me more of him, then, between the two of us, we could make him remember what he needs to know.”

  The little man sighed and rubbed his brow with his fist. “If only remembering were enough. Since the ruinous attempt to send him, he has not been capable—” Baglos glanced over at Aeren, dropping his voice though the young man was preoccupied with his wood-shaping. “He never regained even the small skills he had as a boy. You would not understand the importance of these skills, as they are not abilities your people possess.”

  “Skills?” I approached with caution. “What kind of skills? He seems to be a talented warrior and very intelligent.”

  “I speak of what a mundane would call magic. Sorcery.” Baglos spoke as casually as one might mention a gift for poetry or painting or baking.

  I breathed a prayer that my instincts were correct. “He has done magic here.”

  Baglos sat paralyzed, eyes stretched almost round. “How is that possible? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure if you knew he could. It’s not a thing to mention lightly. The law of the Four Realms . . . surely you know that.” I told him of the knife and the plants and the fire.

  “What knife is this?” He sprang from the ground like a new-vented geyser.

  “We found it on the hilltop and believed it had some connection to Aeren because of the symbol on it. It’s the one he uses even now.” Aeren had pulled out the dagger and was diligently scraping his piece of birch.

  Baglos’s eyes now filled half his face. “You told me that he wore nothing and carried nothing, but this is the Heir’s dagger, D’Arnath’s dagger . . . our safety . . .” His olive skin paled even further to the color of milky tea. “The sword . . . he carried no sword, did he? Please tell me he did not.”

  “I’ve seen no sword. He’s been looking for one.”

  Baglos exhaled deeply and shook his head. “You say he does not recognize the knife, but he was able to penetrate the rock with it. This is astonishing! He was never able to do these things since his injuries when he was twelve. It is one reason we are so afraid. That he will never be capable”—he snapped his teeth together. “Yes, woman, we will stay for a while and learn more of you. The Preceptors are wise beyond the ways of the Dulcé. Perhaps this is not entirely the work of the Zhid, for if D’Natheil has done magic . . .”

  I shrugged my shoulders at Jacopo—no hope of understanding everything at once—and sat down near Aeren, patting the turf beside me. “Please sit down, Baglos, and start at the beginning. Who are these Preceptors? Who is D’Natheil?” I motioned the younger man to pay attention.

  Baglos began his tale, speaking first in his own language to Aeren, then in Leiran for Jacopo and me. Setting aside his occupation, Aeren listened carefully to the little man’s words, the afternoon breeze rippling his light hair.

  “There are things of which I am permitted to speak and things of which I am not permitted to speak without D’Natheil’s command. And there are many things I do not know at present. Do you know anything of the Breach or D’Arnath’s Bridge?” began Baglos.

  The young man shook his head, and I did the same.

  “Well, I cannot tell you that part, because I don’t know it properly today, and truly it is a great mystery that is beyond my understanding, even if it was a time when I could tell you of it. D’Natheil could tell you if he could remember, or I could tell you if D’Natheil would command me, but I don’t know
how we will teach him of it if we do not know it correctly.” Baglos was in despair again, here at the beginning.

  Unable to construct anything sensible from this rambling, I tried to get him to start again. “Just tell us about Aeren and how you come to be here. You honor him as a lord, and I’ve seen enough of his manner to know it must be true. What is his family? Where do you come from? Has he truly grown up in a Vallorean temple school with those priests?”

  “Certainly not! He has not lived with the Zhid. Zhid lie as easily as they breathe. They are no priests of any god I know, which is, of course, only Vasrin of the Two Faces: Vasrin Creator, who squeezed nothingness in his mind’s fist to create matter, and Vasrin Shaper, who formed matter into the shapes of her dreaming—earth and sea and those of us who walk here. D’Natheil is the Heir of the royal line of D’Arnath, a prince you would call him. The mark on the dagger—it is the shield of his family.”

  “A prince. I knew it.”

  “We have had no king since the mighty D’Arnath. His successors see their highest honor in being named his Heir. For a thousand years the Heirs of D’Arnath have held the safety of Avonar in their hands. They have walked the world Bridge through the darkest perils. They have led us in the war against the Lords of Zhev’Na and their warrior Zhid. They have ruled with strength and justice and honor, bearing the hope of our people—both Dar’Nethi and Dulcé—that the Breach would one day be healed and the Wastes restored. But since the Battle of Ghezir, when the Zhid stole D’Arnath’s sword and dagger and closed the Gates, our hope has waned, for the Bridge cannot be maintained while the Gates are closed. D’Natheil is the sixty-third Heir of D’Arnath. Since the Gates were closed, thirty-four Heirs lived and waited and died in vain, for we had become too weak to reopen them. We hoped against failing hope that the Exiles might open the way, to aid the Heir in his task as is their duty.”

  I was at a loss already, grasping at bits that were comprehensible, even if they made no sense. “A thousand years! What family can be traced back a thousand years? Not even the Kerotean priest-kings claim such lineage.”

  “Yes. His family is very old, but he is the last. All the others of his line are dead. That has been our great dilemma. When the Gates were opened against all expectation, D’Natheil had only just come of age and been anointed. There was a great dispute among the Preceptors that day—the Preceptors are our wisest and most powerful leaders, who advise the Heir in all matters of power and talent—matters of sorcery, as you would say. Some thought to send D’Natheil immediately to walk the Bridge for fear we would lose the chance to repair and strengthen it, but Master Dassine argued that the boy was untrained and, at only twelve years, too young to survive the attempt. The other Preceptors overruled Dassine, and D’Natheil and Baltar were led to the Gate, but when they attempted the passage, D’Natheil was thrown from it with terrible injury, and Baltar, my cousin, lay dead.

  “In the chaos that resulted, Master Dassine cried out that those who were not traitors deserved defeat for their stupidity—a charge not fairly given, and he had no call to chastise the other Preceptors. But Dassine picked up the young prince in his arms, took him to his own house, and posted wards that would allow no one near D’Natheil without his leave for all these years. Though many disagreed with Master Dassine’s course of action, all could see that the premature attempt had harmed the boy in ways they could not understand. The hope has been that as D’Natheil grew older, he would learn the things needed to accomplish his purpose and develop the talents with which he was born.”

  “Talents for sorcery?” I said, fighting to untangle the knot he was making of my head.

  “He is not a bootmaker, woman. He is the Heir of D’Arnath.” Baglos’s indignation was worthy of a jilted bride.

  I sighed. “Go on.”

  “So we in Avonar have fought to retake D’Arnath’s sword from the Zhid and to defend the Bridge and the Gates until D’Natheil could reach maturity. But we have seen no further sign from the Exiles, and the Zhid have grown more powerful. Eight days ago even Master Dassine agreed the Bridge was in imminent peril. D’Natheil himself fought on the walls of Avonar that night—for the first time since his injury as a boy—and he slew fifty Zhid. We heard the terrible rumor that he lay near death after it, but clearly that wasn’t true. On the next morning Master Dassine announced that D’Natheil and his Guide must make the crossing before the Gates could be closed again.

  “The rites were rushed and confused, for there was fighting in the city streets. Bendal was wounded”—Baglos’ narration faltered briefly—“and Master Exeget performed the madris so that I might serve the Prince as his Guide. But at last D’Natheil reached the palace and stepped through the Gate. The Zhid must have broken into the chamber just as Master Exeget pushed me after the Prince, for three of them followed right on my heels.”

  Baglos took a deep breath, as if only now recovering from the terror of battle, and when he continued, he spoke with resolve and conviction. “The Zhid and their masters, the three Lords of Zhev’Na, will do anything to destroy the Bridge. Anything. They believe it will give them their victory, that it will complete the Catastrophe of their making. As the Heir, D’Natheil is sworn to defend the Bridge . . . to preserve our land . . . and so he must do. Now do you understand? Our people stand at the verge of annihilation, and he it is who must save us all.”

  As Baglos repeated this last for Aeren, my mind was flooded with questions. And caught up in the words like flotsam on the tide were words and images that tweaked my memory, but would not explain themselves: the Breach, the world Bridge . . . I had tried so hard to erase the past, to get on with my useless life, forbidding the horror of my dreams from lingering into day. But one of Baglos’s bits and pieces had washed up on the shore and lay in plain view where I could not ignore it.

  “Your land,” I said. “You call it Avonar?”

  “Our land was once called Gondai and encompassed many realms, but now that only our royal city and the Vales of Eidolon are left outside the Wastes, that name gets little use. Avonar—the City of Light. I fear that I may never again gaze upon its beauties.”

  My throat could hardly give voice to my question. My skin felt tremulous, cold and hot and numb all together, as if I’d had too little sleep. “Where is this Avonar, where such things as sorcery are the custom?”

  “I cannot tell you where, except that it is in the mountains beyond the Wastes,” Baglos said. “At some other time perhaps or if D’Natheil could command me to do so, I could tell you of it.”

  “There was a city in Valleor called Avonar, but it was destroyed almost twenty years ago.” The hair on my arms was standing on end. “Tell me, Baglos, who are these Exiles of whom you speak?”

  “The Exiles were dispatched right after the creation of the Bridge, long before the Battle of Ghezir. Twenty Dar’-Nethi were led across the Bridge by D’Arnath’s beloved brother. It is part of the story of the Bridge that I cannot remember today. To be sent so far from their home and abandoned with no hope of return seems a cruel punishment, but they are great heroes and not criminals. We never knew their fate, but our hopes that they would be able to open the Gates had long faded. When at last they accomplished it, our hearts were lifted.”

  How impossible it was that I should be sitting in this meadow and talking with this odd stranger about such things, that of all the places in the Four Realms it should be Poacher’s Ridge where D’Natheil would appear out of nowhere. For who else but I, out of so many thousands, would be able to see the connections I saw amidst the incomprehensible strands of Baglos’s story? Even the symbol on the knife—at last that connection had resolved. Change the rampant lions to smooth curves, reduce the design to its elemental forms as a thousand years and imperfect memory are wont to do, and one could see the simple rectangle with the arced triangle inscribed, and the three stylized flowerets. The mark of a ruling family . . . just as it had been the mark of Karon’s father, the Lord of Avonar. How could this be?

&n
bsp; “Do you know, Baglos, what was the name of the one who led your Exiles, the first one those hundreds of years ago?” I could not have said whether it was day or night, so intent was I on his answer. I would not have noticed a whirlwind had it settled in our midst or a storm of fire raging in the trees. The storm was within me.

  “Everyone knows that. He holds honor next to D’Arnath himself. J’Ettanne was his name.”

  The universe shifted underneath my feet. This was not coincidence. It couldn’t be. “Your people are called Dar’-Nethi, then?”

  “In our land we are of two peoples, Dar’Nethi and Dulcé. You can see clearly that my parentage differs from that of D’Natheil, for I am of the Dulcé. Dar’Nethi and Dulcé have lived in harmony since the beginning of time, for our gifts are very different.”

  D’Natheil sat in the golden light of afternoon with his chin on his knees, his face expressionless. How much he understood, or whether any of the strange story had touched a familiar chord, it was impossible to tell.

  My own difficulty was where to begin my questioning. Bridges seemed clear. Breaches—chasms—made sense. What were these gates of which Baglos spoke?

  The Gates marked the two ends of D’Arnath’s Bridge, so Baglos told me as the sun settled westerly—the Heir’s Gate in Avonar, the Exiles’ Gate in this land. Found deep in a chamber accessible only to the Heir or those to whom he has given the magical key to unlock its wards, the Gates appear as a wall of fire through which one must pass to walk upon the Bridge. Baglos had been prepared for a journey of horror at the crossing, but in truth he must have fainted, for a great fracturing burst upon him just as he stepped through the wall of fire. The only remaining entry to the Heir’s Gate was located in the royal palace in Avonar, and that was where he and D’Natheil had begun their crossing. Baglos had no idea at all where any entries to the Exiles’ Gate could be found. “Not today at least,” he said. D’Natheil should have emerged at the principal entry to the Exiles’ Gate; such had been the expectation. And he, Baglos, should have been with the Prince, but this “fracturing” had separated them. He had awakened in the middle of a wheat field with a pounding head and had begun to search the countryside for D’Natheil. For three days he walked in circles, but he couldn’t find the Prince. Thus he had begun visiting towns and villages, used his silver to buy a horse, and revealed himself to strangers so as to inquire after his missing lord.