The Soul Weaver (2 page)

She understood me, I think, for there came the briefest ebb in the death tide, an instant's clearing in the red mist of her pain and madness that let me perceive a host of things too terrible to know: ribs smashed, lungs torn, blood . . . everywhere hot, pooling blood and fragments of bone, her belly in shreds . . . Earth and sky, how had they done this? It was as if they knew every possible remedy a Healer could provide and had arranged it so I could do nothing but make things worse.

Another instant and I was awash once more in Jayereth's torment, feeling her struggle to breathe with a chest on fire and a mind blasted with fear. I could not give her strength or endurance, only my healing skill and a few pitiful words of comfort. But even as I fought to knit together the ragged edges of her heart, her last remnants of thought and reason flicked out. Her screams sagged into a low, flat wail . . . and then silence. I had lost her.

Let her go
, I told myself,
you can't help her by traveling the only road she has yet to travel. That road is not for you . . . not yet.
Forcing aside the wave of enveloping darkness, I gritted my teeth and spoke the command, “Cut it now.”

My companion cut away the strip of linen that bound my forearm to Jayereth's and allowed our mingled blood to feed my sorcery. The cold touch that seared my flesh was not his knife—his hand was too experienced for that—but the sealing of a scar that would forever remind me of my failure in my young counselor's last need.

The red mist vanished and the death tide, and my bleary eyes focused on the ravaged body crumpled on the stone floor of my lectorium. The only sound in the candlelit wreckage of the chamber was my shaking breath as I knelt beside my fallen counselor and grieved for the horror she had known.
Cross swiftly, Jayereth. Do not linger in this realm out of yearning for what is lost. I'll care for T'Vero and your child. On D'Arnath's sword, I swear it.

I envisioned Jayereth as she had been, short and plain, with brown hair, a liberal dash of freckles across her straight nose and plump cheeks, and the most brilliant young mind in Avonar tucked behind her eccentric humor. When I summoned Jayereth's young husband, T'Vero, I would try to keep this image in mind and not the gruesome reality.

“Was there nothing to be done, my lord?”

Two small, strong hands gripped my right arm and helped me to my feet. Bareil always knew my needs. Unable to speak as yet, I shook my head and leaned on the Dulcé's sturdy shoulder as he led me to a wooden stool he'd set upright. Padding softly through the wreckage, he summoned those who huddled beyond the door.

One by one the four remaining Preceptors of Gondai crept into the chamber, gaping at the devastation. The oak-paneled walls were charred, the worktables in splinters, the shredded books in jumbled heaps. No vessel remained unshattered, no liquid unspilled; every surface was etched by lightnings more violent than those from any storm of nature's making. The acrid smoke of smoldering herbs mingled with blue and green vapors from pooled liquids to sting noses and eyes. Most fearful, of course, was the corpse sprawled in the midst of the destruction—Jayereth and the rictus of horror that had been her glowing face.

“How was it possible, my lord Prince?” one whispered.

“Who could have done this?”

“In the very heart of the palace . . .”

“. . . treason . . .”

The word was inevitable, though I didn't want to hear it.

“. . . and her work, of course . . .”

“All lost,” I said. I had known it in the instant I'd heard the thunderous noise.

Jayereth's discovery should have been secured the previous night. I was her Prince. It had been my responsibility. But selfish desires had lured me into a night's adventure, and so I had put off duty until this morning. Too late. Before I could protect Jayereth or her work, our enemies had ripped her apart and left no place for me to heal.

With a furious sweep of my hand, I cleared the tottering worktable of chips of plaster and broken glass, then kicked the splintered leg and let the slate top crash to the floor. Only when the dust had settled again had I control enough to address my waiting Preceptors. “Search every corner of the palace, every house, ruin, and hovel in the city. No one is to leave Avonar. Ustele, you will watch for any portal opening. We will discover who dares do murder in my house.”

Useless orders. Useless anger. No common conspirator had wrought such destruction fifty paces from my bedchamber. The protections on the palace of the Prince of Avonar were the most powerful that could be devised. For a thousand years no enemy had breached these rose-colored walls, and no Dar'Nethi thought-reading was required to understand what every one of the wide-eyed Preceptors saw. No soulless Zhid had slain Jayereth—no lurking stranger. The murderer was one of us.

Bareil went to summon Jayereth's husband. The Preceptor Gar'Dena, a giant of a man resplendent in green silk and a ruby-studded belt, brusquely dispatched the other Preceptors to the duties I had detailed. When Gar'Dena and I were left alone, he looked down at Jayereth. “Has there been any disruption in the Circle? Any sign from Marcus or the others? This event leaves me wary of all our enterprises.”

I shook my head. “No ill word from the Circle.” As far as we knew the Lords had not yet noticed our most powerful sorcerers taking up positions on the boundaries of the Vales, ready to form an expanding ring of impenetrable enchantment around the healthy lands of my adopted world. “As of yesterday, Ce'Aret had almost two hundred in place. And we've had no news of our agents in Zhev'Na, but, of course, we've no way to know if they've been taken. Maybe that's what this is—the notice of their failure.”

We both knew it wasn't so. The elimination of Jayereth and her work was no blind strike of retaliation, but clearly aimed. Someone knew what she had discovered and knew that she'd not yet passed on all of her knowledge. Only six people in the universe knew the secret—and to any one of them I would entrust my life.

Gar'Dena lowered his massive bulk to the floor and with the gentlest of hands straightened Jayereth's tortured limbs. With a plump finger and a soft word, he smoothed her face into peace, masking blood and charred flesh with a delicate tracery of illusion. “She was just the age of my own Arielle and destined to be the greatest Dar'Nethi sorcerer in a thousand years. Ah, my lord, I could not comprehend it when you pulled her from my gem shop and raised her so high in your councils. When you showed us what you'd seen in her, I wept at my lack of vision. Which of us is vile enough to have done it?”

I rested my back on the charred wall and rubbed my aching head. “If I knew, that one would already lie dead at her feet.”

There had been a time when such words coming from my mouth would have caused me an hour of self-reproach, of castigating myself for abandoning the ideals of my youth, the tenets of my people that said there was no gift more sacred and more untouchable than another's life. But justice, too, was an ideal worth serving.

Gar'Dena bore Jayereth from the study in his thick arms, laying her in the palace preparation room as if she'd been brought in from outside. Our custom required us to let the dead lie undisturbed for half a day, lest the departed soul find its way back to its body before it crossed the Verges into the afterlife. But no one could be allowed to know the assault had taken place in the heart of the palace, not before we discovered the culprit. The news of such penetration by our enemies would cause panic. And I already knew that Jayereth wasn't coming back.

I remained in my private sitting room, slumped in a chair doing nothing until Bareil tapped on the door to let me know that T'Vero had arrived. A short, sturdy man, painfully young, his eyes wide and wary at this early summoning, followed the Dulcé into the room. “My lord Prince,” he said, bowing halfheartedly. “Where is my wife? She never came home last night.”

I did as I had to do, grieving with the young husband at Jayereth's side until he had taken into himself the wholeness of his sorrow. After giving him my promise, as I had Jayereth, that their child would want for nothing I could provide, I left him alone to stand vigil with her. When the time was completed, he would take her away.

My belly sour, my eyes like sandhills, I returned to my study to await the reports of my Preceptors. The Preceptorate was a body of the most talented, most powerful sorcerers in Gondai, charged with teaching and guiding our people, including their sovereign, in matters of sorcery. In effect, the Preceptors served as my council of advisors in everything of true importance. Treachery and cowardice had left four of the seven seats vacant when I had taken up my duties in Avonar four years ago. Taking the time to learn my way around the politics and personalities of Gondai, I had filled only two as yet. Now one of those was vacant again.

Over the next hours each of the remaining four came to me to report that nothing could be discovered of unwarranted entry into the palace, of surreptitious enchantments or openings of portals that could allow a villain's escape. I did not scrutinize the content of the reports so much as each messenger, looking for the nervous twitch or the cast of an eye that would tell me where I had been wrong.

First the acid-tongued Balancer, a woman who had given ruthlessly in the war against the Lords of Zhev'Na for seventy years, sacrificing her family and home and exhausting her physical strength.

Then the irascible old Historian who never took his piercing eyes from my hands, judging their works by the exacting standards of Dar'Nethi history and his own peculiar view of our destiny, whose open distrust and unyielding criticism dismissed any belief in hidden treachery.

Next the exuberant giant of a Gem Worker whose meaty hands had held the fragile secret of my safety and Seri's while I was imprisoned in Zhev'Na, the faithful steward whose stubborn strength had held Avonar together until I returned.

And last, the newest of my counselors, the unpretentious Word Winder who could create the most complex enchantments from the nuances of spoken language, the gentle teacher of the Way, the friend who could challenge me to a debate about the ethics of healing and then in the next breath set me laughing at a bawdy song.

The door of my private sitting room clicked shut behind Preceptor Ven'Dar, leaving me alone. A breeze whispered through the open casement, stirring my hair as I sat staring at the white lights that blossomed through the city in the deepening blue of the summer evening. Crowds of people in jewel-colored garb filled the streets, calling greetings and laughing at the merry enchantments of street entertainers, laughing, even after a millennium of war in which nine-tenths of our world had been ruined and three-quarters of our population had perished or been enslaved. Always before, even on the most difficult of days, I had been able to find solace in the beauties of my new home and the strength of my people. Not on this night.

On the mirrorlike surface of a small table next to my chair sat a red lacquered box. Only Bareil and I knew what lay inside the box: a small triangular pyramid of black crystal, set in a plain iron ring. Simple enough. Yet its simplicity belied its history. At the age of thirty-two I had been executed—burned to death, the penalty for being born a sorcerer in the mundane world beyond D'Arnath's Bridge. But before my soul could cross the mysterious boundary we called the Verges, the border between this life and the life that follows, the Dar'Nethi sorcerer Dassine had reached out with his enchantments and ensnared me, binding me to this simple artifact until he could return me to life in the body of his violent, soul-dead prince. Now, my finger's touch upon the black stone's surface would release me from this body I'd been given and transport me to the realm of the dead where I belonged.

Unbidden, my hands took the red lacquered box that held my mortality and turned it over and over, my thumb rubbing the smooth simplicity of its lines. What life I had was a gift, given not to correct the misfortune of my too-early death, but in hopes that I might find some way to heal a universe ripped apart by evil. I already had ample reason to question Dassine's belief that I was capable of such a task. Now, things had grown far worse. Here was a simple dilemma, and I would have given a lifetime of sleep not to have to consider it.

Treason. Murder. I could not attach the words to any of the four Preceptors. Not even a Word Winder as skilled as Ven'Dar could do that. But unknown to my four counselors, I had shared Jayereth's news with two others, and it was the thought of that indiscretion that threw me into such great agitation as I gazed into the failing light of this villainous day. The Preceptors didn't know of my venture across the Bridge the previous night, when loneliness had sent me running to Seri for a brief, sweet hour. Thus they didn't know I had told her of Jayereth's news. Yet their respect for my extraordinary wife was so great that they would never touch her with a trace of suspicion. Even Ustele and Men'Thor, who constantly reproached me for my “unseemly attachment to these uncivilized, untalented mundanes,” spoke of Seri with admiration.

But neither did my counselors know that I had spoken to the very person who had allowed Jayereth's talent to take wings. In the heart of the Lords' fortress, he had freed me of my slave collar, and in that single act of redemption made possible the solution that could free every Dar'Nethi slave. But the Preceptors would not understand that I had entrusted Avonar's deepest secrets to my son, he who had been, even for a few hours, Dieste the Destroyer, the Fourth Lord of Zhev'Na.

Unforgivably, irretrievably stupid . . .

“
Ce'na davonet, Giré D'Arnath
! You'll dance at my daughter's naming day. I bring you the key!” Jayereth, late again. She danced into the council chamber, the garish beads that dangled from her hair, her neck, and her waist clacking as she whirled across the stone floor on her toes. I could feel Ustele's hackles rising. Jayereth scandalized many of the elder Dar'Nethi, who had not yet recognized the wisdom beneath her youthful irreverence.