The Soul Weaver (4 page)

In our first year at Verdillon, Karon had come to us every few weeks, staying for days at a time. But necessity ended that luxury. Karon was the Heir of the ancient sorcerer king, D'Arnath, sovereign of all that remained of Gondai, the magical world beyond the Breach, the sole protector and defender of D'Arnath's Bridge, this singular enchantment designed to counter the Lords and their evils. Yet he knew almost none of his subjects and had only a limited understanding of their world. The Dar'Nethi needed the reassurance of their sovereign's presence. I could accept that. I was a warrior's daughter, raised to understand the obligations of a noble. If Karon was to lead his people, then he and his people had to learn to know and trust each other. Traveling the length and breadth of his realm, visiting every town and village to speak with his subjects, listen to their stories, and heal their ills, and developing his plans for ending the war left him little opportunity to make the time-consuming and difficult passage across D'Arnath's Bridge to this world. And so, as the months passed, his visits had become increasingly rare and far too brief. I felt as if we were going backward.

“All right. If that's what you want . . .” And so we walked in the spring-scented evening, and he gave me what I'd asked for, reining in one passion only to unleash another. He told me of the Preceptors and his plans and the increasing dangers of his war. “. . . The Zhid raiders grow bolder every day. Two farms burned last week, another village destroyed the week before, half its people taken as slaves, half left in madness, and its children . . . Oh, Seri”—his voice shook and his fingers almost crushed my own—“I came very close to heeding Men'Thor and Ustele and their constant harangues.”

“They still call your strategy treason—the Circle, everything else?”

“Men'Thor is convinced that the only way to destroy the Zhid is to kill them all. The self-righteous bastard never changes his tone of voice and never changes his mind, no matter how you argue it. Ustele rails that we've lost our nerve, that I violate D'Arnath's oath every day I permit such horrors to continue. And truly, last week when I saw those slaughtered children, I wanted nothing more than to ride for Zhev'Na myself, my sword in hand. But today we had such news. Jayereth has found an answer. . . .”

Our pace increased until I almost had to double-step to keep up with him. His face shone as he explained how, after so long a preparation, months of travel, long, grueling hours of intricate enchantment, meetings and argument, talking and convincing his hesitant subjects, his plan was ready to go forward. One might have thought his magnificent venture engaged already for the vigor with which he propelled me about the cherry orchard.

But as the last light faded in the west, his steps slowed again. He pulled me into his arms, pressing my head to his shoulder. The fine cambric of his shirt felt soft against my cheek and warm with the muscled flesh underneath, and I cursed duty and politics and everything else that conspired to keep us apart. “Ah, love,” he said, “you've let me babble far too long. The time runs . . . and we've not even spoken of Gerick yet.”

I closed my eyes, smothered my unhappiness, and yielded pleasurably to the hand that stroked my hair. “It wouldn't break my heart if we had more time with you.”

“I've thought so much of him lately, wondering if the time was any closer. . . . What do you think? Does it go any better with him? The nightmares? Earth and sky, how I want to be here with you. I scarcely know the boy. I don't even know what he studies.” His arms threatened to squeeze the breath out of me.

“He still has nightmares, and he still won't talk about them. But they seem less frequent of late, and less . . . disruptive . . . and in every other sense he grows easier,” I said, pulling away enough to keep breathing, as well as to keep my mind on our son. “He maintains a more even temper. He and Tennice get on famously, and the more intense their work, the better. You'll be proud of all he's accomplished. He can discuss history and philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, and politics at a level worthy of Martin's drawing rooms. In only one area does he lag a bit. . . .”

“Surely it could not be the discipline Leirans call natural science?” Karon stooped until his face was on a level with mine, his blue eyes wide and teasing. “All those ‘nasty plant names and vile animal parts when one should only care about beauty and usefulness'?”

I slapped him—not hard—and shoved his face away. “All right. So natural science was never my strength. And, the bright muses bless him, Tennice knows even less than I, so we've eased up on Gerick for now. But in everything else Gerick excels. More important”—I dropped my voice a bit and pulled him farther along the path, letting foolery carry us into more serious realms—“he speaks freely of his childhood at Comigor and so many things we thought he might never acknowledge. And a few times—not many yet—he's made a passing reference to his life in Zhev'Na. Just as you hoped he would.”

“But as to sorcery . . .”

“He still won't discuss it, and I've seen no evidence he's tried to work any enchantment.”

Karon stopped again, leaning his back against the brick wall of the kitchen garden, shaking his head in puzzled disbelief. “He seems to think he can give it up. Does he have any idea . . . ? He's sixteen; he'll be coming into his primary talent any time now, which will make abstaining infinitely more difficult. . . .”

“. . . just like all the other tricks nature plays between twelve and eighteen,” I said.

He smiled ruefully. “Life can seem quite a jumble in the middle of it.”

“You won't believe how he's grown. He's almost as tall as Ka—you . . . were. Before.” I almost bit my tongue.
Everlasting curses, you stupid woman . . .

“You mean the real me.”

There it was . . . the false note that would sneak its way into the harmonies of our time together. Why could I not reconcile myself to his change? In everything of importance, this was the man I had married. I couldn't blame him for the traces of sadness and bitterness that lingered long after his words had been spoken. Yet this very response embodied the subtle differences that still bothered me. The sadness was Karon. The bitterness, never.

I tried to shake it off. How could I regret anything? He was with me. “The first you,” I said, unable to look him in the eye.

Gently, he took my hand, kissed it, and pressed it to his brow, a gesture of affection that had its origin, not in the magical world of the Dar'Nethi, but here in courtly Valleor, the country of his youth in the human world. We turned and walked back toward the house, letting comfortable familiarity soothe the awkwardness. The disturbance was not gone, though. How could we ever explore these things when we never had time? Each visit was the same. No sooner had we reintroduced ourselves to each other and laid bare the questions that needed to be answered than it came time for him to go.

“Forgive me, Seri. Soon . . . I promise . . .” Karon had never used his power to read my thoughts uninvited. But then, he had rarely needed to. I seemed to be incapable of hiding what I felt.

Despite my unhappiness, I could not send Karon back to Avonar burdened with my resentments. I took his hand, kissed it, and pressed it to my own brow, trying to absorb the feel of him . . . the smell of him . . . the truth of him. Then I nodded toward the kitchen door. “You'll see Gerick before you go?” Concern for our son was one matter on which our opinions did not diverge.

“If he's willing. I suppose he'll be no easier with me.”

“It's true you're not his first topic of conversation, and yet, just yesterday he asked when it was you'd studied here at Verdillon.”

“He says so little when we're together. I can't tell what he's feeling. I don't want to push, but with the Circle complete, Marcus and the others in place in Zhev'Na, and now, Jayereth's news . . . I'm giving her a fortnight to refine her working, and then I'll send out scouts for the last reports from the borders. It's one reason I wanted to come tonight. Once we close the Circle, I won't be able to leave until we see how the Lords respond. If anything should happen to me . . . I've so much to tell him, things I've learned about this strange world he's destined to govern. We need to move forward. If only he'd
talk
to me, give me a sign that he's ready to listen.”

“Don't fret. He's reserved with all of us, not only you. He just needs more time with you—to learn how different you are from what the Lords taught him. Trust comes only with time and experience.”

Karon had given Gerick back his human eyes and restored to our son his mortal life, doing his best to heal the wounds of a childhood lived in fear, loneliness, cruelty, and murder. But even Karon's blessed magic could not undo Gerick's greatest injury. As a child, living in my brother's house, Gerick had isolated himself because he could do things our world called “vile sorcery.” And when the Lords had stolen him away to Zhev'Na, they had fostered and nurtured his belief in his own evil, linking it with destiny and power and inevitability. By the time Gerick understood how they had deceived him, he had become so steeped in their hatred and suspicion he scarcely knew how to live in any other way. And the Lords' first, last, and most enduring lesson had been mistrust of his father.

We found Gerick waiting in the library, perched on the back of a chair reading a book. He showed no surprise. He must have spotted Karon and me from a window.

“My lord.” Gerick, at sixteen only slightly beyond middle height, tossed his book aside, sprang to his feet, and bowed formally to Karon.

Karon returned the bow and then stepped close, touching Gerick's shoulder and smiling. “You've grown fairly these months, Gerick. How do Tennice and your mother keep you in clothes and boots?”

“I don't need much,” said Gerick. Serious. Neutral. Karon's hand might have been a stray leaf fallen on his shirt. “How long can you stay?”

Karon's hand fell back to his side. “Not long, unfortunately. Not long at all. I'd like to tell you—Would you walk with me a bit?”

“Of course.”

I watched them as they strolled through the garden in the dusky light, one tall and broad in the shoulder, one slender and wiry, each with his hands clasped carefully behind his back. In their brief times together, Karon tried to explain both the history and the current politics of his realm. Gerick listened, but, as with so many things, offered no opinions of his own and refused to be drawn into conversation. All too soon they were coming back through the library door.

“Seri, love, I've got to go”—an extraordinary brightness filled Karon's eyes—“but my plans have changed a little. I'm taking Gerick with me.”

Astonishment almost stole my breath. “Across the Bridge. Are you sure? Is he—?”

I looked from one to the other. Gerick's demeanor reflected none of Karon's unspoken joy and excitement, only the same sober reserve he displayed on each of Karon's visits.

“Gerick, are you ready to do this? Has it been long enough? To cross . . . to go to Avonar . . . such a big step . . .” So near Zhev'Na.

“With all that's going on in Avonar this seems like an important time,” he said. “I'll be all right.”

Such vague reassurance did not soothe my unease in the least. “Karon, shouldn't you prepare him . . . for those he'll meet?”

The Lords had taught Gerick to despise his father's people, and, indeed, almost every Dar'Nethi our son had encountered had tried to deceive, corrupt, or murder him. And the Dar'Nethi knew almost nothing of Gerick—only that he had been stolen by the Lords, brought up in Zhev'Na, and rescued by his father. Introducing them to each other was going to be a task requiring the utmost delicacy.

“It's the middle of the night. No one will even know he's there. I need to show him the Bridge and the Gate. Where I live. Where I work. I'll have him back here safely before morning.” Karon's eyes begged me to understand why I could not come with them.

Of course I understood; they had to learn to talk, to deal with each other without my serving as intermediary. If this venture was successful, perhaps we could all go next time. Be together . . . Before I could think what other questions to ask or what cautions to give them, they had walked out of the house and vanished into the light of the rising moon.

For an hour I paced the library and drawing rooms, desire and anxiety and long-unspoken hopes and possibilities wrestling in my imagination. I imagined the two of them treading the luminous path through the chaotic nightmare visions of the Breach between the worlds, and emerging in the chamber of cold white fire that was the Heir's Gate, deep in the heart of Avonar. From there they would follow winding passages, where the lamps sprang to life to light the way in front of you and faded as you passed, until they came to the graceful, sprawling rooms of the Heir's rose-colored palace, the quiet fortress heart of the most beautiful city one could imagine. The safest place in a world inhabited by the Lords of Zhev'Na.

Hours it would take them to make the passage across the Bridge, hours to make the return journey. If they were to be back before dawn, they would have very little time in Avonar. No time for the Lords to know Gerick was there. For four years Karon had been traveling between Verdillon and the palace, and the Lords had not found us here. Karon knew the risks; he would watch, listen, and be wary.

A tap on the library door brought our housemaid with a supper tray. “Will you be needing anything else, ma'am?”

“No. Thank you, Teriza.”

“I'll be off then to Mistress Phyllia's and be back in the morning early. She's got her a grumpy little mite this time, wails half the night, wakes half the village. You must call Kat to do for you till I'm back.”