Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“The ancient face that weeps.”

I jumped. D’Natheil stood just behind me. “Of course! The third clue. ”When one ascends the ancient face that weeps.“

I peered into the blue-gray haze up the gorge. “But how does one ascend it? The walls go straight up and crumble in your hand. And why would they send us this way, if we needed to be on top? Surely there would be an easier path.”

“I suppose it will come clear like the other clues.”

Not half a league up the gorge, the river made good on the previous day’s threat. The path vanished, and the water spanned the breadth of the rift. For a while the going was easy, the clear water only hoof-deep, the stony bottom easy to see. But then I followed D’Natheil around a sharp bend and saw the water lapping almost to his knees. “Stay to the right,” he called back to me, as I felt the icy water seep into my boots. Repeating the warning over my shoulder for Baglos, I fixed one eye on the Prince and one eye on Firethorn’s footing to make sure we followed his lead exactly.

For a long hour we had no relief from the frigid water that varied from ankle to knee in depth. My feet were numb, and I patted and soothed Firethorn, promising him a winter of dry oats and hay if he would carry me through safely. I did not see Polestar step into the pool or Baglos slip from his saddle into the water. I only heard a great splash and a cry for help behind me.

“D’Natheil!” I yelled, coaxing Firethorn back toward Baglos, who flailed the water in panic. The Prince was just disappearing beyond the next turn.

D’Natheil quickly reversed direction and dived into the river from the back of his horse, swimming with powerful strokes toward the floundering Dulcé. Catching him around his chest, D’Natheil dragged Baglos back across the pool, swimming until he could get a foothold and then wading through chest-high water until he could haul himself and his soggy servant across the saddle of the patiently waiting chestnut. The wild-eyed Polestar found his way back to the shallower water. I maneuvered myself so I could grab the jittery beast’s reins before he could bolt back down the gorge. The incident was over in moments, and I was relieved to see the chestnut lunge out of the water onto a mostly dry shore after one more turning of the path.

Soon the three of us were pouring water from our boots and stretching the cramps from numb legs and feet. The drenched Baglos was shivering, for the morning shadows held none of the previous day’s warmth. “I don’t know what happened, my lord,” he said. “My vision grew blurry, the beast stepped off into the deeps, and everything was topsy-turvy.”

D’Natheil looked at me. “I should make a fire for him.”

“No, look,” I said, pointing to the rift wall. The timing of the rescue was perfect. The rays of the morning sun that had shone so tantalizingly on the west wall finally swept the shadows from the floor. “Go over by the rocks, Baglos. Wring yourself out and sit in the sun, and D’Natheil won’t have to risk an enchantment to warm you.”

The Dulcé was indignant. “I would never ask my lord to endanger himself for me,” he said through chattering teeth.

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply it.”

As I tethered the horses to a willow sprouted from the weeping wall, I noticed Baglos’s leather bag hung over Polestar’s saddle. Thinking to make a peace offering for my ill-considered remark, I pulled out the Dulcé‘s silver wine flask and took it to him. “Might this help?”

Baglos snatched the flask from my hand and jumped up. “No, woman, not this one! This is not—This one is only for the most dire circumstances. The other is the one to use.” He crammed the flask back in the leather bag and pulled out a different, plainer one. He took a sip and offered it around.

We wiped down the horse, wrung out our clothes and each found a spot in the sunbeams. D’Natheil groaned in pleasure as he stretched out next to the cliff wall and closed his eyes. I sat with my back propped against the wall and my face to the sun and watched the steam rise from my soggy boots. “One blessing of this experience,” I said, “is its close resemblance to a bath. Just a bit warmer water, and I might have dived into it myself.”

“Bathing!” said Baglos in disgust, as he dabbed at his damp tunic with the only dry corner of his blanket. “Immersion is an unhealthy habit. Just feel the chill. I cannot understand those who promote such practices. My uncle Balzir said that bathing can reduce one’s height by a full measure. The Dulcé do not hold with it.”

“Dassine must have approved of bathing,” said D’Natheil drowsily. “Someone was forever hounding me about it.”

Baglos and I looked at each other with eyebrows raised. The Prince did not even seem to realize what he was saying.

“He most likely hounded you about many things if you were the wicked boy Baglos describes,” I said.

“Many things: don’t run, don’t argue, don’t fight me, don’t tell. Be careful. Let me show you. Read… think… fifty generations. We’re wrong… the answer is there to be found. Our enemies do not sleep. Look deep, beyond the surface…”

I motioned the excited Baglos to silence and said, softly, “But he was kind to you. He didn’t beat you like the other Preceptor—Exeget—did?”

“Yes and no. His voice was kindness. And wisdom… like my father. Wicked humor, but so hard… unrelenting. Always it was ‘someday” “—D’Natheil’s mumbling slowed—”someday all will be clear. Someday, your gift… make all the difference. But it was so long waiting“—the words were a long sigh—”so long in the dark. Why so long, Dassine? Let me go. For the love of heaven, let me… ah…“

D’Natheil jerked upright, startled awake by his own cry. A flush of embarrassment suffused his face. “I must have fallen asleep. Fires of night…” He rubbed his head vigorously. “Have you dried out, Dulcé? We must get on.”

“I am ready at your command, my lord.”

The lingering echoes of D’Natheil’s anguish made ordinary conversation seem too trivial to pursue. I wondered if his memory was truly returning or if his rambling had been some dream-wrought confusion of all he’d heard from me and Baglos and Dassine. What did you dream when you had no person within you?

The next bend in the river shoved all thought of D’Natheil’s memories out of mind, for the Writer’s third clue lay revealed in awesome clarity. The path we traveled extended into the haze as far as we could see, but not fifty paces from the bend, another track branched off from it and angled steeply up the eastern wall. From somewhere in the distance, beyond our farthest view, we heard a muted rumbling of wind or water.

“Ascend the ancient face that weeps,” said Baglos in wonder.

I took a deep breath. Heights did not terrify me as did confinement in the dark, but I’d never done anything quite like this. I wondered if there would be room to dismount if we had need. “I’ll have to trust you once more,” I whispered to Firethorn, stroking his neck.

We took it slowly, speaking calmly and continually to our horses. The trail, a great seam in the tilted strata of the rock, was wider than it looked from below—in a few spots even enough to turn the horse around—but not so wide as to tempt me to linger one moment more than necessary. I would not have been surprised to find it dwindle away into nothing at the first angle in the cliff. Truly, I believed my worst fears confirmed when we approached a jutting corner where a huge boulder hung out over the trail, only air visible beyond it.

D’Natheil went first, crouching low in the saddle to clear the overhang, then disappearing on the other side. I was next. I huddled down into Firethorn’s ruddy mane and prayed the beast had sense enough to stay as close to the wall as the jutting boulder would permit.