Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

All color drained from D’Natheil’s face, sweat beading his forehead. His stance wobbled briefly, but he clenched his jaw and held… and in a moment’s breath, the shadow was gone, the air clear again. Giano snatched his hands from D’Natheil as if they’d been burnt, his smirk erased. The Prince’s eyes flew open, bright and disdainful.

“He is the one,” snapped Giano. “Let us proceed. You have his knife?”

Maceron handed D’Natheil’s silver dagger to Giano. The Zhid held it to the light and examined its markings. “The lesser talisman,” he said. “With this and the sword, the Dar’Nethi believe they have ensured their future, abandoning this useless prince and this Bridge that has brought them nothing but grief.” He tossed the knife into the air and caught the spinning weapon by its hilt. “With the return of this dagger is our bargain done. The Gate fire yet burns, and, now, before we quench it forever, we will allow you to venture its dangers and return to your masters. Is that your wish, Dulcé?” He presented the knife, laid across his palms, as if he were a servant delivering a favored dish to his master.

“It is.” Baglos, his hands trembling, his complexion jaundiced, took the weapon, quickly bundled it in a cloth, and shoved it into the pack he carried on his shoulder. “The bargain is complete.”

“Do you recognize these bindings, my lord?” Giano ran a finger along the silvery cord that circled the Prince’s neck. “Dolemar is far stronger than rope or chains. As you may have noticed already, it gets tighter as you struggle, and the least touch of sorcery will cause it to burn. Too much and your flesh will turn black, and you will beg us to sever your limbs.”

He hissed a word that made the firelight dim and tweaked the cord that attached the Prince’s wrists to his neck. Though he made no sound, D’Natheil arched his back as if the binding had been pulled tighter.

Giano smiled. “Happily, you’ll wear your bonds only a short time. At dawn tomorrow the line of D’Arnath will end. The Bridge was created with D’Arnath’s blood and sweat, and the last of D’Arnath’s blood will destroy it. Simple, is it not? Ridiculous that it took a thousand years to discover that it takes only your life’s essence—the blood of D’Arnath’s anointed Heir—sprinkled in the Gate fire to finish this matter.” There could have been no words more filled with hate since the world began.

Giano beckoned his two Zhid companions. “Put him away until morning.”

As two Zhid grabbed D’Natheil’s strained arms, Baglos turned to Giano and bowed stiffly. “Before I go,” he said, “I would request one consideration. My master has neither eaten nor drunk anything for near a full day. It was part of the agreement that, although confined, he would not be cruelly treated before he discharged his duty. May I, as a last service, offer him food and drink?”

Giano laughed. “If you think he’ll take anything from you, Dulcé, then by all means proceed. We must wait until morning for the last chapter in this saga, and I’d not wish his strength compromised. D’Arnath’s Heir must champion his people with his full capabilities. I would have him know what it is he does.”

Baglos reached into his leather bag, genuflected before the naked prince, and extended his silver wine flask. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord prince. I did not know you when we began. In these past days… your kindness… You are not the person of whom I was told. Though it has not shaken my belief in the necessity of my course, our companionship has made my grief the weightier. Would that it could be different.” Tears rolled down the Dulcé‘s round cheeks. “Ce’na davonet, Gire D’Arnath.”

I understood the words, as I had not when Baglos first greeted D’Natheil with them. All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. And I remembered D’Natheil inspecting the scars on Tennice’s back, struggling to comprehend the relationships of honor and treachery and forgiveness. Perhaps the Prince believed Baglos had been given no more choice in his treachery than had Tennice, for in a movement that was scarcely more than a blink of his eye, he nodded. Baglos stood and raised the flask to his master’s lips. The silver glinted in the yellow torchlight.

The flask… What was it? It was not the same as the Dulcé had shared with us along the journey. This was the other one, the ornate one that was only for dire circumstances, and yet the Dulcé‘s own near drowning had not been dire enough. Baglos’s duplicity was so hard to accept. Now that I knew, I could recognize so many signs I’d missed. Yet, Baglos honored D’Natheil—loved him. I could not doubt that, for I had seen his grieving when he didn’t know I watched. I looked at the weeping Dulcé and the flask in his shaking hands, and in an instant I was filled with horrific certainty.

“No!” I screamed. “D’Natheil! My lord prince! Don’t! Oh, gods, don’t drink it!”

D’Natheil looked up in shock. He couldn’t have even known I was there, hidden in the shadows.

Baglos did not turn, but held the flask to the Prince’s lips. “Please, master, I beg you… before it is too late…”

But the silver flask clattered to the paving when Giano yanked Baglos away from D’Natheil. Giano shoved the Dulcé to the ground, then motioned to the gray-robed Zhid to take the Prince away. The two Zhid quickly wrapped the blindfold about D’Natheil’s straining eyes and dragged him into the darkness.

“Foolish, mundane woman!” cried Baglos. “Now they will use him to destroy the Bridge. We could have prevented it. You’ve ruined it all. I am forever cursed.”

“Oh, Baglos, was betrayal not enough?” I said. No matter how hopeless the day, I could not keep silent and watch murder done.

Baglos could not reply. Giano had turned his impassive gaze on him, and with no more feeling than a man crushing a gnat, flicked his knife across the Dulcé‘s throat. The blood of the Guide soaked quickly into the dry stones.

Once Giano had followed his prisoner into the darkness, Maceron and his men settled for the night in the cavern, rolling out blankets, passing food around, and setting the watch. The sallow-faced young man who had been charged with my security loosened my bonds enough for me to sit on the floor. An eager smile played over his bony face; his tongue licked his full lips. As he refastened the ropes and knots, his tight little fingers brushed my arms, and soon his hands were wandering freely. I almost wept in relief when Maceron called him away.

I told myself to sleep. There was nothing else to do but mourn, and too much of that even to begin. Rowan, Kellea, Paulo, Jacopo… I could not bear thinking of them. And the cursed, foolish Baglos. Earth and sky, how blind I had been. Bound by his Dulcé‘s vows to a master who, by Baglos’s own account, had come near destroying the Prince once before. Loyal to Dar’Nethi traitors willing to sacrifice the prince they had damaged—and my own “mundane” world—in a scheme to save their precious city. Baglos must have been terrified that Dassine’s message would expose him. Had he called in Maceron’s henchmen to attack the herb shop, causing Celine’s death and Tennice’s injury? He had run out of the room during Dassine’s message and been dismayed at finding Zhid poison in Tennice’s wound. I grieved that Baglos was dead, for I wanted to rip out his traitorous heart.

But my anger waned quickly. What was the point? Perhaps I should have allowed Baglos to carry out his plot. Perhaps D’Natheil would be better dead at the hand of his servant than at the hand of his enemy. This time tomorrow none of it would matter. And the Bridge would fall.