Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“Seri! Stay close!” Weaker, yet enough to pull me back again. Next time. Next time I would escape his tether, leave him to his bloody combat, to his ending.

The two who battled were on the ground now, weapons thrown aside. Grunting, twisting until the blue-eyed one lay atop the other. The pale one’s arm outstretched was all that stayed the deadly stroke of the shining dagger.

Now, woman, witness the changing of the world. And as I watched, the pale one, the one with the empty eyes, broke into wild laughter and with a crow of triumph snatched his hand away. All the force of the battle was focused in the silver dagger that plunged into his own heart. So much blood! A fountain of it, washed into a red river by the scalding rain. The pale one’s bestial exultation did not fade with his surrender. His echoing laughter was the essence of horror, and the evil thing was upon me.

“No!” I sobbed, and I crouched down in the river of blood and covered my head so I could not see the end of the world. The wind howled and the thunder roared; the hot rain fell on my back. The ground beneath me writhed and groaned. When I felt hands on my arms, I flinched and cried out.

But the hands that gathered me in were not the hands of a monster, nor of madness, but were gentle and strong. The voice that spoke in my mind was not foul, but comforting and dear. Go back through the Gate. I cannot protect you any longer and do what I must do. I understand now, but there’s little time, and I’ll need everything I can muster. Do you understand?

I looked up at the blue eyes, but I could not comprehend his meaning and could not answer.

The strong hands guided me to a veil of pulsing blackness. Step through and wait for me, beloved. Wait for me.

He gave me a gentle push, and I stumbled into a circular chamber of stone filled with clouds of ice and the stench of blood and death. Three lives were leaking away on the stone floor, two men and a woman. I could not say who they were.

My cold, wet knuckles pressed to my mouth, I sank to the floor among the fallen, no less wounded than they, though I did not bleed. Beyond the black veil of fire, my rescuer knelt by the empty-eyed one he had slain and yanked the dagger from the dead man’s chest. But he did not sheath the bloody weapon as I expected, or wipe it clean, or plunge it in again to make sure of his evil opponent as I wanted him to do. Instead he turned the knife on himself.

“Don’t! Please don’t!” I needed someone left living to tell me my name.

He did not answer, but neither did he slay himself. Rather he drew the dagger across his muscled left arm with a sure and steady hand. Then he did the same to the fallen warrior, took a worn belt of woven string from his waist, and bound his arm to that of the dead man.

Numb, understanding nothing of what was happening, I whispered an echo of the words that rang clearly through the wall of fire. “Life, hold! Stay your hand. Halt your foot ere it lays another step along the Way. Grace your son once more with your voice that whispers in the deeps, with your spirit that sings in the wind, with the fire that blazes in your wondrous gifts of joy and sorrow. Fill my soul with light, and let the darkness make no stand in this place.” The words became my anchor. Wait for me, he had said.

It seemed an eternity that I shivered in the chamber of the Gate, watching the strange drama play out, but I had nowhere to go and could not think what else to do. Beside me lay a man grievously wounded. He was ashen and sweating, each breath an agony. The rag bound to his side was soaked in blood, and I felt a great swell of grief as I gazed on him. Tomas. My brother, Tomas. I hugged my knees and rocked back and forth.

At last my rescuer untied the binding and stood up, lifting the pale man in his arms. He stepped through the veil of fire and laid the man on the stone paving, next to the others. The hot rain must have washed away the blood, for there was none to be seen on the one who slept so peacefully, chest rising and falling easily, rhythmically. Then the blue-eyed one came to me and laid his warm hand on my cold, wet face in a touch of such sweetness that I cried out when he took it away. He knelt beside my wounded brother and drew his silver knife across his arm once more, leaving a great bloody gash just next to a scar that shone pale against his tanned flesh. He did the same to Tomas’s arm, and bound them together, and again spoke the words. “Life, hold… j’den encour, my brother.”

For a long time he knelt there, eyes closed, head bowed.

When he finally loosened the woven belt, it was slowly, and his hands trembled a bit. “I’ve done all I can do for him,” he whispered. “Not enough. I’m sorry.” Then he moved to the moaning woman in black, the Zhid woman, and began again.

The clouds of terror and madness drifted away in the soft breath of healing, and before very long I understood what it was I saw. Tears rolled down my face, and I eased my brother’s head into my lap, while the blue-eyed sorcerer worked to heal the two Zhid warriors.

“Seri.” The word was more like a sigh than speech. Tomas’s eyes had fluttered open. His breathing was easier, but he was still very pale, and his hands were like ice.

“I’m here, Tomas.”

“What happened?”

“You’ve been wounded in a match.”

“More than a match, I think, but I can’t remember.” His voice was so very weak.

“Don’t try. It can come later.” I stroked his damp hair.

“There will be no later. He told me when he was inside me. Too much damage to heal.”

“You’ll be fine, Tomas. I’ll take you home.”

He wrinkled his brow. “No, it must be now. Your pardon… Garlos has it. Find him and you’ll be free. I’m so sorry, Seri, sorry for all of—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I kissed his cold hand and held it to my breast.

His eyes were heavy, but I felt his urgency. “My son… he’s fair. Has our looks. Intelligent like you. Stubborn. Opinionated.” A faint smile graced his colorless lips. “I wanted to tell him—” His words stopped, and, for that moment, his hand crushed my fingers, as if he were grasping life itself.

“What, Tomas? What did you want to tell him?”

“—what a fine lad he is. A fine son… so proud…”

“He’ll hear it. I swear to you he will. And he’ll know of his father’s honor and the glory of his house.”

Tomas allowed his eyelids to close and nodded his head slightly. His hand relaxed as he drifted away, his last breath soft and easy.

“Be at peace, brother,” I whispered, gathering him to my breast and rocking him gently as one would a sleeping child. The Prince had bound himself to the last of his fallen enemies, the Gate fire burned white, and the very air sang.

Once the last of the wounded Zhid lay in peaceful sleep, the Prince did not move again. He remained huddled over his knees in the center of the chamber, silhouetted against the brilliance of the Gate fire. I could not think of what to say. After a long while, he raised his head, his eyes glazed with exhaustion, and said, “I know you.”

“Yes.”

“When I can think again…”

“There’s no hurry.”

His chin drooped onto his chest. I could not see if he was asleep.

The white fire had burned away the shadows. The frost clouds sparkled with the brilliance of diamonds, as if the sun played hide-and-seek behind them. The walls of the Gate chamber no longer appeared somber gray, but displayed polished veins of rose quartz and green malachite, and the floor was tiled with intricate patterns of rose and pearl.

I laid Tomas out with the dignity the Champion of Leire deserved, straightening his limbs, smoothing his hair, and arranging his fine clothes to hide the terrible bloodstains. No wound was visible anywhere on his body. I placed the Champion’s sword on his breast and folded his hands across the ruby-studded hilt. My father had been laid out so a lifetime ago, the gentle windings of death masking the ravages of drunken grief in the same way they now erased the remnants of Tomas’s madness. From the passage I fetched the gray robes discarded by the Zhid and covered him.