Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

I watched the same range of emotions play out on the faces of the bewildered man and woman as Marcus spoke to them. A short time later Marcus returned, his face gray and his fingers knotted again. His speech stumbled and faltered. “One more question, madam, if you please. The Heir—we think we must be confused. Please to tell me what is the name and lineage of the Heir who has saved us?”

“D’Natheil, third son of D’Marte, sixty-third Heir of D’Arnath.”

Marcus expelled a sharp breath, then ducked his head and returned to his companions. A moment later, they all came to me.

“These are Nemyra and T’Sero,” said Marcus, a thin layer of composure regained, as he presented the tall angular woman and the broad-shouldered man. “Is there aught we can do for you, madam? If your facts be true, then the matter of our return to our homes is not important. Those who would welcome us have long ago made their way to L’Tiere. I was taken in the time of Z’Ander, the twenty-seventh Heir, and these two in the time of Nikasto, the thirty-fourth Heir. Our time is long past. But if we could aid you in some way, or some other who serves our blessed prince…”

What to do with them? Their lives were irretrievable. But I, of all people, should understand their need to give their loss some meaning. “I suppose… you must learn the ways of this world, so you can be ready to serve the Prince when he’s able to return. I await him, also. I can teach you what you need to know. But, for now… I’ve things to do. Come along. You might want to look around the place. See a part of your history.”

As I smoothed Tomas’s covering, the three removed their gold earrings and threw them into the fire, each small missile causing an eruption of gold flame as it vanished beyond the Gate. Then they helped me carry my brother out of the chamber of the Gate. The wooden doors swung shut behind us and vanished into the stone.

I broke the news of Tomas’s death to his three anxious soldiers, telling them that, because of the intervention of the mysterious prisoner and the strange conversion of the three priests, the challenge to Leire and King Evard had been successfully countered anyway. Thanks to my family resemblance to Tomas, they accepted what I said. Or perhaps they would have accepted anything to remove themselves from the haunting quiet of the cavern. But they were kind and offered Marcus and the others a share in their provisions. Then I enlisted their help in the sad duties that remained.

While the soldiers set to digging at the place I selected by the lake, I sought out Kellea, Paulo, and Graeme Rowan. The sheriff was awake with easy breath and good color, and no sign of his wounds save his bloody clothing. Even the scar from D’Natheil’s ill-judged blow to his head had vanished.

At sunset we laid Tomas in the frozen tundra by the lake. Before we covered him over, I took his signet ring and a lock of his hair, and I replaced his sword with a lesser one, wrapping the Champion’s sword in a cloth so it could be returned to its proper owner. Tomas’s soldiers built a cairn over the shallow grave so that wolves could not disturb it. At his feet we buried Baglos, face down as was the custom for traitors. In a small third grave, I placed the dark-stained burlap bag that had been tossed aside by the Zhid. The soldiers were curious, but I had used the last of my strength to bring the grisly bundle and lay it in the ground. I wept for my dear old friend, but I could not speak of him.

On the next morning we set out on the long journey home. I was the last to leave the cavern. The enchanted torches faded behind me, and when I reached the far side of the lake and turned for a final look, only a bare cliff face stood where the doorway had been. I followed the others past Tomas’s resting place and down the sloping tundra.

Three days after leaving Vittoir Eirit, we camped at the ruined castle south of Yennet. On that night Dirk, the older man who commanded Tomas’s soldiers, said that he and his men would leave us on the next morning. They planned to report the tragic result of the “chieftain’s” challenge to the duke’s aide, Captain Darzid, and give him the Champion’s sword so it could be returned to King Evard.

In the quiet travel of the preceding days, I had thought a great deal about Darzid, the mysterious spider lurking at the edge of my life’s web. Was he a pawn like Maceron, a victim like Jacopo, or some vile transformation more like these three poor Dar’Nethi had been? Was he pursuing sorcerers to rid our lands of them, as Maceron claimed, or was he an ally of the Zhid? None of those things seemed to fit. My instincts told me he was something different yet.

“I’ll return my brother’s sword to the king myself,” I told Dirk. “Your duty is at Comigor. The young duke must be protected when word goes out of his father’s death, and it is the faithful Comigor retainers like you, not the… outsiders… who must see to his safety. Inform the Lady Philomena that I shall come to pay my respects to her and her son as soon as I’ve spoken to King Evard.”

The old soldier touched his forelock, approving my concern for Tomas’s son. When I awoke the next morning, he and his men were gone.

At Fensbridge, Graeme Rowan, Kellea, and Paulo turned south, accompanied by Marcus, T’Sero, and Nemyra. The three Dar’Nethi would stay in my cottage until someone came to take them back across the Bridge to Avonar. Rowan and Kellea promised to see to their welfare.

Graeme Rowan hung back for a moment as the others rode away. “You’re not coining back to Dunfarrie, are you?”

“I don’t belong there.”

“For ten years you did. You made a place for yourself.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Where then?”

“I’m not sure. It depends on the pardon. If it’s real, there are several possibilities. I once had dreams of the University. I might be able to live better on my knowledge of history, philosophy, and languages than I ever could on my skills at farming.”

Rowan laughed with me, but we soon fell silent, thinking of Jacopo, who had made it possible for me to live in Dunfarrie.

“I’ll send word of my plans,” I said, then clasped his hand briefly and rode north toward Montevial.

A fortnight after the opening of the Gate, I sat in the royal palace in Montevial, awaiting word that the king would see me. My hair was clean, my fingernails free of dirt, and I was dressed in a new gown of dark green, simple but well made, bought with silver from Baglos’s purse. I felt more myself than I had in ten years. The guards had demanded to see what was wrapped in the long bundle of red silk I carried, but I told them it belonged to His Majesty, and none could look on it without his leave. The king would either give his permission for me to enter with the wrapped bundle, or I would await a time when he would.

Eventually a footman escorted me into a gaudy little sitting room. Evard sat by a blazing fire despite the warmth of the late summer day. On a footstool beside him perched a dainty, fair-haired girl of eleven or twelve in a heavily embroidered red satin gown with a white ruff about the neck. As I made my curtsy, she looked up at Evard and closed her book. But he laid a hand on the child’s shoulder. “This won’t take long, my treasure.” His eyes rested on me. “Lady Seriana, my daughter, the Princess Roxanne.”

I understood the trace of gloating in the introduction. His daughter was a princess, and she could have been mine. Yet of far more importance to me was the fact that he had a living daughter, whereas I had no living son. Perhaps he understood that, too, and that’s why his eyes darted away so quickly. I curtsied to the girl, who condescended to tip her head.

“Now what is it that my guards are not allowed to view? You would not slay me before my child, I think.” His laugh had a decidedly anxious edge.