Carol Berg - Daughter of Ancients

Eventually Ven'Dar's words of calm, and Gerick's demeanor, quieted the torrent of anger and abuse enough that Ven'Dar could speak again. "The Preceptors and I will summon the finest minds and talents in Gondai to investigate the events of this night," he said. "But I exhort each of you to listen and feel the changes in the universe, for every succeeding moment convinces me that something extraordinary has come to pass—not our doom, but rather our salvation. Dar'Nethi power is not destroyed. Behold …"

Ven'Dar raised his right arm and a beam of white light shot out from his fingers, reflecting from broken window glass and shattered lamps, from a toppled bronze warrior maiden, and from hundreds of fearful eyes. The crowd gasped as one when he cupped his hand and the light fell back, flowing into his palm like liquid silver. "Good people, I have not felt such innocence of power . . . such joy and completion . . . since I conjured my first light."

Gerick lifted his head to watch Ven'Dar's magic and his eyes opened wide and his lips parted as if on the verge of speech.

"That's exactly the way I felt when I sang my children to sleep not an hour ago," said a sturdy woman in the front ranks, whose face was streaked with soot and mud.

Ven'Dar motioned her to come up the steps, and had her repeat it where the enchantments of the house could amplify her report for the mass of people. ". . . and that's why I came here," she said. "To see if the tales I heard could possibly be true, for I'd never made such a song as could take their fear away and send them into a dream."

A few others stepped forward and recounted similar experiences, and before very long the mass of bodies had split apart, the fearful citizens gathering around more witnesses and peppering them with questions.

"Share your stories," said Ven'Dar, "and then help each other. Believe. We will come to you when we know more."

As Ven'Dar motioned everyone on the steps back into the Precept House, a tall, graying woman with a sword at her belt stepped forward, her arm about a young man's shoulders. "I'll keep them talking, sir. My son is a Scribe, and he'll take evidence from those who have demonstrated power. I knew Prince D'Natheil, and I know you, Prince Ven'Dar. I trust your word."

"I'm sorry to put you through that," Ven'Dar said to Gerick, as soon as guards were posted and the doors closed and barred behind us.

"Better than I had any right to expect," said Gerick, rubbing his forehead for a moment before folding his arms, allowing his right arm to support his wounded left. "But you were right—" He whipped his head toward me. "No, you were right. They were just afraid. I don't claim to have much judgment just now."

Ven'Dar nodded. "Indeed they were. We diffused some of the rumors, at least, to give ourselves time to work."

"And your power," said Gerick. "I didn't think anyone— I don't understand it, but I'm glad."

"Clearly there's much to understand. Come," said Ven'Dar, brisk and serious. "I would like to offer you some rest, but we've some difficult hours ahead of us. Preceptor K'Lan is off working with the wounded; Preceptor J'Dinet is working with the city administrators to provide shelter and food for those who need it. W'Tassa is with the legion in the east. Je'Reint is rounding up Zhid, who seem entirely stripped of their ferocity and purpose—quite differently from five years ago. But these four others and I have decided we .must put off other responsibilities. You've left a path of destruction behind you well worthy of a Lord of Zhev'Na, Gerick, and before we can begin to rebuild in earnest, we must understand what you've done and why. And we must know what we face in the future, if it is not you."

Ven'Dar led us down the short wide flight of steps into the council chamber. Two women and two men in dark blue Preceptors' robes had already taken their places behind the long council table that fronted a massive hearth. Only one of them, Mem'Tara the Alchemist, did I recognize. The ancient, plain wooden chair in front of the table—King D'Arnath's own chair, so children were told—sat vacant. Four other chairs had been placed in a semicircle before the table. One was occupied.

Aimee popped to her feet as soon as we entered the chamber, beaming first in Paulo's direction, and then at Gerick and me. "Oh, Jen, and my good lord—Gerick— to find you safe is beyond happiness."

"We're as happy to be in one piece as you are to find us that way," I said, wondering how she had known our identities before we had spoken. We joined her, and she threw her arms around me and kissed me on each cheek, before turning and extending her palms to Gerick. Paulo took a position close to her right shoulder. It would take another earthquake to budge him.

Gerick returned her gesture of greeting. "Mistress."

She bent her head toward him as gracefully as if he had kissed her hand.

Ven'Dar motioned us to take our seats beside Aimee. He himself remained standing. "We need to hear your story from the beginning, Gerick," he said. "Every detail. It's the only way we'll be able to judge you fairly."

Gerick nodded, and as soon as we were settled, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if to compose his thoughts. Then he looked up at the Preceptors. "If I'm to start at the beginning, then we must go very far back indeed. For this cannot be merely a recounting of my own deeds—or crimes, as many of you consider them— but the story of my family. It begins with a king who was a card cheat and a gambler, who loved his family only slightly less than he loved his marvelous kingdom, and it tells of his three children, and his beloved cousin who is my own ancestor, and the three sorcerers who defied his wisdom, to their own ruin and his and very nearly to ours . . ."

He assembled the pieces—D'Arnath and the Bridge, D'Sanya and her tragic coming to power, the horror of her captivity in Zhev'Na, and her father's desperate attempt to salvage his terrible mistake—and laid them in a magical pattern like the tiles and silver bars of a sonquey game. And then he spoke of his own childhood, and his own dreadful coming of age, and the blight of memory he had retained long after his mentors had vanished beyond the Verges. And he spoke frankly and clearly of his guilt and his doubts and what he considered to be his failure in uncovering D'Sanya's madness. ". . . When my father and Prince Ven'Dar asked me to investigate the Lady D'Sanya, the last thing I expected was that I would grow to love her—or rather, the image that I made of her. I feared the seductions of my past, the power I did not fully understand, the memories I had inherited, but the true danger lay in a direction I had no capacity to imagine . . ."

For hours he spoke, softly, telling his tale without averting his eyes. The Preceptors questioned him intensely, often brutally, but never once did this most private of souls bristle or withdraw or attempt to hide his own culpability. ". . . Yes, I knew Dar'Nethi would die in the assault, but I was not strong enough—no one was strong enough—to face D'Sanya alone … I had to get to the Bridge and break the link, and I believed the Dar'Nethi would slay me before I could do so . . . and that was before I knew that she was, herself, the link. Yes, I was tempted to take power for myself … I chose not. Yes, I fully intended for the Zhid to destroy the Bridge if I failed. If they were capable of doing it at all, then they would, at the same time, destroy their own connection to each other—the avantir. Then perhaps one of you could have picked up the pieces and made the worlds live again … I hoped . . ."

As Gerick spoke, scenes flashed through my head in vivid display, people and places and torments excruciatingly real and complete, far beyond his unadorned words. Only when he paused could I shake my head clear of them, feeling foolish at my presumption that I could envision the past through his eyes. Exhaustion had made me silly, for I'd even seen myself—and in a way no mirror could ever show me. Neither foolish, cowardly, nor awkward. Yes, I had a good mind, and I knew how to put two words together to make some sense of matters. But admirable? Insightful? Beautiful? I slumped in my chair and covered my face with my hand, attempting to smother my snickering before someone noticed and read my thoughts. Mind-speaking, limited for so long to only a few of us . . . Ven'Dar hinted that it might be revived in this new world. An uncomfortable consideration when one had thoughts too ludicrous to see daylight.