Carol Berg - THE SOUL WEAVER

So, as I lay hidden just beyond the Gate of D’Arnath’s Bridge, watching through the wall of white fire as my friend Ven’Dar knelt in serene meditation waiting for someone to murder him, I found myself with jaws clenched, plunging my dagger over and over again into the cold mud in front of my face. Cold mud was the current aspect of the small island of stability I could create from the constantly shifting chaos behind the Gate. After today… no more. No more blood on my sword. No more feeling the exhilarating surge of enchantment when I slipped through the roaring Gate fire. No more of this unending dispute between the man I was and the man I wanted to be. No more of anything, if all went as I planned. As I ground my dagger into the gritty slop, I almost laughed aloud at the word. Planned. A comet streaking through a conjunction of the planets was more under my control than the hours to come.

Ven’Dar had been kneeling on the pearl-gray stone for hours, motionless, his arms outstretched to embrace D’Arnath’s fire. He was most likely freezing. His white robe was thin, and the chamber of the Gate was chilly, the Gate fire a manifestation of enchantment rather than flame. But the cold, and the creeping dread of a knife in the back, and the nagging anxiety as to whether his friend, the Prince of Avonar, was still there behind the roaring curtain, still awake, still watching, still sane, had been stitched with patience into the tapestry of Ven’Dar’s life as he took his next step along the Way. I envied Ven’Dar his patience and his cold and his fear. D’Natheil didn’t understand the Way and did his best to keep me from feeling anything but his anger.

Think. Use this time. Plan. What if Men’Thor doesn’t take the bait? What if dawn comes and Ven’Dar is unthreatened? You’ll have one hour to take Seri. and Ven’Dar and Paulo before the Preceptors, confirm Ven’Dar as the successor, and convince the Preceptors that Men’Thor and his son are murderers. Risky. Uncertain.

A weapon snatched from an assailant’s hand, imprinted with his will to do murder, would be so much better. Even Ustele would not be able to argue with it. Then I’d have done all I could do for my people’s future, and I could safely move on to the day’s other matters: my son and the Lords of Zhev’Na and dying.

You could have left yourself more time. Yes, speed was necessary to keep them off balance, but so many things could go wrong. I had just wanted it done.

To my relief, it was only a short time later that the door to the chamber of the Gate - purposely and publicly left unwarded as Ven’Dar began his vigil - swung open. Men’Thor, still arrayed in his elaborate finery, strode through. I wiped the mud from my dagger, drew my sword, and crouched low, ready to spring. Timing would be everything. Ven’Dar’s life and Men’Thor’s guilt must both be preserved. I felt neither satisfaction nor fear, only the urgency to get on with it.

Men’Thor was alone and his hands were empty as he stood glaring down at my friend like a stern father ready to mete out judgment to an errant child. “What winding did you cast to place the ruin of Avonar in your hand, Ven’Dar? What enchantment did you conjure to force the mad Prince to waste this magnificence - D’Arnath’s holy fire - and leave it blazing at the feet of a minor magician?”

I could scarcely hear the brittle words, squeezed through Men’Thor’s icy composure. Ven’Dar, lost in his meditation, showed no awareness of his companion.

“Of all the obstacles in my path, I never thought you would be the one to cause me to stumble. I never gave you credit for artifice. Why aren’t you dead?” He walked around Ven’Dar like a disdainful tailor inspecting his client’s worn apparel. “And now what am I to do with you? Will we be forced to make do with our mad Prince, and have you constantly at his ear encouraging his unhealthy yearning for these mundanes? At least you are one of us… ”

If sound had any meaning behind the roaring Gate fire, Men’Thor would have heard my sigh when he pulled the dagger from beneath his gem-studded belt. Soon… soon it would be done.

“… but you’re a coward, aren’t you?” He waved the knife before the Preceptor’s unseeing eyes. “You and your discredited philosophies that have left us at the mercy of our enemies, denied us the advantages of our power, reduced us to tricksters, hardly better than these shallow, ignorant creatures from the other world. I’ll not have it. Do you hear me? I’ll fight you with every voice and heart I can muster to my cause.”

“Voices and hearts are not enough, Father. We need more forceful, more visible weapons in this particular war.”

I’d been so intent on watching Men’Thor’s knife that I’d not seen Radele appear in the doorway. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his breast, smiling. “Even now the witnesses gather to watch the Prince invest his successor, but how much faster would they come and how many more of them, if they knew they were to witness our first true victory over the Lords. At last they’ll see what viper has been nurtured in their midst and how close we’ve been to a second Catastrophe, a final Catastrophe. Then shall the people of Avonar decide who is to bear D’Arnath’s sword.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. You will have everything you deserve, Father, and more.”

The smiling son gave an exaggerated bow and held the door for his father. His laughter echoed across the Gate fire as he followed Men’Thor from the chamber. Men’Thor’s knife was safely - annoyingly - back in its sheath.

No sooner had they gone than somewhere beyond the palace walls the sun broached the horizon. I knew the time, for Ven’Dar’s arms fell heavily to his sides, and he began to stretch the cramps from his neck and shoulders, easing himself off the floor.

“I gather I’m still alive,” he said, grimacing as he rubbed his knees, while at the same time trying to huddle his arms into his thin robe. “Though I’m cold enough to be a corpse, I don’t think a dead man’s knees would ache so much. Did our honey catch any flies?”

I stepped through the Gate fire, sheathing my dagger with such force that I split the leather. “My plotting’s been no more successful than anything else. But it’s not over. They’re up to something. Come. Paulo is to meet us at the council chamber, and I’ll send Bareil for Seri.”

I started for the door, but Ven’Dar lingered, letting his gaze dwell on the towering wall of white fire, its full extent unseeable in the brilliance far above our heads. “It is magnificent, is it not? Such purity. Such power. I close my eyes and see it still; everything I look on is made more than it was. To have it be a part of me… it’s as if I’ve been given new eyes. Is it that way for you?”

“Now is perhaps not a good time to ask me,” I said and slammed my palm against the door, careful to watch for any ambush along our way.

As I had commanded him, Bareil was waiting for us in the small, book-lined anteroom off the council chamber. Ven’Dar sank into one of the enveloping chairs and dived most appreciatively into the steaming saffria and crusty bread Bareil set out for him. I had no time for such - and no need.

“Paulo?” I asked.

“Asleep in your private chamber, my lord,” said the Dulcé. “He arrived two hours ago.”

“And his report?”

“He said to tell you that all went just as planned and to wake him if you needed to know more. The lad was asleep on his feet.”

One success. Good to know that something had gone right.

I nodded toward the door of the council chamber. “Is everyone present?”

“The Preceptors, the Archivists, Master Men’Thor, your commanders, the witnesses from ten families as Mistress Ce’Aret specified - all are present,” said the Dulcé. “She says that when you are ready to proceed, each Preceptor will take an imprint of Master Ven’Dar, then lay hands on you for acknowledgement, much like the test of parentage.”