Carol Berg - THE SOUL WEAVER

“I remember it.” An adoption rite, in essence.

“A quarter of an hour - no more - and it will be done.”

“Good” - I lowered my voice - “and have you brought what I told you?”

The Dulcé looked at me solemnly and matched his tone to mine. “Yes, my lord, but - ”

“You will speak of it to no one. No one. Do you understand me, Dulcé?”

“Of course, my lord.” He dropped his eyes.

“So, give it to me.” Into my hand Bareil slipped a red silk bag about the size of my fist. “Now you must fetch Seri. Keep her in here until I call for her.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He bowed very low, and turned to go without looking at me again.

I laid a hand on his arm. “There are not thanks enough for all your good service, madrissé, nor for your kindness and care that the madris cannot compel. You’ve never failed me. It is I who lost my way, not my Guide.”

Silent, eyes averted, Bareil kissed my hand and hurried away. Ven’Dar raised his eyebrows, but I left him ignorant and shoved the small heavy bag into the leather pouch I had fastened to my belt that morning. Already in the bag was a second object, retrieved from the vault in my bedchamber last night, where it had lain for the past four years, an artifact of the Lords that made my soul shrivel to touch it. I was as prepared as I could be for the eventualities of the morning. Laying my hand on the latch of the council-chamber door, I said, “Shall we see what surprises our friends have readied for us?”

The three members of the Preceptorate were seated at the long table on a raised dais at the far end of the huge windowless room. It might have been a winter’s night instead of a summer morning, for the lamps were lit and a fire crackled in the wide hearth behind the Preceptors’ table, burning off the chill of the eternal stone. My stomach never failed to give me a twinge when I walked into this room. The first time I’d sat in the Prince’s chair facing the dais was the day I’d stuck a knife in my gut to convince the Lords of Zhev’Na I was mad. On that day death had been but a painful feint. The paths of life were uncompromising.

“Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath,” intoned Ce’Aret as I entered. The greeting was echoed by the others in the room, and I extended my hands, palms up, as ritual demanded.

The air of the room was thick with anticipation. Perhaps fifty people, dressed in their finest and fully aware of their privilege, were in attendance. Their eyes were wide and alert for the least nuance of expression from the principal players, ears pricked, shoulders straight, voices kept low. Every whisper was cause for excitement; every sound quickly hushed lest it distract from full perception of the historic event.

The old woman spoke with the authority of age and righteous power. “What business have you with your Preceptorate this day, my lord Prince?”

“I bring my chosen successor, Ven’Dar yn Cyran, to be acknowledged before the Preceptorate. As you have instructed me, I have taken him onto D’Arnath’s Bridge and touched his mind with my own, imprinting him with my family’s patterns of thought and all that I know of the Bridge and the Gates. Then did he open himself to the Gate fire for the time allotted to attune his power to the Gate and the Bridge. I have judged him worthy and capable, and as the Preceptorate witnesses my choice, so shall the secrets and the power of D’Arnath be unlocked in him, ready for his anointing.”

“Why such hurry, my lord?” asked Ce’Aret. “Is it not a risk for the successor to be privy to all the Heir’s lore so soon after his accession?”

“Our times are dangerous, Preceptor, and the deeds I must do today and in the days to come carry risks that are unknown. Ven’Dar is not a child to be protected and nurtured before he can shoulder his responsibilities.”

“Reasonable, I suppose. Yes. Very wise. Please be seated, and we will proceed.”

I settled in the Prince’s chair, facing the Preceptors. Ven’Dar took a position somewhere out of sight behind me. Ce’Aret spoke to the assembly to explain the ritual.

The most difficult part had already been accomplished, she said, and the acknowledgment was little more than a formality, a key to unlock the knowledge that had already been passed along to the chosen.

While the Preceptor droned on about my family and my unique inheritance of D’Arnath’s chair, I kept thinking of Seri. She would be watching from the anteroom through a myscal - an enchanted glass. It was all I could do to keep from looking up, from trying to express… something… of what I felt for her. But I had already slipped once. I had not intended to go to her in the night. She would do what was necessary, no matter if I told her or not, and if the Lords caught the least hint of my intent, we would fail. But I had not been able to leave her without a word or a touch. She was my foundation. My fortress keep. To share such a life as hers was a grace few men were given. And no man but I bore such hatred for the Lords of Zhev’Na, who had forced me to this day. Ah, gods, I would crush their bones in my teeth if I could.

Ce’Aret finished her recitation, stepping from the dais with the brisk movements of one half her age and disappearing behind me. She would be standing before Ven’Dar, splaying her fingers across his face, using her power to carve an image of his soul upon her mind. And soon after, she would transfer that image to me. An intrusive rite for the one whose image was being taken, exposing emotions and convictions one might prefer remain private. I was happy she was not probing my soul at the moment. All I had to do was read what she gave me and reflect my response to it. I shoved my murderous cravings aside and tried to unclench my fingers, which threatened to break the ancient wood of my chair, and focus on the rite.

Small hard hands settled on my shoulders. In an instant, I was infused with the image of Ven’Dar, not merely his physical aspect, but his essence: the joy that permeated every moment of his life, his love for our Way, for our land, for me.

“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” Ce’Aret’s voice was as clear as a brass trumpet. “The one who will follow your steps onto D’Arnath’s Bridge, whose hands shall serve the people of Avonar and all of Gondai, leading us and guarding us with their skill and power?”

“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my mentor, my heir,” I said.

Ce’Aret removed her hands, and the image dissolved.

Mem’Tara brought me another image of Ven’Dar, this time the sounds of his voice, rich and clear in its timbre, honest and gentle in its tenor, powerful in its articulation of the words that were his life. She gave me the image of his eyes that could see so far beyond the moment and so deep into the past, and his hands that had calmed my anger as skillfully as they smoothed and shaped rough bits of wood into articles of use and beauty. She brought me his laughter, and his raucous baritone, singing a bawdy song. “Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil? The one who shall assume your place in the life of this world when your span of days is complete?”

“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my comforter, my heir.”

Then it was Ustele’s turn. Slowly, leaning on a wild-wood cane, he hobbled from the dais and passed by me without meeting my gaze. I wasn’t worried about Ustele. The ritual was strict. He could refuse to participate, and I would remove him from the Preceptorate, appointing another person of my choosing to his place. But if he wished to retain his position as my counselor, he could only do as the ritual prescribed, take the image and present it to me.

My bones ached. A chill draft made me shudder. When had I last slept? My gritty eyes stung, and I rubbed them, causing a moment’s shift in the light, smearing faces and colors… red… green. The hour was speeding by. I flinched when Ustele laid his cold, bony fingers on my head.