Carol Berg - THE SOUL WEAVER

“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” The old sorcerer’s voice quavered in my ear, filled with bitterness. “The one who shall wield the sword and the power of D’Arnath and be privy to the innermost secrets of the Dar’Nethi? Is this the man to whom you would entrust the fate of the worlds? Consider well, for with your word will your successor be proved.”

Even dull-witted with exhaustion, I knew this one thing was sure and right. “This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my brother, my heir.”

But no sooner had I spoken, delivering the future of Gondai and the Bridge into his hands, than I glimpsed the flaw in the image that lingered in my mind. Ven’Dar, yes, his courage in battle, his unyielding devotion to justice and truth. In all things honorable. Yet, behind the image, lurking in the midst of everything I expected to see… what was it? A shadow. A scar. Alien. A flash of gold, a glimmer of ruby, of amethyst, of blue-white diamond… and familiar horror…

“No!” I slapped Ustele’s band away and burst from the chair, whirling about to see Ven’Dar’s eyes grow cold and his smile harden.

“First friend, then brother, then heir. I’m dizzy from coming full circle - for I believed myself to be your heir to begin with. Family, yes, but not brother. And never friend. Most confusing. And even more so for these others who cannot see what you see or know what you know. Tell them who I am, my lord Prince. Tell them who will reign in Avonar in three heartbeats from this moment, when their mad Prince lies dead on the floor. Say my name, and let them shudder and curse your failure.”

It was impossible, but there was no mistake. “Gerick!”

“No, no, good Father. Call me Dieste.”

Seri

Bareil had given me a square of glass through which, by some magical mechanism, I could view the morning’s events while remaining hidden myself. I’d watched the ritual in the same state of heightened expectation I’d experienced since waking to see Karon’s rose.

Play the part that only you have ever been able to play. Follow the Way… What did he mean? He thought I’d understand. He had been rushed, pressed for time. But my message had told him that I knew what he was planning, at least the result of it, and he had come to tell me… what? Fragile hope held my soul together, but despair picked and jabbed relentlessly.

The sole bright spot of the morning had been finding Paulo in the antechamber. But before he could tell me where he’d been since Calle Rein, Paulo had raced off in search of the missing Roxanne, hoping that she was only hiding and would emerge if she saw his familiar face.

And then the ritual fell apart…

“No!” Karon’s cry of outrage pulled me to my feet, the magical glass held even closer to my face. But it was impossible to see anything once chaos erupted in the council chamber.

How could Gerick be here?

Shouts and curses. The unmistakable sliding clangor of swords engaged. As I strained to see, the door of the antechamber burst open, and several of the Dar’Nethi poured through it, reminding me that the chaos was only steps away.

“Cover your face, my lady,” whispered Bareil as the first rush of refugees fled through the outer door and others began to crowd in from the council chamber. “Perhaps we should withdraw.”

Play the part… Follow the Way…

To follow the Way meant to accept whatever came and fit it into the larger context of the universe. But I had never been able to accept whatever came, not until I understood the truth of it. That took time, and everything was happening too fast. But, of course, Karon had even less time than I to unravel the truth of these events, and he couldn’t always control his reactions, not with D’Natheil’s emotions confused with his own. Was that what he wanted from me? To stay close to him through everything? To watch and listen no matter how painful the event? To look for the truth and hold onto it?

“No, Bareil. I think I need to be here.”

I shoved my way through the fearful crowd into the council chamber. By the time I stepped past the door only a few observers remained in the room: the three Preceptors, the enigmatic Men’Thor, and four or five stalwarts in sober military garb, who I guessed were Karon’s field commanders, bound by honor and duty to stay beside their prince. Gerick was nowhere in sight. But Karon and Ven’Dar were engaged, swords in hand, Ven’Dar’s sleeve already bloodied from their first closing. Now I understood…

“Stay back!” shouted Karon to one of the Dar’Nethi who stepped forward, sword drawn, ready to enter the fight. “He’s mine!”

He didn’t need help. He already had Ven’Dar in a steady retreat. Karon - D’Natheil - was an incomparable swordsman. And Gerick… though it had been his childhood ambition to excel at sword combat, and he’d trained ferociously under the most skilled masters in Zhev’Na, he’d not touched a weapon in four years.

Ven’Dar pivoted and delivered a powerful counter to Karon’s thrust. Karon’s feet did not budge. Ven’Dar delivered another blow. And another. But Karon might have been waiting for an annoying fly to settle so he could swat it with his hand.

I wanted to scream out my confusion. If Gerick truly had control of Ven’Dar’s body and forced Karon into killing the Preceptor, then the god Vasrin himself could not keep our son alive. If Gerick left Ven’Dar’s body before it was dead, Karon would fly down to the palace dungeon and slaughter him. If he did not leave Ven’Dar’s body in time, then he would be trapped and die with the Preceptor. Why would Gerick challenge Karon this way, knowing it was a sure route to his own death? Surely the Lords were controlling him. But to what purpose?

If the Lords’ intent was merely to prevent anyone other than Gerick from inheriting the powers of D’Arnath, then why had they not forced Gerick to kill Karon at Calle Rein when they were linked and he was most vulnerable? Gerick had been Karon’s acknowledged successor for four years. The power the Lords wanted was within their grasp, and it made no sense that they would put Gerick, their prize, at further risk of Karon’s wrath. So, why this masquerade? All that was likely to happen from this futile exercise was that everyone would end up dead - Gerick and Ven’Dar and Karon, too, of course. Once he finished killing his dearest friend and executing his son he would be soul-dead, at the least. What would it benefit anyone…?

Frantically I scanned the onlookers and confirmed that the face every instinct insisted should be present was missing from the crowd. Earth and sky, I knew!

I shoved my way past the remaining observers, until I was so close to the combatants that I could feel the rush of air as their swords sliced the air. “Karon! Stop! This is not Gerick’s doing!”

Relentless, unbending, unheeding, Karon pressed the sneering Ven’Dar to the dais, laying blow after ringing blow on his opponent’s sword, his powerful arms unwavering, his face like iron. Mortal enchantments flew with every strike. Ven’Dar seemed scarcely able to parry, much less mount an attack of his own. The end could be only moments away.

“Get away from here, Seri!” I heard nothing of Karon in the command, only cold fury and death. He never took his eyes from his objective. Ven’Dar’s cold gaze never wavered from his Prince’s face. He showed no fear. No concern. No hatred. No interest in me. Only singular determination. I knew I was right. I just didn’t know how it was possible, even for a sorcerer of exceptional talent.

“I don’t care what you see, Karon. I don’t care what you feel. This is not Gerick. Stop and listen to me. For everything, listen to me.” I switched from the language of Avonar to the language of Leire, the language Karon and I had shared.