Carol Berg - THE SOUL WEAVER

“Once the sword of D’Arnath rests in the proper hand, the opinions of those in Zhev’Na will have no more weight than the opinions of a fly… or the opinions of a dead coward of a prince or his demon spawn.”

“And whose hand would be the proper one to hold D’Arnath’s sword?” said a calm, equable voice from behind me. A firm hand moved me aside, and a straight-backed figure in red robes strode into the room. Men’Thor - his legendary composure regained.

Radele smiled triumphantly, straightened his own back, and gave a deep bow. “Yours, of course, my father. And after yours, mine.”

Men’Thor walked slowly past Karon, assuming, correctly it seemed, that Radele would allow him to pass his barriers. When the man in red stood next to his son, he examined the spinning ring for a goodly time.

“You have made alliance with the Lords of Zhev’Na in order to make me the Heir of D’Arnath?” he said at last. He might have been discussing a gift of a new pair of boots or the talents of an untried sweeping girl.

“It was the only way. If you had seen it, Father… the madman Prince brought the boy sneaking across the Bridge in the middle of the night, as if to show his demon spawn the prizes awaiting him! How could I permit it? I was appalled. Furious. It happened that one of the Lords came to me that same night in the guise of a Zhid defector, thinking I was some weak-minded fool who would not recognize one of them. He said the boy was just biding his time, hoping to learn Avonar’s secrets before rejoining the Lords. I could see they feared the boy would supplant them and take the powers of the Heir for himself alone. But for the time our purposes were the same, and I allowed them to think they had deceived me. That’s when I bargained with them and obtained this device.”

“And today you were able, using this Zhev’Na device - this oculus - to displace Ven’Dar’s soul with that of the boy?”

“The Lords own this creature’s mind. They taught me how to use the oculus to reach into his corrupted soul and command him, so that he would not even remember his own deeds. And though he is no longer an immortal Lord, his soul has this ability to move into other bodies. Ask our Prince. He recognized the boy. It was no illusion.”

“But it was you all the time, controlling him, putting the words in his mouth and wielding the weapons in his hand.”

“I could not allow Ven’Dar to be named successor. He’s weak. Just as you said, Father. If the Prince had only named you instead, Ven’Dar would never - ”

“And in the Preceptor Gar’Dena, too, you did this thing?”

“I used the oculus to discover what secrets the Prince told the boy that night and learned of the information cache at the bathhouse. If the Prince had named you to the Preceptorate, as he should have, nothing would ever have happened to it. But we had to control the knowledge of mordemar. If the people thought the Prince could prevent enslavement, it would take them another thousand years to listen to our reasoning. It was unfortunate that Jayereth and Gar’Dena had to die.”

“And the Circle… ”

Although there had been not the slightest change in Men’Thor’s demeanor, Radele’s grin began to fade. “Yes, yes. When Grandfather Ustele told you of the Circle, you said such a flimsy enchantment so close to our borders would ensure the destruction of Avonar. You said they should all be executed for treachery. So I used the oculus to learn the disposition of the Circle from the boy. I pretended to be horrified at the result. The Lords never knew the destruction of the Circle served our own purpose more than theirs. And then Grandfather said that the best thing that could possibly happen would be an attack on the Vales, to make the people wake up to their folly, to make the Prince forget the mundanes and concentrate on our own people. You agreed. So I probed the boy to see what he knew of the Vale Watch and told the Lords of it, too. You said the woman had to be silenced, to free the Prince from his bondage to the mundanes, and I knew there must be no question of the boy’s succession.

“I did everything you wanted, Father, and now we’ve won. The people have seen the Lords in their midst and witnessed the power of evil. They will follow us anywhere we wish to take them. With the mad Prince and his demon son dead, and the puling Ven’Dar out of the way, no one can hold us back. We will lead the host against Zhev’Na and we will prevail. What is it, Father? What’s wrong? Everything is accomplished just as you wish.”

Men’Thor spun on his heels, and with a formality that seemed ridiculously out of place, he bowed to Karon, spreading his hands, palms up. “My lord Prince,” he said softly, “words cannot express my humiliation, my disgust, my dishonor at the despicable deeds of this traitorous fool I have sired. I accept full responsibility for his crimes, and may my actions, in some small part, remedy the damage he has wrought. Ce’na davonet, Giri D’Arnath!”

And before the red-faced Radele could digest the significance of his father’s speech, Men’Thor straightened his back, drew his knife, and buried it in the belly of his son. With a twist and a jerk, the bloody implement was withdrawn and turned on its wielder, and before anyone could move, an ashen Men’Thor gave a single agonized sob and caught the slumping Radele. The two collapsed to the floor in a mortal embrace.

Horror robbed me of breath. Dread weighted my bones… my spirit… my soul. The spinning ring did not fall, but hung suspended in the air, pulsing and whirling in an obscene dance. Like a swelling bruise, it grew larger, a bilious swirl of purple and red and green. A cold wind swept through the guardroom, bearing the stench of old stone and foul smoke and such despair as would cause the bravest warrior to turn his weapon on himself.

“They come.” Gerick, still shackled to the table, struggled to his knees and raised dark, haunted eyes to Karon. “Father… ”

Karon turned away. Crouching down beside Radele and Men’Thor, he felt their wrists for signs of life, closed their eyes, and murmured words of Dar’Nethi peace sending, as if no one else was in the room.

Gerick wrenched his gaze from Karon’s forbidding back and looked about the room, bewildered. When his gaze fell on me, he shuddered, looking gray and sick. Then, taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and lifted his head until the light of the orb lay full on his face.

The pulse of the swelling orb increased until it set my teeth on edge and skin aflame, forcing my very heartbeat to throb in time with it.

“They come.” Gerick’s words were almost inaudible now, his eyes haunted. Hopeless. Lifeless. “Father, help me.”

This time Karon rose and turned to the stone platform. Grim and merciless, he drew his sword and stood waiting.

From out of the bitter wind and the whirl of the oculus rose whisperings to paralyze the blood, voices that grew louder and easier to distinguish one from the other, weaving their wickedness through the thick air like writhing snakes.

“You called us, Dieste?” As the voice sighed and slithered through the air, I envisioned Notole the Loremaster, the gray-haired hag whose face was of beaten gold and whose eyes were emeralds.

“Your acceptance of your destiny gives us great pleasure, little brother.” So spoke the wide-browed Parven, the Warmaster, he of the amethyst eyes.

“We had almost despaired of you, young Lord,” said Ziddari, so clearly present that I imagined his ruby eyes gleaming in the shadows beyond the orb, his voice still that of Darzid, my brother’s lieutenant who had once been my friend and confided in me of his terrifying dreams. “We feel your craving, and desire nothing but to fill you as you ask. Let us remove your bonds, so that as we share this body, we can wield our power as one. Power is your birthright.”