Daughter of Ancients (22 page)

“She loathes the Lords. The least mention of Zhev'Na sets her talking of some new scheme to erase all memory of them. She is . . . exceptional . . . in so many ways, and I can find no fault in how she uses her talents.”

On our last visit to Tymnath, D'Sanya had healed, embraced, and listened to people's troubles until well past midnight. Every day she spent at least an hour writing letters to those who worked to restore and rebuild Gondai, encouraging them to persevere. She sent them gifts of tools and materials, even hiring craftsmen to aid those in remote villages.

“But you're not ready to tell Ven'Dar to yield his throne and sleep soundly after.” He tried to smile. An effort . . . but a poor one.

“She's still said very little of what they made her do in Zhev'Na. It pains her to speak of it. But most of my doubts center on her power. I've not yet come to understand it.”

I didn't want to tell him that my greatest concern was his own erratic behavior; he needed nothing more to weigh on his spirit. On some days he could converse with the same insight and intelligence as always. But on some days, he could not utter three syllables that made sense together. Why did this hospice enchantment, woven with such care and generosity, leave its subjects so empty and joyless?

“She changes the subject whenever I ask her about power or talent, as if by talking about it, she's somehow boasting or pointing out my lacks. But she's admitted that she has little need to gather power the way most Dar'Nethi do. She says that she and her brothers inherited their father's power directly. Does that make sense? I'll confess, when I try to analyze her enchantments, I feel as if I'm being battered by a tidal wave, and the best I can do is survive the onslaught.”

Having so little experience of sorcery and enchantments outside Zhev'Na, I had no feel for the magic D'Sanya worked. It was incredibly complex, dense, obscure, slightly different in composition every time she used it. Of course all Dar'Nethi magic seemed somewhat obscure to me, out of tune somehow, more so than I remembered from my limited experience of it. Perhaps I'd been in the Bounded too long, living without sorcery in a primitive land. But as long as I could not testify to the components of D'Sanya's magic, I could not declare our work done.

My father hunched in his dressing gown. No matter how cool or wet the weather nowadays, he insisted on keeping the garden doors open, saying he felt suffocated otherwise. “Inherit power, rather than talent? I don't know. D'Arnath's power was legendary . . . as was that of all those of his blood. The histories claim that many other Dar'Nethi wielded power on an incredible scale before the Catastrophe. When I first ruled in Avonar, the Preceptors told me that my workings felt that way to them. Ah, Gerick, I
do
miss it.”

I squatted beside his chair and laid my hand on his knee. “I know, Father. A fortnight with her will surely satisfy our last doubts. You'll take care of yourself while I'm away? Paulo said he would ask if T'Laven might come visit you.”

He picked at a frayed corner of his pocket and stared vacantly into the light.

“Father?” I twisted my neck, making sure my face was in his line of vision. “You'll be all right while I'm in Maroth?”

“Yes, yes. I'll be fine.” A spark of good humor brightened his face for a moment. “Now, go. A fortnight with a beautiful lady who adores you . . . Who would have thought our stay here would lead to that? Don't waste one moment of it. Not one.”

Adding this one more guilt to my oversupply of them, I hurried through the public gardens and took a shortcut to the stable, arriving at least a half-hour early for our departure. F'Syl, the head groom, was still yawning over a mug of saffria.

“Have you seen Cedor this morning?” I asked. Perhaps I could arrange an early breakfast for my father as an apology for waking him.

The balding groom, two purple scars making his round face look inexpertly put together, pointed toward the orchard with a four-fingered hand. “He brought me my cup. Then took off that way as if he'd a bee on his backside.”

Thanking F'Syl, I stowed my pack inside the door and hurried down the orchard path. The sweetish odor of rotting fruit—plums and cherries that had been crushed underfoot during the harvest—hung in the damp air along with the scent of ripening apples . . . early, it seemed from what I knew of apples. But then one could say that everything in the orchard was “early.” A year ago the orderly ranks of trees had not existed. So many marvels D'Sanya had wrought. Growth and healing. Verdant life. The Gardeners at the Gaelie guesthouse had said the reclamation of the Wastes had almost come to a standstill before last month, when the Lady spent a day on the western fringes. The Lords had never valued growth or healing or verdant life. D'Sanya did not serve their purposes.

I walked all the way to the end of the orchard path before locating Cedor. On the far side of the grassy strip that bounded the orchard, just beside the hospice wall, my father's fair-haired attendant was deep in conversation with a taller man in a green cloak—the consiliar Na'Cyd. I couldn't hear what the two were saying, but their rigid posture and the occasional crescendo of sound indicated it was no morning pleasantry. Rancor and bitterness flowed out from them like fish rings in a pond, making the very air about me venomous. Though discord among the Dar'Nethi was always a matter of concern—Zhid fed on discord—I turned my back and retraced my steps. D'Sanya would be waiting.

Three horses, one of them mine, stood saddled and ready in front of the stable. Wrapped in a light traveling cloak of scarlet, the Lady was supervising F'Syl as he snugged a small bag on her saddle. The bulk of her baggage had already been sent on to Maroth through a portal, but we had chosen to ride on this journey, as we took such pleasure in it.

I stood for a moment at the edge of the orchard, pleased to watch her when she was not aware of me. She was teasing F'Syl about his propensity to oversleep, but when she thanked him for loading her pack, her slim fingers, adorned with two gold rings, touched his maimed hand. Even twenty paces away, I felt the tidal wash of her magic. F'Syl's bones ached terribly in the damp, but he refused to take up one of the precious places in the hospice to ease his hurts. He, too, had once been Zhid and proudly wore D'Sanya's lion pendant around his neck.

When D'Sanya turned to watch the groom hobble away, she caught sight of me. The happiness that blossomed on her face warmed the morning far more than my brisk walk had done.

“When I didn't see Nacre here this morning, I worried that you had changed your mind about the journey,” she said when I joined her at the stable.

“Nacre's a bit edgy since his injury. Probably afraid I'm going to take him running at night again. My friend insisted I take this fellow instead.” I patted the chestnut's flank. “My lady, this is Stormcloud. Stormcloud, this is the Princess D'Sanya, who believes she is the finest rider and her Miaste the fastest horse in Gondai. Sooner or later, we shall have to prove her wrong. Again.”

D'Sanya sniffed and arched her eyebrows. “Ah, my poor deluded friend, the sad truth awaits you. I've allowed you your few wins on these crude cross-country tracks only to lure you into my clutches. But at Maroth is the most marvelous racing oval . . . lovely, smooth turf . . . and there shall we set our wagers, leave off these saddles, and have a true match. Now give me your hand, and we'll be off.” She raised her foot and waited.

I laughed and offered her my linked hands. Her step was so light as she bounded onto Miaste's back, I doubted she needed me for anything but confidence.

“So who is this?” I said, jerking my head toward the placid brown mare, aggrieved at the thought of a third person intruding on our ride.

“This is Savira, who belongs to . . . ah, and here he is.”

Na'Cyd came running down the orchard path and swung skillfully into Savira's saddle. “So sorry to be tardy, my lady. I was making final rounds before our departure. I wanted all to be in order for Gen'Vyl. The grain deliveries have come in. The plum harvest is complete. Mar'Kello has taken leave time to visit her mother. Hy'Lattire is uncomfortable with the new resident and asks that she be allowed to serve a woman instead. I've assigned her to Mar'Kello's resident and asked Sy'Lan to take the new man. In short, all is in order.”

Still hoping to prompt the breakfast favor from Cedor, I lagged behind for a moment as D'Sanya and the consiliar rode up the road toward the hospice gate, but the soft-spoken attendant did not appear. Kicking Stormcloud into motion, I vowed to make up to my father for my neglect the moment I returned from Maroth Vale.

 

The weather was perfect, the shady route down Grithna Vale cool and pleasant as the morning warmed. Na'Cyd was at least considerate enough to ride a few hundred paces ahead of us, politely out of hearing.

“He had to come,” said D'Sanya, after I muttered some remark about unwanted chaperones. “He is to be the master of the Maroth hospice, so he must be involved in all aspects of its birth. Once living quarters are ready, he'll move there permanently.”

I watched the green cloak disappear around a bend. The consiliar sat a horse with a commanding air far different from the watchful deference he exhibited at the hospice.

“I'll be glad when he goes,” I said. “He makes me feel as if I've dirt on my face all the time, but is too polite to say it.” As if he knew something unpleasant about me. “So is Na'Cyd one like Cedor and some of the others . . . one who's been . . . restored?”

“He is a brilliant man. Excellent at his work. Compassionate and faithful.”

“But he was Zhid?”

“Why does it matter? He is no longer. None of them are. Their lives were stolen from them, and they deserve to find peace and forgiveness.”

“Of course, you're right. It's just difficult to let go of the past.” Did the Restored truly remember nothing of all those years of destruction and murder, centuries for some of them? Why did Na'Cyd watch me so closely? Why had he failed to mention his argument with Cedor when reporting on his “rounds” to D'Sanya? She always wanted to know of anything that might disrupt the peace of the hospice. My instincts told me to be wary of him, but then I could not rely on instincts shaped in Zhev'Na, where compassion and forgiveness were unknown.

D'Sanya chattered as we rode, today about the setting, design, and outfitting of the new hospice. Required only to listen and respond now and then, I could have asked no better amusement on the road. Her enthusiasm was boundless, her thoughtful musings, unending good humor, and colorful storytelling making better music than any I could imagine. I never tired of watching the animation of her face, her eyes far brighter than her rings and bracelets struck by stray beams of sunlight.

But my habits would not remain subservient to my pleasure. My eyes and ears and trained sensibilities insisted on surveying the forests and the fields we traveled as they had not in these past weeks as D'Sanya had consumed my mind and heart. Perhaps it was my father's disheartened agitation that put the thorn in my shoe that morning. Perhaps it was the argument I had witnessed . . . that palpable anger . . . its extraordinary virulence . . . and the purposeful hiding of it. But in the moment I started paying attention, I knew something was wrong.

The sunlight that had shone so gloriously bright after our rainy day on Castanelle felt tarnished, the cool green shade murky. I might have thought I was viewing the world through my father's distorted senses, but for D'Sanya's voice in the background.

“. . . though I know you are shy of Avonar, I really must stop in and speak with Prince Ven'Dar. I've ignored him dreadfully these past few weeks, having been so preoccupied.” She glanced sideways under modestly lowered brows, the corner of her mouth curving upward . . . not at all modestly. “But as a reward for your indulgence, I plan to show you something truly wonderful that no one has seen in centuries.”

Neither her enticing look nor her intriguing promise soothed my growing unease. I returned her smile. It was impossible not to. And I played to her teasing and, as always, felt my skin flush in pleasurable disbelief at my good fortune whenever she turned her eyes on me. But I kept every sense alert and nudged D'Sanya's mount toward the center of the road. I even picked up the pace and followed Na'Cyd a little closer. The consiliar wore a sword, at least.

I probed a little to see if I was alone in my foreboding, asking D'Sanya and Na'Cyd if they thought a storm might be lurking beyond the forested horizon. Neither sensed anything that might spoil our journey.

The day grew hot. We picnicked by a hidden waterfall D'Sanya knew of that was only a few paces from the road. She talked and I listened. Nothing untoward occurred. By evening, when D'Sanya whispered her name to two awestruck guards, and we rode through the gates of Avonar, I was calling myself a worry-wife. But I could not shake the sense that every aspect of Gondai had slipped out of position sometime in the past weeks when I wasn't looking.

Only my unwillingness to disappoint D'Sanya had persuaded me to come to Avonar. I had told myself repeatedly that no one would look at me when she was near. It was only for one night. I would wear a hat in the streets and keep to my room at the palace, feign illness if need be, while D'Sanya talked with the prince. Ven'Dar would see that I was not exposed. But I hadn't expected the whole world to feel askew, and I hadn't expected the crowds.

The streets of the royal city were teeming with people as the blazing summer afternoon cooled off to a mellow evening. We rode through a succession of small commards, each open space jammed with squawking pipers or blaring horn players and uncountable Dar'Nethi, shoving and pushing, everyone in a hurry. Every bridge that crossed the city's five waterways was packed with well guarded crates that Na'Cyd surmised were filled with fireworks for later in the evening. Just past a troupe of drummers clad in billowing yellow silk, we came on a group of several hundred people seated on cushions and blankets laid out on the grass. They watched a theatrical performance in which the actors sang their parts. The place was suffocating.