"I'll put you to sleep. But I'll cast only when you're ready. Do you hear me?" Ven'Dar gripped Karon's shoulders and peered into his eyes, speaking loud enough to be heard over the low rumble of the Gate fire. "Tell me, my friend. Give me a sign."
"Of course, he's ready," I said. I couldn't understand Ven'Dar's delay.
But only after a long few moments did Karon jerk his head, his mouth clenched to suppress a cry. At the same moment Gerick shuddered and stiffened with a sharp intake of breath. Ven'Dar touched Karon's forehead, and my husband slumped heavily in our arms. We lowered him to the floor, and I took his head in my lap.
Gerick breathed deeply, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped about his stomach. He waved his hand and Paulo stepped away, leaving him to stand on his own.
Now I understood. The prince had been waiting for Gerick to leave Karon before casting his spell of oblivion.
The circular chamber was cold; the wall of fire that hurled itself to the pearl-gray dome above us—the Heir's Gate—was enchantment, not true flame. Someone had erected a monumental bronze sculpture in the vast chamber, a rampant lion, the symbol of the ancient king who had built the Gate and the Bridge. The sinewy beast, twice the height of a man and almost growling in its vigorous presence, balanced globes of gold and silver on its upraised paws—symbols of the two worlds linked by D'Arnath's Bridge, I guessed. Though the piece was inarguably impressive and beautifully rendered, it felt out of place in a chamber of such enchanted antiquity. The door to the outer passage burst open and two men, vastly differing in height, hurried in. "My lord prince"—the taller of the two bowed to Ven'Dar, and then turned to me and did the same—"and Lady Seriana, Bareil has told me . . . such a grievous circumstance for our reunion." He squatted down beside us, took Karon's limp hand, and bowed his head over it, closing his eyes. "My good lord," he whispered, "I am so sorry."
If someone told me that the sculpted figures that graced the gates of Avonar, proclaiming the Dar'Nethi ideals of physical perfection, had taken human form, I would avow that Je'Reint was one of them. Long elegant bones defined his features and his tight, lean body. He was descended from a rare Dar'Nethi family group almost entirely wiped out in the Catastrophe; his skin gleamed a rich mahogany in color. Even the scar of his slave collar—he had spent the last three years of the war in bondage—had faded into his deep coloring.
Ven'Dar had sent Je'Reint to us for a month-long stay the year before, so I knew that the young man's intelligence and talent were a match for his appearance. He was a Perceiver, one who could hear and feel the emotional nuances in speech and communicate his own with clarity. We had been delighted to hear that the childless Ven'Dar had named the thoughtful young man his successor.
I took Je'Reint's proffered hand and felt his sympathy and willingness to be of service take palpable form around me, building a wall of comfort and inviting me to lean on it.
Behind Je'Reint waited a neat, diminutive man with a well-trimmed black beard and dark, almond-shaped eyes. In Karon's years as Prince of Avonar, the Dulce Bareil I had served as his madrissй—a repository of knowledge and wisdom accessible only to his linked Dar'Nethi partner— I as well as his faithful friend and companion. "We've brought a litter," he said.
Ven'Dar led us up the sloping way of a softly lit passage into a bare, musty chamber. "I'm going to take you out of the palace," he said. "Though I'd be honored to have you stay here, you'll be more comfortable and more private elsewhere."
I understood. To protect our anonymity would be difficult in the bustling royal residence. The Dar'Nethi believed that the last direct descendant of King D'Arnath, Prince D'Natheil, had been killed in the final battle with the Lords of Zhev'Na five years before. And truly the last remnants of D'Natheil's soul had died that day. Only a handful of people knew that D'Natheil's body still lived, inhabited by Karon's soul and spirit as it had been for eleven years now. Karon, stripped of the Heir's powers when he abandoned D'Natheil's soul beyond the Verges, had joyfully yielded D'Natheil's office to the man he had anointed as his successor. Together they had chosen to let the people believe that D'Natheil had died to save them and that Gerick had remained the Fourth Lord of Zhev'Na, corrupted in childhood and executed by his father in that final battle. Unraveling the complex layers of deception that had been required to lure the Lords to their destruction would be far too distracting for a people who needed to remember what their life had been before the ancient Catastrophe had almost destroyed them. Our public reappearance could not fail to open old wounds and old fears. Karon needed peace and care, not to be the center of an uproar.
Ven'Dar scribed a circle on the floor of the chamber with a beam of light from his hand, stood in its center, and began working some enchantment. While I sat beside the litter, stroking Karon's brow, Bareil conversed quietly with Gerick and Paulo. Je'Reint stayed apart, leaning against the doorway, arms folded and eyes fixed on Gerick. Je'Reint knew our son's story, of course, and had expressed an eagerness to meet him, so his coolness was a bit surprising. To be fair, Gerick did not invite introduction. Our son's nature was anything but gregarious.
After a tedious half-hour, a wavering distortion hung in the air above the circle. The prince exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. "My apologies for the delay. I must be more tired than I thought."
Gerick, Paulo, Bareil, and Je'Reint carried Karon's litter through the enchanted portal.
"Gar'Dena's house!" I said, when I followed them into a luxurious chamber, uniquely exotic in its decoration. Once introduced to the swathes of enfolding red silk draped from the ceiling to serve as seats, the elaborate fountains, the exotic plants and birds, the bells, the wind chimes, and the hundreds of colorful cushions scattered everywhere, one would never confuse the place with any other.
"Is this room not every bit a reminder of him?" asked the young woman who offered me an embrace as I entered the room. "Would my father lived to offer his own great heart's care in this terrible time."
Aimee was the youngest daughter of Karon's late counselor and friend Gar'Dena. Five years had left the luminous Aimee more womanly than when I'd seen her last. Her sun-colored hair was coiled smoothly at the back of her neck rather than hanging in the girlish loose curls of the past, and a serene confidence imbued her every word and gesture.
"Your father's kindness and generosity live on in his children," I said, kissing her flushed cheeks.
"Many thanks for your hospitality, Mistress Aimee," said Ven'Dar as the young woman offered him the Dar'Nethi greeting of respect, a graceful bow with hands extended, palms up.
"As always, it is my pleasure to serve you, my lord, and my honor to aid those who have given so much for Gondai." Aimee's countenance expressed her sympathy, though her eyes reflected nothing of what they looked on. She had been blind since birth.
Aimee led Ven'Dar and me to a large, airy bedchamber with high ceilings. Late-afternoon light spilled through its tall windows. The four men had settled J Karon on a wide bed, where he lay as pale as Aimee's I sheets, and so thin and still he might have been an image I graven on a stone tablet.
"My lord prince, I've summoned T'Laven as you commanded me," said Bareil. "He will arrive within the hour."
"Thank you, Dulce," said Ven'Dar. He stroked his I short beard thoughtfully as he gazed down at Karon, rare uncertainty clouding his face.
Aimee, who was stacking extra blankets and pillows on a nearby chest, lifted her head and raised her eyebrows. "But, my lord, have you not asked for the Lady D'Sanya? I would have thought—"
"No! I've sent for T'Laven. You understand, young woman, that no word of our guests is to be spoken to anyone unless I give you leave."
"Of course, my lord." Aimee wrinkled her brow as she moved to the hearth and blew gently over her fingers toward the fire. The flames snapped and flared high.