“Old friends can still spring surprises, can they not?” Though his voice had taken on a deeper resonance, the cynical amusement was the same.
Darzid… Ziddari… the third of the Dar’Nethi who had survived the Catastrophe of their making. A Lord of Zhev’Na. Never in my remotest supposition… Stupid, stupid woman.
“How could you have guessed? You knew nothing of the Lords. And I was not exactly my usual self in all those years-a matter of being away from home in disguise for too long. Wearing a mundane face does not allow the full range of one’s capabilities, and living in your world has its distinct hazards for those born to this one-else all this might have been settled long before you were born. But I think I am done with Darzid now. Your son will need him no longer. Shall you mourn your old friend?”
“I will curse your name until I am dust.”
“Alas, that is very likely. Come, the boy approaches even now. Please, take your seat.” He snapped his fingers again, and a plain wooden chair appeared beside me. Without willing it, I sat, while Darzid-Ziddari-took his place on the third throne.
From the depths of the polished black floor between me and the dais glowed a circle of blue light, pulsing in the same rhythm as my heartbeat. Gerick appeared exactly in the center of it, dressed in breeches and shirt and doublet of deep purple trimmed with silver, wearing his sword at his belt. He stood tall before the Lords and did not bow.
They all spoke at once, three distinct voices, yet winding sinuously together. “Welcome, young Lord,” said Ziddari.
“At last,” said the woman. “We have anxiously awaited you.”
And Parven. “All honor to you on this night that you come into your inheritance. Have you made your choice, young Lord?”
“I have,” said Gerick, in a voice cool as glass.
“And what is it to be?”
“I will be a Lord of Zhev’Na.”
And so ended my hope. Perhaps I sighed or sobbed, for Gerick turned his head sharply, as if he had not seen me until then. His demeanor was neither hateful nor haughty, only solemn. But he did not speak to me and reserved his attention for the Lords.
“Yes, we have brought her here as you requested, young Lord. You can see we’ve taken excellent care of her. Now she is yours, to do with as you will.” Ziddari’s vile expectation hung over us like a cloud. “A fitting gift for your birthday.”
“She is to be set free.”
“What?” From all three of the Lords the word thundered, until I thought my head would burst from the sound. Though one could not read subtle expression on faces so strange, their shock and disbelief shook the floor under my feet.
Gerick’s voice did not change. “I have made the choice to become one of you. But before I do so, I require safe passage for this woman. She is not important to you.”
“What weakness have we uncovered?”
“Who are you to judge of her importance to us?”
“What of your oath…”
“… your revenge…”
“… the blood oath on the body of your nurse, your truer mother?” The twining whispers filled the vast hall like a fetid odor.
Ziddari snarled and gestured toward me. “What kind of mother is this who should never have allowed you to be conceived, knowing your only inheritance would be the stake and the fire?”
Gerick did not quail. “My oath was based on a lie. I don’t know whether or not my oath of fealty to you was also based on lies. My guess is that it was. But I will live with the choices I’ve made, because I see no alternatives. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain, and I’ll do the same. All but this one thing will proceed as you have planned.”
“How did you come by these conclusions?”
“That is no concern of yours, my Lord Parven,” said Gerick. “Now, time grows short. It is your turn to choose.” He had them, and he knew it.
A smile crept slowly across Ziddari’s bloodless lips. “Oh, brother and sister, we have done far better even than we knew. Do you not agree?” He leaped up from his chair and swept a deep bow to Gerick. “We will proceed with your preparation, my clever and immensely delightful young Prince. When the time comes for the anointing, you may release the Lady Seriana to whichever of the Preceptors you wish. They have safe passage back to Avonar after, and so will she. Is that sufficient? You have the word of the Lords of Zhev’Na, which has never been broken in a thousand years.”
Gerick folded his arms across his breast, took a deep breath, and spoke softly to me, though his eyes did not meet mine. “This is the best I can do. I am what I am. It cannot be changed.”
Then he turned his back on me, dropped his arms, and acknowledged the Three with a slight bow. “Let us begin.”
The room grew colder, the lamplight fading until each paned globe cast only a dim circle on the black floor just underneath it. The Three seemed to grow larger as they focused their jeweled eyes on Gerick.
“You will not speak again until our work is done,” said Parven. “There must be no disruption during your preparation. Do you agree?”
Gerick nodded. He showed no fear.
Notole moved to the center of the dais, carrying a crystal flask and goblet. “Have you come to us fasting?” she asked.
“He has neither eaten nor drunk in a sun’s turning,” said Ziddari, from behind her. “I made sure of it.”
The old woman nodded and filled the goblet with a liquid so deep a red that it was almost black. “This is drink such as no mortal being may taste and remain unchanged. Drain every drop, and so from this night you will require no other sustenance save what nourishes your power.” She offered the goblet, wreathed in scarlet-tinted steam, to Gerick.
“Don’t drink it!” I cried. “You are not one of them!”
But Gerick either did not or would not hear me. He took the goblet, raised it to each of the Three, and put it to his lips. The first sip made him shudder, but after that he did not falter. Slowly, inexorably, he drained the glass, forcing the last drops before taking a heaving breath, clearly fighting to keep it down.
Notole took the goblet from his trembling hand. “A potent vintage, yes? You feel it in every bone, every vein, every fiber. Your body rejects it, for it is not the stuff of mortal life. But you have learned to command yourself, and so you allow it to do its work, cleansing, transforming, making your body other than it has ever been.”
Notole returned to her chair, and Parven took her place at the front of the dais. “When you first came to us, young Prince, you offered us your sword. We did not take it from you then, for it was unproved, unworthy of us. But you will have no more use for such trivial implements. We now require your sworn bond that you will not raise your hand against us, your brothers and sister. Are you willing to surrender this symbol of your former life and so swear without reservation?”
Gerick unsheathed his sword, raising it high until it caught the faint lamplight, gleaming, glinting. But then he straightened his back and knelt before Parven, presenting the sword on his upturned palms.
“And you make this vow of your own will… freely?”
Gerick nodded.
“So be it sworn,” said Parven. A beam of amethyst light shot from his gold mask and focused on the sword. The steel blade began to glow, brighter and brighter purple, until the shape lost coherence and the metal sagged across Gerick’s hands. Gerick did not flinch, but left his hands in place until the shriveled sword vanished, leaving only the stench of hot metal and scorched flesh. Then he rose to his feet, cold and solemn, his hands held stiffly open at his sides.