Bareil was moving carefully down the passage, past six or eight plain wood doors. No side passages. No people. No ornamentation that might be expected in a palace. Perhaps these were servants’ quarters. With a key pulled from his pocket, the Dulcé unlocked a door at the far end of the passage. He stood aside for me to enter and bowed me in.
The chamber was small and plain, holding little more than a low bed, a square table, two straight-backed chairs, and a small tiled hearth with a clean brazier. On the table sat four pewter mugs and small brass urn, the steam rising from it the source of the fruity, pungent aroma of saffria that pervaded the room. Above the entry door was a small bronze mask of a single head with two faces, one male, one female-the common image of Vasrin. Daylight, extraordinarily bright, clean, and sharp-edged, spilled through a clean casement onto a smooth wood floor. Drawn to the window, I gazed out on a scene of such beauty and wonder that I could explore its marvels for a year and never note half of them. A cityscape of white-and rose-colored spires sprawled across the steep foothills of a range of snowcapped peaks that stood starkly white against a deep blue sky. Arched bridges spanned at least five sparkling waterways, and smooth paved streets wound between the houses and gardens, up and down the steep hillsides, coming together in a broad commard spread out before me.
The grand open space was paved with the same luminous white flagstones as the small courtyard we had crossed to get here. Crowds of men, women, and children of all stations and appearances hurried across the commard amid winter-bare trees that glittered with frost, and fountains poised in frozen exuberance. In the center of the space, a monumental sculpture depicted five leaping horses, the middle one ridden by a woman, her hair and garments and the horses’ manes and tails flying in the imagined wind.
Around the edges of the commard, vendors dressed in costumes of red, green, and yellow satin hawked sausages on sticks and drinks dipped from steaming pots, sets of colored balls, silk birds, and fluttering banners that twirled and spun in the air above their heads. Two women in silver masks sold small glittering clouds the size of one’s palm. Standing almost directly under my window, a young girl opened her hand and released one of the clouds, scattering its sparkling elements about her head. The music of a lute and viol drifted upward, fading only as the girl walked away. Sword-makers and armorers spread samples of their wares on broad tables to lure wandering warriors to their shops down the side lanes. It was as if I gazed on some fantastical painting, brought to life by a Singer like my mother.
But my perception took another jolt as I gaped, for beyond the commard, perched on the hillside above the steeply sloping sprawl of gardens and open commard, was the same palace I believed we had just entered by a hidden door-rose-colored towers, white and gold banners flying. What’s more, though we had gone down from the courtyard and ascended no steps, we were now situated well above ground, perhaps on a third floor, overlooking what appeared to be the front gate of a modest inn.
I spun about to inquire what was going on, but Bareil had sagged onto a wooden chair, leaned his small hands on his knees, and dropped his head forward. “Your pardon, my lord, but I find myself a bit soggy at the knees.”
Pulling the flask of brandy from my pack and yanking the cork, I knelt in front of him. “I understand the vintage is exceptional,” I said. He reached for it, but his hand was shaking, so I held the flask as he drank. “Can you tell me this, Dulcé, did you not say we were at the west wall of the royal palace?”
“Yes, my lord.” He took another sip from the green flask, then leaned back in the chair, sighed, and closed his eyes. “Thank you, my lord. Most thoughtful.”
I left the flask beside his feet and returned to the window. “So, do my eyes play tricks or is that the same palace there beyond at least twenty acres of open ground and halfway up a steep hillside, its west wall tucked securely up beside it?”
“It is.”
“Then these hidden ‘doorways’ do not connect one space to an adjoining one as a person might expect?”
“It would depend upon whose expectations were being satisfied, my lord. If one recalled one’s childhood lessons- that were evidently not well attended by certain royal children-one might recall the ways of portal-making. To connect one place to another is not a simple practice, but not uncommon either. Master Dassine was better at it than most. He was able to make undetectable portals that would change direction at his will. I suppose they’ll all remain fixed now he’s gone, and thus less secure. As soon as I can remember the steps needed, you must destroy the one we just used lest it lead your enemies here.” The Dulcé smiled as he looked about the room. “Master Dassine enjoyed this house-The Guesthouse of the Three Harpers-and would often come here to play a game of sonquey or drink saffria with friends in the salon downstairs.”
I wanted to know more. Much more. The touch of the world, the breath of fresh air, and the sight of the strange and marvelous city awakened excitement I’d not known in long months. But my hands were grimy from the garden soil where I had buried Dassine, and Bareil’s tunic was stained with blood that should have been running through his veins and putting some color in his pale lips. I moved away from the window and sat on the floor by the Duke’s feet. “Tell me what happened, Bareil.”
He sighed and closed his eyes, the pleasure draining from his face. “Master Dassine received a message yesterday morning, just after he had put you to sleep. I can recite the message for you, if you wish…”
“Please.”
“It said, ‘I have learned news of the most dreadful import. Our time has run out, and we are forced to deal with each other. The Third lives, and has obtained the prize he always wanted. Come to the observatory sculpture garden at sunset.’ ”
“And that was all? Who sent it? What does it mean?”
“That was all. Though the message carried no signature, I believe Master Dassine knew who sent it. He did not tell me. Something in the substance of the message caused him to cast aside any misgivings, as if it had confirmed his worst expectations.”
“What expectations?”
In some way the Dulcé‘s words were made more worrisome by the calm sobriety with which he delivered them. “My master feared this unnatural quiet. Night after night he would worry at it. He has watched the Zhid closely since you were a boy, listened to rumors and speculations and the changes in the world, charted Zhid movements and their preparations, trying to understand the Lords who manipulate them. Over the past few years he has seen disturbing signs that he did not understand. I am unable to tell you of these particular concerns now, although, when you are ready, you may ask me again and learn of them. You understand?” He opened his eyes to make sure of my answer.
“I understand.” How strange it must be to have more knowledge than can be touched with one’s own mind, to know that another person must command your intellect to make it truly useful. Did it bother him? Perhaps when I knew him better, I could ask.
Bareil continued. “ ‘We have become complacent,’ Master Dassine has said ever since your victory at the Bridge. ‘We go about our lives as if the past thousand years have not happened. Why were the Zhid pulled back from battle? The Bridge is strong and the Gates are open, but the Zhid are not diminished…’” Bareil left off and sat staring at the blank walls of the room as if continuing Dassine’s monologues within himself.