“Voices and hearts are not enough, Father. We need more forceful, more visible weapons in this particular war.”
I’d been so intent on watching Men’Thor’s knife that I’d not seen Radele appear in the doorway. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his breast, smiling. “Even now the witnesses gather to watch the Prince invest his successor, but how much faster would they come and how many more of them, if they knew they were to witness our first true victory over the Lords. At last they’ll see what viper has been nurtured in their midst and how close we’ve been to a second Catastrophe, a final Catastrophe. Then shall the people of Avonar decide who is to bear D’Arnath’s sword.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. You will have everything you deserve, Father, and more.”
The smiling son gave an exaggerated bow and held the door for his father. His laughter echoed across the Gate fire as he followed Men’Thor from the chamber. Men’Thor’s knife was safely - annoyingly - back in its sheath.
No sooner had they gone than somewhere beyond the palace walls the sun broached the horizon. I knew the time, for Ven’Dar’s arms fell heavily to his sides, and he began to stretch the cramps from his neck and shoulders, easing himself off the floor.
“I gather I’m still alive,” he said, grimacing as he rubbed his knees, while at the same time trying to huddle his arms into his thin robe. “Though I’m cold enough to be a corpse, I don’t think a dead man’s knees would ache so much. Did our honey catch any flies?”
I stepped through the Gate fire, sheathing my dagger with such force that I split the leather. “My plotting’s been no more successful than anything else. But it’s not over. They’re up to something. Come. Paulo is to meet us at the council chamber, and I’ll send Bareil for Seri.”
I started for the door, but Ven’Dar lingered, letting his gaze dwell on the towering wall of white fire, its full extent unseeable in the brilliance far above our heads. “It is magnificent, is it not? Such purity. Such power. I close my eyes and see it still; everything I look on is made more than it was. To have it be a part of me… it’s as if I’ve been given new eyes. Is it that way for you?”
“Now is perhaps not a good time to ask me,” I said and slammed my palm against the door, careful to watch for any ambush along our way.
As I had commanded him, Bareil was waiting for us in the small, book-lined anteroom off the council chamber. Ven’Dar sank into one of the enveloping chairs and dived most appreciatively into the steaming saffria and crusty bread Bareil set out for him. I had no time for such - and no need.
“Paulo?” I asked.
“Asleep in your private chamber, my lord,” said the Dulcé. “He arrived two hours ago.”
“And his report?”
“He said to tell you that all went just as planned and to wake him if you needed to know more. The lad was asleep on his feet.”
One success. Good to know that something had gone right.
I nodded toward the door of the council chamber. “Is everyone present?”
“The Preceptors, the Archivists, Master Men’Thor, your commanders, the witnesses from ten families as Mistress Ce’Aret specified - all are present,” said the Dulcé. “She says that when you are ready to proceed, each Preceptor will take an imprint of Master Ven’Dar, then lay hands on you for acknowledgement, much like the test of parentage.”
“I remember it.” An adoption rite, in essence.
“A quarter of an hour - no more - and it will be done.”
“Good” - I lowered my voice - “and have you brought what I told you?”
The Dulcé looked at me solemnly and matched his tone to mine. “Yes, my lord, but - ”
“You will speak of it to no one. No one. Do you understand me, Dulcé?”
“Of course, my lord.” He dropped his eyes.
“So, give it to me.” Into my hand Bareil slipped a red silk bag about the size of my fist. “Now you must fetch Seri. Keep her in here until I call for her.”
“As you wish, my lord.” He bowed very low, and turned to go without looking at me again.
I laid a hand on his arm. “There are not thanks enough for all your good service, madrissé, nor for your kindness and care that the madris cannot compel. You’ve never failed me. It is I who lost my way, not my Guide.”
Silent, eyes averted, Bareil kissed my hand and hurried away. Ven’Dar raised his eyebrows, but I left him ignorant and shoved the small heavy bag into the leather pouch I had fastened to my belt that morning. Already in the bag was a second object, retrieved from the vault in my bedchamber last night, where it had lain for the past four years, an artifact of the Lords that made my soul shrivel to touch it. I was as prepared as I could be for the eventualities of the morning. Laying my hand on the latch of the council-chamber door, I said, “Shall we see what surprises our friends have readied for us?”
The three members of the Preceptorate were seated at the long table on a raised dais at the far end of the huge windowless room. It might have been a winter’s night instead of a summer morning, for the lamps were lit and a fire crackled in the wide hearth behind the Preceptors’ table, burning off the chill of the eternal stone. My stomach never failed to give me a twinge when I walked into this room. The first time I’d sat in the Prince’s chair facing the dais was the day I’d stuck a knife in my gut to convince the Lords of Zhev’Na I was mad. On that day death had been but a painful feint. The paths of life were uncompromising.
“Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath,” intoned Ce’Aret as I entered. The greeting was echoed by the others in the room, and I extended my hands, palms up, as ritual demanded.
The air of the room was thick with anticipation. Perhaps fifty people, dressed in their finest and fully aware of their privilege, were in attendance. Their eyes were wide and alert for the least nuance of expression from the principal players, ears pricked, shoulders straight, voices kept low. Every whisper was cause for excitement; every sound quickly hushed lest it distract from full perception of the historic event.
The old woman spoke with the authority of age and righteous power. “What business have you with your Preceptorate this day, my lord Prince?”
“I bring my chosen successor, Ven’Dar yn Cyran, to be acknowledged before the Preceptorate. As you have instructed me, I have taken him onto D’Arnath’s Bridge and touched his mind with my own, imprinting him with my family’s patterns of thought and all that I know of the Bridge and the Gates. Then did he open himself to the Gate fire for the time allotted to attune his power to the Gate and the Bridge. I have judged him worthy and capable, and as the Preceptorate witnesses my choice, so shall the secrets and the power of D’Arnath be unlocked in him, ready for his anointing.”
“Why such hurry, my lord?” asked Ce’Aret. “Is it not a risk for the successor to be privy to all the Heir’s lore so soon after his accession?”
“Our times are dangerous, Preceptor, and the deeds I must do today and in the days to come carry risks that are unknown. Ven’Dar is not a child to be protected and nurtured before he can shoulder his responsibilities.”
“Reasonable, I suppose. Yes. Very wise. Please be seated, and we will proceed.”
I settled in the Prince’s chair, facing the Preceptors. Ven’Dar took a position somewhere out of sight behind me. Ce’Aret spoke to the assembly to explain the ritual.
The most difficult part had already been accomplished, she said, and the acknowledgment was little more than a formality, a key to unlock the knowledge that had already been passed along to the chosen.
While the Preceptor droned on about my family and my unique inheritance of D’Arnath’s chair, I kept thinking of Seri. She would be watching from the anteroom through a myscal - an enchanted glass. It was all I could do to keep from looking up, from trying to express… something… of what I felt for her. But I had already slipped once. I had not intended to go to her in the night. She would do what was necessary, no matter if I told her or not, and if the Lords caught the least hint of my intent, we would fail. But I had not been able to leave her without a word or a touch. She was my foundation. My fortress keep. To share such a life as hers was a grace few men were given. And no man but I bore such hatred for the Lords of Zhev’Na, who had forced me to this day. Ah, gods, I would crush their bones in my teeth if I could.