Maceron slammed the hilt of his wide, heavy blade into the Prince’s head. D’Natheil staggered, tightening his grip on his opponent, but the disputed sword clattered to the floor. Seizing their opportunity, Maceron’s two shaken henchmen pounced and wrestled the Prince to the floor, freeing their fellow and pinning D’Natheil on his face. Roaring in pain and fury as he clutched one arm to his side, the Prince’s freed opponent ground his thick boot into D’Natheil’s neck. A comrade stomped on the Prince’s right forearm and stabbed the point of his sword into the Prince’s outflung wrist, pushing down slowly until blood flowed freely from the wound. D’Natheil continued to writhe, lashing out with his feet and twisting his torso to get free. But the third ruffian kicked him in the side, leaving him flat and gasping.
Maceron grabbed my arm so tightly that his fingers bruised the bone, and he growled into my ear. “I would recommend, my lady, that you inform your testy friend of what we do to sorcerers. I’ve heard he can’t do much in the way of sorcerer’s magics, but I’ll cut off his hands if he so much as waggles a finger and remove his tongue if he utters a whisper. You remember. The priests prefer him undamaged, but they do most certainly want him. I’ll take no chance—no chance at all—of his escape. We’re going to destroy all of this.” He jerked his head toward the fiery Gate.
“You see, Baglos,” I said bitterly, as the men continued to kick the Prince in the side and the legs and the head. “This is the devil with whom you’ve made your bargain.”
“It is necessary,” said the Duke, refusing to look at what was going on behind him, even as he flinched with every thudding blow. “I do not wish it to be this way.”
When D’Natheil at last lay still, Maceron put me in the custody of the man with the damaged arm, a snarling brute with a drooping mustache and broken teeth. “You and the little vermin take the woman, while we get the sorcerer properly restrained. Have Kivor make sure she is secure.”
Disappointment and self-recrimination were lead weights in my boots as Maceron’s thug shoved me down the passageway toward the cavern. I stumbled and Baglos reached out as if to steady me. I jerked my arm away.
“You cannot understand, my lady.”
“I thought you loved him. I thought you were sworn to his service. The honor of the Dulcé and all that. Where’s the honor in betraying him to his enemies—your enemies?” We started down the circular stair, the ruffian’s knife pricking my back. Baglos walked beside me, his short legs hurrying to keep up.
“D’Natheil does not know the things necessary to save Avonar,” said the Dulcé. “It is not his fault. He was never meant to be the Heir and was not suited to it, especially after his injury. But on this day he will accomplish that duty anyway, because those who are wiser than we have devised this plan. His duty is more important than anything. He must understand that. We have no other hope.”
“You’ve given him to the Zhid… you’re risking the destruction of the Bridge… for what?”
“Just before we stepped through the Gate, our Preceptors took possession of D’Arnath’s sword and knife, held by the Lords in Zhev’Na since the Battle of Ghezir. As long as the Dar’Nethi hold the sword, Avonar cannot be defeated. The knife should have remained with the Preceptors, too, but the sword alone is enough. I was commanded by my bound master to complete the bargain by delivering D’Natheil as soon as we came to the Gate.”
“You’re not stupid, Baglos. They’re going to kill your prince and destroy the Bridge. How can good come from that?”
Baglos averted his eyes. “Avonar will live. If D’Natheil is to die, then that is his destiny.” He hurried down the steps ahead of me.
And he would die. I was complicit in the murder. In my confidence, in my everlasting pride, I had ignored every warning, sure that no evil would befall because I willed it so, sure that we would unravel the puzzle successfully because my intelligence and determination would allow no other outcome—unlike the last time. And now, for a paltry piece of sharpened steel, D’Natheil was to be given to the Zhid. He would be dead. My reawakened soul shriveled at the understanding. My veins felt parched. Who would ever have believed that I would care so much?
We descended into the main cavern. The enchanted flares had gone out, leaving a few mundane torches as the only light. The yellow flames illuminated a circle of cracked stone flooring, tracked with mud and littered with packs and saddles. The lovely walls and bridges and staircase were lost in the darkness.
Maceron’s men bound me to a slender column just beyond the pool of torchlight. A sallow-faced young man with a shaven head, bright, darting eyes, and bloodless lips ran his bony ringers over my arms to check my bindings. I shuddered at his touch. He grinned, making his head look even more like a skull. But even his presence was benign beside the three robed figures who now walked into the circle of yellow light. Giano’s voice was an icy claw scraping steel. “You have what we want?”
Maceron had arrived at the same time. “We’ve got him. You are quite trusting of this little vermin.”
“You needn’t worry. A Dulcé‘s bound service is quite reliable. We can afford to be trusting.”
Giano strolled over to Baglos standing stiffly between two of Maceron’s men. The Dulcé would not look at the Zhid, who stared at him with his empty, unblinking eyes. “Though we still have a portion of our contract to fulfill. Somehow the lesser talisman was left with the Prince. The Dulcé will have to risk the Bridge passage to return it to his masters,” said Giano. “Who would ever have thought these little oddities would take such a large part in great affairs?”
Baglos flushed. “But the Preceptors have the sword.”
“Indeed, D’Arnath’s holy weapon will likely serve the sad Dar’Nethi better than D’Arnath’s Heir ever did. We have no objection to the pitiful little city continuing to exist for a while, if the talisman holds the power you believe. We may even find it amusing. The prize is ours. The victory is ours.” Giano spun on his heel. “It’s time I examined our prize. I’ve heard his mind is damaged, and I’ll not be generous if it’s too much.” His cool manner failed to disguise his lust.
Maceron snapped his fingers, and the sallow-faced young man disappeared into the gloom. “I was told that some damage was done ”at the crossing,“ whatever that means. But he’s all of a piece, more or less.”
“And the woman?” asked the Zhid.
Maceron swept his hand toward me. “The lady awaits your pleasure.”
The cool smile fell away from Giano’s face as he sought me out in my shadowy niche. The Zhid stood close enough to breathe on me, and quicker than I could see, his murderous knife appeared in his hand. Ever so delicately, he traced a line across my neck with the knife point. I shrank back against the cold pillar. “Oh, madam, it is most tempting to make a permanent end to your meddling. Rarely have I been thwarted in so blatant a fashion, and I do not care for it…”
His gray eyes seemed to grow larger, sucking away reason and breath. The stench of decay, of burning flesh, of hot blood on stone filled my senses. I was drowning, suffocating in horror. It took every bit of will I possessed to pull my eyes away from his, and even as I accomplished it, I was not sure whether it was my own act or Giano’s consent that released me.
“… but your life is of interest to someone of importance. I’ll have to be content that your interference is at an end, as is that of your rustic allies. I’ve brought you a fond remembrance of one of them.” He motioned to one of his gray-robed companions, who brought him a dark-stained bag of burlap. With a mirthless grin, Giano reached into the bag and pulled out a severed human head. The hair was white and wispy, the wide brown eyes staring. Terrified. Jacopo.
I closed my eyes and bit my lip until I tasted the salty blood, withholding the cry of grief and horror and outrage that would feed Giano’s pleasure.