The Zhid’s thin lips widened into a grin. “The other three who led us astray so briefly have met a similar fate. A pitiful crew they were.”
“No,” I moaned, as the chill of death crept from my feet to my wobbling knees to my hollow belly, paralyzing my heart. Not all of them. Not again.
The torchlight glittered on Giano’s gold earring, and his cold fingers stroked my jaw, as he whispered his morbid litany. “Oh, yes, we left them quite dead on the rocks of Mount Kassarain. The vultures have most likely picked their bones clean by now. Unfortunate in a way. The Dar’Nethi girl could have been amusing. But the noble sheriff had become annoying, and the cripple is no loss to anyone.” The cold fingers on my face then brushed my mind, galling… filthy… detestable… depraved… No matter how I twisted in my bonds, I could not escape his touch.
“Well, enough of that,” he said, removing his touch abruptly, leaving me limp and numb, sagging in my bindings. “We’ve a few surprises yet in store. I hope you enjoy the culmination of your adventure.” He leaned toward me, so close I could not escape him, and pressed his cold lips to mine, his tongue licking away the blood where I had bitten them. I fought not to vomit.
Giano’s attention was diverted by the return of the sallow-faced man and another guard, pushing D’Natheil ahead of them into the circle of light. The Prince was gagged and blindfolded, his feet close-hobbled, his arms and hands twisted awkwardly behind his back, wrists fastened so tightly to a loop of rope about his neck that lowering either head or arms would strangle him. His shoulders bulged with the strain. The left side of his face was mottled with blood and bruises.
Maceron gestured to Giano. “You may inspect the merchandise.”
“Remove its coverings,” said Giano harshly. “All of them. I will see what lives in this body.”
One of the gray-robed Zhid removed the Prince’s blindfold and gag, warning him not to speak unless he wanted a knife in his tongue. D’Natheil coughed and shuddered when the wadded cloth was yanked from his mouth. While one guard held the knife point to his neck, another cut away his clothes, until the Prince stood bound and naked, his body covered with darkening bruises. I stared at his face. The light was so poor. The brow, the jaw. What was it that made me tremble so? He could not have seen me in the shadows, for his eyes were only slits, blinded by his captors’ torches.
Giano walked around D’Natheil, inspecting him like a prize horse. “So, it’s come at last. After a thousand years, the Heir of D’Arnath confronts his enemies face to face. Did you ever think it would be you, or that you would be the last of them? Has the little seed of doubt begun to sprout in your starveling brain, the most minute scrap of understanding that the faith your wretched kingdom has lavished on your family is soon to be put to the test, and that you are quite inadequate?” He stroked the Prince’s straining arm, and as D’Natheil tried to jerk away, growling in fury, the guards tightened their hold. “What a pitiful end to a line of such great promise, no better than any other naked slave. And yet”—he stopped and stared into the Prince’s face, cold and haughty even in his captivity— “something is distinctly odd about you. Dassine, the wily bastard, what has he done? You have so little mind as it is, why would he bother to mask it? It’s made you very difficult to follow; I’ll give him that. You are not the same as you were half a year ago and not even as you were when you made the crossing.” Giano put his hands on the sides of D’Natheil’s head. “So, one closer look to be sure, then we can send these bloodthirsty mundanes on their way.”
The light of the torches dimmed, and a cold wind swept through the cavern, bearing a hideous certainty of death and desolation, cruelty and loathing, unending pain without hope. Even the impassive Maceron looked wan and sickly. His men held their heads and moaned. I shivered uncontrollably.
All color drained from D’Natheil’s face, sweat beading his forehead. His stance wobbled briefly, but he clenched his jaw and held… and in a moment’s breath, the shadow was gone, the air clear again. Giano snatched his hands from D’Natheil as if they’d been burnt, his smirk erased. The Prince’s eyes flew open, bright and disdainful.
“He is the one,” snapped Giano. “Let us proceed. You have his knife?”
Maceron handed D’Natheil’s silver dagger to Giano. The Zhid held it to the light and examined its markings. “The lesser talisman,” he said. “With this and the sword, the Dar’Nethi believe they have ensured their future, abandoning this useless prince and this Bridge that has brought them nothing but grief.” He tossed the knife into the air and caught the spinning weapon by its hilt. “With the return of this dagger is our bargain done. The Gate fire yet burns, and, now, before we quench it forever, we will allow you to venture its dangers and return to your masters. Is that your wish, Dulcé?” He presented the knife, laid across his palms, as if he were a servant delivering a favored dish to his master.
“It is.” Baglos, his hands trembling, his complexion jaundiced, took the weapon, quickly bundled it in a cloth, and shoved it into the pack he carried on his shoulder. “The bargain is complete.”
“Do you recognize these bindings, my lord?” Giano ran a finger along the silvery cord that circled the Prince’s neck. “Dolemar is far stronger than rope or chains. As you may have noticed already, it gets tighter as you struggle, and the least touch of sorcery will cause it to burn. Too much and your flesh will turn black, and you will beg us to sever your limbs.”
He hissed a word that made the firelight dim and tweaked the cord that attached the Prince’s wrists to his neck. Though he made no sound, D’Natheil arched his back as if the binding had been pulled tighter.
Giano smiled. “Happily, you’ll wear your bonds only a short time. At dawn tomorrow the line of D’Arnath will end. The Bridge was created with D’Arnath’s blood and sweat, and the last of D’Arnath’s blood will destroy it. Simple, is it not? Ridiculous that it took a thousand years to discover that it takes only your life’s essence—the blood of D’Arnath’s anointed Heir—sprinkled in the Gate fire to finish this matter.” There could have been no words more filled with hate since the world began.
Giano beckoned his two Zhid companions. “Put him away until morning.”
As two Zhid grabbed D’Natheil’s strained arms, Baglos turned to Giano and bowed stiffly. “Before I go,” he said, “I would request one consideration. My master has neither eaten nor drunk anything for near a full day. It was part of the agreement that, although confined, he would not be cruelly treated before he discharged his duty. May I, as a last service, offer him food and drink?”
Giano laughed. “If you think he’ll take anything from you, Dulcé, then by all means proceed. We must wait until morning for the last chapter in this saga, and I’d not wish his strength compromised. D’Arnath’s Heir must champion his people with his full capabilities. I would have him know what it is he does.”
Baglos reached into his leather bag, genuflected before the naked prince, and extended his silver wine flask. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord prince. I did not know you when we began. In these past days… your kindness… You are not the person of whom I was told. Though it has not shaken my belief in the necessity of my course, our companionship has made my grief the weightier. Would that it could be different.” Tears rolled down the Dulcé‘s round cheeks. “Ce’na davonet, Gire D’Arnath.”
I understood the words, as I had not when Baglos first greeted D’Natheil with them. All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. And I remembered D’Natheil inspecting the scars on Tennice’s back, struggling to comprehend the relationships of honor and treachery and forgiveness. Perhaps the Prince believed Baglos had been given no more choice in his treachery than had Tennice, for in a movement that was scarcely more than a blink of his eye, he nodded. Baglos stood and raised the flask to his master’s lips. The silver glinted in the yellow torchlight.