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.
Ce’Aret finished her recitation, stepping from the dais with the brisk movements of one half her age and disappearing behind me. She would be standing before Ven’Dar, splaying her fingers across his face, using her power to carve an image of his soul upon her mind. And soon after, she would transfer that image to me. An intrusive rite for the one whose image was being taken, exposing emotions and convictions one might prefer remain private. I was happy she was not probing my soul at the moment. All I had to do was read what she gave me and reflect my response to it. I shoved my murderous cravings aside and tried to unclench my fingers, which threatened to break the ancient wood of my chair, and focus on the rite.
Small hard hands settled on my shoulders. In an instant, I was infused with the image of Ven’Dar, not merely his physical aspect, but his essence: the joy that permeated every moment of his life, his love for our Way, for our land, for me.
“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” Ce’Aret’s voice was as clear as a brass trumpet. “The one who will follow your steps onto D’Arnath’s Bridge, whose hands shall serve the people of Avonar and all of Gondai, leading us and guarding us with their skill and power?”
“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my mentor, my heir,” I said.
Ce’Aret removed her hands, and the image dissolved.
Mem’Tara brought me another image of Ven’Dar, this time the sounds of his voice, rich and clear in its timbre, honest and gentle in its tenor, powerful in its articulation of the words that were his life. She gave me the image of his eyes that could see so far beyond the moment and so deep into the past, and his hands that had calmed my anger as skillfully as they smoothed and shaped rough bits of wood into articles of use and beauty. She brought me his laughter, and his raucous baritone, singing a bawdy song. “Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil? The one who shall assume your place in the life of this world when your span of days is complete?”
“This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my comforter, my heir.”
Then it was Ustele’s turn. Slowly, leaning on a wild-wood cane, he hobbled from the dais and passed by me without meeting my gaze. I wasn’t worried about Ustele. The ritual was strict. He could refuse to participate, and I would remove him from the Preceptorate, appointing another person of my choosing to his place. But if he wished to retain his position as my counselor, he could only do as the ritual prescribed, take the image and present it to me.
My bones ached. A chill draft made me shudder. When had I last slept? My gritty eyes stung, and I rubbed them, causing a moment’s shift in the light, smearing faces and colors… red… green. The hour was speeding by. I flinched when Ustele laid his cold, bony fingers on my head.
“Is this the one you have named, D’Natheil?” The old sorcerer’s voice quavered in my ear, filled with bitterness. “The one who shall wield the sword and the power of D’Arnath and be privy to the innermost secrets of the Dar’Nethi? Is this the man to whom you would entrust the fate of the worlds? Consider well, for with your word will your successor be proved.”
Even dull-witted with exhaustion, I knew this one thing was sure and right. “This is Ven’Dar, my friend, my brother, my heir.”
But no sooner had I spoken, delivering the future of Gondai and the Bridge into his hands, than I glimpsed the flaw in the image that lingered in my mind. Ven’Dar, yes, his courage in battle, his unyielding devotion to justice and truth. In all things honorable. Yet, behind the image, lurking in the midst of everything I expected to see… what was it? A shadow. A scar. Alien. A flash of gold, a glimmer of ruby, of amethyst, of blue-white diamond… and familiar horror…
“No!” I slapped Ustele’s band away and burst from the chair, whirling about to see Ven’Dar’s eyes grow cold and his smile harden.
“First friend, then brother, then heir. I’m dizzy from coming full circle - for I believed myself to be your heir to begin with. Family, yes, but not brother. And never friend. Most confusing. And even more so for these others who cannot see what you see or know what you know. Tell them who I am, my lord Prince. Tell them who will reign in Avonar in three heartbeats from this moment, when their mad Prince lies dead on the floor. Say my name, and let them shudder and curse your failure.”
It was impossible, but there was no mistake. “Gerick!”
“No, no, good Father. Call me Dieste.”
CHAPTER 31
Seri
Bareil had given me a square of glass through which, by some magical mechanism, I could view the morning’s events while remaining hidden myself. I’d watched the ritual in the same state of heightened expectation I’d experienced since waking to see Karon’s rose.
Play the part that only you have ever been able to play. Follow the Way… What did he mean? He thought I’d understand. He had been rushed, pressed for time. But my message had told him that I knew what he was planning, at least the result of it, and he had come to tell me… what? Fragile hope held my soul together, but despair picked and jabbed relentlessly.
The sole bright spot of the morning had been finding Paulo in the antechamber. But before he could tell me where he’d been since Calle Rein, Paulo had raced off in search of the missing Roxanne, hoping that she was only hiding and would emerge if she saw his familiar face.