And then the ritual fell apart…
“No!” Karon’s cry of outrage pulled me to my feet, the magical glass held even closer to my face. But it was impossible to see anything once chaos erupted in the council chamber.
How could Gerick be here?
Shouts and curses. The unmistakable sliding clangor of swords engaged. As I strained to see, the door of the antechamber burst open, and several of the Dar’Nethi poured through it, reminding me that the chaos was only steps away.
“Cover your face, my lady,” whispered Bareil as the first rush of refugees fled through the outer door and others began to crowd in from the council chamber. “Perhaps we should withdraw.”
Play the part… Follow the Way…
To follow the Way meant to accept whatever came and fit it into the larger context of the universe. But I had never been able to accept whatever came, not until I understood the truth of it. That took time, and everything was happening too fast. But, of course, Karon had even less time than I to unravel the truth of these events, and he couldn’t always control his reactions, not with D’Natheil’s emotions confused with his own. Was that what he wanted from me? To stay close to him through everything? To watch and listen no matter how painful the event? To look for the truth and hold onto it?
“No, Bareil. I think I need to be here.”
I shoved my way through the fearful crowd into the council chamber. By the time I stepped past the door only a few observers remained in the room: the three Preceptors, the enigmatic Men’Thor, and four or five stalwarts in sober military garb, who I guessed were Karon’s field commanders, bound by honor and duty to stay beside their prince. Gerick was nowhere in sight. But Karon and Ven’Dar were engaged, swords in hand, Ven’Dar’s sleeve already bloodied from their first closing. Now I understood…
“Stay back!” shouted Karon to one of the Dar’Nethi who stepped forward, sword drawn, ready to enter the fight. “He’s mine!”
He didn’t need help. He already had Ven’Dar in a steady retreat. Karon - D’Natheil - was an incomparable swordsman. And Gerick… though it had been his childhood ambition to excel at sword combat, and he’d trained ferociously under the most skilled masters in Zhev’Na, he’d not touched a weapon in four years.
Ven’Dar pivoted and delivered a powerful counter to Karon’s thrust. Karon’s feet did not budge. Ven’Dar delivered another blow. And another. But Karon might have been waiting for an annoying fly to settle so he could swat it with his hand.
I wanted to scream out my confusion. If Gerick truly had control of Ven’Dar’s body and forced Karon into killing the Preceptor, then the god Vasrin himself could not keep our son alive. If Gerick left Ven’Dar’s body before it was dead, Karon would fly down to the palace dungeon and slaughter him. If he did not leave Ven’Dar’s body in time, then he would be trapped and die with the Preceptor. Why would Gerick challenge Karon this way, knowing it was a sure route to his own death? Surely the Lords were controlling him. But to what purpose?
If the Lords’ intent was merely to prevent anyone other than Gerick from inheriting the powers of D’Arnath, then why had they not forced Gerick to kill Karon at Calle Rein when they were linked and he was most vulnerable? Gerick had been Karon’s acknowledged successor for four years. The power the Lords wanted was within their grasp, and it made no sense that they would put Gerick, their prize, at further risk of Karon’s wrath. So, why this masquerade? All that was likely to happen from this futile exercise was that everyone would end up dead - Gerick and Ven’Dar and Karon, too, of course. Once he finished killing his dearest friend and executing his son he would be soul-dead, at the least. What would it benefit anyone…?
Frantically I scanned the onlookers and confirmed that the face every instinct insisted should be present was missing from the crowd. Earth and sky, I knew!
I shoved my way past the remaining observers, until I was so close to the combatants that I could feel the rush of air as their swords sliced the air. “Karon! Stop! This is not Gerick’s doing!”
Relentless, unbending, unheeding, Karon pressed the sneering Ven’Dar to the dais, laying blow after ringing blow on his opponent’s sword, his powerful arms unwavering, his face like iron. Mortal enchantments flew with every strike. Ven’Dar seemed scarcely able to parry, much less mount an attack of his own. The end could be only moments away.
“Get away from here, Seri!” I heard nothing of Karon in the command, only cold fury and death. He never took his eyes from his objective. Ven’Dar’s cold gaze never wavered from his Prince’s face. He showed no fear. No concern. No hatred. No interest in me. Only singular determination. I knew I was right. I just didn’t know how it was possible, even for a sorcerer of exceptional talent.
“I don’t care what you see, Karon. I don’t care what you feel. This is not Gerick. Stop and listen to me. For everything, listen to me.” I switched from the language of Avonar to the language of Leire, the language Karon and I had shared.
Ven’Dar let loose a powerful offensive that engaged Karon’s full attention, then dodged a deadly stroke that split the ancient Preceptors’ table with a flash of blue fire. One of the Dar’Nethi observers grabbed my arms from behind and tried to drag me away, but I shook loose and stayed close.
“Think, Karon! Someone wants Gerick dead, and Ven’Dar dead, and wants you to be responsible - for then you’ll be as good as dead, too.”
Another blow and Ven’Dar staggered backward. Karon wiped the sweat from his face with a bloody sleeve, and walked slowly around the table. “The Destroyer will not escape me this time. Not like the day he murdered Gar’Dena.”
Another blow and Ven’Dar’s sword clattered across the floor, and Karon had the Preceptor backed up to a toppled half of the long table. His sword point rested at the older man’s heart vein. “Not this time, Dieste.”
“Do it, D’Natheil - Father,” said Gerick’s voice from Ven’Dar’s lips, cold, unconcerned. “It’s what you’ve wanted for four years. She can’t see what you see. You know who I am because you’ve been closer to me than any mundane woman, even my mother, could ever be. If you don’t do it, then you’ll see all of them dead, including this pitiful relic you’ve chosen to lick your boots.”
I would not allow this. “Listen to me, Karon. Once, very long ago in Martin’s drawing room, you swore that you’d never seen my match when it came to solving puzzles, and that if ever you were to wager your life on a riddle, you would ask me to solve it. So. The time has come. Place your wager.”
Karon’s body was alive with rage, and no more than the weight of a hair would press his sword point into Ven’Dar’s flesh. But he held back.
I forced everything I believed about our son into my words… everything I believed about Karon’s true heart… about our love, our family, our history… everything and anything that might reach him through the armor of D’Natheil’s anger. “That day at the Ravien Bathhouse, why did Gar’Dena turn the knife on himself once Gerick left him? How was it even possible? Those the Lords possess are left mindless. You have seen it in Zhev’Na and here in Avonar. They can’t eat; they can’t pull on a boot; they can’t breathe. They die. You told me the vessel died because once the Lords had used them they didn’t know how to live any more. So how was Gar’Dena able to turn his knife on himself? And why would he need to do so if the very act of Gerick’s withdrawal was his doom? What if Gar’Dena was not possessed by a Lord, but controlled by some other power? What would you have seen when that illusion was done? You would have seen Gar’Dena as himself again, not mindless at all, not dead, and you would have known the truth. And so Gar’Dena had to die. By the Lords will, certainly. Using Gerick’s soul weaving, yes.”