Ce’Aret’s words were as brittle as the bones beneath her dry skin. It was difficult to avoid peering under the long council table just to make sure her weapon was not already aimed at my spleen.
Earlier in the day, the old woman had interrogated me about Ven’Dar’s death, battering me with her disbelief. The Heir was bound in service to the Preceptorate, so no privilege of my sovereignty could prevent her questioning. She had respected Ven’Dar immensely and could not easily accept the story of his rebellion and Seri’s death in his care. Only the need for hasty resolution and my sworn word on the sword of D’Arnath had prevented her demanding a more thorough investigation. What was one more lie beside those already spoken? But Ce’Aret’s hard gaze had never wavered all through the Preceptors’ meeting. My skin felt bruised.
The ranks of my Preceptorate had become pitifully thin: Ce’Aret seated at the center of the long table, shriveled, bitter Ustele on her left, the dark-haired, large-boned Alchemist Mem’Tara on her right. Four empty chairs. N’Tien, my gloomy chief strategist, sat at one end of the table jotting notes on his list of deployments. A few chairs faced the Preceptors’ table from the center of the chamber, available for petitioners or spectators. Men’Thor and Radele sat in two of them, exchanging sober whispers and passing messages to the three field commanders in attendance. D’Arnath’s chair - a plain, high-backed wooden chair of great antiquity - faced the council table, offset slightly to one side so Avonar’s prince could see and hear both Preceptors and spectators. I had been in and out of the chair all morning, too restless to sit still for long.
“So we are agreed, then?” I said.
Ustele hammered a stubby forefinger on the council table. “It is unforgivable to take time at this, our most desperate hour, to wallow in a discredited custom. No right-minded Dar’Nethi has undergone the Rite of Purification for seventy years; only the weak-willed seek it out. We should seal the caves with the cowards still inside.”
“I cannot but agree with you, Master Ustele,” I said,
“and I have a thousand things I would prefer to be about, but the law is clear. I’ll not let a missed provision stand between me and my legitimate claims. Are you not the one who holds me to the law so strictly? I’d not give you arrows to loft back at me.”
“Who will accompany you to the pools, my lord?” asked Mem’Tara quietly, as Ustele settled back in his chair with an expulsion of disgust. “It would have been Ven’Dar’s office.”
“Bareil will be my companion.”
“A Dulcé,” muttered Ustele, curling his lip. “I should have expected it. You have no taste for your own kind.”
“A most unusual choice,” said Mem’Tara. “Surely many Dar’Nethi would gladly serve you in this way.”
“My madrissé has served the Preceptorate longer than anyone save Ce’Aret and Ustele. He bears the necessary knowledge and full respect for our customs. No sorcery is required of the companion.”
They talked among themselves about the novel concept of a Dulcé taking a Dar’Nethi for purification. I half expected Men’Thor to volunteer Radele to supervise the rite, but he was too busy reveling in his new importance as the permanent commander of Ven’Dar’s troops and temporary high commander, already writing lists and sending messages even as he listened to our debate. His son’s appointment as a sector commander had almost set him crowing. The whisperings had already sped through the chamber and into the outer rooms. Everyone in Avonar would be expecting an quick appointment to the Preceptorate for one or both of them. I had best make certain Men’Thor’s initiative was severely limited during my absence, or he would have us knocking at the gates of Zhev’Na before sundown.
“And so when will you begin the ordeal, my lord?” asked Ce’Aret.
“Within the hour,” I said. “That’s why I assembled the Preceptorate so early. You can be sure I’ll make this business take as little time as possible. I’ve already sent my orders to those in the field, and you certainly have no need of my direction, Preceptor Ce’Aret. Avonar has never been out of your care. You can tell Mem’Tara all she needs to know.”
“And the announcement of Ven’Dar’s crimes and his death?”
“Nothing is to be said until I say it. We will leave the Destroyer in uncertainty. Tell Ven’Dar’s troops he is on a mission for me. Say anything you choose save the despicable truth.”
“So be it. Vasrin Shaper and Creator grant you balance, my lord Prince,” said the old woman, echoed by Ustele and Mem’Tara. I rose to leave, and everyone in the room rose with me. I didn’t look at any of them.
The Caves of Laennara were entered by a gated arch in a sheer limestone wall near the lower end of Kirith Vale, but their proximity to the city was in distance only. Every step along the steep, pebbled path that led from the road to the gate was an unfathomable separation from everyday life. The air became noticeably thinner, as if we had scaled one of the peaks that soared beyond the wall, and the normal sounds of the surrounding forest were muted: the rustle of the leaves soft, the darting movement of the rivulets of water that cut through the grass but a whisper, like exuberant children hushed by their mother.
The petitioner, the one who had come to cleanse himself of the burden of life-taking, kept silence on the road to the caves. You were supposed to gaze upon the forest, the sky, and the stream, the deer, the foxes, and the birds, taking their essence into your soul, building power for the ordeal ahead. Your companion walked ahead of you bearing a gold luminant, a small box of gold or brass with pierced sides, a lid, and a handle, designed to hold a living flame that would be used to light the lamps hung in each of the seven caves.
On the morning I left Avonar to begin my purification for taking Ven’Dar’s life, I did as was required on the road, gathering power for what was to come. Of course, I had no intention of undergoing the purification rite. Unless something had gone dreadfully awry, Ven’Dar should have slipped safely out of his tower before the fire. He was to meet me in the first cave and lead me to Seri and Paulo and my son.
I almost regretted that I would have no time to try the Pools of Laennara. Though I’d not slain any loyal Dar’Nethi in anger - not yet - a great number had perished because of me. My guilt drew no distinction between warriors sent into battle by my command or enemies slain by my own weapons. Nor could I distinguish between Dar’Nethi blood and the blood of the Zhid. Zhid, too, were Dar’Nethi - changed, made soulless and cruel - but Dar’Nethi just the same. Was I the only one who had ever considered it? My soul could use a cleansing. Yet another death, my own son’s death, was the only purpose in my journey to Laennara. Neither balance nor peace nor purification had anything to do with it.
I followed Bareil past the black latticework gate and through a narrow passage. The tiny flame peeked out of the sides and out from under the gold lid of the luminant, its gleam no bigger than a firefly, doing little to relieve the blackness as it led me onward and downward.
Seri would have hated that passage. A childhood mishap had left her with a terror of dark, confined spaces. Shamed by such “weakness,” she had tried to hide her fear from me when we were first married, not understanding what joy it could give a lover to share such an intimate part of the other… and to be able to soothe it. Ah, gods, Seri… As always when I thought of her any more, rage boiled in my gut and pulsed in my arms, engulfing all other emotion. What could ever soothe the pain of her loss, her death in all but breathing?
Abruptly Bareil and his firefly were swallowed up by a more expansive darkness. I closed off all thought of Seri. I needed to remain clearheaded.
I followed the Dulcé into the larger space and felt his hand on my breast, signaling me to stop. The air was warm and heavy and damp, smelling of old stone with a trace of sulfur, while from somewhere to my right whispered a cool draft. The glimmering light moved to the left, stretching into a wavering beam as the Dulcé removed the lid of the luminant. Bareil, now a small figure sculpted of shadow and light, touched the flame to the wick of a diamond-paned lamp. Soft light reached out and pushed away the shadows just enough for me to view the cave and the Pool of Cleansing.