Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (19 page)

Dassine had willingly forfeited every last drop of his life’s essence to give me his instruction. No Healer

could bring him back before he crossed the Verges.

Eventually, I laid Dassine in his garden, hacking at the frozen ground until my arms could scarcely

raise pick or shovel. When I was done, I sat beside the grave, sweat and anger hardening into ice. I tried

to recall everything he’d said, while trying to ignore how empty the world had become.

It is said that those who live long in close companionship come to anticipate each other’s words and

actions, and even that one of the pair comes to resemble the other in physical appearance. If such were

true, then surely when I next looked in a glass, I would see wild, gray-streaked eyebrows sprouting from

my face. Only now did I realize how closely bound our minds had been. Lacking his abundant presence,

my thoughts felt thin and watery. Whatever else I retrieved of the years still missing, I vowed to learn

someday how we had become so close.

So what to do? Nothing made sense. I could believe Dassine’s last words were the product of

delirium had it been anyone but Dassine who voiced them. A mysterious child to be saved from someone

I didn’t know. Someone named Bareil to guide me. No doubt that I needed help, but who was Bareil

and where was he to be found? I had heard his name before . . . yes, the brandy. “Bareil’s best.” Dassine

had spoken as if I should know him, but I’d met no one in Avonar save the Preceptors, the six ...

No ... a seventh person had been in that room when I met the Preceptors—a Dulcé. So perhaps he

didn’t mean an ordinary guide, but a
madrissé
. With their strange intellectual limitations, Dulcé on their

own did not figure in the equations of power in Gondai. But a Dulcé could give a Dar’Nethi a significant

advantage in life’s games by placing his immense capacity for knowledge at that person’s service. When

a Dulcé bound himself in this rare and privileged relationship, he was called a madrissé, one whose

knowledge and insights could guide the Dar’Nethi in decision-making. Bareil was likely Dassine’s

madrissé. He would have been the other presence I had felt in Dassine’s house, the note-taker, the user

of the third bowl, the one who would drink brandy with Dassine while I was enraptured with candlelight

and the past. He could hold a number of answers, if only I could find him. To imagine it was a comfort.

In the matter of the crystal, I had to follow Dassine’s judgment. From the corner of my mind where I

had pushed the unsettling experience, the fingers of light beckoned dangerously, causing my blood to

churn. When I was whole, Dassine had said, implying that such was still possible. The crystal, whatever it

was, would have to wait. I had promised him.

As for his command to give myself to the Preceptorate, I was confounded. For how many days had

Dassine fumed about my offer to be examined, warning me to stay away from the Preceptors’

multitudinous deceptions? Now he told me that circumstance might demand I surrender to the

Preceptorate while yet incomplete. Defenseless ... helpless. The world would surely crack at their first

probe, and they would judge me mad ... or Zhid. Was that what he wanted? If not for his last words, I

would have dismissed it entirely. Trust, in this matter, was very difficult.

“I thank you for my life, old man,” I said, as I took my leave of the snowy garden. “But I mislike

being a pawn in a dead man’s game. However will I hold you to account for it?”

I returned to the silent house warily. The house would surely have formidable wards, the masterful

illusion that hid my room but one example. But Dassine’s enemies would themselves be formidable, and

they would know that Dassine was severely weakened if not dead. As I was so unsure of my own

strength, it seemed sensible to take whatever might be useful and leave Dassine’s house as quickly as

possible. Then I could watch and confront the murderers on my own terms. Not friendly terms.

Rummaging about the kitchen, I located a capacious rucksack. Careful not to touch the black crystal

itself, I wrapped the unsettling artifact in a small towel and stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. I didn’t

question the motive that made me make sure of it before anything else. Next I searched the room for

something I knew would never be far from Dassine’s hand. Indeed, the small leather case sat on the shelf

by the door. Inside it lay an exquisitely sharp, palm-length knife with a curved blade—a Healer’s knife—

and in a separate compartment, a narrow strip of linen, scarcely less fine than a spider’s web. For a

moment I felt almost whole. I put the case in the pack.

Next went in the flask of “Bareil’s best” and the two pears I had not eaten earlier. From the larder I

grabbed enough food for at least a day—a considerable amount since I was still ravenous. Clothes were

more difficult. Dassine had given me nothing but the white wool robe. Citizens of Avonar who specialized

in the study of sorcery wore traditional scholars’ garb—loose robes and sandals or slippers. Warriors,

tradesmen, those who tended gardens and fields, the Dulcé, and most others wore garments more like

those to which I was accustomed: shirts or tunics, breeches, leggings, and boots. I didn’t wish to

proclaim myself a scholar—far from it. But I was more than two heads taller than Dassine. His more

ordinary garments would do nothing to make me inconspicuous. Clothing would have to wait.

Money would be useful, but I had no idea where any might be. Masses of notes and manuscripts

cluttered the house, some relevant to my situation, I had no doubt, but I’d no time to sort through them.

Perhaps this Bareil would know what was valuable, if I could find him.

The instincts and habits I had so recently redeveloped from my memories of hiding from the law

prodded me to move, to get away from the place my enemies expected me to be. My teeth were on

edge, and despite the paltry supplies in the pack, I was ready to bolt.

But just as I hefted the pack, quiet footsteps sounded in the passageway from the house. I flattened

myself to the wall beside the doorway, realizing at the same time that I had forgotten to acquire a most

important piece of equipment—a weapon. I—Karon—had never carried a weapon, yet my hand

demanded a blade. The Healer’s knife was too small, and it was unthinkable to use an instrument

designed for healing to harm another person.

But I was out of time. The sneaking villain tiptoed down the lectorium steps. I glimpsed a dagger in a

bloody hand. Stupid brute. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him off balance. Remembering Dassine and

the jagged wound in his chest, I was not gentle. I wrapped one arm about his neck and twisted his arm

behind his back until his weapon clattered to the floor.

“Did you think to finish your work or simply add another to your tally?” I growled in his ear.

Tightening my grip on his throat, I snatched the dagger from the floor, vowing to rip him open the same

way he had murdered Dassine.

“Help Master Dassine . . . please.” The man, small and light, went limp in my arms. An amateur’s

ploy. He deserved to die. But even as I poised the dagger at his belly, I noted the color of his skin ... a

creamy brown like strong tea with milk in it. Slender oval face. Dark eyes the shape of almonds. A Dulcé

... I lowered the knife and shifted him in my arms. Black, straight hair cut short around his ears. A trim

beard. An ageless face, his lips mortally pale.

Holy gods, he was the one, the seventh person in the room with the Preceptors! And his slight body

was bleeding from no less than ten stab wounds. Whoever had taken a blade to him had wanted to make

sure. I laid him on the couch still wet with Dassine’s blood, grabbed the leather case from the pack, and

pulled out the knife and the strip of linen.

No sorcery can blunt the pain of a Healer’s knife. To cut your own flesh and mingle your blood with

that of your patient is the only truly effective way to unleash your Healer’s power. And pain is part of the

working every bit as much as the words that open your mind to the light of the universe, as much as the

gathering of power that lies hidden in the recesses of your being, as much as the smell of blood. Pain

opens the door to the heightened senses needed for putting right what is wrong, a connection that binds

Healer to patient more intimately than any strip of white linen.

The first time I had drawn a knife across my arm, on the day when I was desperate to save my dying

brother and did not know I was a Healer, I had tried to ignore the hurt, to link myself with Christophe’s

broken body unscathed by my own senses. Surely a true Healer would be inured to pain, I thought,

fearing that the tears that threatened and the cry that escaped me on that day were signs that I was

nothing of what I needed to be. I struggled for so long that my brother’s soul almost fled beyond the

Verges before I could see the truth—that his senses were blocked to me as long as were my own. When

the insight came and I released my control. . . only then did I share the realm of the other, allowed to see

the shattered bones, feel the torn tissue, and hear the ragged heartbeat that had to be put right. There was

no getting used to it, even after so many years. The magnificence of the whole more than

compensates—a thousandfold is not too large a reckoning—but it is a truth that experienced Healers do

not cry out, yet neither do they smile as they begin their work.

CHAPTER 10

There is no sense of time passing when one is engaged in the art of healing. You could count

heartbeats, but there are usually more important matters to deal with, such as reconnecting damaged

blood vessels or destroying the toxins that flock to the site of a wound like ravening vultures. So when I

triggered the enchantment that would close the incision on my arm and slipped the knot that bound my

arm to that of the injured Dulcé, I didn’t know how long he had been staring at me.

“
Ce’na davonet, Giré D’Arnath
,” he said, quietly. All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. “And my

gratitude for that which can never be repaid.”

“Your name is Bareil?” I asked.

He nodded tiredly. “Clearly Vasrin Shaper has a place in her heart for the foolish and disobedient,

else I’d not be here to answer to it.”

“You’re fortunate that I’d not picked up a weapon. I was sure you were one of the murderers, come

to confirm their work ... or add me to their tally.”

Though his voice and demeanor were steady, the Duke’s eyes filled with tears. “Then he was able to

get back here. You know what happened.”

“I know nothing that makes any sense. Only that he’s dead. Tell me who did this ... if you’re able, of

course.”

Dulcé have an immense capacity for knowledge and an extraordinary ability to search, analyze, and

connect what they know into useful patterns of information. But only a small amount of their knowledge is

usable at any particular time, so that a Dulcé might know the names of every star in the heavens on one

day, but no more than two or three on the next, or have only the vaguest recollection of a name in one

hour, but recall the entire history of the person in the next. A Dar’Nethi who is fortunate enough to be

linked to a Dulcé in the rite of the madris can command any bit of that information to the front of the

Dulcé‘s mind where it can be used. Because I had not been linked to Bareil, I had only royal authority,

no power to control his mind.

“You’ll find I have a somewhat larger threshold of knowledge than most Dulcé, my lord, and I will

most certainly provide you with all that I am able”—the Dulcé‘s frown was not at all reassuring—“but if,

as you so wisely assume, those who killed my madrisson will want you next, then we must be away from

here as soon as possible. And I’ve had to breach the house defenses to get back inside. I hope my folly

will not cost us the way.”

“I was on my way out when you came,” I said, and told him of my attempts at preparation.

He nodded thoughtfully. “There are a few things here that you must have. I’ll get them.” He struggled

to get up, but I kept a firm hand on his chest.

“You’ve lost a great deal of blood, Dulcé—a condition my skills cannot reverse. Tell me what we

need, and I’ll get it.”

He settled into the cushion. “As you say, my lord. First, in the wooden drawer case, the lower

drawer, under the glass pipes and sharpening stones, you’ll find a small pink stone, cold to the touch . . .

yes, that’s it. You must guard it carefully. I cannot emphasize it enough.”

I shoved the stone into the pack. “What else?”

“Money—I’ll get that on our way out. Clothes—you underestimate us, my lord. If you would open

the door of the chemist’s cabinet . . .”

Well, it looked like a chemist’s cabinet—a tall wooden structure with glass doors. Through the glass

you could see shelves of jars and flasks, small vials of blue and purple, boxes, pipes, and brass burners.

Nothing of interest. Only, when I opened the door and looked inside, all the paraphernalia had vanished,

and I found a tidy wardrobe filled with an array of clothing that could never have fit Dassine.

“Mine?” I said.

“I believe they may happen to fit you properly.” When I looked askance at the reclining Dulcé, a

spark in his eyes and a set of his mouth echoed the good humor I had noted in our earlier encounter. I