Daughter of Ancients (34 page)

And D'Sanya? Though concern for my father and the news of the avantir dampened my elation, I treasured the discovery I had made. The Lords were dead. Their plan for her had come to naught. The power of life she held was stronger than they had ever imagined. I believed her. Tomorrow held the promise of the future. We had come so far already, the rest would take care of itself.

So, why could I not sleep?

As I stared at the dwindling fire, loathsome images swirled in my head like the scum stirred up from the bottom of a very old cistern. Hoping to make them settle again, I focused my mind on pure flame . . . on clean nothingness. . . .

I jerked awake, shuddering, the flat coppery taste lingering on my tongue. No good. An empty head would not do.
So think of something else. Something beautiful.
My eyes sagged again, and I imagined D'Sanya riding. . . .

I sat bolt upright, heart pounding, sweat pouring from me, my body clenched in a confusion of desire and terror. But the echoes of her horror and disgust did not fade. Throwing the blanket aside, I let myself out the garden door into the soft midnight, hurried through the public gardens and into the paddocks and fields, then leaped the wall, moving ever faster, so that by the time I came to the meadow I was running.

For a blinding hour I raced through the patchy woodlands and the tall grass of the open valley under the black dome of the sky, pushing harder and harder so that the remnants of dreams and memories might be flushed from my head. Stumbling over rock and exposed roots, refusing to slow down, I pushed up the steep rift where D'Sanya had taken me on our first ride. At last I dropped on my knees by the pool, plunging my entire head into the water trying to cool the pounding, throbbing ache, fighting for some clarity of reason if I could not find oblivion.

What had I been thinking these past weeks? That the scars on my hands would go away? That because I wore leather gloves when we rode, and silk gloves when we danced, and hid my grotesque telltales in my pockets or behind my back unless we were in the dark, I could pretend that they didn't exist?

I loved D'Sanya more than I had loved anyone in my life; I desired her so passionately that I cried out there by her quiet pool. She had lived in the place where I was formed. She understood the helpless desperation you feel as your soul grows tainted and withered, as corruption steals away first one bit, then another, of your honor, your beliefs, and your values. My parents and Paulo were immeasurably precious to me, but they could never share it, never understand completely the dread of losing your soul and the certainty that it was accomplished. D'Sanya had been stronger than I. She had resisted for longer and come out with more of herself—still able to see beauty where it existed, able to embrace the fullness of life. But she had lived where I had lived. If any person in Gondai might comprehend the meaning of the scars on my hands and be able to forgive me for them, it was D'Sanya. But I was mortally, desperately afraid that she would not.

And so I had named it at last. The root of my fear. Spent and hollow, like a log burned out to make a shell boat, I began the long walk back to the hospice.

Today. I would tell her . . . show her . . . today. We would meet at dawn, and I would savor the rosy light on her hair and relish the welcoming in her face when she saw me coming. I would cherish her laughter as we rode out across the green meadows, and listen to her unending words of wonder at the ways of life. But when we returned, before I kissed her or held her in my arms, I would strip off my gloves and show her who it was loved her.

Satisfied in my resolve I climbed over the hospice wall and slogged through the vast parkland. The silence hung heavy as the night dwellers retreated into their sanctuaries, the dawn greeters not yet ready to begin their business. Less than an hour remained until sunrise. As always, the darkness demonstrated the fullness of its power, holding deep and black and still before approaching daylight could dilute it. I dully weighed an hour of exhausted stupor on my father's couch against an excursion to the kitchens to find something to quiet the gnawing in my stomach. I chose the latter, afraid that if I fell asleep, I would never wake up in time.

But on my way across the lawn, I glimpsed a light in D'Sanya's house. Was she awake preparing for our ride, or was she finishing her mysterious workings to bring her new guest under the protection of her enchantments?

The image of her awake shattered my plan. I could do nothing until I talked with her. I hurried around the side of her house to the narrow iron gate half hidden in a flowering hedge. Wreathed in the cloying scent of honeysuckle, I spoke the words she had given me weeks before, which allowed me to pass through the gate and into her private enclave. I crossed the lawn and the garden and rounded the corner to the front of the house. A diamond-paned casement on the second floor stood open. I imagined her face appearing in it, filled with pleasure at my declaration that I could wait no longer to be with her. But for what I had to say and to show, I needed to be at closer quarters. So I entered her front door and walked through the ghostly gray of the high-ceilinged, uncluttered rooms that during the day were drenched in color and sunlight.

Her workroom and her bedchamber were up the winding stairs, but I had never been invited into either one. She had always blushed and said a lady needed her privacy . . . for a while . . . until the time was right . . . until we were sure of the future . . . of ourselves . . . I started up the steps. For this, I could not call out to her. She would run out of the room, throw her arms around me, kiss me, and start talking, and I would never be able to do it. I needed to be able to press my finger to her lips and say, “Wait. Let me speak first this time. . . .”

I walked softly down the passageway, shapes already emerging from the darkness as a round window at the end of the corridor lightened. There—the second door on the left. A light shone out from under it—an odd light, wavering between green and blue. My neck tingled uneasily. Then from beyond the door came a soft voice, silvery, the essence of moonlight and summer. She was singing.

My uneasiness vanished, and I could not help but hope. She'd told me that since the day of our climb to Castanelle, she always woke up singing. The blue-green light from under the door shifted into dark red and violet as I took a deep breath, pulled my hands from my pockets, and knocked on my lady's door.

She pulled open the great slab of oak, and her tired face blossomed into loving radiance at the sight of me.

I felt as if I were tumbling into the crater of a volcano. Stupid, fumbling, scarcely able to speak. “D'Sanya, what's that in your hand?”

The question was nonsense. I knew what it was.

“This? It's only the instrument I use to set enchantments. Are you as impatient as I for this morning? Give me a quarter of an hour, and I'll be ready to ride.” She tilted her head and wrinkled the pale skin between her brows, brushing my chin with one finger. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Where did you get it? You must get rid of it . . . destroy it.”

“Nonsense.” With a puff of air, she set the brass ring spinning on her palm, and then lifted it into the air and walked back into the room. When she removed her hand, the sphere of light hung above a man sleeping on a table-like bed in the center of the room. The shadows of her workroom danced with purple and green and gold light. Mirrors on the side walls reflected the light, mingling it with the fire of candles that burned everywhere on tables, benches, and walls.

“You don't understand.” The fire of the oculus was already searing my eyes, burning in my belly, gnawing at my soul with promises of power. “It is of Zhev'Na. It's their tool . . . the Lords' tool . . . and
cannot
be used for good.”

“Not true, foolish boy!” She stroked the temples of the sleeping man. “No magical device is good or evil of itself. It's only in how you use it. This poor gentleman is dying of brain fever. Half his body is paralyzed, but when I've done with this enchantment, he'll walk again—run if he chooses—read and study, do kindnesses for others, and love his wife. She comes tomorrow and will be able to embrace, not mourn him.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging at it until my eyes watered, pleading with fate or gods or the uncaring universe to let me wake up beside my father's hearth.

“I know you believe its effects are healthy, D'Sanya, but you're wrong. If you look around you—” Stupid, stupid that I'd ignored what had screamed in my face for so long. Was there ever a bigger fool, so enamored of the first woman he ever kissed? “I've seen the results, but I didn't understand why it was happening, and I never believed that you—Your forest is dying. Aging too fast, choked with too much growth. Go down there and look at it. The oak we climbed in its prime eight weeks ago is already dead, fallen, rotten at its heart. My horse that you healed has gone wild, and we've had to put him down.”

“You're wrong.”

Her cheeks were flushed, and I refused to heed the rising note in her voice. Rather I plowed ahead because I could not bear the thought that she knew what she was doing.

“Talk to the guests in your hospice, D'Sanya. Ask them. Listen to them. My father is dying a cruel death every moment. The pain he suffered before is nothing to the pain he feels now as everything of importance to him fades. He is empty. This enchantment has ripped up the path he walks, and he cannot find his Way.”

The words kept coming. Surely if I said the right words, she would listen. Even when her eyes reflected the spinning brightness as if they were another mirror like those on her walls, I kept on.

“The oculus was created by the Lords, D'Sanya. Its construction is so perverse . . . gods, how can I convince you? It devours life and spews out power. It taints everything it touches no matter how kind, how generous, how beautiful the hand that wields it. Please, you must believe me. Destroy it. Get it out of your life. I'll help you. We'll call in Healers to help these people return to the life or death they're meant to have.”

Anger bathed her cheeks like the dawn light. “You know nothing of these devices. How dare you call them evil? An oculus is just a focus of power—used for evil, yes, by the monsters who buried me alive, who brought me out of my tomb only when they had use for me. But they didn't make the rings. I did.”

The world stopped turning. Lungs and heart ceased their functions.

“Why do you look at me that way? I saved lives by making what they wanted. Five Dar'Nethi would die every time I refused them. I always chose the lesser evil.”

“The lesser—” I thought of what the Lords had done with the rings . . . what I had done. Thousands of lives destroyed, cities and villages brought to ruin, thousands of souls in two worlds twisted or brought to despair. “You used their enchantments to make them? They told you how?”

“Of course. I had no training in such complex workings, but I learned quickly. And I did what small things I could to thwart them. I made the oculus painful to look on. Using it . . . wanting it . . . destroyed
their
eyes, but not mine. They had me create masks for them with jeweled eyes, and I made them horrible, grotesque things that molded themselves to their flesh. They stole my childhood, took everything from me, made me do terrible, awful things, but someday . . . someday . . . I knew I would have a chance to build a device for myself. Then I could make up for all of it. I would use my oculus for good and heal everything they'd done.”

But it had been a thousand years, and for some things there was no healing. I knew too much.

“D'Sanya, you must listen to me. The oculus is not just a focus. It bears the mark of the Lords . . . even this you make today. It tears into me even now, because I know what to look for, what to feel. The Lords used them to eat souls, D'Sanya. They created terror and hatred, discord and murder, then used the oculus to draw all of it back to themselves to feed their power. The touch of an oculus is fire that consumes the reason and the heart and everything worthy and honorable, replacing it with hunger for power. You
must not
use it ever again.”

I gripped her shoulders, trying to make her understand, but she was angry and afraid, shaking because she knew she'd buried everything so deep: her guilt, the horrors she'd lived, seen, and done, the things she'd suspected and denied. And I was forcing her to dig it all up and bring it into the light.

She jerked away from me, screaming at me now, trying to drown out her fear. “How do you know this? How could you possibly know?”

In no way would she believe me unless I told her all of the truth. So I pulled off my gloves, held out my uncovered palms, and spoke the words I'd come there to say. “Because I was one of them.”