Daughter of Ancients by Carol Berg

D’Arnath’s time, but her only ‘errors’ were to correct perceptions that had never made sense. Our picture of D’Arnath’s reign has been clarified immeasurably.”
    Ven’Dar sighed and settled his chin on his folded hands, far less excited than his heir—his former heir, now. “Ce’Aret gave her the most stringent tests of truth-saying and was entirely satisfied. As Je’Reint, her own grandson, stood to be set aside, one cannot say she was too easy on the woman. We even drew old Ustele from his moldy hermitage long enough to examine her, believing that if anyone could unravel her story, the old skeptic would do it. By the end of it, he was weeping and kneeling at her feet. When the Preceptors voted to vest her, placing her in the direct line of succession, not one dissented. I begged them to delay the anointing a while longer, but in truth, the people would not have stood for it. They are so hungry to put the last thousand years behind them. D’Arnath’s name works a magic in the spirit that my best efforts cannot match.”
    What was written of D’Arnath’s children? I recall only sons.
    Je’Reint jumped in again. “Very few histories survive from D’Arnath’s day—books were a particular casualty of the early years of the war. The most reliable source mentions a single daughter, lost in the war when she was seventeen. We’ve no record of her name. But D’Sanya led us to a ruined house long buried in the Vale of Maroth—her mother’s house, indisputably. She showed us the mark of Garafiel, the most famous swordmaker in Dar’Nethi history, on D’Arnath’s sword and claimed that Garafiel was in love with her mother long before she was betrothed to D’Arnath, but they were forbidden to marry because they were cousins. We had never noticed the—”
    â€œBy Vasrin Shaper’s hand, she showed us how the vines engraved on the sword’s hilt hid the letters of her mother’s name!” Ven’Dar’s outburst silenced Je’Reint. “The Archivists traced Garafiel’s lineage and Maroth’s, and the kinship was true as D’Sanya had said, though we’d never known it.”
    Ven’Dar’s emotion hung in the air for a few moments, until our silence allowed it to disperse and vanish like smoke in a breeze.
    Gerick, did you ever hear of—?
    â€œNo.” Gerick jerked his head in sharp denial before Karon could finish his thought.
    Well then, what of her power?
    Ven’Dar sighed and rubbed his brow. “We’ve seen nothing like it in living memory. She has healed hundreds of Zhid prisoners with her touch. In less than half a year, she has reforested the Vale of Grithna, dead since the early years of the war. The caress of her hand on its soil gave the land such vigor that in a single day the grass was knee-high, the flowers abloom, and saplings two fingers thick stood taller than a man. She lends her power to Builders and Gardeners and Healers, unraveling enchantments and spell traps laid by the Zhid, soothing nightmares and diseases of war victims.”
    And still Karon continued probing. Yet you do not believe.
    â€œI cannot ”—Ven’Dar shook his head, tightening his lips and squeezing his tired eyes—“and yet I cannot explain precisely why. Everywhere I hear whispers saying, ‘Ven’Dar was a fine shepherd, but we have anointed the true Heir of D’Arnath. She should take her father’s place.’ Ah, my good friend, after her first visit to the Bridge she walked into a palace courtyard weeping, and her tears revived a spring that had been dry since D’Arnath’s death. What could it be but my own selfish pride that prevents my belief?” He threw his hands in the air, jumped up from his stool, and paced the length of the chamber three times, like a clock spring unwinding. “My own doubts betray me.