Daughter of Ancients by Carol Berg Page B

walked out of the desert, we found two dead men—armed and accoutered as Zhid. The evidence of her weapon and the blood on her tunic indicate she was in a fight, though she claims to remember nothing of her desert madness. Then, a few months ago, traders made a regular run to a Tree Delvers’ village in the north, a former Drudge work camp that had grown and prospered. It appeared that every resident of the village had got up in the middle of the evening meal and vanished. Some signs of a fight, but no people, either alive or dead. We’ve seen at least three similar incidents in the past months. In short, I’m afraid we find ourselves facing a new enemy or the revival of an old one.”
    This news tainted the air like milk gone sour. For a thousand years the Lords had hungered to feed their power by reiving the mundane world and exploiting the chaos of the Breach. Using plots and schemes, mind-twisting sorcery, and war, they had battled to bring down Avonar and with it the Bridge that constrained their power and enabled Dar’Nethi sorcery, for only the Dar’-Nethi stood in their way. We had thought the struggle ended with the Lords’ death—Karon’s and Gerick’s great victory.
    Ven’Dar’s fine-lined face looked old as I had never seen it. “Factions are developing in Avonar over this succession business. Some think I should serve until nature supplants me. Others—many others—believe D’Sanya should rule tomorrow. We cannot risk division. We are still too fragile. The person who bears the banner of D’Arnath must have the complete trust and loyalty of all Dar’Nethi. If the Lady D’Sanya is what she seems, she should take her place as soon as possible. But if she is somehow . . . corrupt . . . then the danger . . .”
    Karon did not hesitate. His words appeared in our minds with all his belief in Ven’Dar’s instincts and his honor. Then the woman must be tested yet again. But I am not the right one to put her to the question.
    â€œWho then?” said Ven’Dar, wrinkling his forehead.
    Gerick.
    Gerick, standing now, had retreated to the shadowed corner of the bedchamber as if to physically distance himself from Karon and Ven’Dar. “Ah, no. Don’t ask it,” he said softly, shaking his head and folding his arms across his breast. “Please, Father. Anything else.”
    Karon must have spoken privately to Gerick then, for no words appeared in my mind, and Ven’Dar’s expression did not change from a thoughtful surprise. Je’Reint snapped his head from Ven’Dar to Karon to Gerick and back to the prince, his back as straight and rigid as the door frame behind him.
    My son closed his eyes for a time, and then, with an unsteady breath, he moved to the bed and laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. After a moment, his expression as sere as a winter heath, he looked up at Ven’Dar. “My father asks that you summon T’Laven to undo what he has done. Tomorrow we will seek the aid of the Lady D’Sanya and take my father to her hospice if she permits it. Together we’ll see what we can learn of her.”
    Je’Reint strode to the middle of the chamber, his hands spread and raised as if to contain emotions threatening to escape his control. “My lord prince, my lord Karon, the Lady D’Sanya has been forthcoming and modest in all ways. To deceive our princess . . . even if we disagree with her philosophy . . . to set a spy on a young woman . . .” He did not need to voice his feelings about the choice of Gerick as the principal in the deception. The set of his dark brow, the direction of his glare said it all. “Surely we can find some other way to discern Zhev’Na’s influence on her ideas, to persuade her to study the wisdom passed down through so many generations.”
    Ven’Dar shook his head, troubled. “I am not easy with deception,