THE SOUL WEAVER

I half expected Karon to be brought out a prisoner also. But he strolled out in the company of two other men. After conferring with them for a moment, he walked over to Gerick and raised his arms. Bolts of white fire sparked from his hands. An agonized cry pierced the night, and Gerick slumped forward in the saddle.

“No!” I leaped to my feet, only to be dragged down instantly. I lay slumped in the dirt, my elbow and chin stinging after grazing the sandy boulder.

“This doesn’t seem like the time, my lady.” The girl’s hands were steady as she brushed the grit from my face and helped me sit up again.

Roxa

“They’re riding back the way they came,” said the girl, slipping down the rock face to sit beside me again. “His father leading.” She laid her hand on my back. “They put one of the soldiers up behind him, as if to hold him in the saddle, so he’s not dead. And another interesting thing. Everyone rode out. No horses left behind. No guards posted. No torches left. But Paulo wasn’t with them. I’ll be right back.”

“Roxa

The stars wheeled slowly above me. The cold wind blew off the desert. I could not bring myself to watch whatever foolish mission the girl had contrived. If this night demanded more grieving, it could not wrest it from me. Eventually, plodding steps crunched and slid on the steep gravel-strewn path.

“Whew!” A warm body flopped down at my side. “Well, Paulo’s not dead, either. He didn’t go with them, and he didn’t stay behind, dead or alive, that I can see. So he’s either wandered out into the desert again or run away somewhere - perhaps back to the Bounded the way we came. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

Something in her question forced me to look outside my private horror and glance over at her. Tears rolled silently down her dusty cheeks, and her face was etched with fear and grief and the yearning of a courageous child who has been too long from home. I gathered her in, and Evard’s daughter and I held each other through the long, cold night.

Sunrise brought searing heat. Roxa

“Clear your mind as I told you,” I said, shrinking down beside the rock. “Think of the emptiest place you know and erase each object and association you find there.”

I followed my own instructions, but kept my eyes trained on the rider through a slot between our rock and another. A needless precaution. As soon as the rider - a slight figure that might have been a woman or a youth - passed the ruin, he peered up at the rocks at our end of the valley, shading his eyes with his hand. When he reached the base of our slope, he pulled off his hood, revealing olive skin, wiry black hair, and neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that, had they not been squinting, would have displayed the elongated oval shape of an almond. Quickly, I climbed onto our sheltering boulder and waved. “Up here, Bareil!”

Karon’s Guide raised his hand in greeting and dismounted as Roxa

“And it’s very good to see you,” I said. “It would have been a long dry day. Your Highness, this gentleman is Bareil of the Dulcé, my husband’s friend and confidante. Bareil, Her Royal Highness Roxa

The Dulcé repeated his bow and expressions of pleasure, though his demeanor was uncharacteristically somber. The formalities seemed surreal in the harsh surroundings. The girl and I were filthy and travel-worn, and, without regard for ma

“What news, Bareil?” I said, as soon as I’d swallowed as much water as I could manage in one swig. “What’s happened to Gerick? What did the Prince say? Why did he tell us to hide? Who were those men?”

Bareil’s face was layered with care, his drawn brow and the creases about his mouth leading me, for the first time, to speculate about his age. “I am charged to bring you to the palace unobserved, my lady,” he said. “The Prince offered me the strictest instructions for your safety and anonymity. Beyond that, I am privy to nothing about any of these matters. Indeed, it has been a long while since I have been my lord’s confidante.” He pulled two gauzy cloaks of light blue from a bag attached to his saddle, exchanging them for the half-drained waterskins.

“Then tell me, how did he appear? Was he all right? Was he… himself?”

“My lady… ” Bareil’s color deepened.

I bit my tongue in frustration. “I know. I know. It’s improper for you to speak of him. Rude of me to ask. I’m sorry.” A Dar’Nethi and his Guide - madrisson and madrissé, they called the pair - were linked by deep enchantment, the intricate workings of the Dulcé‘s astonishing mind available only at the Dar’Nethi’s command. Such a relationship was only tenable if based on absolute trust: that the Dar’Nethi never abuse his ability to compel his madrissé’s obedience and that the Dulcé never use the resulting intimacy to betray his madrisson’s privacy.

“I am truly sorry, as well. If I could help you - It’s just - ” The worry etched about his almond eyes deepened. He shook his head and averted his gaze. “We must return to Avonar as swiftly as possible.”

I touched his arm, clasped the blue cloak at my neck, and pulled up my hood. “Let’s go then, and I’ll ask the Prince myself. No protocol will stand in my way.”

Leading the horses to a rock of convenient height, Bareil helped Roxa

“You said you would get your answers from the Prince when you arrived in Avonar.” He tossed out the remark carelessly, as if making casual conversation, as if we had stopped for some other reason. Perhaps pretending it was of little importance mitigated his breach of a Guide’s protocol by speaking of his madrisson. “My lady… I must say… I don’t know if you should depend on that.”

The heat of the day vanished as if the sun had been blotted out.

“I am privy to nothing, my lady, as I said, and if I were, I could not share it unless the Prince permitted me, as you have remembered so well. But as I prepared to ride out from Avonar this morning, I obtained my horse from a public stable so as not to be remarked in the royal yards. As one will at any public place, I heard rumors… a great number of them… Some that might be of interest to you.” He stroked his horse’s mane slowly. Deliberately.

I forced myself to maintain his pretense, lest urgency force him back beyond the barriers of discretion. “Rumors are always interesting, Bareil, but rarely accurate.”