Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath by Carol Berg Page A
Authors: Carol Berg
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ourselves
diminished, left without power enough to reclaim our devastated land. And so our king, D’Arnath, built
his Bridge of enchantment to span the Breach, hoping to restore the balance. The long war with the
Lords and the corruption of the Breach threatened to ruin the Bridge, and only by the power and labor of
D’Arnath and his Heirs had it endured a thousand years.
But at twelve I had not known what to do to preserve the Bridge. Dassine told me that my attempt
had damaged me so dreadfully that further memories of D’Natheil’s life were impossible. When these
Preceptors had last spoken to me, I had been a crass, amoral youth, one whose life was consumed in a
passion for war. They would not know me as I really was, Dassine said. It was my other life—Karon’s
life—that had transformed me.
My head started to ache with the contradictions and convolutions, and I pressed my fist against my
forehead to keep it from splitting.
“Stop!” said Dassine sharply. “This is not the time to think. The Preceptors are not your kindly
grandparents. You must be clear-headed.”
“Empty-headed?”
“If that’s the only way. Prepare yourself. I’ll return for you shortly. I’ll bring saffria.”
I dragged myself back from the precipice without looking over it. “Make it strong, Dassine.”
He tugged at my hair. “You’ll do well.”
There was not much preparation to make. I wished I could fit my entire head into the small basin of
water on the stand in my room, but splashing the grit from my eyes would have to do. And I had nothing
to wear but my white robe. From my first days with him, Dassine had forbidden me to use sorcery to
obtain anything beyond his meager provision. Neither of us could afford to squander power, he said, and
in truth, I rarely had enough to conjure a candle flame. By the time I knew that I was the ruler of Avonar
with the authority to command comforts to be brought to me, I was beyond caring.
Dassine reappeared almost immediately with saffria. I downed it in one long, hot gulp, hoping its
pungent sweetness would find its way to those of my extremities that had still not come to the conclusion
that they must function. With no more conversation—we had spent more words that morning than during
an entire week of our usual business— he led me down a long hallway. Tantalizing telltales of early
morning sneaked into the cool, shadowed passage through a series of open doorways: birdsong, dust
motes dancing in beams of gold light, the scents of mint and damp earth. It would be so much more
pleasant to follow them than to go where Dassine led.
I stood behind him as he pulled open a wide door. “You are greatly favored this morning,” he
announced. “The Prince has agreed to a brief audience. My friends and colleagues, His Grace D’Natheil,
Heir of the Royal House of D’Arnath, Prince of Avonar, sovereign and liege of Dar‘-Nethi and Dulcé.
May Vasrin Shaper and Creator grant him wisdom as he walks the Way.”
Now for the test. I walked through the doorway, fighting that part of me which insisted I did not
belong here, that words of royal homage did not apply to me. I tried to focus on this world and its
customs and to convince myself I had a place in it. Conviction is everything in a ruler, the father I had
loved once told me.
Seven people stood up as I entered the wide, airy room: four men, two women, and one—not a
child, but a slight, dark-haired, olive-skinned man, who hovered in the background. A Dulcé. One of the
strange race that cohabited this world, a people with an astonishing capacity for knowledge and
astonishing limitations in its use.
The six that were not Dulcé arranged themselves in an expectant and diverse half-circle in the center
of a scuffed wood floor. One of the six was shorter than average, another enormously fat, one
cadaverous, two in the fine tunics and breeches of men of rank, the others in robes of the type worn
diminished, left without power enough to reclaim our devastated land. And so our king, D’Arnath, built
his Bridge of enchantment to span the Breach, hoping to restore the balance. The long war with the
Lords and the corruption of the Breach threatened to ruin the Bridge, and only by the power and labor of
D’Arnath and his Heirs had it endured a thousand years.
But at twelve I had not known what to do to preserve the Bridge. Dassine told me that my attempt
had damaged me so dreadfully that further memories of D’Natheil’s life were impossible. When these
Preceptors had last spoken to me, I had been a crass, amoral youth, one whose life was consumed in a
passion for war. They would not know me as I really was, Dassine said. It was my other life—Karon’s
life—that had transformed me.
My head started to ache with the contradictions and convolutions, and I pressed my fist against my
forehead to keep it from splitting.
“Stop!” said Dassine sharply. “This is not the time to think. The Preceptors are not your kindly
grandparents. You must be clear-headed.”
“Empty-headed?”
“If that’s the only way. Prepare yourself. I’ll return for you shortly. I’ll bring saffria.”
I dragged myself back from the precipice without looking over it. “Make it strong, Dassine.”
He tugged at my hair. “You’ll do well.”
There was not much preparation to make. I wished I could fit my entire head into the small basin of
water on the stand in my room, but splashing the grit from my eyes would have to do. And I had nothing
to wear but my white robe. From my first days with him, Dassine had forbidden me to use sorcery to
obtain anything beyond his meager provision. Neither of us could afford to squander power, he said, and
in truth, I rarely had enough to conjure a candle flame. By the time I knew that I was the ruler of Avonar
with the authority to command comforts to be brought to me, I was beyond caring.
Dassine reappeared almost immediately with saffria. I downed it in one long, hot gulp, hoping its
pungent sweetness would find its way to those of my extremities that had still not come to the conclusion
that they must function. With no more conversation—we had spent more words that morning than during
an entire week of our usual business— he led me down a long hallway. Tantalizing telltales of early
morning sneaked into the cool, shadowed passage through a series of open doorways: birdsong, dust
motes dancing in beams of gold light, the scents of mint and damp earth. It would be so much more
pleasant to follow them than to go where Dassine led.
I stood behind him as he pulled open a wide door. “You are greatly favored this morning,” he
announced. “The Prince has agreed to a brief audience. My friends and colleagues, His Grace D’Natheil,
Heir of the Royal House of D’Arnath, Prince of Avonar, sovereign and liege of Dar‘-Nethi and Dulcé.
May Vasrin Shaper and Creator grant him wisdom as he walks the Way.”
Now for the test. I walked through the doorway, fighting that part of me which insisted I did not
belong here, that words of royal homage did not apply to me. I tried to focus on this world and its
customs and to convince myself I had a place in it. Conviction is everything in a ruler, the father I had
loved once told me.
Seven people stood up as I entered the wide, airy room: four men, two women, and one—not a
child, but a slight, dark-haired, olive-skinned man, who hovered in the background. A Dulcé. One of the
strange race that cohabited this world, a people with an astonishing capacity for knowledge and
astonishing limitations in its use.
The six that were not Dulcé arranged themselves in an expectant and diverse half-circle in the center
of a scuffed wood floor. One of the six was shorter than average, another enormously fat, one
cadaverous, two in the fine tunics and breeches of men of rank, the others in robes of the type worn
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