Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath by Carol Berg Page B
Authors: Carol Berg
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scholars, variously brightly colored, dull, shabby, or fine. They, with Dassine as their seventh, were the
Dar’Nethi Preceptorate. Though I knew these six only with the unshaded colorations of a child’s mind, I
knew what was required to greet them properly. The rituals of kingly politeness had been battered into
me by the well-dressed man on the far left, a puffy, balding man with full lips and deep-set eyes. He
looked soft but was not. My back ached with the memory of his beatings, and my spirit shriveled with the
echo of his self-righteousness.
I had been an angry nine-year-old when courtiers dragged me away from the grimy comfort of a
palace guard firepit and took me to the Precept House, the large, austere building that housed the
meeting chamber of the Preceptorate and served as the residence of its head. On that night Master
Exeget had announced that, as my father and brothers were all dead, I was to be raised up to be Heir,
ignorant, filthy beast that I was, no better than a dog, fed on the scraps from the soldiers on the walls.
No one had told me that D’Seto, my last living brother, a dozen years older than me, and the most
dashing, talented, and skillful of princes, had been slain by the Zhid. He was the only one of the family
who had ever had a kind word for me, and all my awkward, childish striving, played out in alleyway
throne rooms and stableyard sword fights, had been to be like him. Exeget did not grant me even the
simple courtesy of believing that I might grieve for my brother. Instead he spent an hour telling me how
unlike D’Seto I was. I hated Exeget from that moment, for he made me believe it. There was no justice in
a universe that infused the blood of kings in such as me, he said, while condemning nobler spirits to lesser
roles. Only strict discipline and rigorous training might improve me, and so I was not to return to the
palace, but live with him in the Precept House. He had crammed his red face into mine and sworn that if
his efforts failed and I was not made worthy of my inheritance, I would not live to disgrace it.
And so, on this morning as the Preceptors gathered to inspect me, I could not look at Exeget without
loathing. I began my greetings at the other end of the line, hoping to find the right words to say by the
time I got to him. Moving from one of the Preceptors to the next, I turned my palms upward as a symbol
of humility and service. Each in turn laid his or her hands on mine, palms down, accepting what I offered,
kneeling before me in honor of my office. As I raised them up, one by one, each greeted me in his or her
own way.
The giant Gar’Dena, a powerful, prosperous worker of gems, wheezed and grinned, for I gave him
more than a princely touch to help raise his bulk from his genuflection. I hoped no more sorcery would be
needed, for the simple assistance had used up my small reserve of power. Once standing at his full height,
dwarfing everyone in the room, Gar’Dena straightened his red silk tunic, blotted his massive forehead
with a kerchief the size of a sail, and hooked his thumbs into an elaborately jeweled belt. “ Ce’na
davonet, Giré D’Arnath !” All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. This traditional greeting, which he
pronounced in an ear-shattering bellow, was deeply respectful. Cheered by his generous spirit, I moved
down the row.
Ce’Aret, an ancient, wizened woman with the face and humor of a brick, poked at my cheek with a
sharp finger and snorted, whether in disbelief or general disapproval I didn’t know. I gripped her finger
and returned it to her firmly, which didn’t seem to please her at all. Ce’Aret had taken on herself the duty
of ferreting out those who secretly aided our enemies. Everyone feared her.
Ustele was almost as old as Ce’Aret, but his quick and incisive probe of my thoughts belied any
impression I might have had of diminished faculties. Touching my mind without consent was an
unthinkable
scholars, variously brightly colored, dull, shabby, or fine. They, with Dassine as their seventh, were the
Dar’Nethi Preceptorate. Though I knew these six only with the unshaded colorations of a child’s mind, I
knew what was required to greet them properly. The rituals of kingly politeness had been battered into
me by the well-dressed man on the far left, a puffy, balding man with full lips and deep-set eyes. He
looked soft but was not. My back ached with the memory of his beatings, and my spirit shriveled with the
echo of his self-righteousness.
I had been an angry nine-year-old when courtiers dragged me away from the grimy comfort of a
palace guard firepit and took me to the Precept House, the large, austere building that housed the
meeting chamber of the Preceptorate and served as the residence of its head. On that night Master
Exeget had announced that, as my father and brothers were all dead, I was to be raised up to be Heir,
ignorant, filthy beast that I was, no better than a dog, fed on the scraps from the soldiers on the walls.
No one had told me that D’Seto, my last living brother, a dozen years older than me, and the most
dashing, talented, and skillful of princes, had been slain by the Zhid. He was the only one of the family
who had ever had a kind word for me, and all my awkward, childish striving, played out in alleyway
throne rooms and stableyard sword fights, had been to be like him. Exeget did not grant me even the
simple courtesy of believing that I might grieve for my brother. Instead he spent an hour telling me how
unlike D’Seto I was. I hated Exeget from that moment, for he made me believe it. There was no justice in
a universe that infused the blood of kings in such as me, he said, while condemning nobler spirits to lesser
roles. Only strict discipline and rigorous training might improve me, and so I was not to return to the
palace, but live with him in the Precept House. He had crammed his red face into mine and sworn that if
his efforts failed and I was not made worthy of my inheritance, I would not live to disgrace it.
And so, on this morning as the Preceptors gathered to inspect me, I could not look at Exeget without
loathing. I began my greetings at the other end of the line, hoping to find the right words to say by the
time I got to him. Moving from one of the Preceptors to the next, I turned my palms upward as a symbol
of humility and service. Each in turn laid his or her hands on mine, palms down, accepting what I offered,
kneeling before me in honor of my office. As I raised them up, one by one, each greeted me in his or her
own way.
The giant Gar’Dena, a powerful, prosperous worker of gems, wheezed and grinned, for I gave him
more than a princely touch to help raise his bulk from his genuflection. I hoped no more sorcery would be
needed, for the simple assistance had used up my small reserve of power. Once standing at his full height,
dwarfing everyone in the room, Gar’Dena straightened his red silk tunic, blotted his massive forehead
with a kerchief the size of a sail, and hooked his thumbs into an elaborately jeweled belt. “ Ce’na
davonet, Giré D’Arnath !” All honor to you, Heir of D’Arnath. This traditional greeting, which he
pronounced in an ear-shattering bellow, was deeply respectful. Cheered by his generous spirit, I moved
down the row.
Ce’Aret, an ancient, wizened woman with the face and humor of a brick, poked at my cheek with a
sharp finger and snorted, whether in disbelief or general disapproval I didn’t know. I gripped her finger
and returned it to her firmly, which didn’t seem to please her at all. Ce’Aret had taken on herself the duty
of ferreting out those who secretly aided our enemies. Everyone feared her.
Ustele was almost as old as Ce’Aret, but his quick and incisive probe of my thoughts belied any
impression I might have had of diminished faculties. Touching my mind without consent was an
unthinkable
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